It doesn't take very long to forget. To move on. To get wrapped up in what Tiger is doing, or Leno, or our kids or our friends or our exes, and blessedly fall back into the habits that make up our day-to-day lives.
I remember, just a few short weeks after watching the 9/11 attacks from a block away and then seeing those two symbolic, people-filled buildings succumb to the evil that had ripped into them, realizing that life goes on. It was important, that realization. A relief I suppose, but somehow sort of unbelievable. People were going back to work, back to school, back to the malls, even as those of us in lower Manhattan were still cocooned, still inundated by the smell, the taste, the very aura of fear and death. And then, before too long, even we were back to work. Back to the business of living. That's good. That's healthy. That's life.
From an emotional standpoint, September 11th, 2001 will always be the worst thing I will ever experience. But to know that just a couple hundred miles away from where my beautiful best friend lives is devastation on a scale that makes Ground Zero look paltry is almost too big for me to take in. It's not the same for me. But it's the same for them. They're not watching Madonna sing, or hearing Halle Berry ask for help on their behalf. And tonight, because I'm lucky enough to have this outlet where a tiny little group of people actually tune in from time to time to hear what I have to say, I'm making my own plea for their help.
Give what you can.
I'm guessing your cell phone is probably somewhere within ten feet or so of you, no? Have you taken the mere seconds to text a message that will help?
We live in a country where one of our biggest problems is obesity.
We have an entire network devoted to food.
I have no shortage of complaints, y'all know that. I don't work very much, so I'm always broke. But I'm lucky enough to have a loving, supportive family who think it's mostly fantastic that I write instead of having a real job. I get my heart broken on a weirdly regular basis. I just decided to not eat anything for eight days, because I was tired of not having cheekbones and because I could squeeze a happy face into my stomach if I was sitting at the right angle. These are real problems. But sometimes a little perspective comes into our lives. It's a humbling perspective. A demanding one.
I have ten dollars. I gave.
If you have ten dollars, give.
If you have a job, give.
If you have somewhere to go should you lose your job, give.
If you have a child, give.
If you are someone's child, give.
If you took a shower today, give.
If you ran to the grocery store this week, give.
If you'll take a vacation this year, give.
If you'll rest your head on a pillow tonight, give.
If you are healthy, give.
If you are home, give.
I don't want to sound bossy. I don't mean to be preachy. But please, please my sweet readers, my generous friends, give what you can.
Visit HopeForHaitiNow.org.
Text YELE to 501501 to donate $5, and visit Wyclef's Yele Haiti site for updates and more ways to help.
Text HAITI to 90999 to donate $10 to the Red Cross, directly on your cell phone bill.
Help Habitat for Humanity rebuild Haiti's shelters and homes.
Support the children of Haiti by donating any amount to UNICEF.
Download songs from the Hope for Haiti Now event at iTunes.com/Haiti.
Or simply go to Google, search for a cause that means something special to you, and contribute in the way that is most meaningful to you.
Spread the word. Spread the love.
Yanick, wherever you are, I'm praying for you and your family.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Year in (Book) Review: Loving Frank
My first book of 2010 is a "creative non-fiction" piece written by first-time author Nancy Horan. In essence, she learns all the facts she can about the lives, times, and surroundings of her main characters -- in this case, famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright and his lover Mamah Borthwick Cheney -- and then fills in the holes with color and imagination and good guessing.
Given to me as a Christmas gift, Loving Frank is probably not something that I would have pulled off the shelf myself. I'm familiar with Mr. Wright of course, but not overly enraptured with the principles of architecture or the idea of trying to decide, as I read, what is real and what is make-believe.
It was a lovely, unexpectedly enjoyable surprise. (Thank you, Cindy, and by extension Barb Vogel, for the recommendation and the gift.)
Loving Frank tells the story of a young (by today's standards, although decidedly middle-aged in her time) and married mother, Mrs. Cheney, and how her decision, if you want to call it that, to share her life with also-married father Frank Wright impacted a multitude of lives.
It took a few pages, a few chapters perhaps, before I fell into the slow rhythm of author Horan's narrative. But it was impossible not to get drawn into the exceptional woman she brings to her readers. Mamah, by all accounts, defied every expectation of her. And not in a good way, many would probably say. She married rather late (after 30), was highly educated (a Master's degree and mastery of several languages) and a suffragist, and ultimately left her home, her husband, and her children to follow her heart to Europe after beginning an affair with the not-yet legendary neighbor and designer of her family's home. I found myself, more and more, wanting to have a drink with her.
We meet Mr. Wright as Mrs. Cheney does, in early 1903, already itching to be a bigger presence in the world than life in Oak Park, Illinois will allow. Both unhappy with their marriages and enthralled by what they see in one another, the affair flourishes quickly and deeply.
The decisions they make from that point forward have a rippling effect on everyone in their lives, not only their heartbroken spouses and nine (yep, nine) children but their extended families, the scandalized neighbors, and the co-workers eager to be a part of the emerging fame but hesitant to get drawn in to the surrounding hailstorm. Yet their conviction to one another, to their principles and beliefs, and perhaps most importantly to themselves, drives them forward and binds them all the more tightly together.
He can't have been an easy person to love. She can't have been as pious and pleasing as she is romanticized by her biographer. But they are charming and passionate, accessible and relatable, and unmistakably in love. And that makes it easy for readers to feel empathy for them, to feel ourselves in their place perhaps.
And it makes the conclusion of the story all that much more jarring when it hits, in the final pages of Horan's novel. I knew nothing of the history. If you're unaware and planning to read the book, I recommend not doing any research first, if only to get the full impact of the reading experience. It's wrenching and totally unexpected, the kind of unexpected that makes you re-read paragraphs because the facts are upon you before you can really process them. (I had to get up out of bed and Google the situation tomake sure Ms. Horan wasn't faking me out for shock factor. She, horribly, was not.)
I genuinely recommend exploring this relatively undocumented piece of American history.
(If you're like me and like to be able to picture what the author is describing (when it's real, of course), visit here for a photographic tour of Taliesin, the Wisconsin home Frank built for Mamah.) (And if you're not like me and you just have to know the full story before, well, before you read the story, here's some info on Mamah. Don't do it, I'm telling you. Wait for it.)
Given to me as a Christmas gift, Loving Frank is probably not something that I would have pulled off the shelf myself. I'm familiar with Mr. Wright of course, but not overly enraptured with the principles of architecture or the idea of trying to decide, as I read, what is real and what is make-believe.
It was a lovely, unexpectedly enjoyable surprise. (Thank you, Cindy, and by extension Barb Vogel, for the recommendation and the gift.)
Loving Frank tells the story of a young (by today's standards, although decidedly middle-aged in her time) and married mother, Mrs. Cheney, and how her decision, if you want to call it that, to share her life with also-married father Frank Wright impacted a multitude of lives.
It took a few pages, a few chapters perhaps, before I fell into the slow rhythm of author Horan's narrative. But it was impossible not to get drawn into the exceptional woman she brings to her readers. Mamah, by all accounts, defied every expectation of her. And not in a good way, many would probably say. She married rather late (after 30), was highly educated (a Master's degree and mastery of several languages) and a suffragist, and ultimately left her home, her husband, and her children to follow her heart to Europe after beginning an affair with the not-yet legendary neighbor and designer of her family's home. I found myself, more and more, wanting to have a drink with her.
We meet Mr. Wright as Mrs. Cheney does, in early 1903, already itching to be a bigger presence in the world than life in Oak Park, Illinois will allow. Both unhappy with their marriages and enthralled by what they see in one another, the affair flourishes quickly and deeply.
The decisions they make from that point forward have a rippling effect on everyone in their lives, not only their heartbroken spouses and nine (yep, nine) children but their extended families, the scandalized neighbors, and the co-workers eager to be a part of the emerging fame but hesitant to get drawn in to the surrounding hailstorm. Yet their conviction to one another, to their principles and beliefs, and perhaps most importantly to themselves, drives them forward and binds them all the more tightly together.
He can't have been an easy person to love. She can't have been as pious and pleasing as she is romanticized by her biographer. But they are charming and passionate, accessible and relatable, and unmistakably in love. And that makes it easy for readers to feel empathy for them, to feel ourselves in their place perhaps.
And it makes the conclusion of the story all that much more jarring when it hits, in the final pages of Horan's novel. I knew nothing of the history. If you're unaware and planning to read the book, I recommend not doing any research first, if only to get the full impact of the reading experience. It's wrenching and totally unexpected, the kind of unexpected that makes you re-read paragraphs because the facts are upon you before you can really process them. (I had to get up out of bed and Google the situation tomake sure Ms. Horan wasn't faking me out for shock factor. She, horribly, was not.)
I genuinely recommend exploring this relatively undocumented piece of American history.
(If you're like me and like to be able to picture what the author is describing (when it's real, of course), visit here for a photographic tour of Taliesin, the Wisconsin home Frank built for Mamah.) (And if you're not like me and you just have to know the full story before, well, before you read the story, here's some info on Mamah. Don't do it, I'm telling you. Wait for it.)
Monday, January 11, 2010
New Year, New You
That really bothers me.
Which is ironic, because what really bothers me is people who talk too much about stuff that bothers them in general public-type situations.
(I'm not saying don't talk to your friends about stuff that's bothering you. I'm not saying don't tell your significant other every little thing about him/her that bothers you. (I'm also more often than not single, so...) I'm mostly talking, for example, to my fellow Facebookers who use their status updates - which goes out to a few hundred basic acquaintances - to say things like Sally Shmoe has bunions and no heat and smelly neighbors. Or worse, Julio Jones has to go to the grocery store after work tonight, which is a real bummer because it's always pretty crowded after work. Seriously? That's all you can think to tell the world? It's uncreative and it brings people down, which is the antithesis of what a Facebook status should do if you ask me. Which you didn't, but it's my blog.)
Back to my point.
New Year, New You.
That really bothers me.
For one thing, it's completely unoriginal. Every year, and I mean every year, starting around the first of December through mid-January, you see it. It headlines magazines. Self-help books. News programs. Entertainment programs. Everywhere you look, it seems, the world is reminding you that perhaps you've once again failed to make anything of yourself, but don't worry - January first the slate is clean.
In theory, I can get behind this. We all probably come up to the end of a year thinking about things we meant to get done, places we'd wanted to go, problems we'd promised ourselves we would fix. So go ahead and make those resolutions. Find some comfort and some hope in a fresh start.
But a whole new you? Really? Was last year so bad that you need to completely redefine yourself? Reinvent yourself? Be someone else?
Take me, for example. 2009 was a year that should make me a prime NYNY candidate. (Not New York, you fools. Try to keep up.) I was single for most of the year. About halfway through I very unexpectedly got caught up in this crappy economy and lost my job. So believe you me, I've got big plans for 2010 going a little differently.
But I also spend a lot of time beating myself up for a lot of things, and getting bombarded by media telling me that it's okay; they're here to help me ditch the loser version of last year's Jessica and upgrade me to a totally new and better model.
Well screw you. I kind of like messed up, old school Jessica. And some other people do, too. Maybe just because she provides limitless amounts of comedy with her foibles and fuck ups, but still. That's got to count for something. And maybe she's been unemployed for a really long time, but you know what? She's okay with that. You heard me. Because she's an artist, and sometimes artists need a break from getting paid for crap so that they can fill their days with non-crap. I'm sure there are people that think she's lazy. But she's not. She's really not at all. She's just different than people who have different priorities.
And she may make jokes about being temperamentally unfit for love. But she's not. And no "womens' " magazine or "self-help" book is going to convince her that she is, and that only they have the key to turning it all around. She'll find him. He'll understand her. That'll be that.
Sure, there are some things I'd like to do differently this year. Like not suddenly slip into fits of third person self-description. But do I need to be someone new to do that? Does Jessica?
No. So New Year, yes. New You, no thanks. I'll just keep polishing up the old one.
Which is ironic, because what really bothers me is people who talk too much about stuff that bothers them in general public-type situations.
(I'm not saying don't talk to your friends about stuff that's bothering you. I'm not saying don't tell your significant other every little thing about him/her that bothers you. (I'm also more often than not single, so...) I'm mostly talking, for example, to my fellow Facebookers who use their status updates - which goes out to a few hundred basic acquaintances - to say things like Sally Shmoe has bunions and no heat and smelly neighbors. Or worse, Julio Jones has to go to the grocery store after work tonight, which is a real bummer because it's always pretty crowded after work. Seriously? That's all you can think to tell the world? It's uncreative and it brings people down, which is the antithesis of what a Facebook status should do if you ask me. Which you didn't, but it's my blog.)
Back to my point.
New Year, New You.
That really bothers me.
For one thing, it's completely unoriginal. Every year, and I mean every year, starting around the first of December through mid-January, you see it. It headlines magazines. Self-help books. News programs. Entertainment programs. Everywhere you look, it seems, the world is reminding you that perhaps you've once again failed to make anything of yourself, but don't worry - January first the slate is clean.
In theory, I can get behind this. We all probably come up to the end of a year thinking about things we meant to get done, places we'd wanted to go, problems we'd promised ourselves we would fix. So go ahead and make those resolutions. Find some comfort and some hope in a fresh start.
But a whole new you? Really? Was last year so bad that you need to completely redefine yourself? Reinvent yourself? Be someone else?
Take me, for example. 2009 was a year that should make me a prime NYNY candidate. (Not New York, you fools. Try to keep up.) I was single for most of the year. About halfway through I very unexpectedly got caught up in this crappy economy and lost my job. So believe you me, I've got big plans for 2010 going a little differently.
But I also spend a lot of time beating myself up for a lot of things, and getting bombarded by media telling me that it's okay; they're here to help me ditch the loser version of last year's Jessica and upgrade me to a totally new and better model.
Well screw you. I kind of like messed up, old school Jessica. And some other people do, too. Maybe just because she provides limitless amounts of comedy with her foibles and fuck ups, but still. That's got to count for something. And maybe she's been unemployed for a really long time, but you know what? She's okay with that. You heard me. Because she's an artist, and sometimes artists need a break from getting paid for crap so that they can fill their days with non-crap. I'm sure there are people that think she's lazy. But she's not. She's really not at all. She's just different than people who have different priorities.
And she may make jokes about being temperamentally unfit for love. But she's not. And no "womens' " magazine or "self-help" book is going to convince her that she is, and that only they have the key to turning it all around. She'll find him. He'll understand her. That'll be that.
Sure, there are some things I'd like to do differently this year. Like not suddenly slip into fits of third person self-description. But do I need to be someone new to do that? Does Jessica?
No. So New Year, yes. New You, no thanks. I'll just keep polishing up the old one.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Year in Review
What, too soon?
Actually it's not so much a review of last year as this year. And it's not so much the year itself that I'll be reviewing as the books I plan to read. Ain't resolutions grand?
Quick backstory: for the past several years I've wanted to keep track of the books I read. I've meant to. I've planned on it. Unfortunately, I read rather a lot, so the whole "mentally tracking" system I'd devised is pretty much a disaster. I've got a few friends "in the biz" who are fantastic about reviewing movies - a few who even get paid for it, if you can believe the luck - and know a handful of unmentionables who do a great, hysterical review of their yearly collection of bad dates and really bad sex. I'll stick to books, thank you very much. My mom reads this thing. Sometimes.
So, after finishing my first book of this year, I've decided to use you lovely people to keep me accountable and in line. (Fat lot of good that's done me in the past, but I forever have faith in you.)
Please stay tuned for the upcoming review of 2010 Book #1: Loving Frank by Nancy Horan.
Actually it's not so much a review of last year as this year. And it's not so much the year itself that I'll be reviewing as the books I plan to read. Ain't resolutions grand?
Quick backstory: for the past several years I've wanted to keep track of the books I read. I've meant to. I've planned on it. Unfortunately, I read rather a lot, so the whole "mentally tracking" system I'd devised is pretty much a disaster. I've got a few friends "in the biz" who are fantastic about reviewing movies - a few who even get paid for it, if you can believe the luck - and know a handful of unmentionables who do a great, hysterical review of their yearly collection of bad dates and really bad sex. I'll stick to books, thank you very much. My mom reads this thing. Sometimes.
So, after finishing my first book of this year, I've decided to use you lovely people to keep me accountable and in line. (Fat lot of good that's done me in the past, but I forever have faith in you.)
Please stay tuned for the upcoming review of 2010 Book #1: Loving Frank by Nancy Horan.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Perfect '10
Hello, all.
Happy New Year.
I hope you each had a few or more sips of champagne, had someone fun or comfortable or just... there... to kiss at midnight.
I hope you woke up this morning filled with the feeling of a fresh start, a promising horizon, and no hangover.
And, looking ahead, I hope this is a really good year for all of you.
I hope patience prevails and the things you've been waiting for and wanting find their way to you.
I hope the frightening uncertainty that has haunted our country for the past couple of years has instilled in you a determination and a confidence in your own survival skills.
I hope you prosper.
I hope you fall in love.
I hope you get all the hugs you need.
I hope when you cry, because you will, there is someone there to listen, to comfort, and to make you laugh.
I hope someone tells you you're sexy, and makes you feel desirable, and reminds you that you still got it.
I hope your work fulfills you.
I hope you feed your creative energy.
I hope you do at least one really brave thing, a couple really stupid things, and a lot of really compassionate things.
I hope someone calls you on your shit, and you're open enough to hear it.
I hope you allow yourself to be challenged physically, mentally, and emotionally.
I hope you're all still reading this next year, and that I can think of a catchy title about "eleven."
Happy New Year.
I hope you each had a few or more sips of champagne, had someone fun or comfortable or just... there... to kiss at midnight.
I hope you woke up this morning filled with the feeling of a fresh start, a promising horizon, and no hangover.
And, looking ahead, I hope this is a really good year for all of you.
I hope patience prevails and the things you've been waiting for and wanting find their way to you.
I hope the frightening uncertainty that has haunted our country for the past couple of years has instilled in you a determination and a confidence in your own survival skills.
I hope you prosper.
I hope you fall in love.
I hope you get all the hugs you need.
I hope when you cry, because you will, there is someone there to listen, to comfort, and to make you laugh.
I hope someone tells you you're sexy, and makes you feel desirable, and reminds you that you still got it.
I hope your work fulfills you.
I hope you feed your creative energy.
I hope you do at least one really brave thing, a couple really stupid things, and a lot of really compassionate things.
I hope someone calls you on your shit, and you're open enough to hear it.
I hope you allow yourself to be challenged physically, mentally, and emotionally.
I hope you're all still reading this next year, and that I can think of a catchy title about "eleven."
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