notjustaboutsex

Chronicles of Covid, episode 367CHRONICLES OF COVID Episode 367

Clearly my goal of doing one of these revelatory reports every day during isolation has gone asunder, what with the more pressing obligation of avoiding noticing my weight gain while at the same time, making sure I have plenty of Panda’s Australian licorice (both noir and strawberry) in stock.

So why do I feel compelled to write today? I’m certainly not bored, what with not one, but two zoom classes on how to perform Shakespeare for your dog. I’ve also mastered the art of making Rice Crispies soak up the milk really fast so that the white stuff doesn’t spill out of the bowl while eating in bed (did I mention that it’s so quiet you can actually hear the snap, crackle and pop?) And best … I even made it through a birthday without the usual fanfare of insisting my friends show up for what I often think of as the Last Supper.  I’m learning to become my best friend.

All in all, a successful week or whatever we call this stretch of endless days. I’m feeling so good about myself that I defended Donald Trump’s refusal to wear a mask. Clearly, he does not want to create more tan lines on his face and we all know how hard it is to get Maybelline’s Sunkiss Glow off a N95.

So, with renewed spirit I took a walk. My mask was one of my looser ones; having stretched out the ear elastic I had to bobby pin it to my hood. Luckily, in my neighborhood most people wear their pajamas on the street until about 330 pm, so I wasn’t the least embarrassed.

It was windy on the east river and when I got far enough away from other potential disease carriers, I lifted the side of my mask and let some of that good New York air into my nasal fortress. Ah it was nice.

I noticed one fellow in the baseball field doing an exercise with two long strands of black rubber. He shook it endlessly until it looked like a dancing infinity symbol and I was impressed with his strength, despite having skinny white arms.

Taking a rest, I sat on a bench for 20 minutes unfriending people I disagreed with on Facebook and then decided to meditate before I’d have no friends left. The British voice on the meditation told me to appreciate this time by slowly looking at the sky and noticing everything slowly. An opportunity was being afforded all of us to see things anew. With those thoughts I started back home when I spotted a tiny rose bush. I bent down, adjusted my mask and breathed in the little pink bud. To my delight, it smelled like a real flower. I don’t know when I smelled such an aroma last other than at Bed Bath and Beyond. This was how flowers always used to smell before they were harvested by the slave trade. Just to be certain I wasn’t hallucinating; I took another whiff and and then tightened up my mask. I really needed that rose scent.

 

My lesson for the day was twofold. Always try to remember to look up at the sky and just as important, brush the teeth before going out for a walk with a mask. The exhales can be quite rough, but only your best friend will tell you the truth.

Chronicles of Covid, Episode. 42

Day 135, feels like 2030

Blue today, blue Friday. Grey morning riding on the heels of nightmares. Most of my dreams involve dead friends. Are they trying to tell me something? I’m wondering if it has something to do with forgiveness…forgive myself for not having lived enough in the world on offer for so long, now that the offerings are so different, so internal. Even dreaming about old ex-friends who are still alive and with Whom, if I were a forgiving type, I would call and say “what was that fight about anyway?”

I had a thrill yesterday. Being poetry month, the radio was giving prompts for a poem. I dashed one off to the tune of “after this is over, what is the first thing you would want to hear?” A producer emailed me that she liked mine so with Shakespeare on my shoulder, I imagined the red carpet of my radio poetry debut and all the joys that would follow. What if they read it aloud? It was really meant for my therapist.

I didn’t hear the live radio as I must have been foraging for balsamic vinegar… but email said I had made the LIST. Alas, too late to start a poetry career  and besides, I had tried it once with the Unbearables, a rough and tumble group of lovable refugees from the normative. Mike Golden died this year, he had inched me in to the group. I’m glad he’s missing this messy time… he never ever would have worn a mask unless he was in the getaway car.

Earth Day came and I hugged my dog who was peeing next to a tree. No pee. Then she went up to a guy sitting on a bench  reading with a muffin and looked like she would pee on his long leg. He was such a gentlemen. He suggested that he had often been mistaken for a tree and wasn’t bothered in the least. Now that’s what I call humanity and nature in synch.

Note to self: Please  don’t forgive the US neglect of the Native Americans, esp. the Navajo Nation at this time/don’t  forgive the jerks trying to abolish abortion rights as non-essential/ and don’t forgive the potential damage to the working poor with the re-opening of American life

Chronicles of Covid. #37

Day 37, feels like 400

LOW HUNG FRUIT

I’ve demoted my bras to the bottom drawer.

Swing hi, swing lo.

The mascara’s run dry,

Say good bye, say good bye.

The tooth paste must stay,

but the hair, what can I say?

I’ve grown accustomed to this look,

Locked in but free, to be to be to be.

A version of Me!

DAY 35, FEELS LIKE 2054

Another day in resilience. On a Passover zoom seder last night, a lovely fellow from Namibia ended our conversation by suggesting that I try and not be too angry. He’s right of course. Anger does nothing for one’s immune system. But still, how can it be ignored…all the greed and betrayals by those at the helm. Spring, a time of renewal has been turned into a death march.  Even with meditation, listening to the newly discovered bird chirping and internet tai chi classes, I remain angry.

I wonder why life has been so devalued in this country. It didn’t just start with the epidemic. Just ask Black Lives Matter. And people thrown in prison for years. And guns, and lack of education and inefficient health care. Why don’t we care for each other and fight for life affirming legislation…for everyone? When did the American dream become defined by money, power and fame?

I hear the ambulance sirens and I think of Germany ’41, imagining it’s a neighbor caught by the Gestapo, saddened but relieved it’s not me, this time.

My new therapist said it was ok to feel anger, that I’m part of a large group feeling this kind of anger, even hate at this time.  I don’t want to hate. I’ve spent a fortune on vitamins and don’t care to dilute their power with hate. But I am reflecting and re-evaluating and it’s good to know I’m not alone in this.

There is richness in this time. We’re temporarily free to jump off the capital choo choo and muse on other things. And if there’s meaning in everything, that life is not haphazard, then I look for meaning also in this.

The tenth plague which finally pushes Pharaoh to give the Israelites their freedom was a doozy. Slaying of the first-born son. Horrific. This is the story of Passover and the exodus to a promised land, a new way of living. We are making cruel sacrifices every day. Is that what it will take for our country to wake up and learn to care for each other. Can we get through that narrow place to freedom? And if so, can we get there fast…it seems like it’s been 40 years already

CHRONICLES OF COVID

DAY 36, FEELS LIKE 1057

I heard it’s a good thing that before going to sleep at night, to think of five things one is grateful for. So now, I try and apply this dictum to the middle of the day when after waiting 20 minutes in line for a quart of milk at the local bodega and even longer for a prescription, I am ready to pull my hair out and face mask off.  Between not seeing well over the mask that is causing the kind of steam you pay for at a Russian bath and fumbling with my latex gloves as I try and push my pin code at the counter, I’m exhausted and in need of inspiration.

I always start my list with my favorite and dependable. I am grateful for Hugh Grant, Yes, still and always. No question about that.

For number two,  I’m grateful for my dog’s presence in my hunkered down, despite the fear that when this mess is all over, FEMA will have to break down my door to move out my 300 pound self and my soon-to-be 95 pound toy schnoodle.  Darling is eating like there is no tomorrow…does she know something?  Her 10:45 pm new habit is to stand in front of me, turning her little fuzzy head in the direction of the kitchen area. If I’m ignoring her because MSNBC has my full attention, she starts to whimper and prances over to her food mat and starts clanging the metal dish like a prisoner behind bars.  Annoying, but I am still grateful for her little warm body and the reminder of the beauty and power of nature.

At 7PM I am grateful that I hung my Woodstock Chimes on my fire escape so many years ago. When the church bells ring out and the neighbors start applauding, I too can join the reverie, banging my chimes in gratitude to the medical and emergency service community. Woodstock lives!

Number four is for friends near and far who think of me and reach out, some even sending a care package.  One generous heart had the good sense to send Pennsylvania chocolate peanut butter filled Easter eggs along with the special potato chip that put my hometown on the map, at least the map that all junk food aficionados keep close to their heart.  She also made me a mask that fits more like a bikini bottom. I love the cheery spring pattern mixed ever so interestingly with an abundance of string ties, giving it a slight bondage look, clearly appropriate for these times.

Finally, I’m grateful for the past. If I hadn’t lived before this moment, I would never believe that such a thing as sexy slow dancing, and meeting up with friends at a French cafe and overdosing on popcorn at a double feature at the Film Forum were possible.  I know that there is a reality beyond this moment because I lived it, remember it with fondness and believe in my well-trodden heart that it will return. Perhaps when it comes, there will be a new level of appreciation because of this moment we’re stuck in now. Go figure.

 

 

At first glance, seeing GREED, a film with the fabulous British comedian Steve Coogan wouldn’t seem like the perfect way to honor International Women’s Day. This story about a super successful garment billionaire, Sir Richard McCreadie, arranging for his 60^th birthday bash in Mykonos, doesn’t scream feminism. But as the backstory as related through the official biographer Nick, (David Mitchell) seeps through, we see a pattern of bullying and verbal abuse that might make even Harvey Weinstein shudder.

Mr. Coogan, borrowing chicklets from Mr. Ed, is unhappy with everyone who’s been hired to make his Gladiator themed fantasy real. From the Bulgarian carpenters to the Greek chef, no one can do it fast enough and right according to his garish standards. On top of the pressure of getting rock stars to attend, and retired lions to roar, he must contend with a group of Syrian refugees encamped on the beach, potentially ruining the vista for him and his soon to arrive guests.

Nick reviews Richard’s life from boarding school truant to early London High Street rogue. Richard employed magic as a kid to steal money from fellow students and uses a different kind of manipulation to pay the least amount for the most. Once he discovers the cheap Asian labor market, exploitation of the system is simply part of doing business. He would pay the lowest price for garments …the factory managers then had to adjust to break even, and the workers, the real ones to suffer, got babkas. In this case, all the seamstresses are women. They start out poor and get even poorer as McCreadie and his lot buy and sell fashion shops, hiding their wealth in Monaco, as they sit on their shiny yachts.

Ex-wife (a very good Isla Fisher), a young girlfriend (Shanina Shaik), and a looking a little too young to be his mum, Shirley Henderson, fill out some of the pre party planning. Originally Ms. Fisher’s husband, Sasha Baron Cohen, was to play McCreadie. As it is ‘loosely’ based on Topshop’s Sir Philip Green, perhaps it was a smart move to make it less potentially anti-semitic with Steve Coogan.

One character, Amanda, (Dinita Gohil), a Sri Lankan living in the UK, seems most uncomfortable with her assistant job and all the doings. Her attempts at smoothing over the injustices Richard throws at the Syrians seem a little fuzzy, and not in keeping with the anger she must be harboring for the way her boss conducted business in her home country. I understood her anguish; I just didn’t feel it, so it is a bit surprising when the story gives her a revolutionary moment. Still, it is needed to balance out the roars.

The party ultimately flops, but the family fashion business go on making fortunes. Why would anyone get off the gravy train even without the rakish conductor?

The real politics came at the film’s end where statistics are scrolled on the screen showing the great disparity between the world’s working poor and the 24 percent who own it all. In fashion, it is mostly women who are trying to raise children with hope while working as basically slave labor for the industry. Women have made great strides, but the US still can’t vote for one for President and women continue to get less money than men for equal work.

Greed is a real peek into the lives of the rich and sometimes desperate, but not nearly as desperate as the people who work for them. The rich can leave their yachts behind and  buy a canoe. But the poor cannot and the refugees are still swimming, sometimes drowning, until someone says “enough”.

Director Michael Winterbottom has worked with Mr. Coogan before in seven other projects including the wonderful The Trip, A Cock and Bull Story and 24  Hour Party People. Hopefully there will be an eighth.

Some of the dialogue moved so quickly that I must see the film again to get all the jokes. Clever move guys.

Ken Loach never fails to bring truth to fiction. He and screenwriter Paul Laverty’s Sorry We Missed You tells the story of an average Newcastle family working extra hard at keeping it together following financial losses in 2008 and now in a world moving faster and faster.

Ricky (Kris Hitchen) interviews for an Amazon type delivery job where he’s bs’d by the manager (Russ Brewster) with the promise of being his own boss, working with the company and not for it. The bad bit is he has to buy his own moving vehicle and is warned about fines for minor indiscretions and losses. Still he’s not dissuaded. Having run out of contracting jobs, he jumps at the opportunity, even convincing his care giver wife Abbie (Debbie Honeywood) to sell her car so that he can purchase the expensive truck for the job.

Delivery is hard and frustrating work, leaving less and less time for family life, eating and sleep. Abbie’s got a heart of gold taking generous care of elders forgotten by their own families, but it’s also too much work for her; getting home to her latch key kids only after their microwaved dinners. Every time we hear the urgent ring of cell phones, it seems that life is interrupted, and not in a good way.

As their work schedule heats up, family life suffers. Their eldest (Rhys Stone) goes through normal rebellions, but shocks his parents when he’s suspended from school.  This is greatly painful for the family and his sensitive younger sister, Katie Procter. This is not a violent, sluggish family; these are good people who only want the best for their kids and are frustrated how to give it to them while also working so many hours, that there is little time and energy left for intimacy and discipline. But they don’t give up. That’s what makes it so particularly hard to watch their efforts and see the futility of a capitalist system that leaves very little space for breathing.

All the actors are wonderful and the script is often as funny as it is touching and raw. After getting beaten up by thugs, Ricky and Abbie and find themselves at the emergency clinic waiting hours for care. I have lived in the UK once after being bitten by a dog, (not his fault), I too had to spend almost 12 hours before receiving a tetanus shot.

What this film so elegantly achieves is showing the ways the first world has failed. When the exploitation of labor and schedule demands is so great that the nuclear family sinks under its weight, system choices must be revisited. As inequities grow, the non-violent nature cannot be sustained under the pressure.

 

The film opens in NYC at the Film Forum on March 4.

I had the pleasure of catching Robert Jägerhorn’s most recent New York appearance at the United Solo Theatre Festival a few weeks back. United Solo is the largest solo theatre festival in the world and this was its 10^th year, so rather important artists came back for the anniversary. I had seen Robert there a number of years back and was anxious to see how he could top his last elegant show. Robert is both a performance artist and magician, combining amazing magickal skills with comedy and panache. It also doesn’t hurt that he is so good looking.

The first time I saw Robert perform, his show centered around the conceit of finding a long, lost film of Alfred Hitchcock. It was inventive, charming and magically breath taking. Since that show, he has performed at the Magic Castle in Hollywood, was awarded Magician of the Year by The Finnish Magic Circle and performed on television in Finland and in France.

The show he brought to the Solo Festival is new territory for Robert. He calls it a Pop-Up Magic Show. It is very quiet, in fact, it is almost mime-like, with Robert working very intimately with the audience, doing close up magic with props. Yellow liquid is drunk and appears again, balls emerge from nowhere and weddings rings, borrowed from his audience, somehow show up in the most unlikely places. Interesting music takes the place of banter, so one could really pay attention to his nuanced handwork.

Robert’s in a class of his own. At one point I thought there were actually two of him on stage at the same time. He is a sophisticated talent and for me, my first truly entertaining Finn!

I hope to see more of his work and follow the direction he takes his magical charms.

The show was written and performed by Robert Jägerhorn, and directed by Markus Zink.

 DOG IS GOD SPELLED BACKWARDS

By Nancy Koan

My introduction to the rescue dogs first came at the Javitz Center where I waited along with hundreds of others for instructions on what to do as a volunteer.  Most of us had been standing around for ages and except for an occasional flirtation with firemen, were feeling like crap and basically in shock. There was plenty of free food and sun, but not enough to do to fill up the hours of disbelief and confusion.

I think it was about five thirty when a work shift was finishing and the people started coming back from downtown.  Everyone was looking for signs of hope but all we saw were exhausted, saddened faces.  Then, suddenly, a police captain walked by with a worn out German Shepherd at his side. Perhaps as much for himself as for the news- starved volunteers, he turned to the crowd and announced that his dog had made eight “finds” that day.

 At that point in the rescue effort, no one knew precisely what “finds” meant, but we understood that something good had happened and that the dog was a big part of it. We gave them both a standing ovation, just as we had done for the returning rescue fireman.  The dog wagged his tail and they went off. It was the beginning of many such moments.

Porkchop, Max, Molly, Senta and Daisy are just a few of the names from the heroic rescue dogs who came to New York to help the fallen on September 11^th. They poured in from everywhere: California, Florida, Arkansas, Chicago, France – the world. They were mostly work dogs, shepherds, collies, a bloodhound, a few rotweillers, some labs and yes, even one part poodle. Some of them belonged to FEMA, some to the police department, and some to just ordinary civilians, many who paid their own way to New York to offer their skills in what instantly became known as Ground Zero.

Dr. Garvey from the Animal Medical Center in New York said, “I have never seen anything like it. These dogs worked in the most adverse conditions. Lots of dust got into their ears, nose and eyes. Wuss, a Belgian Malinois from St. Louis fell face first into a hole and had to be treated for asphyxiation. Ammo, a German shepherd, who had had 200 saves in his career, collapsed from dehydration.”

 Clearly, these were not games being played on a field. Ground Zero was a true test of the canines rescue skills and their loyalty to the handlers.  These dogs worked longer hours than most of my friends. Each day consisted of a 12- hour shift with a few breaks for ear cleaning and a bath.  They had to walk on endless jagged material, teetering on shaky debris in the wild hope of picking up a scent that would lead them to a living or dead body.  Dr.Glenn Anderson, working at the Triage center in Tribeca said that the circumstances under which the dogs and handlers worked were ‘unimaginable’, and he was amazed by the camaraderie and cooperation.

Rescue dogs are trained in two ways: live finds and cadavers.  For live, they often learn by searching for their handler who is hidden in a forest or hole, invisible to the human eye. The dogs sniff them out. Their reward is finding the person they love. For human remains, they practice with products that give off the scent of a corpse.  Sometimes they work with actual dead bodies.  Their sense of smell is so powerful that they can pick up scents through asphalt.  In the case of the World Trade Center, finding cadavers became their only job.

Not surprisingly, these dogs experienced a kind of stress and depression at what they found. Unlike us, they had no Prozac.  But like the best in us, they kept on looking and hoping. 

All of these wonderful dogs and their handlers have a story. Here are just a few of them:

SENTA

Senta, a 5- year old German Shepherd who worked with veterinarian, Dr. Dan Bacalaglu, from Lakehurst, New Jersey. He was adopted from a shelter and trained at the Naval base, OEM.  September 11th was his first real job. The two of them came to help at 2 p.m. on the Tuesday of the attack and had been working for more than a week when we met.

DAISY

First-timer, Daisy, a bloodhound with draping ears was the picture of youthful enthusiasm. Prior to this assignment, handler Gary Curdiff of Cherry Hill had done lots of repetitive tracking in wooded areas. Daisy was adopted from the Allige Foundation, founded by a father in memory of his abducted daughter

OFFICER JOAQUIN GUERRERO AND ROOKIE

I bumped into Rookie when he was having his paws checked for cuts at the Triage center. Joaquin Guerrero, of the Saginaw Police in Michigan fell in love with German Shepherd Rookie when he was just a pup in 1996 and  they’ve patrolled the streets of Saginaw ever since.  As Guerrero’s partner, Rookie is considered a full-fledged police officer.  He is trained as a “full utility” dog.  Rookie can search, track, do SWAT team work, evidence searches, narcotic detection and K-9 therapy.  This was his first trip to New York.

MAX

Max, a Shepherd belonged to, Jasmine Fraleigh of Fort Smith, Arkansas and had come with the Southern Baptist Disaster Relief team.  Jasmine said that Max, a four- year old Sagittarius (meaning he likes to travel), could never have been prepared for anything of this nature.  One time back home though, she said,   “Max picked up a scent after 18 hours of a lost thirteen year old.” She felt that Max was definitely suffering depression from the lack of live finds, but at least he was able to give comfort therapy to the fireman on site where they “could cry onto his broad furry back.”

KERMIT

Another hero, Kermit, a German Shepherd working with Merlin Durkman, from Colorado, was trained to find human scent, blood, fluid, bodies, and clothing. He had an extremely sensitive nose but was because of the dust, was experiencing some difficulty from the dust.

THE FRENCH TEAM

The international response to the tragedy had been no less than the national.  A rescue team from France arrived on Sunday, anxious to put their hounds to the test. They were from C.I.C.R.S. or Group Intervention Cinophile Rescue Search.  It takes two to three years of training before they are ready for search and rescue. When they find someone alive, the dogs jump up and yelp; when they find a dead body, they drop down and look sad.  Ah, the French technique. Their dogs are especially adept at finding lost children.  They once found a little girl in Armonje, France after ten days.

They team was anxious to start working and had to wait for a diplomatic release before joining the search.

HEDGES

. Hedges, a 3 1/2 year old black and tan German Shepherd, was part of the New York State Police explosives detection and K-9 unit. He and his handler, Neil Dow of Troop F in Orange County, New York specialize in bomb searches and  were brought into the World Trade Center scene to do “bomb sweeps” to insure that there were nothing planted. Because at that point there had been 90 threats, they had “swept” JFK, La Guardia and the Javitz Center.

They

Officer Dow uses hand gestures with Hedges for commands like sit, stay and come. “The three key words with dogs are patience, repetition and praise.” he says.  “Also, they like to be spoken to in a high-pitched voice when training.” I was personally thrilled to hear that.  I have always spoken to my animal companions in a “girly” voice that has driven many of my human friends crazy.

 Watching Hedges and Dow together almost made me yearn for a relationship as sweet as theirs, their bond is so tight.  Dow says “if a perpetrator gives off a “vibe” that the dog mistrusts, the dog will react to protect his handler.”  This includes subtle energies that are only picked up by the dog. “Dogs have jumped through car windows to protect their handlers”, Dow said.

“Patrol dogs’ lives are quite stressful. They have a career span of six to eight years”, Dow said, because of the climbing up and down, which can be hard on their hips.” But even when Hedges retires, he will continue to live with Dow.  They are a real team.

________________________

MOSES

“Moses led people out of Egypt” said Chief Rabiela as a way of explaining his German Shepherd’s name. They came from Chicago, from the Fellowship of Christian Firefighters, thus further explaining the moniker. “Moses has zero aggression and he does therapy work, too”, said the Chief proudly.   Moses had to have three stitches on his paw after he cut it while climbing on a wire. But like Moses, he was back out in the field the very next day.

PORKCHOP

Every show has a star and the 9/11 canine rescue team had Porkchop, an Australian Shepherd with a pinkish nose.  Porkchop was trained in live scent and cadaver work with the California Rescue Dog Association and spends his days in Oakhurst, California with handsome handler Eric Robertson.  They’ve been together since Porkchop was 10 weeks old. The breed is apparently good for avalanche work, able to work long, hard shifts with great find success.  They train regularly everyday for four hours.

 Assigned to the New York Police Department canine unit, Porkchop and Robertson were considered the confirmation team.  FEMA people would go in first, then Porkchop would go in and confirm. According to Robertson, Porkchop made recoveries everyday, often within the first thirty minutes of starting the shift.  His technique was to bark three times when he makes a “live find” and to sneeze when he finds a cadaver. There were no survivors found, but everyday remains were discovered.

Porkchop was the first dog I saw with little booties. . Some of the dogs wear booties to help protect the soft pads of their feet from the rubble. Many sets of booties had been donated.  Porkchop seemed to really enjoy wearing them, a closet shoe fiend no doubt.

“But, when his vest is off, he’s just like a regular dog”, insisted Robertson “And how did he get such a goofy name?” I asked.   “When he was a puppy, we put him in the shopping cart at a grocery store and when we went to the checkout line, the sticker from the pork chops was stuck to his butt,” answered Robertson.

There were so many more canine workers: MOLLY, the yellow lab; MORGAN, and BIGFOOT. They came from all over this country and the world, but they had one thing in common – they shared a love for their handlers. We New Yorkers were fortunate, for with that love came incredible skill, training, loyalty and devotion.  Qualities that this city so desperately needed and will continued to need as we heal.  The statues that were erected are a reminder to us all that these shaggy heroes are truly human being’s best friend.