Some Cool Books By Taschen

I've always loved cultural studies, folklore, and history. And I've always been fascinated by artifacts of different eras. Of course, I love the sixties, but I love lots of different decades, centuries, and historical periods.

Some people like reading historical fiction--like the Philippa Gregory books based on the life of Elizabeth I and her court, with intriguing titles such as The Other Boleyn Girl and The Virgin's Lover. These are compelling novels but, as always happens when I read fiction, as soon as there is a lull in the action, my mind wanders and part of me says "This is not real. Somebody sat at a computer and made this up." I am embarrassed to articulate that, but there you go. I so wish I could get into that type of writing--and I do love well-crafted fiction--but sometimes I much prefer to cut to the chase: I like the real thing. I mean, I am somebody who actually enjoys reading the dictionary; I don't just love words, I love etymology and I can get lost in a dictionary for hours.

In terms of pop culture and zeitgeists of different eras, I've always loved written "time capsules"--things like Sears catalogues from various eras, decorating books, fashion guides, etc., and I have quite a few original books from different decades. I enjoy the "as-it-happened" feeling I get from books written or compiled during a particular time, or collections and compilations of actual artifacts, as opposed to a person's musings or recollections. For that, I read memoir and biography.

Taschen has a wonderful series called All American Ads and each phone book-sized volume features a different decade. They are heavy, hard to hold paperbacks--behemoths--but they are completely engrossing. I bought a few of them when they first were published (and, of course, they were later released in abriged versions) and I just don't get tired of them. I have every decade from the twenties through the seventies.


Check them out if you get a chance. They contain original newspaper and print ads for everything from soap and lingerie to cars and furniture.

Mad Men: The 60s on TV

When I first heard about the AMC show Mad Men, I was sort of excited. My friend told me about it after it had been on for a few episodes, and she said "It has your name written all over it." She couldn't wait for me to see it.

I couldn't wait either, since there is rarely anything of interest on TV. Well, I watched it--and I hated it. Absolutely hated it. It is full of cliches and sterotypes and I found it extremely hard to get through. I realized two things: 1) It's difficult, if not impossible, regardless of how much research you've done or how many "experts" you consult, to portray a time and place with accuracy, authenticity--and believability--unless you've lived it and 2) there is a big difference between someone born in 1962 and someone born in 1968.

Dana was born in 1968; I was born in 1962. Technically, she is a "Gen-Xer" and I am a "young Boomer" (I like the sound of that!) Even though neither of us really is in any position to speak about what it was like "growing up" in the sixties, I have lots of memories that she doesn't have, and vice versa. For instance, I vaguely remember my parents talking about "Bobby being killed" and names like "Jackie" and "Teddy" and words like "Vietnam" and "casualties" were always swirling around--on TV, in the house, everywhere. And I remember hearing about "President Johnson"--I knew that our president was President Johnson as I entered kindergarten. I remember when "Hey Jude" came out and I remember when The Beatles broke up--my brother announced it as if it were the end of the world, and I cried because I thought we'd never see or hear them again--I had no concept of The Beatles as individuals.

Dana's vague early-childhood recollections are of President Nixon resigning and of hearing about a new show called Saturday Night Live. She has no memory of The Smothers Brothers or The Ed Sullivan Show or Red Skelton. When I was six, I watched these shows and my favorite sitcoms were That Girl and Bewitched. When she was the same age, her shows were Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley. Just six years--but a world of difference.

But back to Mad Men. Though, admittedly, I was not yet born or was an infant during the time the show is set, I do remember things like smoking being de rigueur and people calling stereos "Hi-Fi sets"--that lasted throughout the decade. But I am pretty damn sure that not every single person who ever walked into a room chain-smoked and drank martinis constantly. And I am sure that not every office in Manhattan looked exactly like Darren Stevens' office in Bewitched.


(One of my neighbors in South Philly, trying out
the suburban lifestyle in the late 50s-early 60s)

Though the clothing obviously was well-researched, and I know runway models wore some of these fashions, I never met a woman in a shirt-waist dress with crinolines and pumps and a perfect hairdo. I never saw a pillbox hat in person. And I never heard my Mother say to my Father "Spanking is good for a child." I'm not saying these things did not exist, that they didn't happen somewhere, just not in my experience. I know pillbox hats were popular, I just don't think that every woman wore one to every function. And I wonder how many women were making home-cooked breakfasts for their families dressed and made-up to the nines.

I know the show just won a fist full of Emmys, so I obviously am in the huge minority, but, in my opinion, nothing about the show rings true and it just grinds on my nerves. All the characters look like they're uncomfortable in their customes--which look like costumes. Every time there is a scene that shows a TV screen in passing, it is something iconic--like The Ed Sullivan Show or Jackie Kennedy doing a TV interview with John John and Caroline on her lap. There was one episode in which the office got a photocopy machine, and all the secretaries huddled around it like it was something from Mars. It's really fake. I just wanna say "Okay--we get it! It's the early sixties--you made your point!"

The phoniest part of the show, for me, is the language--both verbal and nonverbal. Dialogue is really difficult to get right, and the pace, the flow, the speech patterns, the jargon--everything--is all wrong. People did not speak then the way they do now; expressions that are part of the vernacular now did not exist then. Things like facial expressions and body posturing--subtle but important aspects of any time or place--are totally off the mark. I keep waiting for one of the secretaries to roll her eyes and say "what-ev."

Dana said to me "How could you not like that show? It's the sixties." That statement said a lot about the difference in our ages. I love Dana, so I was gentle when I told her "1960 is not 'the 60s,' Hon!" And 1960 in Mad Men is not 1960 anywhere else.

Levon Helm Autograph

I don't have many Band autographs at all. I always hated asking people to sign things. I've done it, of course, but not often.

This is one of only two autographs that I have from Levon Helm. The other is on the Time magazine cover featuring The Band in 1970. I suppose "Stay Strong" was Levon's version of "Live Long and Prosper" or "May Your Memory Serve You Breakfast." All very sweet sentiments.

Something Sad

A couple months ago, a woman who lives nearby did something accidentally that led to her arrest on misdemeanor charges and she was ripped apart in the newspapers for endangering her child--which, sadly, she did, albeit unintentionally.

This person, very well-liked in the community, is by all accounts a wonderful, kind-hearted person and a devoted mother. She made a mistake--a careless mistake. Her child was unharmed.

Her kids have suffered so much, not because of people in the neighborhood--who have rallied around the family in support--but at the hands of anonymous "screen names" who know nothing about the family or the situation. There was a news story about the incident, it was on the Internet, and I couldn't believe some of the mean, hateful, judgmental, cold-hearted comments written below the online newspaper story about this person. Then again, there were some kind, supportive ones--which I was glad to see.

I saw her this weekend--I know her only well enough to nod and smile in passing; I didn't even know her name until this happened--at a local event and she was smiling and chatting with others, but something in her looked so sad, so lost. She lifted her hand to brush her hair out of her face, and I noticed a long, deep vertical scar on her wrist.

Again, I don't know her. But I just wanted to give her a hug or do or say something to make her feel better or let her know that others care about her--or something. I can't even imagine the torment she went through, and is still going through, just thinking that she inadvertently put her child in harm's way. I've been thinking about her all day.

It made "There But For Fortune" all the more relevant. I am not trying to sound like Little Mary Sunshine, but I wish people could be kinder and more empathetic.

15 People I Can Live Without--Now!!

I can tell I'm getting cranky. I didn't fall asleep until after 1:00 am and was up at the ungodly hour of 6:00 am for my son's early-morning football game. I've got the Sunday "blahs" and I just want to curl up with a good book, a blanket, a cup of tea, and Van Morrison. That's my disclaimer for what I'm about to write.

There are some people who have abused their 15 minutes (or 15 years) of fame and have w-a-a-a-y worn out their welcomes in the public arena. I realize that some of these people have already reproduced, but I would respectfully request that those who have not voluntarily remove themselves from the human gene pool NOW; one of each of you is more than enough. If you've already procreated, at least remove yourselves from the airwaves and from media of all kinds. I wish you happiness, good health, and long lives--but please do it out of public view--or at least out of my view; if I never, ever see or hear you again, it will be too soon.

1. Sarah Palin
2. Rosie O'Donnell
3. "Doctor" Phil
4. Rachael Ray
5. Paris Hilton
6. Lindsay Lohan
7. Elizabeth Hasselbeck
8. "Brangelina"--a twofer
9. "TomKat"--another twofer
10. Billy Mays (the guy with the dyed black hair and the obnoxious voice on the OxyClean commercials)
11. John Edward (the "psychic")
12. Alton Brown (from the Food Network)
13. Madonna
14. Donald Trump
15. Bill O'Reilly

Thanks for letting me vent. I feel better now.

Phil Ochs

Can't stop listening to Phil Ochs lately. What a pure, passionate voice. It's also great to listen to a topical writer who wasn't afraid to be a topical writer. He did not strive to be timeless. He was in his time, of his time, and a total pioneer of the protest singer/songwriter part of the folk revival, and completely synonymous with the zeitgeist of the 60s.

I love his vibrato tenor, I really like his guitar (he wasn't just a "strummer", but an innovative stylist). And "There But For Fortune" is one of the best songs of its time--or any time, because it is thematic, not just topical, and relevant, even now. Too bad Joan Baez had to cover it; she did the same for that song as she did for "Dixie."

Dave Van Ronk described Ochs so vividly and his sartorial style--or lack thereof--obviously is from the Rick Danko School of Fashion. Van Ronk said that he wore these things that "used to be suits" until they were so threadbare and shiny, you could look in their reflection to shave when Ochs stood still. I thought that was cute and made him all the more vulnerable. I love the fact that he got a gold lame' Nudie suit in the least likely era--in between Hippiedom and Bubblegum.

Ochs descended into mental illness and alcoholism, as so many artistic, sensitive souls have done. Sadly, he was too sensitive for the world as it was and took his own life. Thankfully, we have his songs and his wonderful voice. I hope people continue to discover him.

Some Bios and Memoirs I've Read Recently

I love well-written biographies and memoirs. Memoirs, especially, can really give you a sense of time and place, even if the author is unknown. I really like good bios of musicians, artists, and writers, particularly intimate portraits (as opposed to just chronological, "career" bios). Here are some bios and memoirs I'v read recently, and my thoughts on each of them.

1. Jimi Hendrix: The Intimate Story of a Betrayed Musical Legend by Sharon Lawrence
A well-written, mostly credible, albeit not terribly exciting, read. It gives a good glimpse of Hendrix as a person in and of his time--but since the book was published in 2006, it also has the added benefit of hindsight. I must say that, having worked with artists who I've also considered friends, I find it hard to believe that, after nearly 40 years, Lawrence's detailed recall of the events and conversations is completely accurate. I know that writers sometimes take poetic license, but the dialogue just flows too freely to have been drawn from memory. It's a worthwhile read if you're a fan of Hendrix. For me, the bloom is off the Hendrix rose--kind of been there, done that, and I never fell for the super hype to begin with--but I'd recommend it for the unique perspective. Rating: B-

2. A Freewheelin' Time: A Memoir of Greenwich Village in the Sixties by Suze Rotolo

This was a bit of a disappointment for me but, in fairness to Suze, it may be because my expectations were so very high that it could not have met them. When I found out, well over a year ago, that she was penning a memoir, I was really excited. I always liked Suze because I felt that she never sold out Dylan--or herself. And, unlike many of the "I was there" people who've written books about musicians, Suze really was there--at the beginning, and in a very real way. She's intelligent, well-read, an artist and teacher in her own right.

That makes this book doubly disappointing. I was expecting to really feel the zeitgeist of the Village in that era--and, instead what I felt, just a bit, was a woman who needs the money and decided to ride the Dylan train while it's still on the tracks. It's good for what it is--I mean, it can only be so bad, because Suze Rotolo lived the scene, and even if she were just reporting, that in itself would be pretty exciting. Otherwise, though, I found it lightweight, and you can feel Dylan speaking to Suze as she writes with trepidation. "Now, now Suze--don't embarrass me. You know what I like and don't like. Don't reveal anything."

Were it not for Suze's intelligence and zest for life, this would have been the American folk version of Pattie Boyd's Wonderful Tonight. Like Pattie, Suze remains very real and likable--for me, at least. And there are enough tidbits about the Greenwich Village of the day and enough dropping of eminent names to keep someone interested in that era ploughing through with interest. Rating: B

3. Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me by Pattie Boyd

When I was a kid, Pattie Boyd was like a living, breathing Barbie doll to me. At the age of 8 or 9, my friends and I used to "play London"--in which we all put on very bad, South Philly-infused British accents, wore "play dress-up" high heels, and pretended we were mods on Carnaby Street or, alternately, Beatle wives. Of course, this was in the early 70s, not the 60s, but even then we knew the previous decade had been something special. We used to fight each other to be Pattie because she was the prettiest--and the coolest.

I always had an affection for Pattie, and thought she'd been unfairly pissed on by her two husbands. So when I heard that Pattie was finally writing a book, I was thrilled, to say the least. I felt like a 9-year-old. My best friend couldn't wait, either--we were literally counting the weeks "three more weeks," "one more week." Childish, I know. When I finally had the book in hand, I set out to devour it. I did in a couple of hours--and, had I not re-read parts of it, I could have done it quicker.

Pattie came off sounding like a whiny, clueless, somewhat shallow airhead--seems like nary a page goes by when she's not "in tears"--not to mention the doormat of all doormats. There was nothing really new, no revelations, no insight--just a lot of retellings of the dinner parties and drugs and vacations and excess. Nice to have in the bathroom--you can read it in one visit. Rating: C

4. The Mayor of MacDougal Street by Dave Van Ronk and Elijah Wald

Skip Suze Rotolo's welter-weight tome and opt for this instead. Dave Van Ronk not only was there in the midst of the Greenwich Village folk revival--he helped create it. He was on the scene before Dylan, before Phil Ochs, before Tom Paxton, before Eric. He was a true pioneer, a great acoustic blues player (and a walking musical encyclopedia), and a fine songwriter/crafter. It is written in a straightforward, punchy, conversational style--with no wasted words. Sadly, Van Ronk died before the book was completed. Elijah Wald finished it, and did a great job, but he admits that it did not turn out the way it had been planned--to give a broader perspective of the scene with other points of view. Still, I consider this book a must for anyone interested in the folk era of the early 60s. Rating: A-

5. Mr. Tambourine Man: The Life and Legacy of The Byrds' Gene Clark by John Einarson

I love this book. I think it is impeccably researched, very well-written in a conversational style with lots of information, first-hand quotes, and anecdotes. It is a great insight into Gene Clark and what I especially like is that the author, while obviously an admirer of Clark's, does not treat him gingerly or put him up on a pedestal, yet he addresses the hard issues (drugs, alchhol, demons) with integrity and empathy, neither evading them nor sensationalizing them. He could have easily humiliated Gene, but chose instead to honor him in a very honest, believable, compelling way. Rating: A

6. Edie: American Girl by Jean Stein with George Plimpton

This is an "oral biography" with many, many voices, none of which are similar. At first, I thought it was going to be a chaotic hodge-podge, but it is a totally compelling read. If you know nothing about Edie Sedgwick, this is a great place to start. I love it and just could not--and still can't--put it down. The format is deceptively simple; it took a lot of great editing to make such a cohesive read. You feel as if you're living it all with her, yet somehow, you're at a safe distance. Rating: A

7. Modigliani: A Life by Jeffrey Meyers

Like many artistic geniuses, Modi was tormented, addicted and, ultimately, tragic. But he had a vulnerability and a wildness that was very appealing--two generations before The Beats, he embodied everything The Beat Generation spoon-fed to the mainstream over the next two. This is worthy of a read if you have any interest in Modi; the artist's story is compelling enough to shine through the somewhat stodgy, pedantic prose. Rating: B-

A Sweet Memory of Eric

After my baby Rachel died in the late summer of 2002, I was mentally, if not physically, close to catatonic for months. Somehow, with my husband's help, I was able to carve out enough strength to maintain a sense of calm and normalcy for my son. But on the inside, I was slowly dying.

I really don't remember much about that year. I remember Eric Andersen calling me one day to ask if I would write a revised bio for him. I had not spoken to Eric for quite a while--since shortly after Rick died--and he had no idea what had happened. When I told him, he was extremely sweet and sympathetic and encouraged me to talk about her. He asked me her name, and said it was a beatiful name. That was so important to me--just the fact that someone asked her name; she wasn't just "the baby."

After a long talk, I ended up crying and Eric said there was a way to heal. "Write your way out of it," he said. And I never forgot his words. "When you get really sad, just write. Write and it will help you."

I thought it had been at least a year after Rachel's death that Eric had called me. But today I found this book on my shelf, as I was looking for some books to lend to a friend who is very interested in The Beats. I remembered that Eric had written a piece in this book, The Rolling Stone Book of The Beats, and I opened the book to search the table of contents. And I found Eric's sweet salutation--dated October, 2002. Eric is not the touchy-feely warm and fuzzy type, but he's sensitive. "Sweet" for Eric is not mushy; it's just kind. Had a friend not asked for these Beat books, I may not have seen this signature ever again.


Until I saw this book today, I'd totally forgotten that he'd sent it to me after we talked. He knew I loved the Beat poets, and he'd encouraged me to go back and read them. Eric and I always had that Beat connection--he's the only person I knew personally who really understood and was touched by their raw passion the same way I was.

He sent this to me and, since I wasn't ready at the time, I apparently just put it on the shelf. I'm so glad I found it--and I can't wait to finally read it.

I'd Rather Have the Glass Ceiling

I should start by saying that I rarely follow politics. When the dunce who watches cartoons in the Oval Office was re-elected for a second term, that was the end of my giving politics even a passing nod.

That said, am I dreaming, or is Sarah Palin seriously a contender for Vice President of this country? You know how sometimes you have a bad dream that seems so realistic, you don't realize it's a dream, and then you suddenly wake up? This is one of those, right?

Okay, I could, if I had to, deal with Thomas Kinkade "paintings" in the White House. I mean, there's no accounting for personal taste and I guess it's a step up from the Disney characters that adorn the walls now.

But from the moment I saw this woman, she rubbed me the wrong way. I had a very deep "uh-oh" reaction. And, as I sometimes do when I get an initial bad gut reaction, I second-guessed myself. Maybe it's just the rimless glasses and the 50s updo that's skewed my intuition. "I don't like her," is not fair. It's not warranted. I knew nothing about her. I had to delve deeper.

I've been trying to really read, and listen, and watch. Forget style: where are these candidates on the issues? What are they going to do for this country? I watched Palin's interview with Charles Gibson. I could not believe what was unfolding before my eyes. She didn't know what "Bush doctrine" meant. Okay, that was a red flag, but it wasn't the end of the world. I thought I heard her say "nuke-you-lar," but that's just a mental block, or maybe a tic. There are some things that are out of our control.

I watched more. I could not believe the naive, uninformed, and downright stupid answers coming out of this woman's mouth. You know how sometimes you just assume that other people know something that you don't? Sometimes something sounds ridiculous to you, so you think it has to be you who is uninformed. I mean, she's a vice presidential candidate, so she has to know something, right? Wrong.

I'd like to thank both Barack Obama and John McCain for single-handedly (or double-handedly) setting women back 100 years, Obama by not choosing the intelligent, experienced, sophisticated Hil as his running mate and McCain by plucking this dowdy moose-hunting school marm from the Last Frontier, sticking her in a $50 polyester suit from Lerner's, and thrusting her into the national political arena. If this is the bone being thrown to women, I'd rather do without. We need strong, experienced, intelligent leadership in this country, not tokens, gestures, and marketing ploys.

Isn't our great country enough of an international laughingstock?

A Place in My Heart for Folk

I've been listening to a lot of folk music lately. Not folk-rock, but the early to mid 60s Village folk-revival stuff, like Phil Ochs, Tom Paxton, Eric, Richard and Mimi Farina.

What inevitably happens when I get into these folkie moods, though, is that I go off on an early-Dylan tangent, and that's the end of everything. Because there's just no comparison and once I'm in a Dylan mood, there's no turning back.

I've made a conscious effort not to do that this week. I'm writing a profile on Tom Paxton, who's performing in my area with Judy Collins in November. I've always wanted to write something on Mr. Paxton, but the opportunity just never arose. Now it has. He's going to be performing at the Paramount Center in Peekskill, New York, and I wanted to preview the show. I like Judy Collins, sort of, but have never been a big fan. I decided to focus on Tom and let some people who might not otherwise listen to folk music know a little bit about him, his beautiful songs, and his importance to folk music.

To prep myself for the interview and to get a sense of his early music in context, I dug out some of my folk CDs. I remember Eric telling me years ago, in his very blunt way, that I should "study" Tom Paxton if I wanted to understand the early 60s folk scene. Knowing Eric, he was probably appalled that I'd never heard of Tom Paxton until DFA covered his songs. Tom discovered Eric, and Eric has always had an affection for him and a great respect for his music.

He brought two of Tom's songs--"Last Thing On My Mind" and "Bottle of Wine"--to the Trio, and those are two of my favorite Trio songs. Rarely have I heard anything as beautiful as Rick's harmonies on "Last Thing On My Mind"--but that's another tangent.

In the past two weeks or so, I've been listening to things like Phil Ochs' "There But For Fortune," Eric's "Thirsty Boots" and "Hey Babe," and even the real corny "follow-the-bouncing-ball" reveries like the New Christy Minstrels' "Green Green" and the Highwaymen's "Michael (Row the Boat Ashore)."

I can't take it too long, and there is a definite cringe factor for me with the folk vocal-group stuff of the late 50s/early 60s Kingston Trio, Brothers Four, Minstrels, Limeliters tunes. That's a genre in itself, and I have to keep telling myself that the Minstrels' spawned both Gene Clark and Barry McGuire--two of my very favorites.
But that's another tangent.

Listening to this kind of folk is not something I can do for long stretches. But it feels good when I do. It's refreshing--and cleansing. Like swishing with Listerine.

Sometimes I Feel Like Sisyphus

When I was young, I read Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus, and it hit home immediately. I realized that there was not only a description of—but an entire myth about— one of my biggest fears in life. From the time I was a child, and before I could even understand—let alone articulate—it, one of my life’s goals was to avoid spending my life rolling that boulder up the mountain day in and day out.

Unlike Sisyphus, I never wanted to or even knew how to be cunning or conniving, and have always had a kind of “you reap what you sow” outlook on and approach to life. Of course, I have questioned that approach throughout my life, wondering why I’ve been “punished” by the loss of so many I love, but I’ve done my best to maintain my morals and ethics without being naïve. All I’ve ever wanted, besides the health, safety, and happiness of my loved ones, is to be able to do creative, productive things and, hopefully, to do some good for others.

Still, even as a kid, I knew on some very primal level, you didn’t have to be evil to be doomed to a life of rolling a boulder up a mountain only to have it fall down to the bottom and have to do it all over again the next day. I watched my Father, a brilliant man, the epitome of honesty and integrity, in his painter’s overalls, and I knew something didn’t fit. I knew that something, somewhere, had gone awry to put a mind and a heart that could have cured diseases or created meaningful legislation or written books into splotched painter’s overalls.

Late one night recently, my husband and I were searching in vain for something decent to watch on TV, and, somewhere among the 500 channels of garbage, we stumbled upon a program—on the Food Network, I think—about various shore “resorts” in the U.S.

What caught my attention—briefly—was a heavy-set woman in her late 50s or early 60s, talking enthusiastically about the different flavors of salt-water taffy her company made. She was wearing no makeup, her hair was unkempt, and she had that glazed-over Stockholm Syndrome look in her eye that told me that standing behind this counter with her Company vest and her Company smile, singing the praises of her Company and her Company’s product, was this poor soul’s lot in life. “I’ve been here for thirty-five years!” she exclaimed, with glaze but no sparkle in her eye. I shuddered.

I am not judging her. We all do what we have to do. I've always had a working-class ethic and always will. I think it’s what’s kept me from “pursuing” a lucrative “career”--you know, like a hedge-fund manager or something. I guess on some level, it’s because I never want to be too far from my parents—and wealth is far from my parents. On another level, it’s because I don’t believe in “careers.” I believe in passion. In dreams. I guess that’s where the “idealist” part of my temperament comes in. I believe that life is too short to strive merely to “have a good career.” What you do with the precious time you have here on Earth should be what you love, or at least what you feel you need to do in this world, because it’s in your soul—not because you’re climbing some corporate ladder. Of course, it doesn’t always work out that way—but it usually does if you give it all you’ve got, mind, body and soul.

I’ve had many jobs in my life, and have always worked and been proud of that fact. I’ve never looked for a free ride—and wouldn’t accept one if it were handed to me. Working for a living is noble.—and, for most people, necessary. But thirty-five years wearing somebody’s uniform and talking in Company-speak? That’s too long.

I recognize that I have a dread of the mundane; it’s one of my many weaknesses. But that doesn’t mean I have a dread of simple things. I actually like working—if I’m working on something I care about, something that’s mine, regardless of how much—or how little—money I’m making. I’d rather make pottery and sell it on the street than be a stockbroker on Wall Street. I’d rather create something—anything—than internalize a Company credo or study an Employee handbook.

My fear is not of working. My fear is becoming a hamster on a wheel. Or worse yet, Sisyphus.

I'm W-a-a-a-y Too Clingy to Be a Buddhist

I'm really disappointed. As much as I still love the fairytales I learned in parochial school, I can no longer call myself a Catholic by any stretch of the imagination (though I do feel very guilty about saying that and am scared that Purgatory awaits if I don't change my mind, and then I'll have to spend eternity with a bunch of wishy-washy people, which is its own kind of hell; maybe I do have a little Catholic left in me).

Anyway, Buddhism was beginning to make a lot of sense to me. I've been fascinated with it for many years. It is pragmatic, bare-bones, organized, and logical. There is no fluff, no bullshit, no shame, no guilt, no wishful thinking. It is full of cause-and-effect relationships, and has lots of cool words associated with it, like "karma" and "dharma." It's also really well organized, with cool numbered premises and passages like "The Four Noble Truths" and "The Noble Eightfold Path" and "The Three Marks of Existence." As an ADD person whose mind resembles a scrambled cable signal and who is in dire need of organization, I see these numbered tenets as a real bonus.

There's just one problem. It's a silly little thing called Dukkha. Dukkha, one of the Three Marks of Existence, is difficult to translate. Some say it means "suffering," but some Buddhists dispute that definition. It is more complex than that--actually, it means "the world," the whole of our human experiences--but for the sake of this little blog entry, I'll say that it means, more or less, suffering or uneasiness, particularly the suffering and uneasiness that results from our attachments to that which is earthly and transitory--which is, let's face it, pretty much everything. These attachments include attachments to love, to life, to health, to joy, and to people. When we are attached, we are bound to suffer when that to which we are attached is gone--which it inevitably will be.

See, one of the basic premises--rather, goals--of Buddhism is to become free, free of worldly attachments. To recognize that everything is transitory, everything is in flux--love ends, life ends, joy ends. Therefore, being attached results in pain, in longing. The ultimate goal of Buddhism is to achieve a state of Nirvana, in which the mind is clear, and lucid--a liberated mind that no longer clings.

Sounds good, but I'm clingy! My husband's clingy, my son is clingy, my dog is clingy. I am a person who is deeply attached to those I love, who has suffered because of attachment when I've lost loved ones I've been attached to, and who would still rather suffer the longing than to never have experienced the profound attachment. I'm attached to my loves who are here; and I'm attached to my loves who have gone beyond.

As Van wonders aloud in one of my favorite songs ever: "How can we not be attached--after all we're only human." I agree. Attachment is the very essence of what it is to be human. At least in my life. Sorry Buddha. I really tried!

ADD--My Oldest Friend

I've never been calm. I've never had a quiet mind. My mind has always been restless, and so has my body. I need white noise or some other humming noise to fall asleep, I have vivid dreams, and I wake up with my mind "on." Though reading and writing are part of my very being, I have a certain type of difficulty when it comes to both. I am a slow reader, not because I have a problem with comprehension or with understanding the words on the page, but because I love words so much, I tend to go off on tangents of various kinds when reading.

If a piece is well written, I'll read certain passages--even phrases and words--over and over, to savor them. If I fall in love with a word, phrase, or adage, I'll look it up and, before I know it, I'm researching the etymology. When--and if--I go back to the original passage, I'm in a different "place" and, unless what I'd been reading is so compelling that it pulls me back in, I find that I have to put that particular book or article down and go onto something else: the moment is gone.

I especially have difficulty with fiction. I am fine with short stories, poetry, and plays. It's the novels that are difficult, though I've read many--likely hundreds. If a book is slow-moving, though, I'm done. I cannot read under duress, and I just don't have the patience to hold on until the train picks up speed. I may jump around and, like a three-year-old trying not to open her presents before Christmas morning, I have to consciously tell myself not to look at the ending. More often than not, I do, and once I know the ending, unless the writing is phenomenal, I will skim through parts rather than read every word.

When it comes to nonfiction, my M.O. is to start with the index and look up all the people, places, and things I'm interested in. Once I've done that, I read the parts that seem interesting. Then I go through the rest of the book. I eventually read everything--I just do it in an ass-backwards way. And books with no indexes are the bane of my existence. If I'm in a bookstore and flip to the back of a book I'm interested in and there's no index, my attitude is "No index, no customer!" Unless it's something I'm dying to read, I won't buy it. I know--totally immature.

But it's also, as I've discovered just in the past two or three years, classic: a classic sign of ADD. Though I haven't been formally diagnosed, there's no doubt that I have ADD. I've taken several ADD assesments, and in every one of them, I scored well above the "blank and above" indicator for ADD. On one test, a score of 70 or above indicated ADD. I scored a 91. Terry Danko told me that means I have "ADDD."

I think he may be right. As my family physician has told me--more than once--I'm a "textbook case" of adult ADD. The last time she told me this (she's not very subtle) was recently, when I missed an appointment because I lost the notebook--the one I bought so I could keep track of things like appointments instead of forgetting them--in which I wrote the time and date. I'm sure that notebook is somewhere among the scores of half-filled notebooks in the notebook graveyard in my office.

I lose things constantly--not just incidentals, but big things, expensive things, important things, priceless things. I can't tell you how many times I've lost my engagement ring. I've lost my birth certificate, my social security card, my car keys, mortgage statements. I even lost my Mother's locket--which was and is so precious to me. Thankfully, I've found all of these things, but losing and misplacing important things is extremely frustrating and disheartening. It also makes me feel guilty though, try as I may, I can't seem to change it. My husband helps me tremendously by reminding me of things and by being exceptionally organized himself. Before I met Michael, my car problems were like something out of the Keystone Kops. I probably ran out of gas and either had to be towed or had to call a friend to bail me out by bringing gas two or three times a year--which is a lot, since it happens to most people once in a lifetime, if ever. Michael told me that he never knew there was an "empty gas tank" icon on cars until he met me!

Is it because I am careless? Reckless? An adamant "no" to both. I consider myself a perfectionist and try to be meticulous in everything I do. Usually, I succeed. It's just that it takes more effort--or at least a different kind of effort--for me than it does for someone who doesn't have ADD.

Luckily, I have another classic sign of ADD, and this has helped me more than I can say, as a writer, editor, and publicist: I have the ability to hyper-focus for long periods of time without getting tired or daunted. That means, I can edit, search for just the right word, make lots of media calls, and stay on task until a project is done--or until a particular part of a project is done. Or until I get restless again.

My restlessness is not limited to reading, writing, and keeping track of things. I have always been physically restless, too. If I stay in one place too long--and by place, I don't mean city or even neighborhood, I mean room, chair, or desk--I get antsy and sometimes even irritable. Snowstorms--forget it. Just the idea of knowing that I am "stuck"--even if I had no plans to go out--is enough to send me into a panic attack.

My mind wanders the moment there is a lull in conversation or activity and I am easily bored. I can tune out entire conversations when they bore me and know (usually), just by some innate sense of rhythm, when to "zone back in" so as not to offend the speaker. Afterward, of course, I avoid that person like the plague :-)

Then there's structure. While self-imposed structure is great--even necessary--for me, particularly when deadlines are looming or when I have a goal that I'm working toward, it's external structure that is sometimes hard to handle, depending on the form it takes. Some types of physical structure are welcome. I realize that part of my love for cities has to do with the fact that they are structured and grid-like and generally easy to navigate. But give me a black country road and I freeze. Having lived in a semi-rural environment for nearly a decade and a half, I don't panic the way I once did~as long as there is a streetlight or signpost somewhere.

The structure that is hard for me to take physically has to do with being--or feeling--closed in. From closed-up rooms with no ventilation to offices without windows to boxed-off workspaces to turtleneck sweaters to hats and hoods to neck scarves and chokers, that kind of "structure" and I do not mix. I am a free spirit--always have been, and that means physically, too. I can't remember the last time I had a pair of shoes on my feet for more than thirty seconds after stepping inside the house.

ADD is not necessarily a bad thing. It's just a way of thinking and doing things. Lots of my heroes, including Rick, had or have ADD. I interviewed Tom Paxton just yesterday and found out that he, too, has it. It can be very conducive to creativity and productivity of certain kinds but, unless and until you realize you have it and adapt accordingly, it can cause depression--because you think you're just "scatterbrained," when that's not always the case. I've taken many steps to adapt. And at least I'm in good company.

Melancholia

I’ve always found myself drawn to the melancholy aspects of life. It hasn’t been by choice; I’m sure that it’s on a subconscious yet deeply embedded level. And it’s not as if I like the melancholy aspects of life—“attraction” and “liking” are not necessarily one and the same.

From the time I was a child, I was drawn to—attuned to—the sadness of others—not in the sense that I enjoyed their sadness or wanted to be sad myself, but in that I empathized with them and wanted to help alleviate their sadness. I’m not talking about a 13-year-old who works as a hospital volunteer to help sick people (although I did that, too). I’m talking about a 6 or 7-year-old who empathized with the pain of a 70-year-old Holocaust survivor—though I had no idea what the Holocaust was or what "survivor" met—or an 80-year-old widower. I empathized so much that I took on some of the pain myself and felt added sorrow because I could not take theirs away.


My compassion for these people—neighbors, mostly—did not keep me from having fun. Like my friends, I played with dolls, rode my bike, skated, played tag and hopscotch, skinned my knees, and sometimes misbehaved. But while I played, or skated, or rode my bike, I might notice that Sarah or Minnie or Bessie or Mrs. Liebowitz were outside sitting on their steps or their benches or beach chairs, and I’d go over to talk to them. In the wintertime, I’d sometimes knock on Dorothy’s door to see if she wanted me to get her milk from Danny’s Grocery, or her carton of Camels. Or I’d go have tea with Mrs. Liebowitz and listen to her talk about her long-dead husband. I suppose I realized early on that playing, like life itself, was temporary. I didn’t know that for sure, of course—I merely suspected it. And I spent the ensuing years of my childhood wondering if my suspicions were true.

I remember my Dad taking me to the Ringing Brothers/Barnum & Bailey Circus when I was about eight, and feeling a sense of malaise afterward. As we were heading out of the venue—we lived within walking distance of the Spectrum, where it took place—I held onto my Father’s hand, looking behind me the whole time we were walking, not at the vendors selling cotton candy and souvenirs, but at the clowns heading to their trailers sans smiles and the elephants being corralled as handlers yelled at them impatiently. I didn’t tell my Father how I felt, because I knew he wanted me to love the circus. But I told my Mom, who told me that all the other kids at the circus were laughing and having fun—not worried about whether the clowns missed their parents or if the elephants were sad because they had to stand up in trailers. “I never heard of it!” she’d say, exasperated but smiling, when I asked a loaded question. “Go play! Have some fun!” She’d always tell me I was a good girl with a good heart, and that would appease me for the moment—but I never stopped wondering about the clowns and the elephants, and the fact that my questions weren’t answered told me that those clowns did miss their parents and the elephants were sad.

After many years of loss and introspection, I came to realize that I wasn’t born with a melancholic temperament—or a Four on the Enneagram, as I have confirmed conclusively—but I certainly was born into melancholy. The reason that I cried for Mrs. Liebowitz, and the clowns and the elephants had nothing to do with my being a “wet blanket” or a “sad sack.” It had to do with Gregory.

With Gregory, Christmas '78, five months
before he died.

It was when I was born that Gregory, my oldest brother and, from when I was a baby, the light of my life, began getting “into trouble,” as they called it in vague and hushed tones back then. Gregory was 12 ½ when I was born, and it was that year that he started cutting school. It was that year that the whispering and spelling began. Then it was “t-r-u-a-n-c-y” and “d-e-t-e-n-t-i-o-n c-e-n-t-e-r.” I learned to spell early so that by the time things like “h-e-r-o-i-n” and “m-e-t-h-a-d-o-n-e” were being spelled, I was way ahead of the game. I didn’t know what those things were, exactly, but I knew they made my Mother cry and hold her heart and my Father turn somber and old before his time. To shield myself, I developed a very keen sense for knowing and not knowing at the same time. It was called denial.

Me--Through the Lens of Rick Danko

This is so random, but I thought I'd put it up just because. I found this photo recently and it made me laugh.

It was taken by Rick in February, 1994, at the Paramount Hotel in New York City. Rick said "Go get your camera," and we went down to where these "funhouse" mirrors were. He took this picture of me which, obviously, is very distorted. If you look closely, you can see the reflection of Rick--behind the camera, wearing his "bug" shirt and moccasins.

I like it because it's just like him--crazy!