out with the old part 2

 

Listening to my refrigerator continually grinding away, and watching my electric bill go up by a third week to week, I have been trying to get a new one for a while. While I bought the old one —very old, I think more than 35 years old—myself, the building is obliged to supply me with one, and given that the "supply chain" is not what it should be, I thought it best to accept a slightly used refrigerator from another apartment. It's the right size, which it to say all Mammadou and Danny had to do was remove the stove knobs and handles and the refrigerator doors to get through the galley kitchen. I did not tell them that the building-supplied refrigerator from the 60s is still in the living room. And still functioning.

And—tada!—four hours later I have a freezer that's not continually defrosting to put my ice packs in. And Thanksgiving will happen (alla you folk with big ole suburban kitchens and lots of counter space just understand that it's not really necessary, though having two refrigerators is a great help!) And it's so quiet. I can stop worrying about it. Phew. 

 

 

 

out with the old

Anybody remember what those things are? The things kids used to sit on top of when they were too little to reach the table? I have kept them for nostalgia's sake, but they have long since become useless to look anything up in. Not to mention all the stores advertised are likely no more, since retail, like phone books and plastic bags, is no more. Except Amazon and Instacart. So where the phone books used to be, there will now be the Instacart shopping bags (brand new) you can't return. Mama's got a brand new bag! Well, lots of them. How can this be good for the waste stream? I refuse to throw them away. Some day when food is manufactured in your kitchen instead of grown or killed, someone can throw out these shopping bags as well.

family news

My first cousin Tom, who I have seen a handful of times in our lives, stopped by on the way back to the hotel from The Museum of Natural History. I remember his father, my uncle Ed, well. He worked for AMP and was the first person I ever heard talk about computers. He was a mad scientist inventor, and he told us that one day cars would drive themselves. This was in the 1950s, and no one believed him at the time. Ahem. So Tom also is some kind of systems engineer, having to do with running large buildings. He has been teaching others how to do it at Penn State and around the country and fully expected to run into people he taught at the World Trade center today.

   His wife Dee, meanwhile, is a hero. While fighting recurrent (for 15 years) and metastatic breast cancer, she fell down the cellar stairs and broke wrist and foot. They have been hauling in from Pennsylvania to Sloan Kettering this year. But this time it was a tourist visit, and Dee was walking all over NYC like a boss, casts and all.

    Their son Nathan showed me pix of his two pet Axolotls. I can't say that. They are high maintenance Mexican salamanders which are having a moment. Very cute,  check them out here. I want one, but I can't see adding aquaria to What's In the Truck. 

   And, yes, that is Donna in the mirror taking Dee's picture.  She behaved herself very well. Donna, I mean.

 

more ed!

 

It was great to hang with the gang. Bill Dowell, formerly Time bureau chief who worked with Ed from Cairo to Paris to Hong Kong (may be the wrong order, and many more places) drove up from the City of Brotherly Love for lunch in Brooklyn with Ed. Barb came down from the Bronx, and neighborhood friends dropped by. All of us have had lunch with Ed roughly ten thousand times over the last 40 years, and we are expert at it. We talk about the old times and the new times. Which are not, frankly, as exciting, except for Ed, who has more excitement than he bargained for and not the kind he likes. Cancer has stripped many of his pleasures away, but old friends are an abiding one.

Another pleasure is favorite restaurants, even though he can't eat or drink much—chemo fucks with your taste buds. The owner/chef was delighted to see him, and buzzed around, allowing us to change tables three times without fussing.

You have to schedule out lunches with Ed, because radiation makes him tired. So does chemo, but it also makes him poisonous—he can't touch his dog Sammy in case the dog licks his skin. So the optimum time for a visit is when he is on hiatus from both procedures. He never does get a vacation from his special electromagnetic hat with accompanying battery pack. Ed ate dates wrapped in bacon. So did I, and they were very good. (I mean, bacon!)

   Anyway, you know it was a good lunch because we wrapped it up around 8 pm, eight hours after we'd started. And Dowell drove Dowling home and stayed over at the Dowling Intercontinental.

It was a perfect day. And just for fun, here are Pavoratti and Lou Reed singing Reed's "Perfect Day," surely one of the oddest duets ever. 

getting personal

 

I have always been fascinated by personal ads. Years ago it was classifieds in, maybe the New Yorker? Village Voice? NYT? I really liked the ones in Indian newspapers, because it was families seeking to match castes, professions, horoscopes, auspicious days—I mean it's amazing anyone ever got together. Then Craig's List came along, and pretty soon even the for sale ads there started seeming like dating sites (the same can be true of Facebook, Insta, Words With Friends and any site where one interacts with strangers, apparently).

   Anyway, I'm in heaven with the dedicated dating sites. Motherlode! I mean, photographs! I have checked out OK Cupid, but it's Tinder that has my vote for Most Out There. People are very specific about their desires, hopes and hobbies. Yes, in all the geographical areas I have checked out, men are into their fish. Not sure why this is supposed to be alluring. Nor this.

 

 Presumably these are better than the dick pix that would be on offer if requested. These are all pix from the New York area. The dating pool of smart phone users in the Ozarks (see previous post!) is pretty thin—I am always afraid of seeing someone on line that I know IRL. Most of the guys are in their 20s and not only show pix of themselves holding their fish but their babies. OK, dudes, it works! Cool! In NYC the dating pool is full of fish. Men here tend more frequently to show themselves with older kids or pets. Perhaps if you are a family man or a dog owner you seem warm and fuzzy. Because, face it, men on Tinder are trying to figure out whether they will get laid, women are trying to figure out whether they will get killed. 

    The kink factor in New York is intense, compared with the countryside. (Insert trigger warning here.)

 There's a lot of that—I'll spare you the details. But then there's also the following, some of which is clearly spoof, but how much?

And, yes, politics rears its divisive head here too. You got your God-fearing and your antivaxers, and then you got the opposite.

 

 People seem to have very definite ideas (or say they do) about what they are looking for. Question: If you really knew what you were looking for, wouldn't you have found it? For me, Christians, Trumpsters, golf, gym rats, Netflix, married guys looking for NSA fun, people who can't speak or write good English would be automatic no's. There are men looking for sugar babies, and sugar babies looking for men. The only women I see are the latter, or the occasional lesbian or woman looking  for a threesome with her husband. My male friends tell me that many women are looking for a rich guy, or at least to be elegantly wined and dined (which may account for the plethora of men who say they like fine dining and travel) and are "as comfortable in jeans as a little black dress." I don't know. I would love to put up a fake profile as a man and find out what women say, but I can't because I only have one phone number.

 I can tell you that very few men of my age are looking for women of my age, but a lot of men around 40 are, whether out of fear, fetish or fortune, I couldn't tell you. And plenty of men are mainly interested in sexting—I guess maybe part of that is The Covid? Part a porn addiction? No idea, but I will keep you abreast (ahem) of dating site news as my period of inactivity looms.

 

sleeping with the fish

Chien-Chi is on his next to last day of his two-week hotel quarantine in Taiwan, and as you can see he's going a bit stir crazy. He is not even allowed to set foot in the hallway—there are video cameras trained on the door—and all his food (and wine) is delivered. He was very excited when a friend delivered the goldfish he wanted to film.

     I did not realize he was going to put them—and himself—in the bath tub. When he gets out of the hotel tomorrow he will still be in quarantine, but at his parents' house. "My phone is still being tracked, but I can move around except public places," he says. "I still have to answer a text message from the government COVID-prevention center every day for another week!" Finally, he will be allowed to show up at the awards show where he will give a presentation and collect his grant. And apparently, not a moment too soon!

   He is totally vaccinated and has been masked in and en route from Austria. He has to pay for the hotel room where he is required to stay. And no one in Taiwan is fussing about their "freedoms." Just saying.

 

sometimes the system works

Apparently Walmart knows my taste in alcoholic beverages and toilet paper, though I'm not sure if they know I watch no TV.  They may also know my usual whereabouts, and that I'm not ordinarily in LA.

   Anyway I got a call from my credit card company saying that there were suspicious charges on my card, but that Walmart had denied the transaction and credited my account the $200 some—twice. The credit card company suggested I call Walmart and change my password for that account. So I did, and I did. And I guess that's done.

happy belated

Yes, it was Halloween in New York. People got into it with decorations and costumes on the street.
 

It was really Halloween in Providence, with ze keedz.

And, yes, it was Halloween in Alabama too, with Augustus (or Thor, as I call him), all gussied up. And not looking best pleased.

the run-up

Today they headed off to school in their costumes (angler fish and vampire), but Halloween excitement has been happening for a month. And thus Christoween kicks off.

 

Creepy angler fish may find it difficult to walk.

Vampira tries on mom's hat.

The perennial witch tries on new duds with old hat.

the ed report

They have been hammering Ed with everything they got (or think they got) for brain cancer, and so far it all seems to be working, the chemo, the radiation, the electrode hat connected by coiled phone cord to a battery pack. His tumor, removed back in—early June, maybe?— has not grown back, according to a couple recent MRIs. 

   His family has totally rallied around, the kids treating him and Allison to a birthday weekend at the beginning of October. He and Allison go on a walk most days (often with Labrador Prince, I mean, Sammy). He can't see out of one eye, so someone has to make sure he doesn't bump into things. Ed has lost a bunch of weight. The chemo makes things taste funny, and he mostly only likes to eat Pringles and Mallomars these days. Quite a comedown for the Irish gastronome (if that's not an oxymoron). 

   Whether it's the site of the former tumor or brain fog induced by chemo, I don't know, but his short term memory (along with the ability to read and write) is pretty much shot. He remains the fabulous raconteur we all know, with an amazing long-term memory and all the stories intact. He misses seeing and talking to his friends, but is mostly unable to contact them. You have to call him, and I have found the best way is via calls on Facebook Messenger. He is on intense chemo for a while, which makes him very tired, but as of a week from Friday he has some time off. That would be a good time to call him. I hope to have a gathering of some kind week after next.

   Meanwhile, he sends love to the Ed Barnes Fan Club. And I know you are sending it back.

   

 

school pix/cool pix

I have always been a fan of school pictures. They are typically so dorky, and yet when you look at a decade's worth, you get a real sense of growth.  In a way, the photographers who don't know or care about their subjects produce a more interesting record. I haven't thought this through, but there's something there. Exhibit A, Camilla and Isaac from a couple years ago and today.

What we learn from these (first shot from my refrigerator), is that Camilla has forgotten how to open her eyes, but has not greatly changed her hairstyle.

But wait up, next up is Isaac, whose refrigerator picture was just named by my nephew Mason as a world-class dork pic. Isaac now does know how to open his eyes and shows signs of improvement in posing for pix. Also aging.

I actually like the physical photos the best—those dumb billfold-size you are meant to carry in your purse—but waiting on those.

 

 

how i spent my graduation vacation

I have been asked to write an entry for a Vassar 50th reunion book that is meant to encourage others in my class to attend. Not sure this will do the trick. TMI? No ending. Any other critiques?

How I spent my Graduation Vacation

 Let’s see.

I went to Kauai for a year with Vassar alum Laura Broeksmit, lived on the beach, bartended and shucked corn. Then I decided I needed a real job, so I moved to the opposite place: New York City. There my Vassar degree (plus a contact with Time Inc's  Chairman of the Board) got me a job as copy girl at a startup called People magazine. I was promoted to copy editor when my boss decided that if I could speak Chinese, I could probably speak English. My Chinese was actually pretty bad, but what did she know.

   A couple of friends from Time magazine decided they would launch a weekly newspaper in Illinois. The copy desk was where women’s magazine careers went to die (along with researcher and photo researcher jobs), so I joined them as a reporter. Breaking up with the boss turned out to be another career killer, so in a year I was back in NYC. I wound up back at People as a writer, one of a handful of women at Time Inc. I was the movie editor and reviewer, which was odd, since I’d always loathed movies. The learning curve was steep.

   When I had spent enough time in screening rooms (and when a colleague was promoted to senior editor before me, since, the ME explained, “he had a family to support”), I quit. I had just gotten married and bought an unheated house on Block Island. I sublet my apartment to that same ME, and moved to the island, wintering in Jamaica. Without my income, we soon ran out of money. My husband (also ex-Time) took a job in Chicago where our daughter, now 40, was born. Then we ran out of money again, so back we went to NY, where that same ME hired me as a senior writer at Life magazine.

    What a gig! Climbing Everest, canoeing down the Amazon basin, going backstage at the Bolshoi in St Petersburg. And mostly writing about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. No celebs. OK, maybe a few. I stayed there for 15 years, retiring after the magazine went belly up yet again. Little did I know the whole company, along with most magazines, was about to go south due to something called the web.

   After that I teamed up with photographer friends to write intros to their books and do docs for Oxygen TV. I also got divorced and built two houses on our Block Island property, which I now rent out for the summer. Two decades ago, I was reintroduced to the Ozarks (where I lived until the age of eight) when I did a story on far-right white supremacists—we tried to warn you all those years ago. I bought an old gas station there.  Now it’s Block Island on the shoulder seasons, Ozarks in the summer, New York in the winter. Full circles.

  Oh, and I was spending a month in Kauai, too, until I was turfed out by Covid.

  The only Vassar people I’m in touch with are Laura and her husband Bill Downing, who was in the first cohort of male students to graduate. I know Georgia Hall’s family on Block Island, though I have not seen her in years, and Jamie Sunderland, also of Rhode Island. They both lived in Ferry House with Laura. I am also in touch with Danielle Beauchamp, with whom I became friends when her parents were very kind to me on a year abroad in Taiwan. 

 

With Danielle in Taipei, 1971

With Laura in Kauai, 1972

With Laura in New York, 2019, photo by Bill Downing

higher ground

The information I have received about What To Expect About Your Knee Replacement Recovery (scheduled for November 29) (from Bill Dugan) suggested that I raise my bed, as I wouldn't be able to get out of a low one. So I put together a frame, and dudes in the building helped me put box springs and mattress on top of it. Last night I had altitude sickness. 

And speaking of beds, Hannah just put up an AirBnB listing for Sara's awesome apartment in their backyard, and it got a first booking within minutes. Check it out here.

first night in nyc

A brief shower during sunset going downtown to Donna's with nevvy Mason and Tisha

After a lovely dinner we headed up to Donna's roof to enjoy the moon on what she calls, for obvious reasons, the Jenga building. And then home, because really, after leaving Block Island the day before and Providence in the morning, I was pretty well activitied out.

 

the memory of light

 I woke up this morning and kept my eyes shut, hoping to go back to sleep. I lay there in the darkness of my closed eyelids for a while. And then I briefly, very briefly, opened my eyes for a few seconds. When I closed them again, I still saw the light I had seen with them open. I guess the light was in my brain, rather than my eyes. I'm not sure how long the memory of light lasted, because before long, I slid back into sleep. 

Blogging here in Block Island is so arduous, on account of the piss-poor internet, that I can't bear it. I will resume on a regular basis when I am back in New York in ten days or so.  Meanwhile, hold onto the memory.

sara's legacy

 

 Sara Burke Laughlin, 69, passed away peacefully at home in Providence, RI, on October 1st, 2021, surrounded by family.  Sara was the daughter of sculptor Ruth F. Laughlin and noted anthropologist William S. Laughlin. Born in Spokane, WA, Sara was raised in Madison, WI, spending much of her time in exotic locales from an isolated camp in Idaho to islands in Alaska and even Copenhagen, Denmark. She eventually settled on Quaddick Lake in Thompson, CT, where she worked tirelessly to support her community. To each role in her life — from biology teacher, to WIC employee, to archeologist, to gestalt life coach—Sara brought kindness, commitment and compassion. A lover of string figures, cooking shows and endless notetaking, Sara deeply valued her friends and her family and always made time for them. Throughout her 15 years with amyloidosis, Sara was unwavering in her positivity—inspiring all around her to be more present.  Predeceased by her parents and sister, Leslie Laughlin, Sara is survived by her eldest son and his wife, Jonathan and Stephanie Garrison of Portland, OR, and her younger son and his wife, Christopher and Hannah Garrison of Providence, RI. Her legacy lives on through grandchildren Ian Garrison, 15, son of Jonathan and his former wife Heather Garrison, and the children of Christopher and Hannah, Camilla, 11, and Isaac, 8, who will miss RaRa dearly.

Obit by Hannah, pix by me 

sara

 Life can vanish between one heartbeat and the next. Hannah's mother-in-law, who has been ailing with amyloidosis for 15 years, most of those years on every-other-day dialysis, just died at home in her sleep. Fortunately her other son came in from Portland to be with her this week. She has been living across the yard from Chris and Hannah and the kids for almost a year, with Ruca acting as comfort animal. My sister saw her yesterday. I saw her Monday before coming to Block Island, for Camilla's eleventh birthday party. She was up and about and in good spirits. In fact, I never never known her not to be in good spirits. The was the best sport about her ailments I have ever known. Fortunately, she had a happy end of life, surrounded by family, and and comforted even in death by her companion dog. Much love, Sara. I'm glad I got one last picture of you.