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Monthly Archives: March 2012

New York State Of Mind

12 Mar

I’ve always fancied myself the Carnac of human behavior and motivation.  I admit, I’ve been known to get flummoxed by habitual bad behavior (tantrums and bullying in the workplace, obliviousness of others in public, etc.) but by and large I find most behavior and/or language to be easily decipherable.  In truth even the bully at work is pretty simple; he fears being discovered, (it’s just difficult to remember that when the behavior takes on science fiction proportions.)  People grooming themselves in public or throwing their garbage at the feet of others, or talking at full volume (on the phone or at a baby) or polishing their nails on an airplane, aren’t evil they probably could have just greatly benefited from a firm swat on the behind at some point, as a gentle reminder that they are not in fact all alone in the universe.

I really do believe that there is very little we say or do that doesn’t speak to how we feel.  We may not know it at the time, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.  Of course this isn’t to say that everyone in our realm can read our minds.  A future mother-in-law asking a bride if she can wear black to the wedding, might feel very overweight and not in fact be planning a stealth boycott of the nuptials.  But I assure you there was some feeling behind the query.

So here I sit with my Dr. Nick’s Academy certificate in peopleology and I feel my training/talents ebbing.  I find myself less adept at reading intent.  It’s not slang or inflection or even means of communication that has me floundering.  I can see through all that as if it were mere cement and I engaged my super-x-ray vision.  I am beginning to suspect that my kryptonite, if you will, is the proliferation of snark.  I am fluent in the Don Rickles wannabe variety of snark (for the motivation of this genre of snark see bullying above.)  But there is a subtler variety, one that might even be categorized as “whining.”  On the street, and in the media, I keep hearing these urban whines: People complaining about the livability of the city.  It is objectively bizarre to begin with (ahem, have you ever heard of the 1970s?! you think Disneyfied NYC is hard?) but it also is completely illogical.  Unless you are in a witness protection program, presumably you are free to leave.

I suspect that these grumblings and mumblings are not the noise coming out of a jilted resident on his way back to Indiana.  I have a feeling that what all these complaints really mean is “I thought it would be different, and before you can point out how I’m not where I thought I’d be in life, I’m gonna shoot the first shot.”  But as I mentioned, I’m not entirely sure.  What I do know is that there is something cloyingly adolescent about the negative Nancy natterings.  Snide remarks about paying huge amounts to live in a tiny box, have a certain; “I meant to do that” element to them.  (By the way, when did people decide that what they were paying for in urban housing was somehow related to square footage?)  Speechifying about the dirty tiles in the subway station is reminiscent of a teenager kicking the gravel at the Colosseum and complaining to his parents; ‘it’s really dusty here.”

Negativity is every bit as contagious as happiness.  It also feeds itself like a cruise ship passenger.  It doesn’t make someone hip to hate, it just makes them a bit toxic.  If it’s too loud, too crowded, too hot, too cold, too pricey, too smelly, toodaloo.  It’s a big world, surely there’s someplace for everyone.  If in fact, the grumblings, whining, pithy-esque condemnations are not geographically specific and just a new hipster affectation/slang; ack!  Please let it run a swift course.

 
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Posted by on March 12, 2012 in Cultural Critique

 

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Spring Is In The Air

10 Mar

The first signs of spring can make the heart soar.  Spotting a crocus or blue jay for the first time, feels in fact, like the first time.  The air is rich with the scent of new growth and we envy the dogs their unselfconscious sniffing.  People walk with their heads up, faces tilted towards the sun, no longer hunched to gird against the wind.  The world feels hopeful, forgiving, on the cusp of new beginnings.

But (cue crashing car and shattering glass sound) like dirty snow on a daffodil, there is the debacle of dress.  Fluctuating temperature, clothes in storage, and winter weight gain, leave people floundering like newborn colts.  Granted, it is the only seasonal change that involves such radical rethinking.  We seem to ease into fall, and winter can often only be discerned by the calendar.  Once it’s cold, it’s cold.  The weight of a sweater is not nearly as daunting as the peeling off of layers.

If you find yourself a bit flummoxed, I offer these friendly little pointers:

  • Buy a thermometer, get a weather app, turn on the radio/tv.  We don’t live in a science fiction movie, we actually know what the weather will be during the day.  If it’s going to reach 70 degrees, leave the parka at home.  The same for the wool hat.  Wearing a wool hat on a nice day screams; “outpatient.”
  • Unless you have neuropathy (and my condolences if you do) you do not need to wear snow boots when there is no snow.  The same is true for fleece lined clogs (which have no business being a “thing” anyway, what is that? the front of your foot gets cold but your heel is made of steel?)
  • Dig out the ballet flats and keds, they’ve missed you and have been pining for this reunion.
  • Hemisphere dressing (in which the top half of your body seems to be from an opposite climate as the lower half) says to the world; “do not make eye contact” “the airline lost my luggage” “ask me about my cult.”
  • Have at least one pair of pants on hand that, well let’s just say is more generous than the others.  Presumably this is not your first time transitioning from winter to spring.  It can’t be a total surprise that those extra glasses of champagne or (boxes of) truffles actually took up residence somewhere on you.  It’s not the end of the world, it’s just a reminder to start moving, and moving away from the table.
  • A fabulous lightweight jacket (cotton, light leather, etc.) is key.  Slip a cardigan underneath in the morning, and a silk or cotton scarf.  By afternoon you can strip down a bit.
  • Do not underestimate the power of a lightweight sweater or jacket in disguising a bit of temporary bulge.
  • When it gets warm enough, and it will, reintroduce your legs to the light of day.  Do not slather them with orange self-tanner for that is a sin (which can be seen from space.)  Pale legs do not look odd in spring, fake tanned ones do.  If you do nothing else for humankind, I implore you to stay away from the self-tanning aisle.  If you are over 3 feet tall and do not have green hair, it is not a good look

Once you’re dressed, get outside.  Spend every moment you can just taking it in.  Soon enough it will be summer and the flowers will become a backdrop instead of the wonder they are at this very moment.  Taking a meal outside will become the norm versus the novelty it is today.  As adults we don’t often get to experience overwhelming feelings of newness.  This is one of those times.

 
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Posted by on March 10, 2012 in Style

 

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The Total Bent – Review

07 Mar

The Public is a distinct theatre, at times self-consciously so.  Often it is challenging to recall its noble origins amidst the marquee Central Park players, and lobby filled with smug hipsters.  But a physical set back (in this case a massive messy renovation) will do wonders to a persona.  Plastic tenting drapes the facade (and sidewalk) of the building.  Visitors are shuttled through a labyrinth of particleboard and exposed electricals to a makeshift box office.  The Public staff seems to have multiplied threefold and have been trained to move everyone safely and informatively to their respect seats.  Even with all of the helpful friendliness, I braced myself upon entering the theatre space.  Yes, the seats are plush and comfy, but the stage is always awkward and it becomes exhausting to ignore the obstructing columns time and time again.  Yet there it was, designed to be a southern (somewhat shabby) recording studio and it was impossible to imagine a more perfect stage. The set seemed to seep into the audience and into the very fabric of the infrastructure.  Those annoying columns (wrappers in carpet remnants and secured with duct tape) seemed to have been created just for Andrew Lieberman’s design.  The pieces of furniture are random in style and utterly realistic.  Wires, recording devices, and used instruments dot the stage.

All of this would fit into the category of commendable “art installation” if it wasn’t just a hint of what splendor awaits in The Total Bent (Stew-book, lyrics and music with Heidi Rodewald.)  This is the second major theatrical endeavor since Passing Strange (2008) and has elements that may now be seen as Stew trademarks.  As in Passing Strange: the musicians are an integral part of the story and on stage.  The core of the story is the parent/child tensions that result from a successful “coming of age.”  Joe Roy (Vondie Curtis Hall) is a dynamic larger than life father/recording producer.  His son Marty (William Jackson Harper) has been recording since he made the ladies swoon in church at the age of ten.  Their generational divide centers around the “type” of music they each want to record.  His father wants to continue to package spiritual songs for the living rooms of white people.  The son has something a little more contemporary and authentic in mind.  Beyond that issue, was a song that resulted in disaster (through a misinterpreted lyric) and a great recording that never was.  The boy breaks free of his father’s overbearing grip (or does he?) and struggles to find his voice.

The music, not surprisingly, is excellent: a little bit gospel, a little bit rock and roll.  There is a lot of foot tapping and swaying happening in the audience.  It isn’t entirely clear what the time period is.  There are times the costumes suggest the 1970s, yet the vernacular speaks to the present, presumably this is intentional.

Directed by Joanna Settle, the tight ensemble never falters.  The British record producer (David Cale) is a wonderful addition with his energy, awkwardness, and pale angular Britishness.  The church bus driver and janitor (aka the back-up band) played by Eddie R. Brown II and Julian Rozzell, Jr. are incredibly watchable.    The use of space, light (Adam Silverman) and sound (Obadiah Eaves) are spot-on and add a roundness and completeness to the play.  While there is never a dull or “down” moment, and one never tries to spy one’s watch in the dark, the show does need a trim.  Two and a half hours is not extreme, but some of the emotional impact of The Total Bent is diluted with (what are in essence) repeated scenes.  It is a compelling, well crafted and staged play that could be perfect with just a snip or two.  No doubt in such an organic feeling piece, the cuts may hurt a bit.

There is a perfect storm at work right now.  The Public, and all the metaphorical significance of its massive face-lift, and The Total Bent create a magic together.  I’m not sure I’ve experienced theatre at which the lobby informs the experience of the play.  This play would most certainly work in a multitude of venues, but if you can, see it now; at The Public.

 

 

 
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Posted by on March 7, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Brusha Brusha Brusha!

06 Mar

You cannot walk down the street (or through the mall) without seeing them: toddlers in their stroller with a perma-snack on their tray table.  Goldfish crackers or cheerios in branded plastic containers are never far from their sticky grip.  Contrary to your initial instincts, no, these children are not carbo-loading for a marathon.  They are being trained instead to never feel hunger or eat a balanced meal.  You’ve also probably seen some of these tykes with a sippy cup (or bottle) of juice, or for the “health conscious” and those of stranger consumer habits; bottled water.

You may have also been in close enough proximity to hear these children being asked instead of told what to do: “Can you hold my hand while we cross the street?”  “Do you want to put on your jacket now?”

For those of us who are not necessarily health care providers, we only have seen this behavior as ridiculous.  We assumed that the children would grow up to have eating disorders and become absolutely monsters in adolescence (“Can you not bring that gang member into your bedroom at 2:00 a.m., honey?”  “Do you want to go take your S.A.T.s this year?”)  What we (okay, what I) did not consider is the immediate health implications of this style of parenting.  More preschoolers, at every income level, are developing 6-10 cavities.  In their baby teeth!  This painful development is not the result of genetics or disease, but is (according to dentists) the result of perpetually feeding small children and not enforcing teeth brushing.  According to Dr. Jed Best, some parents don’t want to traumatize their tykes with teeth brushing.  Let us forget for a moment the actual trauma of tooth decay/infection, dental work and long-term consequence of dental infection, and instead focus on the trauma of tooth-brushing.

We’ve probably all seen the Sponge Bob/Dora/Cinderella toothbrushes and toothpastes in the pharmacy.  They’re right next to the strawberry/bubble gum flavored toothpaste.  No doubt the higher end shops have all this next to the animated videos and books extolling the rapture of dental hygiene.  (To be fair, I’m already feeling a bit traumatized by all of this.)  It’s probably safe to assume that some of these cleverly marketed superfluous items are being implemented in many homes.  I think we can all agree that the majority of carers are not donning Freddy Krueger masks and approaching their tyke with a power drill (a la Marathon Man.)  The trauma is that the child might prefer to not have their teeth brushed.  That’s right.  The parent sees telling the child what to do as traumatizing.  Most children squirm and resist when having their teeth brushed.  It’s an odd sensation and involves a bit of a vice grip.  A clever child has learned that the slightest resistance and/or vocalization will scare off the adult.   (One has to assume that the same cause and effect does not work for face washing, because a dirty face would result in other people seeing the dirt and make assumptions about the parent.)  It stands to reason that these same parents would never not apply direct pressure to their bleeding child, or cease pounding the child’s back to dislodge a piece of food, if the child objected.  But after a long day of “discussing” every option and choice, after 12 hours of having a toddler (the very definition of an emotional terrorist) guide decisions for him/her, the parent, the entire family and every other person in the restaurant/store/playground/bookstore; a person gets tired.

After my initial horror in this dental discovery (some of these little ones have to be given general anesthesia to treat their massive decay!) I began to see just a flicker of light.  Perhaps this development will start to spur a movement.  Nobody wants their child in pain.  Enormous lengths are taken to ensure children never know discomfort or disappointment.  But at what cost?  Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that being the adult in the relationship means you actually do know what’s best for the child.  Letting a toddler choose which story to have at bedtime is okay.  Letting them dictate their nutrition and health care is not.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2012 in Childhood

 

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You Could Be Another Lincoln*

04 Mar

Recently I heard of a woman who made a lovely batch of lemonade out of a whole bunch of lemons.  She had spent most of her working life in finance management.  Through pluck and competence she moved up the ranks nicely.  Then she was laid-off at the same time her son was diagnosed with behavioral issues.  Like most of us, her stress behaviors began to kick into high gear.  For her this meant organizing everything within her sight.  She had always found organizing to be soothing and imbued the results with subtle sacred qualities.  Growing up in a chaotic household and moving often as a child, she found order comforting.  So she took the doors off her son’s closet, replaced all his drawers with clear boxes and organized and labeled him into a more focused kid.  Her child’s teacher noticed the difference in his behavior, and a conversation resulted in other children’s rooms being organized by the ex-financial manager.  Packing up her label maker and color coded files one day, she joked to her husband; “This is like a job.”

I think we all know where the story goes from here.  But wait, there is one tiny hitch.  This highly educated, super competent woman decided she needed credentials.  She went off to the Organizing Institute (or something as ridiculous sounding) and got herself a certificate.  I can picture the graduation ceremony: a row of color coordinated graduates holding their hand over the heart and pledging to banish randomness and clutter.  Now that she’s certified does that mean she enjoys client/practitioner privilege?  If she discovers a bloodied shirt and knife in an over-stuffed dresser drawer is she obligated to keep that information to herself?  Why did this seemingly talented, smart, sophisticated woman feel the need to trot off to the wizard to get a doctorate in thinkology?

Could it be that we are now living in the age of expertise?  You’ve heard of the the jazz age, the cold war age, the disco age?  The age of expertise isn’t nearly that interesting or fashion specific.  The expertise age may very well be the product of the perfect storm of populace insecurity and a global speaker’s corner.  Whether people’s insecurities are innate, organic or the result of marketing susceptibility, the results are the same.  Grown people walking around feeling shaky and out of step.  They probably are perfectly happy (or happy enough) but are bombarded with messages about tablescapes, second homes in Tuscany, French parenting, Tiger’s mothering.  Having not mastered the skill of tuning out, sooner or later these various messages boil down to one thing; “other people know more than I do.”  Now, that is actually true.  But the people who know more than most of us are not the ones telling us how to carve the perfect jack-o-lantern.

People achieving expert status without robust credentials is nothing new.  Certainly we can think of at least one radio talk show “doctor” raking in the benefits.  But the platforms for such expertise have expanded beyond computation.  So we find ourselves with a huge audience for “experts” in fields which often have no history of formal certification.  Everything, and I do mean everything, has become an area of expertise.  In just one week I have heard of a woman whose specialty is herding cats, another who designs walls (she’s not a muralist or even a house painter, she tells you where to hang your artwork.)  And the infant/child fetish is still skyrocketing: getting your baby to sleep through the night? 1-800-i’ll take your money is on the way!  not sure how to toilet train? HaveM&MsWillTravel.com is at the ready.  I think we can all agree that there are iPhone app experts being created everyday.

Is all of this malarkey a sign of the end of time?  Hardly.  Would anyone confuse another “it happened to me so it must be universal” book with actual sociology?  Doubtful.  If there is any harm it is merely that throwing around terms like “expert” and inculcating people as such is not helping anyone or anything.  We’d be a lot further ahead to feel confident in our own abilities (to organize our sock draw, or teach our child to use the potty.)  Secure confident people make better decisions, for themselves, their families and even at the polls.

*If I Only Had A Brain – Yip Harburg, Wizard of Oz (1939)

 
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Posted by on March 4, 2012 in Cultural Critique, Media/Marketing

 

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