Tag Archives: Bruce Springsteen

Ohio, Meet Your Newest Resident!

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Remember when this was the election refrain heard coast to coast?

Florida, Florida, Florida!

Well, if you ask me, nowadays the refrain has changed a bit. So, instead of the Sunshine State, it’s the Buckeye State you hear about 24/7.

Ohio, Ohio, Ohio!

Which is why, I’m moving to Ohio.  After all, a gal like me likes a little attention now and then. And, what better place to get it, than Oh-HI-Oh, home of the Cincinnati Reds, America’s first professional baseball team, and where the official state rock song is, “Hang on Sloopy.”

Well, Sloopy, move over. From now on, if anyone’s doing the hanging in Ohio, it’s gonna be me.

Because being from Ohio means hailing from the number one SWING state in the land. It’s going to give me a lot of cache with the politicos, if you know what I mean. The powers that be. The grand poobahs, and all that.

In other words, I’m heading there to find out what it feels like to be wined and dined by none other than President Barack Obama and Governor Mitt Romney. We’re going to trip the light fantastic and dance the night away!

So, my bags are packed, my flight is booked, and I’m ready to go. From now on—or until Election Day, whichever comes first—my days will be filled with pep rallies, town hall meetings, community dialogues, a slew of robocalls, and watching a gazillion political ads all aimed at moi, an Ohioan from way back. And, by way back I mean today.

I better get a day planner so I can be sure to organize my schedule, which is going to be as full as Scarlett O’Hara’s dance card at the Confederate Ball. After all, I don’t want to miss any photo ops with the candidates, any pie-eating contests with Paul Ryan, arm wrestling with Joe Biden, shopping sprees with Ann Romney, or planting a Victory Garden with the First Lady.  And that’s just for starters!

After that, Ann and I will friend each other on Facebook, have a good laugh at the women on The View, for daring to expect the Romney’s to appear on their show. And, Michelle and I will exchange recipes for Stuffed Zucchini and Spicy Eggplant Salad. She’s a healthy eater, you know! Then, we’ll tease the president until he serenades us with another tune from the seventies. Or not.

I imagine that this is how Ohioans are spending their days, volleying from one political event to the next, accepting bribes—I mean, gifts—from the candidates, such as free pizza, submarine sandwiches, and attending free Bruce Springsteen concerts.

Yes, I’m going to just love being courted by both sides of the political aisle. Maybe I’ll even get to be on TV, when I ask the candidates the question that’s on every Ohioan’s lips. The elephant-and/or-donkey-in-the-room question, which goes like this:

“Which do you prefer, Akron or Cleveland?”

Sure, it’s all fun and games until Election Day approaches and then, just like that, they force you to pick one. Ever wonder why the undecideds take so long to decide? Because, just like me, they enjoy being courted. That’s why!

So, please don’t make me pick just one. Not just yet, anyway. I mean, can’t we keep the “love affair” going and postpone Election Day another six months? Puh-lease??

For everyone knows, that once it’s over, it’s over. The die is cast, and all that. And, if you ask me, breaking is up is hard to do. When the day comes, when all the votes are tallied, then every Ohioan will become little more than a wallflower. Unwanted and ignored—until 2016, that is. So, until then, we’ll be going back to our former, ordinary lives, back when we weren’t so darn special.

Back when we were just 11,544,951 ordinary Ohioans, minding our own business.

Make that 11,544,950.

For, after the elections, I’ll be packing up my bags and heading back to California. After all, I know where I’m not wanted.

The Road Taken Returns: The Forgotten Diaries

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Brace yourself. The Road Taken is back. For now, anyway. For those of you who’ve been asking, this one’s for you.

Yeah, that thorny path to love, marriage, joy, despair, and finally, the growing-apart thing. Maybe it’s like watching a train wreck. Seeing how I gave up the life I had carved for myself, to join a man who was so far away from me, in more ways than just distance. How we lived together, and then married, and somewhere in those 12 years, “wedded bliss” crumbled into bits of clay and dust, launching me into the hellish ride of my life.

And yet, from these ruins I found something better:  Myself.

Turns out, I kept a journal then, and recently rediscovered it. It begins at a time when the two paths were still before me, and I had a choice to make. (Read chapter one, Broken Hearts, for more on that).

We know how it turned out, but this is how it starts. On a short trip to Seattle, in order to determine if G and I could make a go of it. Listen to the troubled heart of this young woman, and tell me, what advice would you have given her?

First Week:  I have arrived in Seattle! I feel comfortable with G, but I can’t help but wonder if we’re capable of having a different type of relationship this time, without reverting to old, childish roles. G says I make his life pleasant. But is that all there is? While he is kind, he has no desire to make himself appealing to me. He says he loves me, but his heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. I think, like, me, he just doesn’t want to be lonely. But doesn’t that tell me something?

Maybe it would be better for me to start with someone new—a clean slate. I have changed, and the way he sees me and the way I am, are not one. The me who wants emotional ties, attachments, dependence, wants things to work out. The new, self-reliant me has trouble accepting that. I ought to forget him, start my life in D.C.

The Next Night:  I can’t sleep. It’s after 2 am and I can’t sleep. A million and one worries that always seem worse late at night. I am jealous. I am jealous of all the women G’s had. I am jealous of Marigold, who told him it was okay for roommates to sleep together. I am mad that G told me. I am mad that I’d already guessed it.

A Week Later: My trip is halfway over. But the question remains, where do I stand with G? Last night, I confronted him with my feelings. He listened and finally, said that it seems I’m just looking at the negative points, exaggerating them, using them as a weapon for wanting out of the relationship. I’m the one with the doubts, who is too damned scared to stay and work things out. Let it go, he tells me.

I want to cry but tears do not come. Nor will sleep come. I am restless, anxious, tense—tormented. I must leave this madness. He makes me happy but he makes me sad. Since I’ve been here, I’ve gone through a spectrum of emotions.

A few nights later:  It is the eve of my departure. Two and a half weeks seems short, but a lot was accomplished. Physically, we outdid ourselves at times; other times we took it easy. We dined out a lot, went to the movies, the symphony, a basketball game, the stores. We spent this past weekend in Vancouver, B.C. and enjoyed the view of the bay, the colorful sailboats, and the mountains. G baked two batches of brownies; one not as good as the other. I took long walks by myself, around the university district. We shopped for records and books, blankets and mints. We saw the full moon dip behind Mt. Baker. We kissed incessantly, made love, got high and listened to Bruce Springsteen. I danced, swayed, moved—and caught his eye.

We laughed, sighed, yawned, whispered, touched, talked, joked and cried. On Thursday, I wanted out of the relationship. By Friday night all doubts were tossed aside as I gave my heart and wondered how I had ever thought of living without him. 

G spoke honestly and truthfully. His matter-of-factness compelled me to do the same. There is no holding back. I am affected by him, his moods, his anger, his fears and pleasures. It makes me happy just to be with him.

To watch him move. To watch him in his true form. Reading. Engrossed in a mystery, all other life stops. He bites his fingers, his lips. All other functions cease until the book is done.

Working. Flipping slide after slide, making illegible notations on indecipherable charts. Peering into a microscope, examining, inventing theories. Worrying, and studying journals. He is engrossed and often talks about losing sight of time. Whatever he gives his attention to, it is with the same zeal that he applies himself. It is all or nothing with him.

And he is handsome. Maybe not to all, but certainly to me. He is tall, lean with strong features. His skin is clear and smooth. His mouth, inviting. His eyes tell all—when he loves me, when he’s confused or hurt or bitter. His eyes chart his moods, his passions.

We are bound by words, sentences, comments that we have shared. I have revealed my bleakest self to him and I have seen his. We are not scared away. Our quirks, bad habits and our secrets have been revealed. We accept that in us. We are real to each other.

He has called me his love and his curse, all in the same breath. I accept that. It’s natural. But when he calls me by the special name he’s given me, I want to melt and hug him. I feel vulnerable, and cannot think of a life without him. Tomorrow I leave. I am ready.

I am not ready. I’m preparing myself and should be used to it, but I’m not. Every time we part the pain is alive, intense. We are uncertain what will happen.

Do we have a future together?

And so, I returned to school, and the battle continues in my head, whether to give G another chance, or stay put. During this time, I write the following poem:

“When we are apart,

I remember the hugs,

the warm bed, the jokes,

Your laughter,

Your smile and eyes,

I think about how wonderful you are,

When we are together—

Ah, that’s something else!

When we are united, I see how

Painfully clear are the differences.

The differences kill us.”

And then I write this:

 “A hunch tells me that I could never realize myself with G, and that when the day came that I wanted to become a whole (full of life) person, I would have to leave him, and it would hurt more than it would now.”

So, after writing this, why did I do it? Just more proof that I wasn’t reading the writing on the wall.

And so it begins, and so it continues.

Get in Line

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If there’s a way to avoid it, I’d love to hear it.  But, short of hiring someone to do it for me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep on doing it myself. So, you might as well join me. Get on line (or in line, depending what region you’re from). For, it’s time to line up for:

The Queue.

You know what I mean. Somewhere, somehow, when you least expect it–not to mention when you do–there’s going to be a line with your number on it. And when that happens, you have no choice but to queue up.

This was the two-hour line we waited on to ride the Harry Potter ride at Universal Studios in Orlando, when it first opened.

Which is why, I always do what my mother taught me:  I bring along a book. This helps while away the hours as you weave through the torturous, misunderstood, and much-maligned, line.

There’s all kinds of lines: the one that snakes back and forth, where signs along the way indicate approximately how long it’ll take you to get to the front. “One hour from this point,” “Two hours from that point” and so on. Then, there’s the line where you’re assigned a number and you wait your turn, as you decide whether to get a half-pound of Swiss or Colby.

The folks at Disney World and Disney Land do it right. They give you the opportunity to get a “Fast Pass,” so you can return at a pre-designated time and it’s guaranteed that the queue will be way shorter than if you get on now, thank you very much.

At the grocery store, don’t you just hate it when you only have 11 things but the “15 or Fewer” line is closed, so you have to wait, along with everyone else on the line, while the lady in front of you has 106 items she’s purchasing, and one of those items doesn’t have a price on it, so they have to do a price check, and just when she’s finally all paid up, the 15 or Fewer line opens, but it’s your turn anyway, so who cares?

In the 70’s there were lines at gas stations for filling up your tank, that could last upwards of a day. Now, you can get the same experience by getting your gas at a warehouse club’s gas station.

My days of getting on line for concert tickets are over, but I do recall waiting seven hours to buy tickets to see Bruce Springsteen, back when I barely knew who The Boss was. Yet, when I went with a high school pal to buy tickets for a John Lennon concert, there was no line whatsoever. Go figure.

With tickets in hand, I arrived five hours early to get on line to see The Ellen DeGeneres Show. Yet, as early as I got there, I was still a block away from the front of the line. Luckily, I managed to get in to see the show, and during my five-hour stint in the line, I got to meet some very interesting people, including a girl, decked out in black, who hated her mother.

On a blistery hot day, I waited on line to climb up the 350 stairs to get to the top of the Statue of Liberty, only to find you can’t really get into her head no matter how far you climb.

But, the worst line of all was the one I was in last weekend. I went to see Clint Hill speak. He’s the retired Secret Service agent who protected First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy and tells his story in the best-selling, newly-released book, Mrs. Kennedy and Me. Mr. Hill was with her when JFK was assassinated and I couldn’t wait to hear his story.

The bookstore told me its doors would open at 7:00 p.m., with the program starting at 7:30. I decided I’d get there by 6:15 because I didn’t want to risk not being able to get in to see Mr. Hill. Intuition told me there’d be a crowd. That plus, it had been announced on the local news.

So I got there and made a judgment call, one that would later prove wrong.  I made the assumption that if everyone was facing the door to the left, that meant I’d have to walk to the right and get behind the last person to take my place at the back of the line.  When I got there, there were about five people in a cluster, with their backs to me. So I cued up behind them, and stood there. They turned around and looked at me. One even smiled. But none said “Boo.”  Finally, about 20 minutes into my wait, a woman in the group asked me, “Do you know that this is the front of the line?”

What?

My first thought, was, boy, am I dumb, quickly followed by, why didn’t they say something sooner?  My second thought, doesn’t anyone know the “waiting on line” protocol?

You’re supposed to face the front of the line, not the back of it and certainly not stand willy-nilly, helter skelter and all that!  How am I supposed to deduce which is the front and which is the back, if the people on the line don’t cooperate and follow the norm? I am not a mind reader! And, why did they take so long to tell me I was in the wrong place?

Needless to say, when I was finally hit with their two by four and kicked to the real back of the line, the back had moved to the next block, and all my effort to arrive early was practically for naught.  (I barely managed to squeak in to hear Mr. Hill talk.)

So, next time I find myself in the regrettable position of having to stand on line for anything, I’m making no assumptions. Instead, I’m going to say these magic words:

WTF IS THE BACK OF THE LINE??

And I Quote: On Tributes & Loss

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Among my collection of quotes are a few that pay tribute to some of the people who have had special meaning for me. People who have touched my life–and, perhaps, yours, as well–and who have contributed significantly through their art and passion.

We embraced them, we were inspired by them. Their lights flickered on this earth for a brief moment in time, giving us strength, joy and love, through their music, their writings, their creativity and their vibrant spirits. These are people I admire, who enriched our lives, and who are now no longer with us.

Nobody could do scat like Ella, the "First Lady of Song."

Each persevered through life, sometimes at great odds, sometimes facing challenges and incomprehensible tragedy on the world stage. We witnessed one, as a little boy, salute his father for the last time; another lose her life in a fiery crash. One had a voice like melted honey, and made a new form of jazz all her own, though no matter how great her gift, she still had to enter through the backdoor to some of the clubs where she would perform. Two couldn’t cope with their incredible talent for writing poetry and prose, and the state of their mental health made it impossible for them to go on. And, one will always remind me of my parents, and how they’d play his records on the Hi-Fi, over and over.

And, though they’re all gone, they always will be here, in our hearts and minds, still bringing us joy, every time we pick up a book, play one of their songs, and remember their inner grace and beauty. These quotes are eloquent, expressive remembrances, and worthy of the subject being revered:

On Frank Sinatra:

“But it was the deep blueness of Frank’s voice that affected me the most, and while his music became synonymous with black tie, good life, the best booze, women sophistication, his blues voice was always the sound of hard luck and men late at night with the last $10 in their pockets trying to figure a way out. On behalf of all New Jersey, Frank, I want to say, ‘Hail brother, you sang out our soul.’”  – Bruce Springsteen

 

On Ella Fitzgerald:

Where (Billie) Holiday and Frank Sinatra lived out the dramas they sang about, Miss Fitzgerald, viewing them from afar, seemed to understand and forgive all. Her apparent equanimity and her clear pronunciation, which transcended race, ethnicity, class and age, made her a voice of profound reassurance and hope. – Stephen Holden, New York Times 1996

On Sylvia Plath:

“You were transfigured

So slender and new and naked

A nodding spray of wet lilac

You shook, you sobbed with joy, you were ocean depth

Brimming with God.”

–      Ted Hughes’ poem to Sylvia Plath (to whom he was married), from Birthday Letters

Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Anne Sexton.

On Anne Sexton:

“Suddenly my childhood nightmare had a name and a date. It was reality—not just some wolf under the bed…

“…I looked for a plain box but there was none. This room was full of Cadillac’s, each model padded like a baby’s bassinet, swathed in silks and satins, each displayed on its own pedestal and with its own price tag discreetly tucked under the bedding. Astonishingly beautiful with their wood of burnished mahogany, the caskets aroused in me the first sadness to rise above the shock of disbelief: my mother’s body would lie, cold and final, here.”

– Both quotes are from Linda Gray Sexton, on learning of her mother’s death, in her heartfelt, beautifully-written memoir, Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton

On John F. Kennedy, Jr.:

“His moral compass directed him to an honorable, charitable life. He kept his bearings despite the tragedies he experienced. It is profoundly sad that he is gone. His heart was as big as his mind, and with the deaths of John, Carolyn and Lauren Bessette, our optimism died a little, too. God bless you in heaven. – Glamour magazine, October 1999

On Diana, the People’s Princess: (Check out my post comparing myself to her: The Princess and the Gal from Queens)

“I stand before you today the representative of a family in grief, in a country in mourning, before a world in shock. We are all united not only in our desire to pay our respects to Diana but in our need to do so.” – From eulogy delivered by Earl Charles Spencer, Diana’s brother September 1997

And one more–

On Charles Dickens: (For those of you who missed my interview, 200-Year-Old Man Gives Dickens of an Interview)

“His death, in many ways, also marked the end of the Victorian age, although Queen Victoria would rule for many years to come. For when readers look back on that era today, it is not England’s queen that they recall. It is Pip, encountering a mysterious convict in the marshes of East Anglia. It is David Copperfield fleeing his evil stepfather, and Nicholas Nickleby discovering the horrors of a Yorkshire boarding school. It is Nell dying, and Nancy being murdered, and Miss Havisham endlessly living on, perpetually dressed for her wedding day. And it is Ebenezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim, the Aged Parent and the Infant Phenomenon, the Artful Dodger, the dipsomaniacal Sairey Gamp, the obsessive Bradley Headstone, the hapless Miss Flite, and all of the other more than 2,000 men, women, and children that Charles Dickens created to touch our hearts and to ‘brighten, brighten, brighten’ our days.” – Biography Magazine, March 2000

So, tell me, who has made a difference in your life, through their art or other contribution? And, would you pick any of these?

Six Degrees from Fame

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Some people are just six degrees of separation away from Kevin Bacon. Well, I am six degrees of separation away from just about everyone else. Clearly, that can only mean one thing:  I’m famous! I dare you. Name one famous person—as long as they’re not from a reality show, that is–and chances are, you will find that we are kindred spirits. Odds are, I can show you that we have at least one thing in common.  Here are a few, just to get you started:

Note the watch. I have the exact, same one! How uncanny is that? Photograph from People Magazine.

Bruce Springsteen:  No brainer. We share the same birthday, September 23rd. Look it up if you don’t believe me! Plus, he’s from New Jersey and I’m from New York. Why that’s practically one and the same, if you ask me!

Amanda Knox:  Now, if you had asked me last month, I would have said, what? Me and Amanda? That’s crazy talk. But, now I know better. That girl and I are two peas in a pod. She’s from Seattle and I lived there once. She spent a couple of years in an Italian prison and I visited Italy once. And we both wear the same Swatch. I bought mine in France during a trip there, and she must have acquired hers while serving time. I’m assuming it came with the prison garb. In any case, do you  see how much we have in common? It’s plain eerie if you ask me.

Steve Jobs and Bill Gates:  These two weren’t particularly fond of each other, but that’s nothing compared to what they both thought about me:  Nothing! They never gave me a second thought, for crying out loud. Nor a first thought, for that matter. It was as if I didn’t exist in their eyes. But here’s the clincher: all three of us were born in the same year. You can look it up if you don’t believe me, but why should I lie? I have nothing to gain, except my six degrees, that is.

Princess Diana:  I wrote a whole blog once on all that the People’s Princess and I had in common. What’s more, she had ties to royalty and so do I, in that, my dog, Henry, is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Which means, he descends from royalty. Need I say more?

Kevin Bacon:  He’s married to Kyra Sedgewick and her show, The Closer, was one of my favorites. Plus, I’m fond of eggs and bacon for breakfast.

Bernie Madoff:  We’re both from New York. He allegedly made investments; I invested a little in stock once. His was a Ponzi scheme, of course, and my investment ended up losing money thanks to the economy. Anyway, Bernie went to prison and I once considered dating men in prison. Sheesh, give me a break. Men in stripes are an untapped dating market, after all.

Brian Williams:  He has a nightly news show, which I watch regularly. He also makes guest appearances on two of my favorite shows (not counting The Closer):  30 Rock and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Bingo!

Joy Behar:  Joy Behar is a hoot and I like her a lot.  If I met her on the street, I’m sure we’d be fast friends. We’re both from New York and we both have New York accents, though mine is better. Sends chills down my spine to even think about how alike that makes us.

Courtney Cox:  My name is Monica and she played a character named Monica on some show about relationships. I’m blanking on the name of the show, but, trust me, it was funny. Besides, the character she played was a chef and I spent a whole day working in a McDonald’s while in college, and I’d probably still be there right now if it hadn’t been for an early spring blizzard in May. Plus, her show was on TV and I love watching TV. Enough said.

So you see? I’m just a few degrees away from just about any celeb. Ergo, I must be a celebrity at heart! So, now that I’ve proved I’m famous, how about you? Which personality are you six degrees from?