achtung, baby

when I was a little girl, I loved going to see my Dad at work...he was a salesman in a high-end men's retail establishment...everything seemed so big and vast and when I would spot my Dad it was evident to me he was the most important man there...all his co-workers would shake my hand and I can still smell the fresh fabric on display...flash forward and I am 25 starting a new job and as fate would have it, I will be working in the same building as Dad...and so, when I could, I took a mid-afternoon break, forfeiting the traditional lunch hour, and met Dad for bagels and coffee at a hole in the wall next door...Dad never took a lunch hour as that is when his customers came to see him...and I am sure many of you reading this can relate...your dads were factory workers, lawyers, teachers, policemen, firemen, and maybe doctors...but, in the sweet recess of these memories, do you every recall your dad turning to you, saying, "hold this scalpel, dental drill, police revolver, or fire hose"??? Such, it seems to be with Ivanka Trump. Let's get some facts clear. Almost 50% of you didn't bother to vote, so sorry, you really need to sit on the sidelines for the next 3 1/2 years and shut the hell up. And for the rest, I don't care who you voted for really, our election process concluded that Trump is President...if he can't fulfill his duties, the runner-up Pence steps in, and Lord help us, after than Paul Ryan. So Ivanka...well, your dad is not a monarch, in which case, traditionally, the next male would step in, you know Junior...then Eric...Barron...or in some cases, the queen, and finally you, the princess...I don't recall your name on the ballot...anyone else?...these are violent times...the summit in Germany takes on weight as never seen before...please, Speaker Ryan...the learning curve was over when that hand was on the Bible...maybe Constitutional Crib Notes?...Democracy for Dummies?...Ivanka, you said you were not interested in politics...concentrate on the new fall line...and remember the sleeves....

Ah, the summer wind

To the tune of "Summer Nights" from Grease...

Summer city, days of steam heat

Summer city, the crowds are a treat

See the street packed as can be,

See the curb, a fresh pond of pee

Summer days, blazing away

to ah-oh those summer plights

Tell me more, tell me more

Did your train run today?

Tell me more, tell me more

No, just ask Amtrak or the MTA

Port Authority, on line to pee

Someone barks, it's NYPD

Fists are pounding on the next stall

Yells of Bellevue, the thrill of it all

Summer sun, oh ain't it fun

then ah-oh those summer plights

Tell me more, tell me more

Did your subway derail?

Tell me more, tell me more

No, it just moved like a snail

Took a ferry to take in the view

It missed the dock, I lost a shoe

Tried a bus but the AC just died

Got off later, schvitzing and fried

Summer city can be so pretty

but ah-oh those summer plights

Tell me more, tell me more

Did you make it to work?

Tell me more, tell me more

Yeah, but late my Uber driver's a jerk

Some guy is friendly waving his hand

Starts screaming the world is ending, we're damned

No one notices they're glued to their phones

Penn is closed, everyone groans

Summer city, life  can be gritty

but oh-ah those summer plights

Tell me more, tell me more

is the tunnel backed up?

Tell me more, tell me more

if you ask you're a schmuck

People wonder, when will this end

Cars are crawling from end to end

Then they make a sacred vow

Next year in Florida, if budgets allow

Summer city, love it, ain't it a pity

but oh, those summer plights

everybody hurts

a kinda rainy Sunday...watching One Love Manchester...and I officially have become uncomfortably numb...I am recalling all the benefit music concerts...the early ones...Concert for Bangladesh...Live Aid...Farm Aid...their creation...the need for donations in essence boiled down to monetary inequality...and water...or lack thereof...the music was great...I blindly accepted that if I pledged a few bucks it might feed starving children and help the down and out get on their feet...but then a new century bloomed...and the music benefit concerts...now the songs in the night were under a sky dripping with blood and senseless, incomprehensible death...and I wanted to believe...I wanted to think there is healing in collectively beating back evil...and, today, well I don't want to be a cynic...but as I watch these young singers and hear the haunting in their voices...I wonder if there really is a band aid big enough to cover this wound...the one that starts to heal and bursts open every time news reporters rouse our consciousness with a weary declaration of "breaking news"...we are so tired...we ache to dream...but cannot sleep...and, me....well, I daydream of innocent youth...want to go back...turn off the drum, the song, the cries for love and peace...go back to blissful ignorance so many years ago...ah, no sleep till Brooklyn...

and whispered in the sounds of silence...

memorial day...a day, that sadly, has become another footnote in our yearly sport of shopping...searching for bargains for things we don't need...the unofficial start of summer...this year, so many bundled on beaches under threatening skies and misty rain...but in our increasingly violent and heartless world...maybe it is time to remember what the day is about...men and women who fought for our country...in wars of unfortunate necessity...in wars of mistaken judgement...where the ordinary man fought in dire, extraordinary circumstances...and returned to a country that was turned upside down...many of you may read this and will remember the wars of your youth...and shake your head in anger with the realization that each generation seems to have a turn...so before those younger...for whom the word draft is only a beer...those who, in their fear and anger, chant "fight them, kill them, obliterate them"...let's put aside politics and  show them...stroll the endless rows at Pinelawn...Calverton...and in cemeteries across this vast country, and every corner of the globe...and just pause...and take in the cost...the loss...say thank you...whisper I ache for your suffering...and on memorial day, remember the eloquent lyrics, "find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground, mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down"...and bow, and say amen...

oh, rumania, rumania....

may 10th...my grandfather, Louis, would have been 113 today, my grandmother, Bella, 107...same birthday...grew up in the same village...in the same country, what was Roumania...now, possibly Moldova...but they met here...in New York...I often think of them, and on this date especially...memories, so strong...Friday nights...if I close my eyes, I am in their apartment...and because they lived in the same building as Bella's sister, Ida...well, you never knew who would show up...all of us crammed into that kitchen...a piece of mandel bread, a cup of coffee, or glass of milk...laughter pouring onto Kings Highway...and oh my "Poppy"...driving my "Nanny" crazy...his fist knocking under the table...Nanny going to the door...no one there...that glare and then, hands on hips, "Mister"...he would giggle...she would smile...then Passover...tables of relatives, angled every which way...cousins running up and down the hallway...the joy in watching my Poppy sing with his brothers-in-law...my Nanny, yelling "sha"...we would stop in our tracks...and start up again the minute she turned around...years later, they stayed with us in Staten Island...watching me and my brother, David, while my parents vacationed...Nanny cooking up a storm, Poppy listening to the radio, our cat, Blackie, stretched out in delight at their feet...my good fortune to have them with me at high school graduation...to celebrate college graduation...to have my Nanny walk down the aisle at my wedding...to give birth to my daughter, Lauren, six years later to the date my Poppy passed...and then to give her his name...and, oh, so much more...because on this date...as I remember...I am no longer someone on the other side of fifty...I am a young girl once more...delighting in the love and wonder of her grandparents...the traditions which were as simple as breathing...the Yiddish I strained to comprehend...which always reminds me of that album my Dad would play..."Sing Along in Yiddish"...ah yes, "Rumania, Rumania"...the blessings of memory carry you forward...Happy Birthday, Bella and Louis! 

stop making sense

yesterday...a lovely afternoon with my cousin, Nadine...lunch and then "War Paint"...a new musical, and dueling diva throw down...Patti Lupone and Christine Ebersole showing the young Broadway ingenues how it's done...and then I read of the passing of Jonathan Demme...a pause...long pause...although in this life during wartime (Mr. Byrne) a pause is all we can afford...my brain is on overload these days...and not just for the minutia...and not so minutia...that is my life...but for the relentless affront that is this world...and so I pushed this news to the back...and let the true magic that is live theater drown me...I watched a story about amazing trailblazers...Helena Rubenstein and Elizabeth Arden...their incredible achievements diminished by views of a woman's place...I sighed...has it changed?...my inner thoughts irritated by a group of women...their places...the seats behind us...a large group of matinee yentas...talking...debating...discussing...throughout Act I...then Act II...I caught Nadine's eye...we shook our heads...laughing on the way out...that will never be us...but as you are thrust into the daylight, life returns so quickly...the thunderous applause fades...and rush hour traffic roars...as I walked, I remembered the news about Jonathan Demme...documentary visionary...and oh, yes, a film director who did well by the actresses who entrusted him with their careers...Pfeiffer, Foster, Hathaway...these came to mind...but then some guy to my right was steering his pushcart into my right hip...I bolted across West 37th...wearing my war paint...a sigh, thinking about a nice Chianti...rest easy Mr. Demme...

the rack

boobs...knockers...tits...ah, yes...the yearly mammogram...a time of year when as your breasts are poured on that cool plate...then unceremoniously squished for what feels like a lifetime...you have those seconds to think...while on that rack...about your rack...too small...too big...sagging...uneven...and for those brief moments...precious...it is the equalizer, that machine...because for those seconds everyone is the same...each mind awash in memory...of all the women you loved who lost the battle...of dear ones who won...but at a cost...and that silent prayer for yourself...that you don't get that call...you try to read the technician's face...but she carefully avoids your eyes...because if she looked into yours and she knew, then would her eyes betray her...and so you go on about your business...aching chest...and hope the minutia of life keeps you from looking at the phone...hoping that when you log onto a portal...or speak to your doctor...or get that letter...that it is a mundane "see you next year"...another 365 days until you are stretched on the rack...thinking silently...who the fuck invented this machine?...and praying someone comes up with something better...for all the boobs