the great santana

The feisty Ana Santana

The story of the brake repair was long. It involved a pregnant daughter, a missed ferry, a rain storm, a late-night rescue, a dismissive garage owner and many tears. Oh, and racism.
   Ana told the story over and over to anyone who would listen, about how the woman at the repair shop gave her an estimate, didn't finish the job on time, never told her the charges were going to be higher and wouldn't return her car without cash on the headgasket. Ana believed she was a mark because she is originally from the Dominican Republic, and people in Rhode Island are prejudiced against people with accents. (She is absolutely correct: They are. She has had people sneer at the Latin music she plays in her earphones, try to kick her out of her apartment for having too many family members to dinner and suffered countless slights.)
   Even Ana's family got sick of the story, but she wanted everyone to hear. It was the principle of the thing. And finally she got her day in court.

old style

Remember film and telexes and typewriters and carbon sets and pay phones?

Adam Cohen on the old-style research for his book

A few people at the demonstration outside of the Supreme Court carried one of these old-style recording devices, but not many. By the time you wrote down a quote or a crowd estimate in your notebook, the tweet or the video or the photograph was already on line. And by the time Whole Woman's Health had stated its case against the restrictive "trap" abortion clinic laws in the state of Texas, the hundreds of people at the rally had posted up selfies with their signs and voices ("Repro Rights! Repro Rights!") and spread their messages far and wide: Keep abortion legal and accessible. Keep the government out of my uterus. A woman has to be able to control her own destiny.
   Adam Cohen has just published a book about perhaps the most egregious example of the Supreme Court invading women's uteri, Imbeciles (Penguin Press). "Three generations of imbeciles are enough," read the blistering 1927 decision by Oliver Wendell Holmes that endorsed the sterilization of some 60,000 people for being "feeble-minded" and gene-pool buzzkills. In the judgement, that is, of a bunch of arrogant, powerful white men.

And really, what has changed here? Arrogant, powerful white men are still trying to tell the little women what's best for them. Today, however, at the moment there are three women on the Supreme Court also making their voices heard. Let's just hope that old-style justice does not prevail. For if it does, old-style abortion—already on the rise in states like Texas and Louisiana—will also prevail.

One girl asked a faraway clinic what she might use from the kitchen to cause abortion.

a journalist's life

You leave home and go somewhere else, by plane, train or automobile. Train.

You check into your hotel, motel, or a friend's place. Hotel. Near train station.

You explore the territory. Note TV crew doing standup in front of the Supreme Court.

a day in the life

That's a swamp chestnut oak. Oh, and yeah, the Supreme Court building.
 At least one will endure. I will report on everything soon. But after a quick 24 hours in DC, I must to bed.

dreams of my ancestors

I had a dream. I had a dream that I was not a total white person. I was sure of it. I had my Cherokee, African, Jewish heritage all figured out, I knew where it came from and how it got there and how boastful I would be.
And then I tested my DNA, and my bubble burst.
Donald Drumpf would probably marry me if I was 45 years younger. 
The wackiest it gets is a hint of Indian/South Asian, a hint of the Caucasas/Middle East (you dawg, Ghengis Kahn!) and Finland—Finland?
But I read this elementary explanation of inheritance at ancestry.com and realized (duh) that since you inherit only 50 percent of your DNA from each parent, your siblings don't necessarily inherit the same exact 50 percents. So I have dreams for them, if I myself am doomed.
Note to siblings: I can get you a DNA spit test for only $79!
#wethoughtwewereirish

all you single ladies

Girl, it's Leap Day. You can ask him to marry you today, and if he refuses (in some European countries), he has to buy you a dozen pairs of gloves to conceal the shame of not having a ring on it.  (Beyonce!)
And if you're pregnant and he refuses to put a ring on it—or he's a relative or he raped you or you're a child, and you don't want to see him ever again let alone ask him to marry you—get an abortion.
Unless you're in Texas in which case, you're doubly fucked. Because in Texas they have come up with so many restrictions on abortion clinics that half had to shut down. Some facts.
Is that a case for the Supreme Court? Yes. Whole Woman's Health v. Hellerstedt will be argued this week, and the New York Times weighs in. Pro fetal-life and pro female-life groups will rally outside. You can wear purple and watch live streaming of the event. Don't miss John Oliver's impassioned argument at the bottom of the Whole Women's Health web page.
Donna Ferrato and I will be there doing what I can only call advocacy journalism—for ourselves and our daughters. Why do men get to decide what we do with our bodies? Fight the patriarchy!

blackout

In the dark of the moon. I know I have been remiss in the past weeks. Internet issues. But I am well and promise to resume on Monday. Lots to show and tell!

oops

The water department on Block Island usually dowses to find the valve with which to turn on and off my water. In the middle of my driveway. It was leaking, though, and so they dug the whole thing up. In the process they cut my phone line—though fortunately not my electrical line.

super bowls

Since I don't have a TV and wanted to watch the half-time show (in which, predictably, Bey and Bruno rocked the house and made Coldplay look like a pale imitation of a band) (what were the organizers thinking?), Toby invited me upstairs, where I had a super bowl of popcorn. The evening before I had several super bowls of $1 oysters. But Toby was disappointed by the game and even the ads.

roundup

The storm overnight brought down a crane that killed somebody just  a block from Donna Ferrato's TriBeCa loft. But they are all ok. Word: If you see a crane, walk around it.
 Robert Bobrow has posted another story on Huff Post: "Your Electronic Medical Record is Filled with Gibberish"about how the computer screen barricades doctor and patient.
On another note, a piece on Sam Kendig's  place of work, Bose, with videos.
And, there is more to Rhode Island than Block Island: A list of charming towns.

with feeling—and attitude

Rosio at her place of work

The moto

She leaves her house in the campo before light in the winter—when the temps are in the 30s and 40s—and rides her battered moto to my mother's house in the town of San Miguel de Allende. There she massages, medicates, cooks, cleans, shops, washes, feeds the dog, pays bills, encourages and generally keeps spirits bright with a lot of love.
I say she's superwoman.
She says she's "macha."

family resemblance?

Cl-Ben, 2015, 2016

Chr-Erin, 2016, 2015

The models, 2016, 2010

I was breezing through Facebook when I saw a picture of my musician brother (who it so happens has a new website). Hmm, I thought.
Then my designer sister (who of course also has a website) had a new portrait made (by my photographer son-in-law, who also has a website). And I looked at a recent picture of my wood sculptor brother (who really needs a website). And I thought hmmm. . .
So then I went scurrying through the files for the progenitors.

matt attack! tonight!

Tonight (TUESDAY, 2/2) at 9pm, NBC, Ali's husband Matt plays a bad guy on Chicago Med.
In other news, Pal Denise Vaughn reports on a newly discovered cave—the 7000-somethingth—in Missouri in the St Louis Post-Dispatch.
And speaking of Missouri, another one of my friends is renting an Ozarks cabin not far from me—unless you want to stay with me!
Another in the "Conflict" TV series that Donna Ferrato was in is the fascinating (to me) story of a war correspondent who walked away. And speaking of Donna, she won yet another award, the NPAA's Humanitarian Award.
And speaking of videos, here is one Sam sent in about The Last Seltzermen.
And speaking of Sam, Happy Birthday!
And speaking of Birthday, Happy Birthday Flip!
And speaking of February 2, Happy Groundhog Day!
Did you want a groundhog birthday cake? Here ya go!

Cake neither fabricated nor photographed by me.

playing in the light

"Hello? It's me. I am here with your stove delivery."

 Otra Rubia swept me away to the Bronx this weekend, where she made lentil soup on a stove that was soon to be removed. The soup had to go out to the  balcony, where it had a good view of the sunset over Yankee Stadium as it cooled. And it was safe there from the Depredations of Devil Cat, who likes all human food better than anything dreamt of by Meow Mix. The new stove was delivered and admired, and unheated snacks were consumed (cat likes cheese) and then we all went out to dinner. Well, not Kitty.

The best chachka. Um, Chatchka in Francais?

busking

A young busker packs up his violin.

They play real good for free. Well, they hope you will gift them a peso or two. There is music in the air day and all night in San Miguel. (And fireworks and dogs barking and other things that make noise 24-7.) What is the relationship between busking and begging? Or selling a 5-cent bag of roasted pumpkin seeds or a little burro? None of these people would be on the streets but for tourists. And beware the seven-man mariachi band that surrounds your table and sings just for you. The novelty soon wears off, and you find yourself responsible for an unanticipated outlay.

An old busker leads his trio.

begging, the question

 To walk down the streets of any city is to be assailed with need. "Help me." "I'm hungry." "I'm homeless." "I can't afford my meds." "I can't support my family." Most of the time, we walk past, thinking, "I have my own financial problems." "He will just buy drugs or alcohol with the money." "Why can't our society find a way to take care of crazy people?" "This is not my job." "A quarter is not going to make a difference." "I give to charities for the homeless already."
And yet. These people, these desperate people, these young people, these old people, these poor people, these crazy people, these people on the edges. These people we walk past. They breathe and cry and love. They need us. Maybe we need them, too, to remind us that we are one people. #therebutforfortune

yes

Yes, I am home yes and I say yes i am yes.

adios mexico

Leaving mama and Rosio and Max the dog to their own devices, and heading back to slushland.

at the market

 Most of you know that I love a big snow. I mostly love it from a warm indoors place through the window, like my apartment in New York. Yes, it would be preferable to have a fireplace too, but had I been on Block Island, where I have a fireplace but no heat (plus there was no electricity during the blizzard) it wouldn't have been,

 as my mother-in-law used to say, conducive. (Conducive to what? I used to wonder.) In this case, conducive to enjoying the snow.But I passed the blizzard here, at the market in San Miguel.
It is, as they say, a feast for the eyes as well as the belly, and on Saturday everyone was shopping. Well, everyone but me. I did buy

a couple bowls and a new laundry bag and some plates for my mom. But no, Johnny, I did not have a liquada or anything at the food booths, though they are fab, because Rosio is feeding me all too well at home. With stuff she buys at the market.

we all need heroes

After the parade

 Yesterday was the birthday of a hero of Mexican independence, Ignacio Allende. He would have been 247 years old. Had he not been shot and decapitated for treason by the Spanish authorities or died of other causes. Needless to say, the town named for him, San Miguel de Allende, turned out in force (literally, if the number of soldiers in uniform meant anything) to celebrate. Not that they don't celebrate everything from haircuts on up here. I missed the parade due to other commitments, but the remains of the day were to be seen around the Jardin when i took my daily promenade.

The hero Allende in the center of the Jardin