Monday, April 26, 2004


In the past week, I've had the following dreams:

I (unexpectedly) win a Grammy for a song I co-wrote with singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright. Rufus is at the award ceremony, I am at home listening on I dance around with joy.

I atttend a big schmoozefest with actor/writer/director Alan Cumming, who is, apparently, my friend. He tells me he'll meet me at the end of the party; he has some serious schmoozing to do. His first target...Henry Kissinger.

I've spotted at least one connection between the two dreams, not to mention the fact that my father went to college with Henry Kissinger, who was NOT his friend, but who Dad overheard enough to note that his accent had gotten thicker since those sun-dappled days at Harvard.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004


Big genuine thrill yesterday: an old friend, David Rakoff, guested on Air America as a pundit yesterday, trying his amusingly Canadian best to explain the logic of Log Cabin Republicans. When in doubt, of course, mention that the Republicans are the party of Abe Lincoln. John McCain uses this one a lot, too. Dudes: That is SO two centuries ago.

Anyway, you can read more of David here. And listen to him talk brilliantly about Canada, cancer, and chickens on This American Life.

Tuesday, April 20, 2004


Sigh. There's an article in a very very popular magazine about this generation's exposure to Internet porn. Okay, okay, okay, I get it, and mostly, I agree: too much, too soon, no control, blah blah blah. And while you're at it, please make sure any spawn of mine don't get to see private security staff killed and mutilated in Iran, okay?

Here's the thing that made my brain burp: the article quotes a 25-year-old guy who blames his exposure to Internet smut for his lousy treatment of his high school girlfriend. (Gone are the days we blame Marilyn Manson for our loutish behavior, eh, knaves?) The article says he's been online for 13 years...aka, 1991.

That's a pretty Web-savvy individual. Speaking as someone who got on the Web in early 1995, I do have to wonder exactly what the kid was looking in those long-gone days: nudes made up of ASCII text? And given the baud rate back then, wouldn't it take, um, about two hours for you to see a whole naked lady anyway?

Just my two pixels.


Back from the beach where we watched our pooch gambol in the bay, retrieving a Water Kong like the Amazon girl dog she is. We partook of IHOP food from a Jersey IHOP that feels like the center of town, and maybe is. A waitress who was going off her shift complained to another waitress that she was going to get her nails done. Why complain? I asked. Well, the waitress explained, she gets her nails done at the request of her husband, and this is after an eight-hour shift. She takes the kids with her, all three of them. Doesn't sound exactly like the Spa Lady experience we're supposed to have as we sit still and are lacquered.

Thursday, April 15, 2004


Sometimes it's hard to know everything.

Sometimes it's even harder to know when you don't know everything.

Here's a start, though: I've been reading--inhaling, really--Dr. Anna Fels' book, Necessary Dreams. (Linky later.) Dr. Fels, a psychiatrist, has written a book about women and ambition that is reassuring and disturbing, sometimes all in the same sentence. We white middle class women of a certain age have come a long way baby--but we also get nervous when we go too far, or, most particularly, get "too much" recognition. Fels does a damned brilliant job of breaking down just why that is, and why women often give up in the face of pretty frightening discouragement---or, just as likely, they pick a smaller, "nicer" goal. It made me grateful for a lot of things in my upbringing (all girls in my high school, kickass nuns), and...well, pretty sad about others. But what's encouraging about Fels' book is the same thing that's spooky: between jobs and kids and new educational opportunities, not to mention that pesky global economy, women are creating a completely new road for themselves.

We hope.