Well, there’s news, bad news, and really bad news.
The “news” is I finally got canned from Brookhaven. July 11 was my last day. I took a week off, did some errands, took a trip to Vermont to visit Margaret and returned to start my new/old career back writing for the Times Review Newspapers on Monday July 21. I’m now a “freelancer,” or itinerant journalist, and will spend most of my time writing for Denise Civiletti and the Suffolk Times/Riverhead News Review/Shelter Island Reporter and the wonderful North Shore Sun. I’ll focus on the environment and real estate, two favorite topics. The money’s not like it was in town government, but with Dolores’s support we can manage. And it’s what I want to do. (And can, but only thanks to her!!)
More on my Vermont trip and amateur pro wrestling (yes) in an upcoming entry.
Now for the bad news: my friend and former co-worker Mike Pitcher has been in the hospital for near a week. Tests seem inconclusive (he’s got one more to go) and he’ll be out on Thursday, 7/31, not too much the worse for wear. That's actually good news. Also, another coworker has been in hospital but he too is getting sprung soon, although I’m not sure they really know what’s wrong with him, either. Which isn't really bad news, but not exactly good news.
Now for the really bad news – a friend and former Severna Park, MD neighbor, Ted Paquet, was killed in an auto accident in Maryland just as I was leaving for Vermont. Dolores went down and said it was heart-wrenching. No need for details, just know he was too young to die, had too much to live for, and his kids don’t deserve what happened.
If that wasn’t enough, another dear friend, Kathy Meade, a co-worker and drinking buddy from Brookhaven town government, suffered a catastrophic medical mishap in a doctor’s office and is paralyzed from the neck down. There’s no telling at this stage how this will turn out, but if anyone reading this prays, pray for her, her husband Jim, and the friends who are standing by her like lionesses defending the pride. These are awesome women. Kathy's got great friends and deserves them.
No long philosophical “what does it all mean” from me tonight. Just that when real life intrudes into the fairy-castle-in-the-clouds worlds we sometimes build for ourselves, the descent is violent and the landing hard.
Visit Kathy in her hospital bed and all the stupid antics of the town republicans become so trivial, and the people who play their silly little games become so marginal, that you don’t know whether to laugh at their foolishness or simply dismiss them as trivial beyond consideration.
Watch how Kathy’s friends suffer as she struggles; and then consider all the time and energy wasted on the politics of greed.
Then watch how the nurses, docs, social workers, aides, ward clerks, everyone, in fact, on 18 South at Stony Brook University Medical Center works miracles by the minute, and they hardly even know they're doing it....just rearranging some pillows is a magnificent act of mercy, while working for 8 hours straight to get a new doc for a second opinion is an heroic accomplishment, worthy of great praise and gratitude.
Be uplifted these people have no interest in who controls the public information office, who reports to the town council, or who gets the credit for taking a few cars away from a few employees to save a few dollars. Those people in the white or blue or green scrubs know the consequences of their actions, and they are deliberate in what they do, what sort of power they have and how they wield it...and how they can be humbled by their inability to heal, and the tyranny of a broken body that cannot be cured with all the skill, compassion and technology at their command. If only those who live the illusion of being powerful understood what powerlessness really is, the consequences of what they do and how much hurt they cause, perhaps a little corner of Long Island would be a better place to live.
Please, pray for Kathy, pray hard.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Those Were The Days (My Friend)
Wow! Double wow!! We got blown away this weekend at Theater 3 in Port Jefferson by the world premier of the new musical “1968 – Rock the World.”
The short take: great music; a good “book” to tie the tunes together; and more than enough talent to pull it all off. Go see it. Twice. We’re gonna.
The story mixes a single mom (not very accepted in polite society in 1968); a returned Vietnam vet (burned out and barely hanging on); a new teacher (who gets radicalized by her school board); a goofy high school kid; a standard issue Latino youth; a young black girl; a WWII vet (who’s not getting the changes in society); a gay black artist who cooks in a luncheonette; a gal who gets all her news from the squirrels in the park; and her brother, the local pharmacology consult who deals off a park bench; plus the narrator, a journalist trying to write/sell the great American novel. Their acting is adequate-plus, their renditions of the 30 or so of the best tunes of the year 1968 hits all the right notes.
And it was written by two locals – Jeffrey Sanzel (one of the world’s best Scrooges, don’t miss Theater 3’s “A Christmas Carol”) and Theater 3’s musical director, Ellen Michemore.
For those who didn’t live through the ‘60’s it’s a bit of history brought to life. (It got top props from my two 20 year-old nieces.) For those who remember when the music was new, not only is it a living reminder of what our “good old days” were sorta like, but it’s fun to hear that music again, done live, by larger-than-life talent -- Corryn Manwiller blows the doors off the joint and Liza Colpa (a senior at St. Joseph Academy, Dolores and her sister Theresa’s high school alma mater) is gonna be a star some day.
The rest of the cast, especially Carolyn Droscoski (a Broadway pro and 20-year Actor’s Equity member) does a fine, fine job.
The real stars, of course, are the tunes: “For What It’s Worth (something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear); Mr. Tambourine Man; Those Were The Days (my friend); California Dreamin’; Heard It Through the Grapevine; The Times They Are a Changing and more, more, more. ’68 was quite a year, musically.
The Dylan song, “The Times They Are A Changing” was the most interesting to me, ‘cause I think Dylan missed. He was a good song writer but a lousy seer.
His protests were on target -- warning parents, writers, politicians, everyone…that “the old order is rapidly changing,” and
“Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.”
The promise, back in 1968, was “we” would change things – end the war, end racism, end poverty, end all the wrongs in the world, or at least here in America.
Well, he was right to protest, there were major problems in the country need’n fix’n.
But he was wrong to prophesize “our” generation would fix them. While there have been improvements in many areas, most of the challenges of 1968 are the same challenges we face today, 40 years later. I can’t say we boomers have quite lived up to the promise everyone said we had, and we certainly haven’t lived up to the promise we thought we had. The hopeful lyrics Dylan penned in 1968 really brought that home to me in 2008.
It’s not quite the anthem it used to be. History dun killed it.
On the other hand, maybe it was just media hype in the first place; maybe we convinced ourselves we were different, and most certainly “better;” or maybe we just dropped the ball.
Or maybe, just maybe, Dillon saw an opportunity to appeal to an audience and cash in. Was he actually saying something new or just reinforcing our own vanity and stroking our ego to make some dough?
True art or crass commercialism?
That’s more than I have room for here. Besides, it sounds like at least a Master’s thesis if not a PhD dissertation.
No matter. The purpose of theater is to provoke thought, isn’t it? Or is it to sell tickets? Or maybe just provide some entertainment, relief from “life,” and a pleasant evening.
There’s no doubt about the pleasant evening. A great one, even. So invest the $25 or so, buy a bunch of tickets, line up some friends and go see it.
It’s good theater in a great old theater.
Here’s the web site: http://www.theatrethree.com/
The short take: great music; a good “book” to tie the tunes together; and more than enough talent to pull it all off. Go see it. Twice. We’re gonna.
The story mixes a single mom (not very accepted in polite society in 1968); a returned Vietnam vet (burned out and barely hanging on); a new teacher (who gets radicalized by her school board); a goofy high school kid; a standard issue Latino youth; a young black girl; a WWII vet (who’s not getting the changes in society); a gay black artist who cooks in a luncheonette; a gal who gets all her news from the squirrels in the park; and her brother, the local pharmacology consult who deals off a park bench; plus the narrator, a journalist trying to write/sell the great American novel. Their acting is adequate-plus, their renditions of the 30 or so of the best tunes of the year 1968 hits all the right notes.
And it was written by two locals – Jeffrey Sanzel (one of the world’s best Scrooges, don’t miss Theater 3’s “A Christmas Carol”) and Theater 3’s musical director, Ellen Michemore.
For those who didn’t live through the ‘60’s it’s a bit of history brought to life. (It got top props from my two 20 year-old nieces.) For those who remember when the music was new, not only is it a living reminder of what our “good old days” were sorta like, but it’s fun to hear that music again, done live, by larger-than-life talent -- Corryn Manwiller blows the doors off the joint and Liza Colpa (a senior at St. Joseph Academy, Dolores and her sister Theresa’s high school alma mater) is gonna be a star some day.
The rest of the cast, especially Carolyn Droscoski (a Broadway pro and 20-year Actor’s Equity member) does a fine, fine job.
The real stars, of course, are the tunes: “For What It’s Worth (something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear); Mr. Tambourine Man; Those Were The Days (my friend); California Dreamin’; Heard It Through the Grapevine; The Times They Are a Changing and more, more, more. ’68 was quite a year, musically.
The Dylan song, “The Times They Are A Changing” was the most interesting to me, ‘cause I think Dylan missed. He was a good song writer but a lousy seer.
His protests were on target -- warning parents, writers, politicians, everyone…that “the old order is rapidly changing,” and
“Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.”
The promise, back in 1968, was “we” would change things – end the war, end racism, end poverty, end all the wrongs in the world, or at least here in America.
Well, he was right to protest, there were major problems in the country need’n fix’n.
But he was wrong to prophesize “our” generation would fix them. While there have been improvements in many areas, most of the challenges of 1968 are the same challenges we face today, 40 years later. I can’t say we boomers have quite lived up to the promise everyone said we had, and we certainly haven’t lived up to the promise we thought we had. The hopeful lyrics Dylan penned in 1968 really brought that home to me in 2008.
It’s not quite the anthem it used to be. History dun killed it.
On the other hand, maybe it was just media hype in the first place; maybe we convinced ourselves we were different, and most certainly “better;” or maybe we just dropped the ball.
Or maybe, just maybe, Dillon saw an opportunity to appeal to an audience and cash in. Was he actually saying something new or just reinforcing our own vanity and stroking our ego to make some dough?
True art or crass commercialism?
That’s more than I have room for here. Besides, it sounds like at least a Master’s thesis if not a PhD dissertation.
No matter. The purpose of theater is to provoke thought, isn’t it? Or is it to sell tickets? Or maybe just provide some entertainment, relief from “life,” and a pleasant evening.
There’s no doubt about the pleasant evening. A great one, even. So invest the $25 or so, buy a bunch of tickets, line up some friends and go see it.
It’s good theater in a great old theater.
Here’s the web site: http://www.theatrethree.com/
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Say what?
We went to a 5th of July party Saturday night. It was wonderful.
Dolores’s “partner,” the social worker on her unit at Stony Brook University Medical Center, throws a massive 200 – 300-guest bash every “Glorious” 4th Weekend. The party had everything! All the food was homemade by Roy, our host. He cooked-up baked beans, baked ziti, collard greens, string beans, shrimp, sausage and peppers, eggplant parm, pirogis and sautéed mushrooms, ribs, hot dogs, hamburgers, kielbasa, fried chix and more, more, more!! Plus desserts!!!
Open bar and two bartenders!!!!
Plenty of tables, chairs, tents in case of rain, and parking wasn’t a problem.
The guests were charming – lots of co-workers clearly comfortable with each other and lots of spouses putting faces to names and not quite comfortable….but all making a great effort and generally succeeding, at congeniality.
It was perfect.
Almost.
My nemesis was there. The ubiquitous DJ. The accursed DJ. The destroyer of live music DJ. Damn, I hate DJ’s.
He was young (20-something); had a half-dozen speakers each roughly the size of the Pyramid of Cheops; and a selection of music that can only be described as LOUD; VERY, VERY LOUD.
And modern. Very, very modern -- which means VERY, VERY, LOUD; with a deep, percussive, driving bass that probably corrected my slightly arrhythmic heartbeat and most certainly forced everyone to shout, effectively killing any chance of conversation, unless you left the party, went around to the front of the house and walked from West Bayshore, Long Island, NY (the party’s location) to somewhere close to Hackensack, in Jersey, across the Hudson on the far west side of Manhattan Island.
We were at the party for 4 hours. He played three songs I could recognize (Mack the Knife, something Stones, and an old BeeGee’s disco tune). The rest, well, I couldn’t possibly tell you the names of the songs, the artists, or anything else, except it all sounded the same. (Yes, I’m clearly getting old and crotchety.)
On the plus side, the kids seemed bothered not at all. They danced; they shouted in lieu of conversation; and they took pictures of each other with their telephones.
All of which was great for them, but for many of the hospital crew who might have enjoyed speaking with their co-workers; or their husbands, boyfriends, wives, girlfriends, etc. who might have enjoyed meeting the people their significant others spend more time with at work than they often do at home, it was impossible to talk and impossible to hear, making it impossible to communicate.
Now if it sounds like I’m an ungrateful slug, I’m not. I had a very pleasant time. A great time. The food: superb; the booze: top shelf and plentiful; the generosity of our host and his family: unmatched, amazing, and, well, unmatched and amazing. The company: hard to tell. Who could find out?
If the purpose of a party is to bring friends and family together for the occasion of social intercourse; for strengthening the bonds between co-workers; for providing an “out-of-the-workplace” perspective on those we see every day; and for, well, if we’re there simply to have a good time, then the DJ should be shot, (wounded that is, winged in his turntable-volume arm) or at least bound tightly, the volume turned down during the “let’s eat” portion of the party; and then, when everyone’s had their meal and the booze has had a chance to work lowering inhibitions; then, that’s the time to loosen him from his bonds, let him put on the dance music, ramp up the volume, invite everyone to the dance-grass, and all assembled can par-tee, at least them that wants to.
Again, let me state “for the record,” I had a wonderful time. I’m looking forward to next year, even.
But I’da had a nicer time if there had been fifteen minutes…no, even five minutes…when I didn’t feel like I was living inside a 6-foot woofer, with 5-foot tweeters surgically attached to each ear, and the sound turned up to “SUPER MAD MAX.”
If I’d wanted to dance whole night, I’da gone to Arthur Murray’s. Loud music could have been accomplished by stuffing my ear buds in a little further into my ears and screwing up the volume on my disc-man (no iPod yet).
But this was a party. A very generous, expensive-for-the-host, rare-opportunity-to-meet-Dolores’s-friends-and-co-workers party.
I just wish I could’a done that. Did ja hear me? I said, “I JUST WISH I COULD’A DONE THAT.” Oops, I’m shouting. Sorry.
Dolores’s “partner,” the social worker on her unit at Stony Brook University Medical Center, throws a massive 200 – 300-guest bash every “Glorious” 4th Weekend. The party had everything! All the food was homemade by Roy, our host. He cooked-up baked beans, baked ziti, collard greens, string beans, shrimp, sausage and peppers, eggplant parm, pirogis and sautéed mushrooms, ribs, hot dogs, hamburgers, kielbasa, fried chix and more, more, more!! Plus desserts!!!
Open bar and two bartenders!!!!
Plenty of tables, chairs, tents in case of rain, and parking wasn’t a problem.
The guests were charming – lots of co-workers clearly comfortable with each other and lots of spouses putting faces to names and not quite comfortable….but all making a great effort and generally succeeding, at congeniality.
It was perfect.
Almost.
My nemesis was there. The ubiquitous DJ. The accursed DJ. The destroyer of live music DJ. Damn, I hate DJ’s.
He was young (20-something); had a half-dozen speakers each roughly the size of the Pyramid of Cheops; and a selection of music that can only be described as LOUD; VERY, VERY LOUD.
And modern. Very, very modern -- which means VERY, VERY, LOUD; with a deep, percussive, driving bass that probably corrected my slightly arrhythmic heartbeat and most certainly forced everyone to shout, effectively killing any chance of conversation, unless you left the party, went around to the front of the house and walked from West Bayshore, Long Island, NY (the party’s location) to somewhere close to Hackensack, in Jersey, across the Hudson on the far west side of Manhattan Island.
We were at the party for 4 hours. He played three songs I could recognize (Mack the Knife, something Stones, and an old BeeGee’s disco tune). The rest, well, I couldn’t possibly tell you the names of the songs, the artists, or anything else, except it all sounded the same. (Yes, I’m clearly getting old and crotchety.)
On the plus side, the kids seemed bothered not at all. They danced; they shouted in lieu of conversation; and they took pictures of each other with their telephones.
All of which was great for them, but for many of the hospital crew who might have enjoyed speaking with their co-workers; or their husbands, boyfriends, wives, girlfriends, etc. who might have enjoyed meeting the people their significant others spend more time with at work than they often do at home, it was impossible to talk and impossible to hear, making it impossible to communicate.
Now if it sounds like I’m an ungrateful slug, I’m not. I had a very pleasant time. A great time. The food: superb; the booze: top shelf and plentiful; the generosity of our host and his family: unmatched, amazing, and, well, unmatched and amazing. The company: hard to tell. Who could find out?
If the purpose of a party is to bring friends and family together for the occasion of social intercourse; for strengthening the bonds between co-workers; for providing an “out-of-the-workplace” perspective on those we see every day; and for, well, if we’re there simply to have a good time, then the DJ should be shot, (wounded that is, winged in his turntable-volume arm) or at least bound tightly, the volume turned down during the “let’s eat” portion of the party; and then, when everyone’s had their meal and the booze has had a chance to work lowering inhibitions; then, that’s the time to loosen him from his bonds, let him put on the dance music, ramp up the volume, invite everyone to the dance-grass, and all assembled can par-tee, at least them that wants to.
Again, let me state “for the record,” I had a wonderful time. I’m looking forward to next year, even.
But I’da had a nicer time if there had been fifteen minutes…no, even five minutes…when I didn’t feel like I was living inside a 6-foot woofer, with 5-foot tweeters surgically attached to each ear, and the sound turned up to “SUPER MAD MAX.”
If I’d wanted to dance whole night, I’da gone to Arthur Murray’s. Loud music could have been accomplished by stuffing my ear buds in a little further into my ears and screwing up the volume on my disc-man (no iPod yet).
But this was a party. A very generous, expensive-for-the-host, rare-opportunity-to-meet-Dolores’s-friends-and-co-workers party.
I just wish I could’a done that. Did ja hear me? I said, “I JUST WISH I COULD’A DONE THAT.” Oops, I’m shouting. Sorry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)