Hope

Photo Billy Sharff

Though hope is elusive, fleeting, momentary. It is also infectious. It is something we long for, look forward to. Pray for. Dream of. Contemplate. Cherish.

Each one of us has a unique perspective on it. A way to connect with it. To hold it. And it is up to us. All of us. As individuals. As a group. As a combined population. As a world. To help each other keep it.

To hope means to wish for better. For yourself and others. Hope to see you again soon. Hope good things will happen for you. Hope you find someone to share your life with. Hope you get that job. A child. A home. Hope Haiti recovers. Hope the Holocaust will never be forgotten. Hope that truth and justice will prevail.

My father hoped to find his beloved sister Risha. My mother for peace and joy. My dearest sister Joanna to find her true love. Companionship. Friendship.

I want to to give back all that was given to me. To those who need it. Or have lost it. Or want to find it so they can live again. Laugh again. Trust and have faith that all will be well again. And of course, to hope again.

Time

Time is an odd thing. The more you keep it the faster it goes. I can't live without watches. Although they say that if you want to act like the "younger generation" you should only use your cell phone to tell time.
Time heals all wounds. Take your time. Or take your sweet time. Or time is of the essence. Or a stitch in time saves nine. Lost time. And so on.

I finally made the commitment to sell my rolex to help pay for my rent recently. It's been with me since 1993. A long time. I used to joke that it would save me some day. But I lost it this week. Took hours looking for it. Couldn't find it anywhere. That's $2,500 in the toilet. Classic. For me at least.

J.D. Salinger passed away this week. A long, lonely existence. At the end he couldn't speak and had to write on a pad of paper to communicate. We lived next door to him in Cornish, New Hampshire. He used to drive by our house in his jeep, leaving dust in his wake or walk by looking straight ahead jaw clamped shut. Hardly ever smiled. But that was a long time ago.

Time is relative. Time can't stand still. I've already tried it. Getting older is time sensitive. The longer you are in years the shorter time is in length. But it is the same time. Just from a different perspective.

I could write more but I'm out of time. Things to do. People to call. Need to keep track of who is in which time zone so I don't wake them up or miss them by a few minutes. Or hours. Or days:)

Watching television, surfing the web makes time stand still. At least it seems that way. The only shock is that when you finally do look up or at the clock or your watch or cell phone, hours have flown by.

All watches and clocks eventually run out of time. Electric, Wind-ups, atomic, battery-driven or solar battery-driven (especially when the sun goes down and it's time to go to bed). Alarm clocks. Especially alarm clocks.

The work week drags on. Weekends rush by. Your favorite food lasts two seconds. Your favorite moment lasts even less. They say live in the moment but when you try to focus on the moment, it's just a moment and then it's gone. Forever.

Isn't it funny. People always say, I'll be there in five, when they'll actually be there in 20.
Who ever came up with the division of time (although I'm going to look it up on google after I post this) must have had a lot of time on his hands. Or her hands. Or their hands.

Wish I had more time for everything. But now it's down to the wire and I'm running out of time.
And I'll just have to make time to make up for the time I've already lost.

(c) 2010

For Puff

Puff Hickson

photo by Ty Hickson

It ain't over. My friend Puff said. We were talking about making it in the music and film biz. I met her in 1996 and started to document her rap band for 4 years. Both of us have been struggling. Her band broke up. My mom got very ill and died in 2000.

Puff and I have always kept in touch. No matter what. She called me from Florida this time. Finally good things were happening for her.
She's talented as..... I was going to use expletives here but thought the better of it.

I just told her I had to close my film company and she caught me at a particularly low moment. I burst into tears. Don't give up. She continued. You are my "sistah"...well actually she said you are my Jew and I was supposed to respond you are my niggah. But I'm white. Very White. And I couldn't. I just couldn't. Ok said Puff ... then you're my Sistah! You're my Sistah!!! I shouted laughing.

It's like this, Puff said. There are two kinds of people out in the dry desert.... (I'm paraphrasing her here. She is so funny and eloquent, very real and very rough)....One who can see water in the distance because he has faith. The other can't even see a mirage. I burst out laughing again.

So it may seem like you are down for the count. She continued. But you're gonna get up. I promise you. It's like this. Then she went into this elaborate description of an old fashioned fighting ring and the underdog was down for the count. He was beaten, bloody but he got up. He got up at the count of 9. All the judges were asking themselves "how did he do it?" "how the hell did he do it?" and the announcer was going mad crazy "He's up" he shouted excitedly. "He's up!" That's you and that's me Puff concluded. Just when you think you're down for the count you will get up. Trust me. We come from two different worlds but you will always be my soul mate until we die. So it ain't over, you hear me? Besides I still have that 20 million dollar check coming to me.

I love her. We have gone through so much together. The film is lying in pieces on my kitchen floor. I know she's going to make it. I just know it and I can't wait to see her at the Grammys. Funny but I don't really care about making it "big" in the film biz anymore.

Inspiration and hope can come from the oddest places. Angels on earth are the ordinary people we ignore everyday. Extraordinary because they're ordinary. If you want to find one...you'll have to look very, very hard. And maybe, just maybe you'll be lucky.

I'm very lucky. My eyes are open all the time. That why I saw my angel. She's with me all the time. She's a beat poet. A photographer. A filmmaker. A rapper. A mom. Her name is Puff Hickson. And she lives in Harlem.

Revolving Doors

Photo by Lee Friedlander

Going round and round makes me dizzy and yet I can't help wondering how other people do it. Kids love revolving doors. They could go round endlessly much to the dismay of their overburdened parents. Every day I face the choice of checking-in or checking-out. Checking-out leads to the never ending revolving door of getting now where. Fast.

Lately I've been trying very hard to check into life. It's worth the effort when I do. And in spite of the endless merry-go-round of dirty dishes, dirty laundry and job applications some how the more I check-in the easier it gets to choose not to go through the revolving door.

Except when it comes to going round and round with tiny tots. Just for fun.

(c) 2010

TGIT (or thank god it's Thursday)

I wish it was Friday. But since tomorrow is Thursday that's better than Monday. Counting the days, hours, minutes until Friday is like watching paint dry, water boil, or a penny waiting for change. Sometimes it's an accident waiting to happen, like Monday happening over and over again ad infinitum and, as we all know, accidents will happen. But then again it could be a happy accident, like Friday coming right after Monday. Or a chapter of accidents, like 6 Fridays after 3 Mondays which really is all my eye and Peggy Martin. And if you don't know what that means look it up.

Where was I? Oh yes. I seem to be all over the map and Hell's half acre. As a rule, one should never fall asleep at the switch. Like me. Let me reassure you that I'm not really as at the coalface, or away with the fairies as I might seem to be at this point in my discourse.

All I just need to do is go back to the drawing board, put balls to the wall and batten down the hatches. Because when it finally comes down to it, at the end of the day, just when I'm at wits' end or the end of my tether, Friday finally arrives. And all's well that ends well.



© 2010

Acronyms

In the twelve step programs Fear (a massive motivator) is the acronym for "False Evidence Appearing Real."

As far as I'm concerned, I much prefer Asap "Abandon Ship All Post-haste."
Or Caution "Catastrophic Alliance U're Tempting Obsolescence. Now."
Phobia "Please Help Over Board In Alley"
Paranoia "Problem Ahead Run Away Now Or Incur Annihilation"
Worry "Weltschmerz. Orphaned. Ruin. Resentment.Yell"
Anxiety "Anything. No-way. Xtreme. Indecision. Escape. Trouble. Yell (even louder)."
Terror "Traumatic. Extinction. Rejection. Rage. Oh-oh.
Run(-for-your-life)"
Horror "Help. Outrageous. Roller coaster. Regret. OH-NO.
Resistance (is futile)."
Panic "Pain. Angst. Nasty. Insolvable. Crisis."
and last but not least...
Dread "Disambiguation. Retreat. All-Stop. Drop-dead."


(c) 2010

Maybe This Time

I love reading the New Yorker. Especially their short stories. However in the last couple of years each story has become more gut wrenching than the last. Broken Relationships. Failed Marriages. Friendships, Families torn assunder. Poverty. Murder. And last but not least, Death. Beautifully written. Devastatingly depressing. I'm inevitably left with a creepy feeling that lasts well into the next day, sometimes into weeks and months. (Although, here I take creative license with time).

Each time I open a new issue, Maybe this time it will be different... pops into my head. Maybe this time it will be different, is a well worn phrase used by those of us, I being a chief example, who are blissfully self-delusional by nature.

Maybe this time always, without fail, plays out the same. Definitely NOT better. Or different. But the SAME. Or WORSE.

I've lived most of my adult life wrapped in the blanket statement Maybe this time it will be different. I say "blanket" because it covers most of the territory I live in: men, jobs, my weight, Hollywood Films. Although I did like Gladiator. This is something my friend Kenny will never forgive and continues to torture me with ever since. Here you might say is the perfect opportunity for me NOT to say, Maybe this time he won't do it. Alas, in spite of my better judgment I can't stop wishing it.

It's not that I haven't learned since I turned 18 but somewhere in the back of my brain I can't help the initial impulsive to say it. Sometimes I'm successful. So this weekend as I excitedly opened my New Yorker and swiftly turned the pages to the fiction section I found much to my dismay "A Death In Kitchawank."

Oh well. Maybe next time.

(c) 2010

Attraction

We were on our way to see a couple of offices sublet by "a creative company." Shares they're called in the "biz." Rebbecca, Lori, George were our customers, Pati and I, the Realtors. Rebbecca, Lori and George were looking for a space to park themselves. Large office, or two, six people, three companies. A couple of photographer's reps and creative resource book.

I knew George for a year or so. He and his partner Shelly work on the same floor in the same building as I do. Lori is George's sister. George gave Lori my number when they needed to find a "new home."

Stunning. Penthouse. Couple of skylights. Wood floors.
Two conference rooms. Token 50's style refrigerator only
in white (which would have never happened back then)
in a high end kitchen. Half the office was under construction.

Their broker couldn't make it.
The creative director can take you around she said.

We stepped off the elevator.
All did our appropriate "gasp"
and then Peter came out to meet us.
Peter. Peter. Peter.
G.O.R.G.E.O.U.S. S.T.U.N.N.I.N.G. Breath-taking.
Quick I said to myself check and see if he's married.
Left hand no ring.
Whew.
Right hand had the ring.
Oops.
Oh it's just a ring I said to myself. Probably likes a little jewelry.
Look him directly in the eye. Stare really long.
Massive eye contact. I kept telling myself.
Check to see if his pupils dilate
They stayed the same. Get bigger I tried telling him through mental telepathy. Nothing happened.
Bummer.
Flutter your eyelashes I said to myself. Flash your stunning smile I prompted myself.
He was going on about the neighborhood.
Mentioned a "fabulous" bar called Splash.
Never heard of it. George did.
We lingered and then finally had to go.
I totally lost it in the elevator on the way down. Oh my god I exclaimed was he gorgeous or what? Which was completely unprofessional on my part.
No ring I said excitedly. He was gorgeeeeeous said Rebbecca.
Apparently she had the same idea.
I was starting to feel very competitive.
He said he has a partner said George. And he mentioned splash, it's a huge gay hang out.

Oh boy I groaned. It's just not fair.
Too bad he has a partner said George. Apparently George also had the same idea.
Do you think he'll ever change his sexual preference? I asked.
Dream on George replied.
I, on the other hand, he continued, stand a really good chance if his "partner" would drop dead now, or in the near foreseeable future.

(c) 2010

Forgiveness

Photo Billy Sharff

Nomi and I have known each other since kindergarten. Mira was Nomi's mother. She and my mother became best friends until Mira and Nomi moved back to Delhi. We lost touch for 35 years.

Nomi found me on Facebook last year. It was an amazing. We spoke we emailed we laughed and Nomi admitted she smoked but was trying to quit. I had been meaning to call Mira. She must have been so happy to know Nomi, Joanna and I had reconnected. But I never "got around too it." Was too preoccupied. Too busy. Too absorbed by my "misfortunes." I shall miss her terribly: her sweet accented voice, her laughter, immense kindness and generosity of spirit. It's hard to forgive myself for not calling and telling her how much I loved her. Especially now because she is no longer here. And I can never go back.

Einsatzkommando

My cousin Stuart and his childhood friends who grew up on the rough side of Chicago are part of a group which meet once a year. Stuart's mother set my parents up. My father, fresh from Poland and the war, needed a green card and my mother needed to escape my grandmother Rose. Another story.

Anyway, I ran into one of those childhood friends when I was having breakfast with Libby at our local diner. 6 degrees of separation. Ira, a sports journalist. He told us the story about last year's key speaker. He was a survivor from Schindler's List and spoke about his experiences and how he and many others were able to survive the inexplicable horrors of the camps. Two of the ways were a strong faith in God. The other was telling each other jokes. This was one of them.

During World War II there was a special Nazi mobile killing squad called the "Einsatzkommando." Their job was to go from ghetto to ghetto, shitetl to shitetl exterminating as many Jews they could. One day, one of the Nazis got bored and decided to play a game. He grabbed the first Jew he found. Held a gun to his head and said,"Guess which one of my eyes is glass and I will let you live." His glass eye was an example of exquisite workmanship. A marvel to behold. No one had ever been able to recognize which one was real and which wasn't. The Jew looked at the left eye. He looked at the right. He returned to the left. Took one more look at the right. And then said "It's the left one." Stunned, the Nazi asked "How did you know?" "Because," said the Jew "your left eye was the only one which had a glimmer of humanity."

Though I am quite sure that my dad would have laughed out loud at this joke, I don't think my mom would have followed suit. But rather with indomitable style and grace, her eyes would have widened with amazement and an angelic smile would have lingered on her beautiful lips for the rest of the day.

(c) 2010

Clinton & Haiti

Words cannot express our reaction to the horrific suffering by the Haitian people.


I just wanted to put out a link which all of you may be aware of provided by The Clinton Foundation. They need cash more than anything right now to get water and food to those who need it so much.

There are also links on their site to other organizations to support the relief effort.

American Red Cross International Response Fund

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies

Mercy Corps Haiti Earthquake Fund

Partners in Health

UNICEF

UN World Food Programme


Also a link to ABC News on How to Help the Haiti Earthquake Relief Effort, and Avoid Scams.


Whatever you can give even $1 will make a difference. Please pass this along.
Thank you so much for all you can give. Monica

Amazon Sucks

Van Heusen Men's Poplin Solid Long Sleeve Button Down Collar Shirt neck size 16.

Day One.
On line for the upteamth time.
Trying to order a white long sleeve button down color shirt for Joe in my office.
Joe's 85 years old.
Definitely can't handle the rigorous constitution and emotional serenity required when ordering something on Amazon.com.
Apparently neither can I.


He got a gift card for Christmas from our boss.
Code #. $50. Can you help me? he asked.
Of course. I replied. I wanted to help him.
I get frustrated often because I have to shout if I want him to answer me.
His hearing is going.
Patience. I tell myself.
This time I will be patient.
Yeah right.
I started out with much hope in my heart.
Signed on.
Created an account for Joe.
Had to ask him 6 times for his email address.
Shouted out each letter in his address back to him as he deliberately accentuated them as to make sure I got it right.
Same process for his password.
Great! we were in!

Searched and found the shirt at $22.95.
He could order two.
$7.01 left over.
Free shipping.
Entered his gift card code #.
Problem.
It wouldn't take it.
Over and over.
Still wouldn't take it.

Day two
Called Amazon directly.
Found their phone number.
Massive accomplishment.
Fishing expedition which took 15 minutes.
And tremendous self control.
Spoke to the representative.
45 minutes later.
They Straightened things out.
Blithely I went to his "cart" and tried to check out again.
Code #. Entered.
No Go.
Again.
5 times.
Same problem.
AMAZON HELL.
Worse than Satre's "No exit."
At least at the end of the play the play ends.
Amazon continues ad infinitum.
Joe needed his shirts.
I promised to help.
Patience definitely wearing thin.

Day three
Called Amazon directly.
Spoke with the representative.
I'm desperate. I exclaimed. Trying not to sound desperate.
We're here to help. He responded.
Yeah right I thought to myself.
Good Luck.
Couldn't find the item number.
Damn.
Looked again. Couldn't find the same shirt.
Trouble.
Only more expensive ones left.
Let's try again. Found one. It was $24.95.
Thank god.
45 minutes later.
It should work now he concluded.
Please let there be no taxes. No shipping. I prayed.
Back to the check out stage.
It's working. It's working. I shouted out loud so Joe could hear me.
Final stage.
Then.
Shhhhhhhhh-----t!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It's not letting me do it. I can't take it anymore.
I can't handle this right now. I cried loudly.
But this time it wasn't for Joe.

Can I help? asked Elizabeth my office mate.
It's not working. You won't be able to do it. It's impossible. I told her. She came over to my desk anyway.
She got it to work.
Thank God! I shouted out loud throwing my hands up in the air.
You should be getting your shirts. 5-9 business days.
I shouted once more so Joe could hear me.
Ok. he responded.

Amazon sucks.
Ordering men's white button down shirts in neck size 16 sucks.
Ordering on line with a gift card. Sucks.
Shouting out "God" six million times is like pushing the elevator button after it's green.
It won't come any faster.
People are always waiting on other floors.
Especially when you need the elevator fast because you're running late.
And "God" has way more important stops to make before he considers helping you order white shirts on Amazon.com.

A Tribute to My Father

My father took five of his film students back in 1965 and went down to Selma, Alabama to film the now historic Selma-to-Montgomery March. He directed and produced a beautiful, haunting and poetic silent black and white 16mm film. I remember him telling me about how he defiantly drank from the "colored only" drinking fountains down south. Used the "colored only" bathrooms. We drove together through the south when I was very young on one of our numerous family trips. I clearly remember driving by a large billboard promoting the Ku Klux Klan. That frighting reminder of evil and shame will never leave me.

Today, everything on the surface is integrated. Obama is an elected president. Something my father would have stood up, shouted for and applauded. Fundamentally, I believe, as I know some Americans do, we still have a long way to go. The anger, jealousy and prejudice are so deep rooted that we now have the distinct pleasure of two senators who could no longer contain what must have been a bubbling boil of resentment.

Senators. Elected officials who are supposed to personify decorum and professional integrity. This most certainly never would have happened if our current president were Caucasian. Obama refined, diplomatic, principled enough to forgive, elegant, eloquent, self-admittedly fallible, a self-made statesman of the highest caliber must certainly rub salt in the so-called spiritual (and I use the term loosely) wounds of our less than honorable publicly-elected officials.

My father would have quite alot to say about this. He was a strong proponent of human rights. Liberated several concentration camps at the end of the last great war to end all wars. Taught us to passionately defend the underpinnings of ethical and moral justice. We are so lucky to be citizens of a democratic country where we can freely (obviously to a greater degree than other nations) express ourselves.

In fact, I wonder if we might not re-frame Senator Reid's comment in a light of gratitude. For it is men like him, that force us to face our prejudices and speak out against intolerance. And so ironic as it may seem I thank him for helping to remind me and others who feel the same way that though freedom of speech is our constitutional right we must do everything to guard against those of our fellow citizens who through their own fear choose to blind themselves to the larger and more noble intention on which our country is based. All those who are dying on the shores of Afghanistan and Iraq on behalf of democracy are betrayed by our "Senator Reids." These brave souls and others of their kind, fight and are permanently wounded by what may seem like a momentary lapse of self control.

My father once told us that he had so many children because he wanted to beat Hitler. Though my sister Joanna are childless, it is up to us, all of his children, to use our inherited creative gifts to continue our father's heroic struggle for civil rights and freedom of choice. Joanna, the electrician to make sure that there is enough light to guide our hearts, Aaron the actor to touch and move us, Billy the filmmaker, musician, sculptor and photographer to permanently dazzle us with his soulful images, Nina, beautiful, creative, inspiring to amaze us, Maciu the musician,artist and his two little girls-Madga and Abby to gift us with joyful wonder and I, the filmmaker, now writer, to help us laugh at ourselves.

Every time I watch my father's poignant film there's one shot that breaks my heart the most. It's the one where the camera swings back and forth in a regular rhythm. The cameraman held the 16mm bolex camera in his right hand backwards and let it move with his arm as he walked with and amongst the marchers. That cameraman was my father. He left this earth with a haunting reminder that reprehensible as our history may be, it most certainly doesn't have to be our legacy.

(c) 2010

Humming Birds

350 species. Weighing less than an ounce. Hearts that beat 1,260 times per minute and wings flap 15 to 80 times a second. A 6,000 mile migration south for winter lasting 18 hours as they fly over the Gulf of Mexico. No where to stop or feed until they reach shore. The males have the colors. Brilliant incandescent. Red. Purple. Blue. Yellow. Green. Midst the trees and the grass they dance, twirl, sing, flutter their elaborate wings, and do break neck dives at 60 miles per hour to attract their mates.

How can creatures so small so delicate survive the brutality of nature? Fragile because they require so much fuel just to stay alive that if they don't hibernate at night when the temperatures drop they could die in their sleep.

I wish we all were like humming birds. Gentle and luminous. We might have less war. Greed. Cruelty. We might learn to dance and hum. Live harmoniously. Simply. With an unparalleled purity.

Humming birds understand the brevity of existence. The joy of flight. The delicious nectar of flowers. They are a marvel to behold and an example to follow if we are truly committed to making our lives more meaningful and worth living.


(c) 2010

Brazil Nuts

I've gotten into buying the small packets of raw mixed nuts lately mainly because I love Brazil nuts. The downside is there usually only is one in the mix. If I'm lucky there's two. It's like looking for a good job or trying to meet "the" guy. There's only one good one in the mix. The rest are nice but don't last as long. It's a matter of luck because it depends on the grocery store you go to. The time of day you pick to purchase. And whether or not you get the one in the front or end up having to search all the way in the back, hunched over because they usually are on the bottom rung. And then comes the tedious task having to carefully replace each one you took off after finding the one you wanted.

Maybe it's even a good analogy for life. There's only a few absolutely delicious moments mixed into the cacophony of the mundane and boring. It depends on luck and also on whether or not we are conscious enough at the time to recognize them.

(c) 2010

Dirty Dishes

Writer's block again.
Stuck.
Sucks.
Discouraged.
Clenching teeth.
Want to sleep.
Work again tomorrow.
Interview tomorrow.
Dirty dishes in my sink again.
Still haven't had lunch.
More dirty dishes.
Then dinner.
Even more dirty dishes.
Make lunch for tomorrow.
Dirty Dishes.
Damn forgot to buy rice before I came in.
Have to go out again.
Cook it.
More dirty dishes.
Dirty Dishes.
If I only had a dishwasher.
There wouldn't be so many dirty dishes to wash.
And I could start writing about my dirty laundry.

(c) 2010

Sense & Sensibility

I wish I could write like Jane Austen. Charming, witty, confident, simple, acutely observational, poignant, each word carefully weighed, a treasure effortlessly penned across the page. The art of writing a letter is no longer an estimable act. The ability to capture spoken language and play it out on paper as if one were speaking instead of writing. To allow the reader to actually hear your voice as he or she scanned your words, turning the paper upside down, sideways and backwards because, you see paper was very costly then, so you wrote on every space possible and then when you ran out, you'd write via "cross-hatching," turning the page sideways and writing across the horizontal lines of text at right angles. She wrote over 3,000 letters in her short life in addition to her novels, most of which were published posthumously.

I went to see the exhibit at the Morgan Library on Friday night at 7pm. Classical music filled the great hall as I stepped into the glass-boxed elevator and leaned on its wooden balusters painted with trompe d'oeil bamboo.

I entered the exhibit room, which was already packed. There, carefully framed on the walls, were Jane's letters, "chat pieces" next to each with extensive descriptions.

It's a shame we are so spoiled nowadays. Paper is cheap. Pens are cheap. We don't even write by hand anymore. We take small things for granted. We throw stuff out when it breaks and buy new ones. What's the use in taking pride in communicating by mail when you can get it instantly through texting, email, twitter or cell phone. What's the point in staying in the moment, enjoying a good read and framing life through a small window like the one Jane looked out of when she wrote her novels and letters to her beloved sister Cassandra.

I believe that we have lost our sense of what it means to really live life to the fullest and the sensibility for what is most important. I wish I could express myself as eloquently as she did over two hundred years ago. I can only be extraordinarily grateful that I was transported for a brief hour into her world and lifted up to a higher plane of being by just reading two lines from one of her letters.

(c) 2010

Drugs

David I said. Can you tell me about your space at 5___ Varick Street? The 6th floor 2,500 square feet and the one with 3,100 square feet. We have a customer that needs 4 mid-sized offices maybe more. They're a commercial editing company. They need it for 6-9 months.

Pause. Well, I've got 5 offices only one has a window it's about $4,500 a month. David, I said patiently can you just tell me how many offices are in the 2,500 square foot space or the 3,100 square foot space? Pause. Pause. Sounded like he was in a tunnel or driving in a convertible the wind was whistling through the phone. Only it was winter and "f'ing" freezing out. Pause.

Well I have these offices you see. They will work. Come up and see them. He replied. David I said again. My blood pressure rising. Can you just describe exactly what is in your two spaces at 5__ Varick? Whatever I have will work David replied. You and Jane should just bring them down to see it. David, I said again steam coming out of my ears. I have to send them the information first then they will decided whether or not they want to come down and see it. Pause. Wind. Breathing. Call me back I said when you have more details. We hung up.

Huge groan. What's up? asked Jane (my boss) really loudly over the desks, filing cabinets, files, computer equipment, gum balls in a dish, xerox machine, bags of pretzels, nuts and crackers from the opposite end of our office. It's David from 5_ Varick Street. Is he on drugs? I asked. Probably said Jane and you should meet his wife, she's worse than he is.


(c) 2010

Writer's Block

(c) 2010

Billy

Photo Billy Sharff

Billy had a sledging accident 6 days ago, my step-mom Laura told me. He went downhill head first crashing full force into a large chunk of ice. It was a concussion. 5 Hours in the emergency room. But he's doing just fine now, she reassured me. We were eating breakfast at the Gemini diner on 35th and Second. I, my iced coffee and oatmeal. Cement. She, eggs over easy, waiting for a buttered English muffin because the waiter misunderstood what she had asked for, bringing her well-done whole wheat toast instead. My sister Nina had finished her hot chocolate with whipped cream. I started to cry. I didn't want to make things worse for you. You were going through such a hard time yourself this week, she continued.

There seemed to be alot of communication problems this past month. Mercury retrograde, Laura explained. Just like at Christmas in New Hampshire when my sister Joanna said it's freezing as we stepped out of her bright-red Honda Fit on our way to see "The Fantastic Mr. Fox." And I thought she said My mouth is bleeding. I'm losing my hearing.

Billy chattered morning to night from birth. He used to come and stay with me in New York until he was 14. It was heart-breakingly sweet to hear him whistling in the other room. We'd explore the city. See foreign films. Then our dad died. And Billy stopped talking. And started making films instead.

Now he just sits quietly on the side when the family gets together and listens. It's hard to get used to. Sometimes I'm not sure if I talk too much or ask him things that annoy him. I miss our times together. That's life I guess. And I wait patiently for the day when he stops signing his emails Best, Billy and uses Love, Billy instead.

(c) 2010

Air Mattresses

It was between Alvin and the Chipmunks or Did You Hear About The Morgans? My half sister Nina, 17 was staying over night. I've got a huge family. Too complicated to explain right now. Anyway it was freezing. The movie theater was around the corner. Nina had been furiously IMing all her friends on Facebook to find out which movie was the best. Romantic comedies are always great. One of her "friends" replied after alot of no responses. But did she actually see the movie? I asked. No. Nina answered. We went on line to look at the trailers. They were both stupid. Torture. The Morgans won out. 9pm show. It bad. Badly written. Badly shot. Badly acted. No chemistry. And Hugh Grant's face was frozen in a perpetual state of fake pathetic forgive me because I've slept with another woman while we were married and I'm British so I can't get angry. At least that's how I'm being directed look. Even the "token" wild bear sucked.

I've got a studio so Nina gets my bed when she comes over and I get the air mattress.
I used to have one that blew up electrically. But I left it on one time so long one time that the indented areas blew up. My other sister Joanna brought hers from New Hampshire when she came to visit me for my birthday in August.

This one wasn't electric. It had this wimpy Minny plastic pump. Minny legs for little people to stand on when you bent over to pump up the mattress. I had to get it done fast. As usual. Pumping really fast. For a really long time. Got tired very quickly. Anyway success. And then. The air starting leaking! I kept lifting up the mattress to my ear crying out It's leaking. Wish I could call Joanna. I said. I could text my mom or you could call Aaron Nina chimed in. Aaron's my half brother from the third marriage. One of them. Don't ask. Too complicated. They're sleeping. I answered. It was half past midnight by this time. It's leaking I cried again. Now I'll have to sleep on an airless mattress. I said. Somehow I'll figure out a way to sleep on it. Nina said. No way. I said. We were Jewish and so the I'll be tortured all night so you don't have to fight began. I won.

The mattress was completely deflated by that time. You take the sheets and blankets and I'll take the comforter. I said. at least I can put half of it on the flat mattress and throw the rest of it over me. Goodbye delicious comforter. Nina said.

Needless to say it was a tough night. Kind of makes you wish you weren't skinny because sisal rug layered with an oriental carpet layered with a flat air mattress covered with a flat comforter doesn't soften the blow for your ribs.

(c) 2010