All posts by ester

mawidge, mr. ben, swatties

An Exciting Summer

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Now that he has recovered and once again looks as pretty as Betty Draper, I can show you this. Ready? This is the Before shot. It’s a little gruesome but, let’s be honest, also a little bit of a turn on, am I right? Mr. Ben, post-trauma:

Aftermath of the accident

Now I can look at it without cringing (in fact I keep a copy on my iPhone, the way men used to carry photos of their spouse and kids in their wallets). At the time, I walked in the door, saw him, and burst into tears. I may have said, like Amy in “Little Women” did when Jo cut her hair, “How could you! Your one beauty!” But only for effect.

To add to the drama of this hottest-July-on-record, I went to my very first NYT-sanctioned, gay, Jewish wedding in a Friends Meeting House this past weekend. The lovely Mr. Ben scraped himself off the floor of his office, where he has been spending all of his time since he finished recovering from head trauma, to accompany me. Also lovely: hanging out with lots of Swatties in floral dresses and sneaking downstairs to play ping pong in Tarble with Little Eva.

Less lovely, and more in keeping with the themes of Summer 2010: One of the brides collapsed under the chuppah. It was about 110 degrees outside, where we had all spent a lemonade-infused cocktail hour, and the FMH, where the wedding was held, had no air-conditioning. The Quakers, bless their well-lit, self-abnegating souls, nearly had blood on their hands.

It being a Jewish wedding, about ten doctors immediately rushed forward. Everything about me was paralyzed except my heart, which sounded like a popcorn popper — I couldn’t help but remember what happened the last time I saw someone collapse at a wedding.* In this case, the bride was revived and she and her co-bride finished out the ceremony sitting on the floor hand-in-hand. They rose to stomp on one glass each to a shout of “Mazel tov!” from the very-relieved crowd.

I also chipped my toenail polish. A lesser tragedy, I guess. Could the rest of this summer manage to be a little calmer, please? Or, for your own sakes, would you all promise not to ride bikes or get married until this cloud has passed. Thank you.

*Not to give the story away but it was the priest officiating my babysitter’s nuptials and he, um, died. Just like that. (He was old; I was only 10. Those sorts of things leave a mark.)

books, movies

Angelina Jolie and Lisbeth Salander

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This is like the third article I’ve seen about Angelina Jolie in Salt, in a role originally written for Tom Cruise: Angelina Jolie embodies today’s action heroine, in life and on-screen. Yet again, someone manages to string together 500-or-so breathless words about Women in Action without mentioning Lisbeth Salander or her onscreen representation, Noomi Rapace.

Granted, the Swedish film version of the Milennium movies has not reached the heights of popularity scaled by Stieg Larsson’s books, or at least not in America. But it struck me how much of what is true about Jolie is true about Larsson’s femme fatale. For example:

Di Bonaventura compares Jolie to Steve McQueen in the way she combines her athleticism and acting ability: “Steve McQueen wasn’t a big guy. She’s not a big girl. He wasn’t pumped up. She’s not pumped up. But you believed Steve McQueen was going to kick whoever’s ass it was. And you believe she can kick whoever’s ass it is. And that’s attitude, not physicality.”

Exactly. And it’s attitude that makes Lisbeth Salander one of the most compelling characters in popular literature. Cooler than Alice, hotter than Dorothy (and with no home to get back to), Salander — antisocial, bisexual, moody, brainy, and rough around the edges — represents an important shift of how we think about heroines, and women in general.

The fact that Americans can not only stomach a protagonist who could not be less interested in pleasing men, but, in fact, clamor for more is telling. Her popularity means that we shouldn’t be so shocked that Angelina Jolie can play a Russian spy; we should be shocked when people try to give us limited and dated notions of what audiences will and won’t accept.

The most-repeated anecdote about the making of Salt is that after the character Edwin became Evelyn, not much changed in the script — except that where Edwin was supposed to save his wife and children, director Phillip Noyce made Evelyn’s husband escape on his own so as not be emasculated. After he caught flak for that, Noyce claimed the original ending was changed because it was too “conventional.” I think the idea that no man’s pride can survive a woman’s helping him is too conventional, not to mention insulting.

One of the things I love about the Millenium trilogy is that various people do the saving: No one person is the hero. Lisbeth Salander is saved, saves herself, and saves her older male lover. His balls do not fall off in shame over his having been rescued by a girl. Perhaps this is because he is Swedish, but I choose to believe it’s because he is awesome.

In the same vein, anyone who is strong enough to play Angelina Jolie’s husband convincingly is strong enough to withstand being rescued by her.

theater

I’m Not Surprised

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President Obama got front row seats to hear Elaine Stritch perform in his own living room. But his experience, as it turns out, was much like mine:

With Broadway at the White House, Elaine Stritch Is at Liberty (to Forget Her Lyrics) – ArtsBeat Blog – NYTimes.com

Saturday night, Mr. Ben and I saw A Little Night Music, which is a favorite of mine from way back, starring the ineffable, ageless Bernadette Peters and the ineffable but visibly aged Elaine Stritch. (Reminding me of a classic Sondheim song “I’m Still Here” about women on stage: “First you’re another sloe-eyed vamp, then someone’s mother, then you’re camp …”)

The show was wonderful — the chorus especially good, the music lovely — but hilarious Ms. Stritch could not, for the life of her, remember her lines. Most of the time she covered for herself well, and a fellow in the first row prompted her when necessary. Still, at one point, I shrunk back in my seat feeling awful for her. Even if it is true that she has not seen a sunrise sober in longer than I’ve been alive, she is a professional, and for a professional to lose face in front of a Broadway audience must be devastating.

Worse, though, is losing face in front of a President. Even if he’s gracious about it, as apparently the Obamas were. Regardless, I thought the ad placement on the NYT article about the event was unintentionally hilarious and ironic:

As was the choice of song. The words she forgot while singing in the White House? From “I’m Still Here.” Though she is, of course, and thank God. I’m thrilled I got to see her live, even in somewhat fumbling form, and I’m sure the Obamas are too.
bad writing, good writing

Today’s WTF? moment is brought to you by …

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Apparently, in at least one paragraph of one story, I Write Like Leo Tolstoy:

I write like
Leo Tolstoy
I Write Like by M�moires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Also like Stephen King (?) and Daniel Defoe (??). Do these guys write at all like each other?

Subsequent paragraphs produced comparisons to Dan Brown (ew!), Charles Dickens (how?), and finally Kurt Vonnegut (okay, that one kind of makes sense). Do I not write like any women, or are there no women in their “famous author” database? Should I make anything of the fact that I apparently I change styles six times over the course of one piece?

Thanks to Tablet for the befuddlement.
life in new york, really good food, religion

Bishops, Bishops Everywhere

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The depression that gets to one after reading this article — Abuse Took Years to Ignite Belgian Clergy Inquiry — is at least somewhat relieved by reading this one, Church of England Paves the Way for Women Bishops. So I recommend engaging with them in that order, and then taking deep, restorative breaths.

Or avoid thinking about how religion often makes people’s lives worse instead of better altogether by getting away from the computer. Go to PortSide in Red Hook, Brooklyn (near to which, on August 3rd, you can watch Jaws on the water.) Read a strikingly good book, or several.

Play pinochle. Eat something delicious. See Bernadette Peters & Elaine Stritch together on Broadway.

Plan a drunken Popsicle party in Prospect Park. See writer-who’ll-change-your-world David Mitchell live at BookCourt. Watch pretty, joyous people kissing or a hot, dangerous woman kick ass.

Jon Hamm is helpful, in Mad Men and in person:

W: Rebecca, in stories earlier this year about the breakup of Sam Mendes and Kate Winslet—
Hall: Oh, you’re going to do that, are you?
W: —your name was mentioned in a way that implicated you in the breakup of their marriage. Is there any accuracy to that perception?
Hall: No.
Hamm: The reality is that I broke them up.
Hall: Jon Hamm was sleeping with Sam Mendes.
W: Wow. Does a sex tape exist?
Hamm: Does it? He directed it. It’s beautiful.

Oh Jon. You can Hamm me anytime.

At any rate, that’s how I’m getting by.

health, mr. ben

Trajectory of a Weekend (and a Face)

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I went down to DC for this:

And returned first thing the next morning to this:

Poor Mr. Ben finally got a break from work at some point over the weekend and he celebrated with a bike ride to Far Rockaway with a couple of friends. He made it all the way to the middle of nowhere, then flew off his bike, landed on his face, and had to be taken to a hospital.

When you have head trauma necessitating reconstructive surgery, you do not want to be in Brooklyn (“Shocking Video Shows Brooklyn Hospital’s Neglect as Patient Dies in Emergency Room”) in July (“A recent study found that more patients die of medical mistakes in the month of July than any other month”). Especially not on a Federal Holiday.

In many respects, Mr. Ben was very lucky. Our two friends who were with him acted as surrogate parents, amping up their concern to the level of Shirley MacClaine in Terms of Endearment as necessary, while the army surgeon called in by the hospital stitched Mr. Ben’s face back together. He didn’t lose any teeth or break anything except his nose.

Poor nose! It already had a Bert-ish sort of thing going on. In fact we ARE Bert & Ernie:

EXHIBIT A

EXHIBIT B

I mean, right? Even the initials match up.

Anyway, Mr. Ben / Bert will be recovering at our apartment for the next few days. If, like Mr. Collins, you would like to condole with him, he is there, receiving guests, flowers, and ideas for what his nose should look like once the plastic surgeon is done with it.

life in new york, sports

The Piano Man Has Been Drinking

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Last night I wrote in my journal, “I’m going home this weekend.” Then I stopped and stared at the page, because “home” has never been so abstract. My parents sold the house I grew up in, the house on, yes, for real, Unicorn Lane, and moved to an apartment. This was somewhat tragic for me. However, they managed to squeeze the house into the apartment so that nothing looked *that* different, and to some extent I was satisfied.

Now the house is gone and the apartment is gone. My mother’s new apartment is not yet finished, so in the meantime she is shacked up with my grandma. When I go down this weekend, then, I will be stay there with them — three generations of females under one roof with the piano I get calls about from time to time.

[Phone rings]
ME: Hi Mom!
MOM: Hi sweetie. Grandma’s been worrying about the piano again.
ME: Mom, we’ve talked about this. I can’t take the piano.
MOM: I know, I know, but —
ME: No but! We already share a small one-bedroom with two African drums, a bicycle, and a whole arboretum of chairs!*
MOM: I know, I know. … Are you thinking of maybe buying a bigger place?

Well, regardless, to DC I go, and I guess “home” is wherever my mom is, unless she moves to Mississippi or Brazil. Oh, dear, they must be very sad in Brazil today. I am happy, however, because I am rooting for the Netherlands and Ghana. (The Netherlands because we had Dutch au pairs growing up; because they have the best airport in Europe; & because it’s not their fault Anne Frank died / Ghana because a number of my friends have lived there and not all of them contracted malaria; because the players are handsome; & because of white guilt. If Ghana plays Holland I do not know what I will do.)

When I was watching the end of the game today, an African gentleman approached me and asked who won. “The Netherlands!” I said. He looked at me without understanding. “Holland?” I tried. “The Dutch?” Still nothing. Finally, I said, “Europe. Europe won.” And at last he said, “Ah! Okay.”

That gentleman is almost as good at sports as I am! I really only know enough to root against countries that harbored Nazis or countries I’m temporarily mad at because I’ve just read the devastating but extremely well-written British novel, Little Bee.

But perhaps this is obvious. Perhaps you know this about me, that I am bad at sports, the same you already know Mel Gibson is an asshole and Shalom Auslander is adorably neurotic.

*I’m not sure how it happened but in our one-bedroom, we have:

– one arm chair
– one black metal desk chair
– two white table chairs
– two blue smaller arm-chairs
– one wooden fold-up chair
and
– one huge wooden rocking chair.

There are so many chairs there almost isn’t room for people. Still, my friends cried out for a couch, so now, on top of all that seating, there is also a couch.

America, faux gender theory, femininity

Being Ladylike is Overrated

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Women who make shit happen and are imprinted in the Book of Life are generally not the ladylike type. The exemplary Elena Kagan — currently on track to be our next Supreme Court justice — is a Jewish New Yorker with bad hair, bland clothes, and possible lesbionic tendencies. (Carpet munching? So not lady-like.) (Though to be fair, appearing or acting sexual in any way is not very ladylike either.) For the next few days as she makes it through her confirmation hearings, however, she will put a good show: she will cross her legs at the ankles, wear skirts, smile pretty, laugh at the jokes of men, and say as little as possible.

When it’s over, she may never have to pretend again. I will be very happy for her. I am guessing that Camille Paglia will not. In the NYT this weekend (on Pride Sunday, in fact, because Gray Lady editors have a sense of humor) she laments the fact that white men and white women have fused to become a sort of androgynous, asexual unit:

[A] new pill, despite its unforeseen side effects, is necessary to cure the sexual malaise that appears to have sunk over the country. …

In the discreet white-collar realm, men and women are interchangeable, doing the same, mind-based work. Physicality is suppressed; voices are lowered and gestures curtailed in sanitized office space. Men must neuter themselves, while ambitious women postpone procreation. Androgyny is bewitching in art, but in real life it can lead to stagnation and boredom, which no pill can cure.

Now, whose fault is it that being ladylike/gentlemanly is out and androgynous in? “[E]lite schools, with their ideological view of gender as a social construct.” She calls them feeder cells, which is super cute because as you may know that’s a label usually used for terrorists.

She goes on to explain that white folks are screwed up because our men and our women both look like boys, whereas the darker-skinned folks have a more “healthy” ideal:

[V]isually, American men remain perpetual boys, as shown by the bulky T-shirts, loose shorts and sneakers they wear from preschool through midlife. The sexes, which used to occupy intriguingly separate worlds, are suffering from over-familiarity, a curse of the mundane. There’s no mystery left. … American actresses have desexualized themselves, confusing sterile athleticism with female power. Their current Pilates-honed look is taut and tense — a boy’s thin limbs and narrow hips combined with amplified breasts. Contrast that with Latino and African-American taste, which runs toward the healthy silhouette of the bootylicious Beyoncé.

Oh my god, Camille Paglia, have you lost your cotton-picking mind? Where is the proof of any of this? First and foremost: what sexual malaise? Seems to me like Americans are doing it early and often (and outside). The subset of Americans she is pounding on here, the educated bourgeoisie, is actually the most likely to have stable marriages. Wouldn’t that probably be less true if men really did just feel like cogs in the domestic machine?

In Paglia’s world, there don’t seem to be any lesbians (mystifyingly, since she herself identifies as one). There are no folks who find gender-bending or androgyny titillating. There are, in fact, no real people at all, only figments of her imagination.

My friend Veronica put it best in a consolatory email she sent after reading the article:

Please let me express my condolences for your sexually suffocated marriage. You must just be killing Ben with your anxiety and ambition. And, my God, he probably has no idea what to do with your Venusian figure. What a shame. But, then again, I should probably question how I can be a Latina lesbian who prefers my girlfriend’s broad shoulders to Beyonce’s extra-yeasty double-rise curves.

Extra-yeasty. I myself rather fit that description, being composed almost entirely of cleavage; it is hard for me to be as ladylike as I sometimes feel pulled to be. In those moments, though, I try to relax and think of Elena Kagan, not to mention Margaret Cho, Alison Bechdel, Victoria Woodhull, Michelle Obama, and everyone else who has made the world better by simply being who they are.

comedy, life in new york, movies

Events, Summer 2010

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Last summer, I was rather proud of how many things I did for $20 or less — mini-golf on Governor’s Island, a Magic School Bus Tour through several boroughs, burlesque shows, Moth shows, drag bingo … And, as I believe in an Onwards and Upwards theory of life management, this summer should be better yet.

So far, I’ve seen the New York Liberty play at Madison Square Garden ($10) and Sarah Waters (Tipping the Velvet, the Little Stranger) interviewed by Maud Newton (free). I’m psyched to make it to a Brooklyn Cyclones game ($8-$16) and maybe a Dorothy Parker Society event (just for contrast).

The calendar is shaping up nicely.

+ Monday, June 28: NY Moth StorySLAM. Showing Off at The Bitter End

+ Wednesday, June 30: River to River: Beth Orton in Rockefeller Park

+ Wednesday, July 7: Riverside Park showing of The Never-Ending Story

+ Wednesday, July 14: Riverside Park showing of Pan’s Labyrinth

+ Friday, July 16: David Mitchell (of Cloud Atlas, one of the #BooksThatChangedMyWorld) at Book Court.

+ Wednesday, July 21: Central Park Main Stage presents the Daily Show & Friends featuring Rob Riggle & Jamie Oliver

+ Thursday, July 22: The Big Lebowski in Brooklyn Bridge Park

+ Saturday, July 31: Get out the peasant skirts — it’s Lilith Fair!

+ Thursday, August 5: Brokeback Mountain in Brooklyn Bridge Park

+ Monday, August 23: Bryant Park showing of Bonnie and Clyde

+ Wednesday, September 8: Jonathan Franzen at the B&N in Union Square with his new book, Freedom

+ Sunday, September 12: Brooklyn Book Festival

books, linky, literature

My favorite writers are middle-aged

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I came to a strange but inescapable conclusion when I found myself largely unmoved by the New Yorker‘s “20 Under 40“: the writers that thrill me most tend to be of a different generation than me. Rivka Galchen, off of the New Yorker list, is brilliant both in person and on the page (as I discovered at the Brooklyn Literary Festival and in reading Atmospheric Disturbances, respectively); and, before this, I felt bad that Sarah Shun-lien Bynum hadn’t gotten more attention for her rendition of the same song that won Olive Kitteridge the Pulitzer Prize.

TheMillions.com put together a good alternate list which includes Myla Goldberg, whose Bee Season finally taught me, at the age of 20, not to judge books by covers, and which inspired me to aim big in writing my own first novel.

Still, I realize, my favorites — and the authors of some of the #BooksThatChangedMyWorld, as Susan Orlean put it yesterday — are not the bright young things, or at least, not anymore. They are, in fact, either Middle-Aged, British, or Dead (though rarely all three at once):

  • Jonathan Franzen (middle-aged)
  • David Mitchell (British)
  • Ann Patchett (buying a Corvette as we speak)
  • Susanna Clarke (Limey)
  • Jane Austen (dead)
  • Dorothy Sayers (as-a-doornail)
  • Michael Chabon (menopausal)
  • Anne Lamott (grandmother!)
  • Marilynne Robinson (virtually a crone)
  • Dorothy Parker (worm-meat, but hopefully happy at last)

Some books #ChangedMyWorld at the time but have since faded comfortably into the ether:

  • Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City and Tom Robbins’s Still Life with Woodpecker taught me that there was life outside my Jewish Day School. WAY outside.
  • Bridge to Terebithia — Wait, you mean people you love can *die*?
  • The Princess Bride — And life isn’t fair?
  • Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry — And there’s serious, endemic injustice built into the system? (This series affected me even more strongly than To Kill a Mockingbird. Though I loved them both.)
  • Midnight’s Children — And other countries have stories worth hearing?
  • Gone With the Wind — And the South was a victim in the Civil War? (I believed this for about five minutes, until my father sat me down to have a chat. Still, that was a very disorienting five minutes.)
  • The Mists of Avalon — And patriarchy has not always been the default operating system of every functioning society in the world?
  • The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy — And something really funny can still be profound?
  • Slaughterhouse Five and Vonnegut in general — ditto. That’s a lesson I never stop learning.

NOTE: If you want to complain about the “20 Under 40” list, Gawker has created a handy-dandy How To guide. Have at it!