Here Comes the Beep

Los Angeles, California 

Before I committed to studying literature in college, I began taking classes in films. It was actually kicked off with a Film as Literature class, after which I enrolled in other classes in the department of Cinema. It wasn't only for the fun of watching films in class rather than listening to what were often droning lectures, though that was certainly a nice part of the deal. But it was more that I became interested in film as an art through these classes. In my History of the Cinema class, I first saw silent films and foreign films. I had already developed an interest in classic films which I saw on television, often late at night. But the class presented wide-ranging films from Méliès' A Trip to the Moon through Chaplin's The Gold Rush, Renoir's The Rules of the Game, and later, Truffaut's Jules and Jim. It would be interesting to find the syllabus for that course. We must have seen ten or more films, but I can only remember a few. It was during that course, after writing a movie review of one of the screen versions of The Great Gatsby, that I briefly thought of pursuing a career as a film critic. What would have been a much better fit for me, however, would have been to continue to study film history. And I did think about returning to grad school for this at a crossroads in my life. But life and marital circumstances were a huge obstacle to that. And maybe, additionally, I was my own obstacle.

Still, films continued to loom large in my legend. I recently wrote about how my late husband and I utilized lines from films for marital banter. In fact, his nickname for me was Butch, from a line in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (You just keep thinking, Butch. That's what you're good at.). Dialog was also cribbed from Casablanca (Alright, I will.) Young Frankenstein (Hello, Handsome!), A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (He raped Thrace thrice?!?) Forrest Gump (One less thing.), Bronco Billy (Must you, Bronco Billy?), Wonder Boys (Is there a story there? There is, but it's not very interesting.), The Great Race (The Great Leslie has escaped with a chicken?!?), Moonstruck (There will be nothing left!), Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (Indiana, let it go.). Ok, way too many examples, and yet there are many more.

My friend, Lynnette, is also a classic film fan and we often fall into these quotations as well. One of our favorite lines is from The Awful Truth, when Irene Dunne's character is trying to spoil her soon-to-be-ex-husband's romance with a socialite (husband played by Cary Grant). She shows up at the socialite's family mansion pretending to be his wrong-side-of-the-tracks, floosyish sister. When she is offered a drink she accepts by replying that she had a few on her way there, but they're startin' to wear off... if you know what I mean. It is a favorite film of both of ours, and my mom also loved it. She first turned me onto it way back when.

Right now, the scene in the film that keeps coming back to me is from Say Anything. It's a sweet film with that memorable scene of John Cusack, as Lloyd Dobler, holding the boom box over his head which is playing Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes. Yeah. Women really get that scene. But that's not the one that keeps popping into my head. It's the last scene (spoiler alert) when they are finally on the plane together on their way to London. It's been a hurdled path to get there, and they are both clearly jumpy with both the anticipation as well as her anxiety about flying and his concerned attention to that and to her. Their eyes are both focused on the seatbelt sign, waiting with intense concentration for it to go off. Here comes the beep.

This morning I heard that Omicron is beginning to level off. And that locally we can expect case numbers to drop next week, and are on track for the number of hospitalizations to slack off the following week. This is good news on a number of levels. We have a plan to go back to dancing the second week of February. We have our eyes on that prize. But also, this Omicron period has been extremely hard for those of us who have conscientiously backed off of activities. As I have written before, that little window of freedom last year, which was snatched back away from us, has made this all the more challenging. I miss my friends! I miss being in restaurants!! I MISS DANCING!!!

But somehow, I am feeling hopeful and full of nervous anticipation. Despite all of the idiots around us who haven't taken this seriously, I think, I hope, that we will move to endemic phase shortly. So I have my eyes on that, just as Lloyd and Diane have their eyes on the seatbelt sign. It's going to happen. It's going to happen any moment. Here it comes... Here comes the beep!

Looking for Hannah

Los Angeles, California

In a recent conversation with a good friend, we got onto the subject of Facebook. As often happens, this discussion of the pros which she presented, and the cons which are all I see about social networking sites, led me to pondering. And pondering often leads to writing. I am fortunate that my interactions with my friends can provide subjects for me to write about, relating those subjects through my own life. Writing is rewarding but it can also be challenging. I am not really creative. I am a wordsmith. So when subjects are handed to me, I am handy at writing about them. I plan to write a post regarding the Facebook conversation down the road apiece, because I think it is a worthy subject, but first...

My friend promoted Facebook for the recommendations and referrals that can be found there. She can put a question or request out there and strangers will come back with answers in the form of suggestions and/or names. I pointed out that you can do this without social media. The obvious is when you utilize your friends and family for this; people whose taste and standards closely match yours so you won't waste your time on subpar resources. But, for finding products, you can also follow a retail trail. When I used to look for out-of-print books, the fun was to start with a small bookstore and if they did not have it, I would ask them if they knew another store I could try. I would usually do my tracking by phone, and sometimes the conversations I had with bookstore owners or clerks were more satisfying than the final acquisition of the book. And the best of these stories, though not about a book, was in finding Hannah.

My parents were nearing their 50th wedding anniversary and the party was at our home. It was scheduled for a Sunday afternoon, with champagne and caviar, artichoke quarters filled with a pesto aioli, and a few good cheeses. Fruit, bread, crackers... I wish I could remember what else. Oh, a cake with a golden bride and groom topper that had been used for my grandparents' 50th celebration thirty-three years before. I still have it in my china cabinet. I had bought gold-rimmed champagne glasses for my parents to use at the party and to keep for remembrance, and had collected a marvelously-mismatched fleet of them for everyone else. And the terra cotta duck which greeted guests from my front porch had a gold wired ribbon around its neck. I had used a photo of my parents for the invitation, and they later told me that my mom was actually four months pregnant when the photo was taken the year after my dad returned from Pearl Harbor at the end of the war. They had married with my dad in uniform in 1942 and had been separated for the duration.

So the invitations were sent, the food and decorations were planned, and all that was left was to finalize the music. This was in the time of CD changers, and I needed five CDs of music from my parents' era to shuffle together. Their song was Gershwin's Embraceable You. I had CDs of Michael Feinstein and Andrea Marcovicci covering Gershwin standards. I also had big band music: Glenn Miller, Arte Shaw and Benny Goodman (honestly, I listen to that music and think: How did people not have sex constantly listening to that romantic, sexy music?!?). What I didn't have and desperately wanted was the soundtrack to the film Hannah and her Sisters. It is one of my favorite soundtracks and a perfect matching of music to film. I had a cassette tape of it, but needed the CD. After checking Tower Records, I discovered that the CD was no longer available. Hmmm. No problem, I thought. I'll check the stores around which carried used LPs and CDs. I phoned a few of them and ultimately ended up at Amoeba Music. I so wish I could remember the name of the guy who helped me there, but let's just say his name was Dean.

After telling Dean what I needed, he said that he had a few sources and would check them out and call me back. This was about two weeks before the party. And Dean did call back a few times, but he hadn't succeeded in finding the CD. A few days went by and when I didn't hear from him, I called him back. Still no luck, but he was hopeful and said he would try a few more sources. The party was on Sunday, and by mid-week before the party, I was going from desperate to resigned. I talked to Dean one more time and told him that the party was now a few days away. Dean was still hopeful.

On the Saturday afternoon before the party, my sister and I were finishing up some of the food prep and decorations. And in the middle of that, my husband called. Boy, are you lucky, he said. Dean had called our business looking for me and left a message that someone whom he had reached out to, who worked for one of the studios, owned that CD. She lived in close enough proximity for my husband to pick it up on his way home from work. She lived in a street level condo and would leave the CD on the patio table which, via her instructions, had fairly easy access. She was not home. The CD was picked up and the next day it became the fifth CD in the music shuffle for the party. Later that night, after all the guests left we, along with my mom and dad and my sister and brother-in-law, danced to Embraceable You. And my mother confessed that she had never really liked that song, it just happened to be what they first danced to at The Biltmore when they went dancing to celebrate their engagement.

 On Tuesday, when my husband returned to work, he dropped the CD off again on her patio table along with a bottle of wine, and my note thanking her and telling her about my parents' celebration. We never met her. Talk about generosity of spirit.

I suppose a story like that could be generated through social media. But for me, it somehow just wouldn't feel the same. I guess I'm just an old-fashioned girl, and though I now have my music stored in iTunes I still enjoy listening to the music from Hannah and her Sisters. Especially since it will always remind me of that experience, as well as my parents and their special April day.

 

The Sweet Spot

Los Angeles, California

Recently, one of my friends engaged in a rant during a phone conversation with me. It was the second time in recent months that this had occurred, both times with regard to Covid protective measures. Last time, she used the word gestapo to refer to our state governor and city mayor. This time she blurted out the bullshit that we should all just get the virus and get it over with, ostensibly so that she can stop having to wear a mask. While I understand her frustration, I don't understand her science. And maybe my science isn't exactly right either, since all science is ever-evolving, and if we didn't know that before our global pandemic began, we certainly have learned it as the siege has raged on. My rather youthful friend is at least seventy years old, though I would describe her as seventy going on fifty. She is fully vaccinated with further immunity from an autumn case of the Delta variant, contracted somewhere during her summer travel within the US and Europe. She is scheduled to get her third vaccine following the postponement required after she contracted the virus. I would tag my friend as a VAD, which is Vaccinated And Done. And I get that she is confident in her immunity, and I suppose thinks everyone should have followed her path of returning to normal life after receiving both doses of the vaccine. But the science indicates that this is not the way to go about getting to the endemic phase. If we all just get it, we all can pass it on, and that allows the virus to continue to mutate. Obviously the better direction would be to get everyone vaccinated. Like that's gonna happen...

It didn't really bother me that she ranted. I have the capability to listen and have some empathy with friends and their issues, but I don't have to take it in. So, I listened to her but none of it really entered. It's her issue. I don't agree with it, but I don't have to. Everyone is on a spectrum with this thing. Do I think her science is valid? No. But we are all encountering people who have invalid science, invalid politics, invalid wisdom (or complete lack of wisdom). So I let her rant. The last time she did it, the gestpo rant, I also let her run her course, then I did remind her that she was not preaching to the choir. But these are stressful times, no matter where you land on the spectrum, and we can't expect people to see things the way we do. And frankly, we probably all feel like ranting a bit.

At this time, Joel and I are vigilent about protecting ourselves from Covid. After we were vaccinated, there was that window of time when we could go out, masks off, though we were still pretty cautious. We went dancing a few times. Then we were directed to put our masks back on. So we went dancing wearing our masks. We also went to a Dodger game with out-of-town friends, and I began going to restaurants and movies with friends. We were fortunate that we were able to celebrate Thanksgiving with the family of close friends. But that was the weekend we learned about Omicron. While some of our friends canceled their Christmas celebrations with Covid cases in their families, we passed Christmas and New Year's quietly together. And we made the decision to hunker down until the middle of the month. This, because we know that many of our fellow humans are, to borrow a word from Anthony Fauci, morons. They partied hardy through the holidays. So we figure it will take awhile for the curve to flatten again, and for us to feel safe, and to keep others safe, as we venture forth. As the fifteenth of the month approached, we discussed again and decided to stay in protection mode until the end of the month.

I will admit that, in other people's eyes, we are probably hyper vigilant. And that's ok. Joel has some co-morbidities which makes me want to protect him. And I have my own issues which would make care complicated, should I require it. So it is our choice to hunker down as much as we can, though it is not the way I usually want to live my life.

I was reminded of all of this when I recently read an article in the Atlantic about positive thinking. How does this relate, you might ask. I think because I tend to think of things on a spectrum rather than on a dot. I have been thinking about spectrums a lot. Certainly we have seen how reactions to this pandemic has been on a sliding scale. Everyone has a varying level of risk aversion. And, how we process all of the events that come at us in life is distinctly different from each other. When I encounter the people who approach life with an armor of intractable positivity, I am inclined to say: You wait right here. I will be back... in a couple of decades. Don't get me wrong, I am not happy in the company of fatalistically negative thinkers, either. But I think they are on the firmer ground of reality than the Little Mary Sunshine group. Plus, pessimists often have a wry cynicism which I frankly can appreciate. In both the article I read, and in a recent interview I heard with another writer, the term toxic positivity came up. Truly, if you cast everything that occurs in life in some fake positive light, you are just delusional. Shit happens. To everyone. Pandemics happen. To all of us. That doesn't mean that there aren't valuable lessons to be learned, but let us call things as they are. Not everything is positive. Some things are just plain damn negative.

So, I ask myself, in dealing with things like the pandemic, the January 6th domestic terrorism attack on the Capitol, or even the mundane madness of horribly rude driving that I am currently seeing around where I live; shouldn't we label those things for what they are? And on seeing abundant clouds in a blue sky, hearing an original cast recording of Candide, and knowing that Joel's and my feet will get onto a dance floor again; shouldn't I label those things as positive? This all reminds me of what in golf is called the sweet spot. Knowing that all around that spot lurk the places where you don't want to connect with the ball. In my life, I have also been aware of the sweet spot in figure skating, and in salsa dancing. Hard to explain to those who haven't experienced it, but it is those skates and those stellar dance nights, when you have your feet, whether laced into boots or strapped into dance shoes, so solidly under you.

Our lives are lived on a spectrum, and in a variety of colors. If you want to live only on a dot or within the three primary colors and deny the existence of the spectrum and darker shades, you will miss out on a lot. When I was growing up, Crayola had a box of sixty-four crayons. Surely the variety of our life experiences are built on a multitude of that number. Not all positive. Not all negative. And while you can aim for the sweet spot, you should be able to recognize all the times that you didn't hit it and not pretend like you did. Regardless of pretense, at this time within this pandemic, we are not on that spot. But it will come, and it even could arrive in all the colors of sweetness. Or, let's be real-- maybe not.

Stop Sobbing

Los Angeles, California

In a recent conversation with one of my soul sisters, Lisa, I mentioned The Kinks song Better Days. It has always been an anthem for me, a rock and roll version of this too shall pass, phrased in a wish passed to another: Here's wishing you the bluest sky, and hoping something better comes tomorrow. Hoping all the verses rhyme, and the very best of choruses to follow all the dark and sadness. I know that better things are on the way. Nice, huh?

It got me thinking about Ray Davies and The Kinks. My late, 'little' cousin (called that as she was six months younger than me) loved The Kinks. We were in Hawaii together for several months when The Kinks' Summer Afternoon was popular. She would run to the radio in our apartment in Waikiki, and crank up the volume whenever she heard it. I later saw The Kinks twice at The Universal Amphitheater here in LA. Great concerts through which I fell in love with songs I hadn't paid much attention to before, like the wondrous Waterloo Sunset.

On New Year's Day, Joel and I were having a rematch of Double-Twelve Dominos, three games bringing our holiday total to six (I began the day zero for three so I was hot to win back my game pride). I threw caution to the winds and put my iTunes library on shuffle. We got a mix of salsa, classical, Hawaiian slack key, a tad of opera, some Beatles, a smattering of show tunes, and more. Sometime during game one or two, both of which I happily won, The Kinks' song, Stop Your Sobbing, played. Though written by Ray Davies, it's The Pretenders version that became popular. Here I might reference the Davies-Hynde relationship, which I am presuming contributed to The Pretenders' cover of the song.

It is time for you to stop all of your sobbing. Not a great sentiment when you are actually wracked with grief. But here at, hopefully, the transitional period from Covid pandemic to Covid endemic, it's not such a bad sentiment. It is time to move on to, dare I write it, some hopeful joy. I don't know about you, but I am feeling the emotional-mental health effects of the past almost-two years of this. I am short-tempered. I am alternately sad and jumpy. In short, I'm tired of it all and not feeling good even though this is a new year which is offering us a fresh start. At least, a soon-to-be after-the-holiday-surge fresh start. News is fairly hopeful so I expect I will get on board of the joy train shortly. As I said and wrote to my friends, this year I am going to fill my glass to the brim so there is no half-empty/half-full determination possible. And I look forward to all the time spent with Joel, my girlfriends both new and longtime, and the small group of guyfriends. I look forward to all of the laughter and shared intimacies that the year will bring us. And I look forward to... DANCING.

For me, the pandemic began almost immediately after a fright on a flight from Phoenix to Monterey. You can read more about that in a previous post, entitled That Was the Year that Was (in two parts). I thought that would be the worst thing that happened to me that year. And then there was last year, with vaccinations and tentative, temporary freedom. And, I do know that it is a choice. I am not the most locked-down person I know, nor am I by any measure, the most unconscious of the hazard. I am, as I am in most things, pretty much in the middle lane.

One of my friends texted to say that we will get together when it is safe to move around the cabin. I am not above stealing phrases like that. So, it is time to follow all the the dark and sadness with the better times that are surely ahead. I am greatly looking forward, with my brimming glass, to moving about the cabin. There may be the bluest sky; there will be dancing. There will certainly be some memory-making, for better or for worse. Or at the very least, it will be time for us to stop all of our sobbing. Stay safe and well out there!

My Years of Magical Thinking

Los Angeles, California

National Public Radio often keeps me company during my days. I am not much of a TV watcher; in fact, despite sitting in front of my MacBook screen at this moment, I think that time spent in front of screens is often time wasted. So I listen. NPR offers a mix of culture, news, public service, multisubject-based interviews, and entertainment. It avoids being about celebrity culture. I think that whatever the Kardashians are up to is rarely, if ever, presented. I am profoundly grateful for that. While I enjoy listening to it in my waking hours, I have sometimes found the podcast of Fresh Air to be an insomnia treatment (not nearly as effective as The News from Lake Wobegon, but still pretty good).

One day last week, I was listening to Fresh Air which was rerunning Terry Gross' interview with the recently deceased Joan Didion. It was an interview from back when she was promoting her memoir A Year of Magical Thinking. I read that book after it was first published, before I experienced my own trifecta of loss in 2014. I have been unable to face a revisit of the book, though I am sure it would resonate more greatly now.

Last week I also heard Jamie Raskin, the senator from Maryland, interviewed by Terry Gross. He is currently promoting his memoir which details the loss of his son to depression and ultimately suicide, and the January 6th domestic terrorism attack on the Capitol just a day after his son's funeral.

There was a lot of content in both interviews. But what stuck with me was Didion needing to pause to take a break as she became emotionally overcome during the interview. Anyone who watched Jamie Raskin through the process of the second impeachment of Trump will probably remember his struggle for composure as he told the story of one of his surviving children, his daughter Tabitha, and a son-in-law through another daughter, huddled in terror under an office desk in the Capitol while the animalistic crowd battered down the door and gained access.

The thing is, I have had over seven years of grief, and I can speak about Sandra and my mom with a warmth of remembrance for all they were and all they meant to me. I can tell lighthearted stories, and I can laugh at the many things they did and said that were humorous. I think about similar things when remembering my husband, especially when watching movies which contain lines he would repeat. We often responded to each other utilizing movie lines. It had become our thing, our special dialog. And in truth, since his death I have still been unable to watch some of those films which contain those lines. And others I have needed to turn off before finishing, after feeling my spirits plummet. Those are not the times when the pain becomes acute. But the pain is still often overwhelming -- a cutting off at the knees when you think you are finally now upright in your grief. But then, grieving suicide is not normal grief.

Like Didion and Jamie Raskin, I sometimes struggle to speak. Seven years later, and my voice still often catches when articulating Tom's troubles and what they brought to our lives and our marriage. While the constant anxiety related to never knowing what he might do is certainly long gone; the grief, the loss, and the waste, still captures my ability to speak freely about him when the subject begins sawing to the bone. And this incapacity sears me. I want control of my emotions and of my ability to convey thoughts and feelings, even when they are rooted in disappointment, shame, and grief. As with the trifecta of loss, I live with the triple-play of those three emotions when it comes to his death.

But life goes on and seven years is seven years. I lost two friends this past year. One was Alvin who was a light in the salsa world, and instrumental to me when I was a novice salsa dancer. He had a devil of a grin and a sparkle in his eye whenever I saw him at salsa events. He would often say to me: Tell your husband he's LUCK-KEE! He told my friend Kim (a dancer who was a Michael Jackson's Thriller video creature and who initiated my interest in salsa): Between the two of us, we're going to make a great dancer out of Deborah. I can't say he was right, but dancing with Alvin always made me a happy dancer.

Pam's loss, later in the year, completely threw me for a loop. And it taught me a lesson. We have come to rely on texting in many of our relationships, but when you lose a friend unexpectedly, you never think I wish we had texted more. Instead, I wish we had talked more and, had it not been for Covid, spent more time together. Pam and I became friends in high school and traveled to Hawaii together with my family about ten days after graduation. When my family returned to the mainland, Pam and I stayed behind and became Seaside Deadbeats, which was what a group of us called ourselves during the time we shared an apartment on Seaside Street in Waikiki. I have written about this summer, and about Pam before. That summer we got our news from the strangers we passed on the street. One exchange told us about The Rolling Stones' new album. But the most memorable was the guy who passed us on Seaside as we were heading to The Snack Shop on Waikiki Beach, and said: Hey, did you hear? We landed a man on the moon. This wasn't exactly a surprise to us, but as we didn't have a television, we missed the actual event. And, we were ok with that.

Pam died suddenly last August, but I didn't hear about it until November. We had texted all year about getting together when it was safe to do so. And when it was, I texted her to set up a plan. When I didn't get a response, I wrote it off to her being busy with reentry, as was I. But a lack of response to subsequent texts told me there was something wrong. So when I didn't receive a response to my Thanksgiving card, sent to her address up at Channel Islands, I searched for her sister's phone number and texted her to ask if Pam was ok. Patty immediately responded: Can you call me?

I wrote in Patty's condolence card to ask if we could get together and talk about Pam, and she sent a Christmas card saying that she would love that. One of the lessons I have learned in life is that we will lose people. We will lose friends and family through death, through divergence, through a number of different causes. Sometimes we will grieve; at other times we might be thankful that they or we have moved on out of each other's lives. There is always the blessed opportunity to connect with others, to hear their stories and tell them ours, even though some of my stories I can barely tell. The catching lump in my throat does sometimes break way to flowing tears. And perhaps that will always be the case. I know that Patty and I will weep when we talk together about Pam. And that's ok. But we both know that Pam would want us to be as happy as our memories of her will always be. Just as I know Alvin would want me to continue to joyfully dance. What is magical about life isn't about getting through a year or even seven years after a sad loss. What is magical is in learning and believing that despite pain, loss, and grief, the certain knowledge that life goes on can sustain us. As will our friends, including the ones we meet on our path going forward, who will share the journey with us.