Please, Sir, May I Have Some More?

My 13 year old son's eating habits are a curious combination. On one hand, he's a notoriously picky eater and finds many common foods, like pasta, repulsive. On the other hand, of the foods on his quite limited "acceptable foods" list, he can consume massive amounts without gaining a pound. Note the photo above. Yes, he did ask if he could have a brownie. No, I didn't define what size I meant by"one brownie". And, yes, it's time for a talk about portion control.

One of the worst food phases was when he liked ice cream cones. Literally, the cones only. No ice cream. When we'd go to an ice cream parlor and I'd order a plain cone with no ice cream for my son, more often than not, I'd get suspicious looks from the staff. I'm not sure if they thought I was being absurdly cheap or simply cruel. Now, of course, a quart of Breyer's Natural Vanilla lasts maybe a matter of hours with my son around.

On vacation, we went to a restaurant that served all-you-can-eat meats from their wood-fired grill. With steak being a big favorite of my son's, I suspected he'd have more than one. What I didn't expect was that he'd eat six steaks. After the 5th steak, he politely asked the waiter for another and the startled man glanced at me and asked, "Are you sure this is alright, ma'am?" I think he must have thought my son was stuffing the steaks in his pockets or something and wanted me to check.

To be honest, I can remember eating almost like that as a teen and remaining somewhat underweight. Lunch might have been a grilled reuben sandwich, french fries, and a 3-scoop ice cream sundae. Dinner, no less caloric. Fast-forward to the present and I seem to gain two pounds if I choose the wrong salad dressing. So, all in all, I simply have to look at my son and say, "Enjoy!"

Father's Day 2009

When I talk about my father, most people expect me to talk about his work as a founder of NPR (National Public Radio) or how he created its flagship show, All Things Considered. More recently, the discussion is usually about his genuinely extraordinary work in helping community radio stations develop in emerging democracies. But, today is Father's Day and it's my turn to talk about him the way I see him.

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, Saturday was always the day of the week Dad and I spent together. My sister and mother would spend the day having lunch out and shopping. Dad and I would spend the morning at the Broadway Market, picking up special foods for the week, and then go to the Albright-Knox Art Gallery. We'd stop in front of different pieces in the collection, whether it was Andy Warhol or Matisse, and Dad would ask me questions about it that would encourage me to not just look at art, but to try to understand it as well. Invariably, other people would start gathering around, thinking he was a tour guide. He'd laugh , a little embarrassed, then we'd quietly walk on.

Later, we would move and our lives would change. But, constants were things like our walks in the woods and long conversations. Throughout the years, there are at least ten Important Things I've learned from those conversations:

1. You grow old when you stop taking interest in new things.

2. It's always more rewarding to do things for others than for yourself.

3. The saddest people are those with no curiosity.

4. There are always new chapters in life.

5. It's important to continue expanding your horizons.

6. Do not let fear decide things for you.

7. Don't dwell on the past.

8. Keep moving forward.

9. Take pride in a job well done.

10. It's important to wash your hands well.

For all of the above, and for much more, Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

Transformers: My Minority Report

Sometimes, it seems curious to me that the personification of Michael Bay's target audience lives in my house. My thirteen year old son has been anticipating Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen (and I know better than to refer to it as anything other than it's complete title) since---Transformers 1.


In 2007, I knew there was little I could do to protest seeing Transformers on opening night. Then, as now, my son's conversation had been focused on Michael Bay, Optimus Prime, Megatron, Starscream, etc. Our family arrived at the theater about 45 minutes early. (We'd already bought our tickets the day before.) As we entered the actual theater, I could hear a rumble of voices from behind the wall that blocks the seating from the entry hall. As we turned towards the seats, I actually laughed. The nearly filled room was occupied primarily by 20-something males wearing either Decepticon or Autobot t-shirts. Anticipation was almost tangible. Here and there, I noticed a few wives and girlfriends who had clearly been dragged there against their better judgement. Payback day for all the Hugh Grant movies.


Yes, there was arm waving and cheering from the crowd when each Transformer made his screen debut. Yes, there were explosions and fights and explosions and fights. But, to be honest, the movie was fun. It really was. It didn't take itself too seriously--how could it? It delivered what you usually want from a good summer popcorn movie: action, vague plot, impressive CGI, and some humor.


I suspect the audience on opening night of Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen will be very similar to the first one. Actually, I suspect the movie itself will be very much like the first one. And today, when it's a humid 94 degrees and my brain feels like it's functioning at 80%, the idea of just relaxing with a big bucket of popcorn and going along for a raucous ride of a movie, even when Michael Bay is the driver, has its appeal.

My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Cat

Initially, I was going to write about something Important. Something to do with the Iranian election crisis. As a long time twitterer, it's been fascinating to watch as Twitter unfolded the story of the protests in Iran so much more effectively than any major news network. It seems like a revolution for democracy in Iran as well as a revolution in how many people--especially those who are non-tech types--are beginning to realize the vast potential of social networking sites.

But, then I realized the iraniantwitterevolution is the focus of almost every news site. Bloggers who are much more talented have offered detailed analysis on the story. My vaguely formed commentary had already been clarified and posted by others. I sat and looked at my almost-16 year old cat, Kate. She convinced me to write about her instead.

Kate initially belonged to our neighbors in Philadelphia. But, she seemed to prefer our house to that of her owner's. First sign of intelligence. I say that because, shortly before we adopted her, the owner's child had excitedly told us about her father having tried to hold Kate under water in their "bathtub over and over again, but she kept escaping". Kate soon had kittens and unsurprisingly, the owners were pleased when we said we were going to take both the cat and a kitten.

From the start, Kate seemed unusual. She has such a wide range of vocal commands that one suspects she's speaking in some kind of language. She's always been a bit vain, looking very pleased when catching sight of herself in a mirror. And when she would see her former owner walking by, she'd start gagging.

Soon, Kate became almost...spooky. She'd always been primarily attached to my husband. My husband has always been prone to migraines and when they were bad enough for him to have to leave work, Kate would regularly be under the covers on his side of the bed, making the area warm an hour before he'd lie down.

A week after I became pregnant, I couldn't sit down without her crawling under my top, pressing against my stomach, and purring loudly. Nine months later, when I went into labor, I went into the dark bathroom and saw Kate seated calmly on the edge of the sink as if she'd been expecting me. Given her previous near-drowning incident, the bathroom was the only room she had consistently avoided at all costs. And when we brought our infant son home, Kate went into immediate nanny mode with him, never letting him out of her sight. When he started crawling, in spite of a protective gate, Kate would throw herself across the top of the stairs to prevent a fall.

There're actually too many stories about her to fit in one blog post. I was once listing her uncanny behaviors to a friend who is a priest. At his increasing surprise, I laughingly said, "I know, in medieval times, she probably would have been burned as a witch."

"No," he joked, "You would have been the one burned for owning her."

She didn't like the exchange at all.

Why Not The Who?

Last week, I watched Amazing Journey: The Story of The Who and it made me start wondering about one specific issue. As a young child in the '60's, I'd listen to the radio in my older sister's room as every rock station seemed to have a weekly call-in contest called Battle of the Bands: The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones. In case you were wondering, The Beatles always won. After watching Amazing Journey, my nagging question was: Why not The Who? Why did The Rolling Stones trump The Who for the second-place position?

As much as I really do love The Rolling Stones, they're primarily a fantastic dance band. When Brian Jones founded the group, they had a distinctive blues sound. Then, Brian Jones began discovering world music and indigenous musical instruments. The rumor was that Jones could pick up an instrument from anywhere in the world and have it figured out within an hour. He kept trying to push the band into experimentation with music from other cultures.

Listening to Paint It Black, you get an idea of the potential, of the direction Jones was headed. Instead, he became one of the earlier victims of drug and alcohol abuse. As tragic as his sudden and untimely death was, there was a moment before that which seems almost equally tragic. Brian Jones showed up for a recording session, completely stoned. He could barely stand, but looked at the directions for the songlist and noticed he had no role. Jones pulled his head up and asked Mick Jagger,"What instrument can I play?" Reportedly, Jagger stared at him coldly and asked, "I don't know, Brian. What instrument can you play?" Very shortly after that incident, Brian Jones was fired by the band he'd created and was soon dead. If you look at The Rolling Stones' discography after Jones' death, you can see the change. They had hit after hit, mainly dance songs that felt slightly dangerous for the era, but I think Jones' vision of incorporating world music had vanished.

The earliest songs by The Who, such as The Kids Are Alright and I Can't Explain, sound like near-perfect examples of the British Invasion sound. But, also on their first album was My Generation, which was something else altogether. It was rebellious, angry, and distinctive. I Can See For Miles and Magic Bus followed. But then, Pete Townshend's genius took hold and he worked towards something more than just another hit.

He decided to write a rock opera, a concept no one else had thought of and almost no one could imagine. Townshend has often said that he's always seen himself as an artist whose medium happens to be music. For decades, critics have used the word "pretentious" in conjunction with Pete Townshend, but surely at this point, his claims of being an artist have been validated. When Tommy came out, it was a watershed moment in rock history. Its hard to think of anything else more original and ambitious from that time. The only problem was that it became so famous in its own right, that it made The Who seem like the Tommy-band. But, the band kept working, kept evolving, kept producing excellent, original music. The Who was never stagnant.

Shortly after watching Amazing Journey, I saw a video online of The Who performing Baba O'Riley. As I was reminded again about how great the band is/was, my eyes caught sight of a comment under the video:

"Hey! The band is playing the song from House!"

It was like that stale joke about a child not knowing Paul McCartney had been in a band before Wings. Only somehow worse. How could The Who be reduced to "the band" who plays a song recognized now from a television series? After all, they were arguably the second-greatest rock band...ever.

Home Improvements = Active Boredom

There's one particular subject that I loathe reading about: writer's block. I find it a lazy, self-indulgent, narcissisic topic and resent someone expecting me to read about their slothfulness. Reading about someone else's boredom is not a treat. I have promised myself to never be that inconsiderate of my readers. So, today I'm going to write about watching paint dry. Literally.

A neighbor in Philadelphia once gave me this advice: Every couple of years, pretend you're moving and get your house looking just as you want it to. Her husband had been transferred and, within two months, they'd repainted, redecorated, and refreshed their home and it looked fabulous. When they were done, she told me she'd never felt more depressed. The house looked fantastic and they had less than a couple of weeks to live in it. Hence the advice.

Well, it's been more than a couple of years since we moved into our lovely 1920's bungalow. Okay, it's been ten years. And it's really time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Home improvement #1 is to repaint the living room, dining room, hallway, kitchen, and den. Which wouldn't be so horribly time-consuming and overwhelming if it weren't for the trimwork, high and low, that also needs attention. Fortunately, this is my husband's role in the project. I tend to paint walls like Jackson Pollock...just get the paint on there already! Get the color on the wall! I have no patience or talent for the detail work. Even though I admit I have the better end of the bargain, I still get impatient waiting for the trim work to get done and for the paint to dry so I can move on to the next wall, my next canvas.

The one thing I'm dreading--really, my brain can't absorb the idea, is organizing the den. I have an absurdly large desk with shelves and nooks and file drawers and cupboards and have been told that we're going to streamline things to simply have the computer sit on a table. What!?!?! My carefully arranged stacks of clutter cannot possibly fit on a corner of a table. Where will I put the cds I mean to listen to, but don't? My illogically arranged genealogy files and notes and post-its? My dusty: Important! Do Now! stacks? It makes no sense at all to me.

In the meantime, I'll have to figure it out while I'm watching paint dry.

Guy Ritchie's Anti-Sherlock Holmes Movie...I Complain Again

I know. One of my first blog posts was my disbelief at the poster for Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes film. Robert Downey Jr. stared out from it like some kind of weird Jimi Hendrix wannabee rather than the globally recognized Holmes. Since then, I've seen the trailer and have discovered that perhaps for the first time, I share something with Madonna: a nagging loathing for Guy Ritchie.

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=X29IK0auNnw


If Guy Ritchie had decided he wanted to make a film about a charming Victorian rogue who happened to be a detective, it might actually have been a compelling movie. Instead, he chose to take one of the best known fictional characters in history and simply dismiss his most distinctive qualities. Holmes was never charming. Holmes was certainly not interested in romance. He was immaculate in his habits. So, Guy Ritchie presents us with a "Sherlock Holmes" who is enchanting, impassioned, and slovenly. Thanks.


What bothers me the most is the arrogance it reveals. Certainly, legendary characters can be revisited and refreshed, as J.J. Abrams did recently with Star Trek. Using new actors and plot devices, he brought a vigorous reboot of the franchise to the screen. He didn't sloppily decide to make Vulcans comic-relief characters or Kirk cowardly. Yet, so far, it appears that Guy Ritchie couldn't be bothered with the specific qualities that make Sherlock Holmes a masterful character. It almost seems as if he took an idea and thought, "Let's just retitle the character Sherlock Holmes because that will give it name recognition."


In all honestly, the film looks like it could be a lot of fun. It just needs a different name for the lead character.

The Magician's Closet

The hot, humid evenings lately have reminded me of a somewhat magical summer night many years ago. My grandfather had died and, not too long after that, my father and I visited my grandmother for a few days. Dad stayed in the guest room and, for the first time ever, I was to stay in what had been my grandfather's bedroom. Yes, my grandfather and grandmother didn't just sleep in different rooms, but on different floors of the house. As a child, you don't really ask questions.

When it was time for bed, I carried my suitcase to the second floor and opened the creaky door with some trepidation. It wasn't a fear of ghosts that was frightening me, but an overwhelming feeling that I was trespassing. I must have spent hours looking through my grandfather's untouched, crowded bookshelves. Everyone else was asleep by the time I found his memoirs, typed and bound in a coral folder. I began reading. It began with his earliest memories as a child of German immigrants, the young death of his mother, and the harshness of Minnesota winters. It went through his childhood, telling of experiences completely unfamiliar to those I'd known. And it moved on to his young enlistment in World War I. Unbelievable. (I should mention that there seems to be a time-honored tradition on my father's side of advanced paternal age. My great-grandfather was 45 when my grandfather was born; my grandfather was 45 when my father was born; though he was a younger parent to me, my father was 45 when my younger sister was born. When she was in high school and had to write an essay about a veteran, she chose her grandfather, a veteran of World War I, while her classmates' grandfathers had been in Vietnam or Korea.)

There was no air conditioning in the bedroom and it was so hot it felt impossible to sleep. I wandered around my grandfather's bedroom a bit more. I was thirteen when he'd died and my memories of him were jumbled. He'd loved teasing me, usually with a heavy German accent. In fact, it wasn't until I was nearly ten that I discovered he wasn't actually from Germany. I was shocked. He'd give me pieces of strong black licorice as a secret treat and even stronger German cheeses to sample. Sometimes, the two of us would sit together and watch a little television. I remember him becoming enraged if Frank Sinatra was ever on---something about cowardly draft-dodging during World War II. Though he had begun his career as a stage actor, the bulk of my grandfather's life had been dedicated to helping veterans.

As a stared around the room, I saw a door I hadn't noticed before. Carefully, I opened it and fumbled for a light. Nothing on the wall, but I could see a string dangling and pulled it. A dim light filled a closet almost as big as a small room---but it was different from what we now think of as a walk-in closet. There were bookcases in rows, filled with---I had no idea. There were many shapes beneath scarves and cloths. I slowly lifted one and saw a silky, black magician's hat. I think I may have literally gasped. As I investigated more, I found a cape, a wand, something wooden that looked like an egg cup, but had a trick lid, and all kinds of vintage bits that belonged in a magician's trunk. What on earth had I discovered?

I'm not sure if I even slept that night. In the morning, I hurriedly told Dad about the fantastical closet I'd found.

"Oh, right! He used to always put on magic shows for the neighborhood children."

What?!?! I'd had no idea. I sat quietly, thinking about my grandfather. And as I think about it all now, I don't think I'd say that summer night in his empty room was "somewhat magical". It was perfectly magical.

The Beatles: Rock Band...Yeah, Yeah, YEAH!

I have a new definition for my generation. We are the ones who were too old to have grown up with video games, but are too young to rule them out entirely. We just need the right motivation. And, as I patiently explain to my son, playing war games is not an appealing use of my time. Besides, my attempts at Battlefront have been laughable. I enjoyed Fable, but don't seem to find the time to get anywhere in it. Then, Rock Band entered our home. Video games became much more interesting, but I still wanted something...more.

At the E3 (Electronic Entertainment Expo) in Los Angeles Monday, Microsoft unveiled greatly anticipated news for gamers at their press conference...a new Halo game, a new Knights of the Old Republic Game and--- I can't recall any more of them or many details because my brain is completely fixated on their new version of one of their best games: The Beatles: Rock Band. At last. Really, at last.

Giles Martin, son the The Beatles' famed record producer, Sir George Martin, was on hand at the presentation to add some reassurance that he's worked on the project and is quite proud of it. Yoko Ono and Olivia Harrison made brief walk-ons, apparently to indicate the game has their blessings. And just as I was wondering if maybe, possibly...there they were. The two remaining Beatles, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr. (Making me suddenly remember I was always a John Lennon, then George Harrison girl when it came to the endless, "Who's your favorite Beatle?" question.) It was very clear that they are of the generation that most likely will never play video games, but I'm sure they're both quite aware of the massive financial potential for them from the game release. Even though it seems, fortunately, that their music will never go away, The Beatles: Rock Band will present it in a fresh, active way they couldn't have imagined.

When I think of The Beatles, I have revolving images, usually accompanied by era-specific songs: the Cavern Club, Shea Stadium, The Ed Sullivan Show, Sgt. Peppers, the London rooftop, Abbey Road studio,...and on. From the trailer, I was excited to see it looks like the game will encompass the whole journey:

www.thebeatlesrockband.com/trailer.php

It's okay, you can watch it more than once. Or twice. So, Rock Band players are going to get a chance to try their hand at John Lennon's Rickenbacker 325 guitar or Paul's Hofner bass. And I can only guess at the 45 numbers on the songlist. It's a given that, regardless of the specific songs, the music is going to be fantastic. I've never in my life heard someone say, "The Beatles are so derivative!" or, "The Beatles are so overrated." It just doesn't happen. So one of the variables would have to be graphics. I was relieved to see how detailed they are, from Paul's somewhat alarming eyebrows, to George's suppressed smirks.

So, I'm warning my son now about a phrase he'll hear frequently once The Beatles: Rock Band is in the house: It's my turn on the Rickenbacker.

Meet the Berkowitzes

Strange how journeys can have small arcs that sometimes make full circles. Since initial contact with my mother's natural sister and niece, we knew our grandmother had been Jewish. Typical of her lack of maternal responsibility to her known children, they had never been raised in the Jewish faith and some never realized their heritage had been Jewish until they were Christian adults. On my quest for yet more facts about the family, I came across someone else doing online genealogy research. We were both researching the same family of Russian Jews who had immigrated from Lithuania to Christiania (Oslo), Norway to New York City at the beginning of the 20th century. We were both following Abraham and Pauline Berkowitz and their twelve children.

We'd had plans to revisit my aunt and cousin earlier this year and, as it happened, Dr. and Mrs. Berkowitz--the latter my fellow researcher--lived just two hours away from them. Dr. Berkowitz' grandparents are our common relatives. Age ranges among their twelve children make the details complicated, but family is family.

It's one thing to intellectually know that your newly-discovered heritage is Jewish. It's another thing to meet family members who actually speak Yiddish and know their religion. This would be the Berkowitzes. They greeted me warmly and, as I've learned happens in adoption situations, Dr. Berkowitz and I studied each other's faces.

"I can see Berkowitz in your eyes," he noted.

This struck me as another of those curious cases of puzzle pieces coming together. My aunt, upon meeting me, had said that from my cheeks down, I looked just like her sister, but she didn't know who's eyes I had. Well, clearly, Berkowitz eyes. (I need to say that I'm very proud of the mannerisms and traits I share with my understanding father...I just--oddly--don't share any facial features with that side of the family.)

We were invited into the Berkowitzes' home and a strange thing happened. We didn't stop talking for five hours. Straight. The Berkowitzes treated us to dinner at--where else?--a fabulous deli and we then went back to their home to talk for another 3-4 hours. The Berkowitzs are great conversationalists---thoughtful, highly intelligent, and sharply funny. And I don't believe any of us ever felt like strangers.

Among the many delightful things they did was a small, whimsical gesture. They'd spelled my name out in small stones on the potting table in their garden. Later, I thought of my very first action acknowledging my heritage after learning about my mother's birth family. According to Jewish tradition, I'd placed small stones on my great-grandfather's tombstone in a distant city as a symbol of remembrance. And, now, the first truly Jewish family members I'd met had arranged garden stones as a sign of welcome to their faraway relative. A small, full circle on the continuing journey.