Category: Observed (Page 22 of 24)

It’s September 11, the anniversary of the terrorist attacks on American soil, a day of tribute in every corner of the media, as if journalistic solemnity and political maneuvering will aid in our reflection of the day.

I want to ignore this day, let nightfall come without hearing any news of tributes or moments of silence or group singalongs or—heaven forbid—any new bad news. The world doesn’t want to let me stick my head in the sand, though. Everything I read pertains to the date.

The wise and least painful action would be to bow our heads at the start of the day in remembrance of those we have lost, and then to get on with the real world again. How much time and effort, money and energy is the U.S. spending on tributes? How much more could our journalists uncover, could our F-14’s in the sky observe, could our politicians do rather than cover their tails lest they be considered callous?

My heart gets heavy when I recall last year and the temporary hell in which I lived. I fill with sadness when I think of my good friend in Jersey, a noble policeman with a policeman uncle whose son died that day, a son whose wife’s face now reflects perpetual sadness, a son whose own son bears the name and a striking resemblance to the father he no longer has.

Yet the grandiose schedule of this day annoys me. President Bush yammering about attacking Iraq while our intelligence agencies have yet to finish the task of eliminating the major terrorist circles that threaten new attacks does nothing to help my personal sense of well-being. Political assurance and media hype alleviate no pain.

I suppose, though, that we need to feel this pain in order to conquer it. I believe in healing processes and honoring the brave and the innocent who died for no reason, and I must go through the process with the rest of the city, and the nation.

My heart goes out to everyone who hurts on this day, for while I was fortunate to not get hurt directly, I felt much of the same pain, and I am aware of the very real possibility that we will never again be fully secure.

—

For those wishing to read more, here is my journal from September 2001 and Adam Oestreich’s first-hand account of his experience downtown last September 11.

The hot dog and pretzel vendors of midtown west fill up their carts on West 39th Street each morning. It’s a fun sight: six or eight pushcarts all gathered together, buying rather than selling.

The newish high-rise on the northeast corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue (above Chevy’s) is a beaut. The colors are fantastic: metallic hues of red, gold, orange and blue, and an arc stretching the vertical parameter of the building. The view from below the Port Authority is great.

Looking up Seventh Avenue from below 40th Street, the only thing that one notices about Times Square is ERNST & YOUNG in red neon, 20 stories tall.

Slowly but surely—and not even that slowly—the Times Square subway station is being transformed from a dirty hub into a gleaming destination. Low-hanging ceilings and gritty floors are being replaced with gum-resistant tile and waist-high, curved metal railings. The station feels very New York without feeling at all Noo Yawk. Watch the movie “Fame,” from 1980, and check out the 42 St subway station: clean tile, clean benches, disgusting cars. The city cleaned up the trains but let the stations atrophy; now many of the stations in Manhattan are gleaming with white walls, new mosaics and newly tiled floors. Finishing the Times Square station will be the proverbial feather in the MTA’s motorman’s cap.

I once worked at 1515 Broadway in the heart of Times Square. I miss the neighborhood. It has a vitality unlike anyplace else in the world.

Welcome to Club Fed: Life within a minimum-security prison.

The Steven Spielberg edition of “Inside the Actor’s Studio” ends with Holly Hunter, Spielberg’s good friend and one of his favorite actors, crashing the taping. Host James Lipton calls Hunter to the stage and, after exchanging amused greetings, she asks Spielberg how he enjoyed the evening. Spielberg’s reaction reveals the magic of the show.

The Steven Spielberg edition of “Inside the Actor’s Studio” ends with Holly Hunter, Spielberg’s good friend and one of his favorite actors, crashing the taping. Host James Lipton calls Hunter to the stage and, after exchanging amused greetings, she asks Spielberg how he enjoyed the evening. Spielberg’s reaction reveals the magic of the show.

“Best time of my entire life,” he says to her.

Hunter’s eyebrows raise excitedly. “Really?” she asks, and he repeats himself.

As the audience resumes a standing ovation, Spielberg shakes Lipton’s hand and draws the host into an embrace. Spielberg speaks quietly into Lipton’s ear, but the microphone is still live, and the viewer can hear Spielberg tell Lipton, “I really want to thank you. I’ll never forget this.”

“Inside the Actor’s Studio” is a fascinating combination of education and celebrity worship. Lipton, who runs the New School film department, interviews Hollywood stars in front of an audience comprised of university film students and assorted film buffs, all of whom want an honest glimpse into an actor’s mind.

My parents had “Studio” tickets this past semester, and I attended one of the evenings (with Dennis Quaid as the guest). The night is incredibly long and intense: Lipton’s interviews can last three hours, and the Q&A sessions that follow can easily run an hour or more.

I assumed actors and directors who volunteered for the interrocation did so because of the honor, but Spielberg’s comments reveal something more.

“Inside the Actor’s Studio” makes these people feel special. Indeed, they are often placed on pedestals, sometimes against their will, but that is out of admiration or envy, dissociate characteristics to the craft of acting.

Lipton gives the interviewees a different angle: They are special not because of their celebrity, but because of what they do and how they do it. Not because of looks or humor or good casting, but because effort and accomplishment is seen and appreciated by people who understand the degree of difficulty behind such excellence. Celebrity is shallow; recognition of craft is an invaluable reward.

A man like Steven Spielberg can make money in his sleep and receive awards and bring things to life that touch the world. But for him, spending a few hours discussing his craft with an excited, impressionable audience, and being appreciated by his peers for the superlative quality of his craft, is a rare and special treat.

I’m engaged!

I met Amy in November 2000, a half-blind setup by my friend Steve and his fiancee, Ilysa, who had Amy crash drinks with us at the East 64th St Merchants NY. I didn’t know I was being marketed until the cab ride home, when Ilysa grilled me with, “What’d you think of Amy wasn’t she cute isn’t she nice do you want to call her I think you should call her here’s her number she’s expecting you to call so give her a call good luck,” and left me in the cab with a scrap of paper.

Dutifully, I called. Amy and I went on three dates in the span of a week and a half around Thanksgiving; the first was fun, the second two, less so. We were both intrigued but not quite “there.” Regardless, Amy invited me up to her apartment for a nightcap after our third date.

I turned her down and didn’t see her until January.

Prompted over the holidays by an insistent friend, I called Amy just after New Year’s 2001, curious about trying again. She called me back six days later. Our dates went much more smoothly, and our third date the second time around was a magical night at Jules in the East Village. We stayed out late listening to jazz and drinking red wine. Amy invited me up for a nightcap. This time I accepted.

Two days later, we had a swirling, all-night phone call, and somewhere around 3 a.m. I professed a desire to date her exclusively and see what happens. She thought I was mildly crazy but she ran with it.

We fell in love in the springtime: me first, declaring it at lunch outside her building, a little too earnestly; her a few weeks later, in a whisper, walking with me down Ninth Avenue. We spent the summer kissing, snuggling, holding hands, and looking googly-eyed at each other, as any happy lovebirds should.

In the year since, we have grown fully into each other’s lives. We look out for one another, take care of one another, challenge each other to be better and stronger individuals. More often than not, we are ridiculously romantic. I dote on her, bring her flowers, make the bed; she prepares my lunch, runs my errands, giggles at my jokes. We see each other every day and hate being out of touch for more than a few hours at a time. We are, in short, hopelessly in love.

Last summer, we went to the Charlotte Inn on Martha’s Vineyard for our first real vacation together. The weekend was romantic and wonderful. When we discovered this past spring that the puppy I was to give Amy would be delayed until the fall, Amy asked if we could go back.

I booked the room in mid-May and started planning.

My relationship with Amy is like none I’ve had before. No one excites, inspires, surprises, or adores me like she does. I have never been as caring, selfless, trusting or revealing as I am when I am around her. We share laughs, values, hopes and dreams. My friends and family cannot stop telling me what a wonderful person I’ve found, and I couldn’t agree more.

Saturday night in the Vineyard, after dinner at the inn’s restaurant, I brought Amy to a magnificent room filled with flowers and champagne. On the floor was a DVD player—she’d been asking—and in my pocket was an oval diamond in a platinum setting with trillions on the side, the ring of her dreams.

“Of course I will!” she exclaimed.

To my biggest fan and most devoted reader: I love you, Amy. I couldn’t be more excited to spend the rest of my life with you.

Comments

Do plan on spending money indiscriminately and wondering where it all went.

Don’t schedule a tee time for golf before noon and expect to make it on time.

Do mix and mingle friends, because they will have fun as a unit.

Don’t order $4.25 platters of escargot. (Some of your tripmates may disagree with you, but it’s a personal decision.)

Do coordinate travel so that most of the party is flying and driving at the same time.

Don’t go to South Carolina in July.

Do eat, drink, and be merry, because it’s hard not to have a good time. Congratulations, Steve!

I’ve had a hunch for a while now that stock prices had been twice or three times as expensive as they should be, even after the dotcom bubble. Unfortunately, the markets are now agreeing with me, and stocks are declining like Michael Jackson’s album sales. I now call the big index the Dow(n) Jones, and I’m just holding out hope we don’t end up in a decade without growth.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: My mother makes the hands-down flat-out no-question best chocolate chip cookies the world has ever known.

I’d offer samples to everyone but I eat them too fast. Trust me on this, though.

I know her secret, too, and I’m not telling.

Finally had some free time last night, so I revised the about pages of this site, thereby bringing the redesign more or less to a close.

There’s a little left to do; the search and contact pages could use a goosing, and the archives are still in the old page format, perhaps appropriately so. I’ve also got to get the database URLs out of ?id= format and into straight page identifiers, but that’s another story.

On an unrelated note, the book’s Amazon Sales Rank dipped to 122 this morning from a high of 114 last night (and the publisher is still not positive why). Not bad, but somehow not yet enough for Amazon to put it in its bestseller lists. C’mon, Amazon, show it off some more! Is that too much to ask?

Square watermelons, developed last year, have gone on sale in Japan. Mmmm.