Morning Has Broken

This is the last week of Rosmarins Day Camp. I'm pretty sure I discerned a heavy spirit draped around Little Babe as he diligently set off for his Monday morning staff meeting at 8:30...the final one of the season.

It's been an extraordinary summer for the Three Babes. My youngest had his first job -- Junior Counselor for 9-year-old boys. When he wasn't at camp, his time was filled with music and friends, romance and midnight swims, jam sessions, pizza and hamburgers. A week from today, he is scheduled to apply for his Learner's Permit at the Orange County DMV in nearby Goshen so that he can take driving lessons in the relative sanity of Monroe instead of Manhattan's stressful streets. We tease our older kids that their baby brother will be the first of the sibling group with a Driver's License. Big Babe, who favors European cities, has no use for cars and Middle Babe has a GC (Gentleman Caller) with his own wheels. (I know that sounds old-fashioned and sexist so let me add that she also has many female friends with cars. Besides, like Big Babe, she hardly ever finds herself anywhere without a great public transportation system.)

Middle Babe had her first post-college summer, complete with a full-time salaried position and all that goes with it -- lunch breaks, office mates, staff retreats, casual Fridays. I am proud and amazed that she, like her little brother, has a diligent work ethic. She also has a volunteer ethic. This Thursday, she is coordinating a fundraiser for Jewish Heart for Africa at an Upper East Side bar and I have volunteered to come early to help her set up, but mostly, I want to watch my little girl in action. Besides her GC, whom we all love dearly, she has many BFFs. Her summer was a jumble of sleepovers with friends and parties and weddings and weekend excursions.

And then there is my eldest, Big Babe, who turned 27 last week and whom I haven't seen since January. He, too, is thriving -- writing and traveling and doing his signature Borscht Belt comedy, leading tours of Jewish Berlin, working on a novel, hosting Shabbat and holiday meals, enjoying love of his own. Even with him so far away, I feel his presence in the midst of my bungalow summer. He is virtually here through the magic of Skype and our regular phone conversations.

Finally, HOBB and I shared some marital magic in the course of a project we jointly undertook, which provided proof of the very thing we are best at -- creative collaboration. After working feverishly on the manuscript of his forthcoming memoir for months, my husband felt that the project still needed much work and asked me to read/edit it/interact with it. Reticent for just a millisecond (a workaholic/selfish inner voice tried to tell me that my first priority was my own overwhelming writing projects) I delved into the project with tremendous curiosity and just a tad of trepidation tempered with the confidence that I possessed the alchemical ability to sharpen dull insights, shine dusty prose, focus nebulous narrative; in other words, transform his work-in-progress into a modern literary masterpiece.

The opportunity to interact with the first draft of HOBB's efforts proved thrilling. I was greatly honored to be granted access to this work. Completely absorbed, I felt like a seamstress, a plastic surgeon, a construction worker, an executioner. I cheered and berated him, I challenged and needled him, I struck out words that served as dead weight; I wrote in details and passages that seemed glaringly absent. The process took several weeks. It involved close reading, reacting, yelling, guffawing, cursing, congratulating, praising, gnashing my teeth, long walks, hour-long phone conversations, arguments and ultimately breakthroughs. I woke up early and stayed up late. My eyes blurred. I took to wearing the quaint/cool red reading glasses from Ricky's that I had bought on sale for my old age.

Pacing until the newly-edited pages were ready to be pounced on, HOBB was delighted, declaring the work reshaped in important ways, proclaiming that I forced positive change in his writing, pushed him past mediocrity, discovered truths hidden between the lines. We marveled, through the process, that we had discovered a new amity 28 years into our union, one which we had briefly tasted but which had never been so sustained and so strong.

Passion we have always had. My husband and I do not lack for crimson emotions, fur flying, words careening off walls, shouts, hugs, clashes, blood, sweat, tears, ecstasy and hysterical laughter.

But this was something new. This was passion that was focused and wholly positive. It did not exclude impassioned argument -- a hallmark of our relationship -- but the basis of the argument was conceptual...not personal. Nurturing not volatile.

This new form of friendship filled me with warmth and generosity of spirit. We both marveled at the magic that had overtaken us. We felt we were our highest selves, the best form of us ever. Truly BFF.

Now the manuscript has been rewritten and passed onto a posse of new readers including close friends and our own children. Comments are coming back. HOBB is feeling grateful but also overwhelmed, confused, sick of the project or at least the endless work.

At this moment, the role I need to play is clear to me. The selfish/workaholic voice inside me has not totally disappeared but I have a really strong set of lungs and can out-shout anyone, if necessary. The last time I felt so unambiguous about assuming a responsibility on behalf of someone else was when I first became a parent.

This analogy is apt because writing anything of worth is akin to giving birth.

The marital magic we gained during our collaboration still suffuses the summer. The way we fit together as creative collaborators still dazzles us. It is the thing I had foreseen when first we met, nearly 28 years ago. It was the carrot dangled before me, a glimmer of Eden, a wisp of a promise.

It was the promise of such a partnership that I pinned all my youthful dreams on, the hope that I might find in this man a journalistic yang to my literary yin, a stable center to my thirst for adventure. This was the bashert I believed in all along.

Oh, and in case you hadn't figured it out, the video at the top of this post features our pooches, Alfie and Nala. It was filmed in my bungalow bedroom early this the morning and captures their inimitable cuteness and chemistry, proving that bashert is hardly the exclusive domain of humans.

It Takes Two to Tango...or Does It?

Alright, alright...

Seems that everybody and their uncle has been posting about HOBB's bold article in the recent NY Jewish Week which critiques the NY Times's coverage of the 1991 Crown Heights riots, detailing how the paper falsely framed the resulting anti-Jewish violence as an even-handed racial conflict.

So I guess it is time for me to opine about the piece as well, which I did tweet about and post to my Facebook wall on Thursday.

But in order to do so, I must forgo writing about the drama at Straub's Fitness on Friday morning when one woman decided to hog the elliptical machine in the Cardio Theatre for the entire duration of The King's Speech, nearly touching off a rumble with another woman, the mother of 5-year-old triplets who was almost in tears because her workout had been hijacked.

Which brings me to my mother, who was fond of aphorisms.

"When in Rome, do as the Romans!" she liked to say as part of her ongoing effort to force me to conform with her ideal of how I ought to act, speak, dress and think.

"It takes two to tango!" she would proclaim when one of us came to her complaining that the other provoked a fight.

Though it was a few years before I learned that the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem and therefore, should never invoked as role models by Jews, I knew at a young age that this "two to tango" business was complete BS.

Any kid who has ever been bullied could tell you that.

Yet, in covering violent clashes, many newspapers persist in sustaining the "two to tango" trope, possibly because they don't want to give the appearance of bias or in pursuit of that impossible ideal -- fairness -- or commendably, owing to their commitment to objectivity.

As HOBB reports, the Times bungled the story behind the Crown Heights riots big time, spinning it as a conflict between blacks and Jews...when it fact it was open season on the local Jewish community by local blacks enraged by the tragic yet accidental death of a young black boy. That terrible and regrettable death led, in turn, to the vengeance murder of a rabbinical student visiting from Australia.

Wow. Writing that paragraph felt really uncomfortable because I had to keep inserting the word "black" as a modifier. I thought to use "African American" to mix things up but that would not be accurate as many of the residents of Crown Heights during that time were West Indian and Caribbean; indeed the parents of Gavin Cato, the 7-year-old who was killed were Guyanese immigrants.

Referring to Jews, however, I was able to vary my vocabulary by using both "Jew," "Jewish," and even "rabbinical."

Still, in its coverage of the Crown Heights riot, the Times adopted my mom's mantra: "It takes two to tango."

Twenty years ago, telling the truth about what was going on in Crown Heights would have entailed employing two highly uncomfortable stereotypes -- angry black people and victimized Jews.

Though it appears that the Times's error in framing the story as a "he said/she said" spat was motivated by editorial queasiness over portraying blacks as angry and violent, perhaps it was the nature of the second stereotype that really shaped the story.

As uncomfortable as it was to report on out-of-control black people, maybe the notion of Jews becoming the targets of racial hatred on the streets of New York City during the regime of its first black mayor was just too frightening for some Jewish editors at the Times, too creepily close to a trope that has a habit of recurring throughout history.

Twenty years after he shouted to his editor into a pay phone that the newspaper of record was getting the story wrong, my husband took it upon himself to set the record straight.

I was not on the streets of Crown Heights in August of 1991. But I was at Straub's Fitness this Friday morning and can report that in the case of the Elliptical Machine Almost-Rumble, one party was guilty of being a rude and inconsiderate machine hog, the other party robbed of her right to exercise during her one free hour a day as a busy mom of young triplets.

This is a trite comparison with a profound lesson. In the gym, as on the streets of a city, innocent people sometimes get kicked in the face in the course of something that is supposed to be a dance.

Lincoln Center Out of Doors, Out of this World

Here's the view from the 12th row center from last night's wildly energetic/hallucinogenic show @ Lincoln Center Out of Doors.

On stage is the outrageously inventive composer and digital violinist Todd Reynolds with wackadoodle/completely out of his mind "singer/multi-instrumentalist provocateur" Sxip Shirey, beat box god Adam Matta and a chorus of young violinists plus a tuba guy whose name I do not know. Their set of sheer amazingness was followed by dreamy prose and music by Laurie Anderson who was joined at the end by Lou Reed. Anderson's performance had a social critique/seventies-fabulous quality to it, reminding me of just how cutting-edge she was...and still is.

For those who have not experienced the magic of Damrosch Park on a summer night for the FREE cultural cornucopia of Lincoln Center Out of Doors, teleport yourselves there ASAP!!! Indeed, following last night's magic, I am about to can my plans for tonight in Nyack (a great destination in its own right) and beg, cajole and otherwise convince my friend Pesha to meet me back @ Lincoln Center for tonight's performances.

A shout-out to my good friend and J School classmate Vivien for inviting me to join her and her kick-ass friends Sally and Marilyn last night. After the show, Viv and I walked from Lincoln Center to the Hummus Place on Amsterdam and then, all the way, all the way, all the way home to Morningside Heights.

Music. Wine. Falafel. Friendship. New York City on a summer night.

It doesn't get better than that.

Here's what's on for tonight:

The funk is on when award-winning choreographer David Dorfman and his troupe join the musicians of The Family Stone for the world premiere of a new work on August 11, Prophets of Funk (Concert Edition). With its hits “Dance to the Music,” “Everyday People,” and “Hot Fun in the Summertime,” the Family Stone was synonymous with soul and funk and was also one of the first major bands on the national scene integrated along race and gender lines. Inspired by their groove, David Dorfman Dance unveils a 3 concert edition of a full-company work. Featuring a live band performance, outrageous costumes, striking lighting and visual effects, and gorgeous dance, it’s a non-stop celebration, in Dorfman’s words of, “the funk and joy of everyday life.”

Debo Band, which shares the August 11 bill is a Boston-based, Ethio-groove collective led by Danny Mekonnen. The band’s unique instrumentation—including horns, strings and accordion—was inspired by the Golden Age of Ethiopian music in the late 1960s and early 70s, but its accomplished musicians are giving new voice to that sound. Joining Debo is Ethiopian traditional dance and music troupe, Fendika, amazing young Azmari artists led by one of Ethiopia’s leading dancers Melaku Belay. Belay, one of the most active artists and arts advocates on the Addis Ababa scene today, is an innovative and virtuoso interpreter of Eskiska a traditional Ethiopian “shoulder dance”. He appeared at Out of Doors in 2008 dancing with Gétatchèw Mèkurya and The Ex.

Look for me in the 12th row center.

Break-Fast of Champions

Briefly, because HOBB really wants to go to sleep and the glare of the laptop acts like a searchlight in an otherwise-dark bungalow, here's what I did once Tisha B'Av ended at 8:35 p.m:

• Ate (scrambled eggs, avocado, tomatoes, sharp cheddar cheese) and drank (lots of water and a strong cup of Oren's Beowulf Blend coffee w/organic half and half)
• Hightailed it to Straub's Fitness @ 9:20 to run three miles on the elliptical machine while watching the first 36 minutes of Let Me In in the Cardio Theater...once again. (Actually I had only previously seen the first 30 minutes so I saw 6 scary new minutes!)
• Drove to the ShopRite just up the hill and sashayed through the nearly empty store, singing aloud to the BeeGees songs they were playing, getting scared afresh by the middle-aged clerk with the black hair who looks like an escaped mental patient, wondering if I could really pull off a Flash Mob dance in the freezer section, and, oh yeah, buying stuff
• Came home and ate the nectarines I bought at ShopRite while HOBB yelled at the customer service people at Netflix because we couldn't download the movie program from their site
• Snuggled with HOBB on our creaky bungalow bed a short while later to watch The Resident on Netflix, probably the dumbest and most boring thriller I have ever seen (my choice, because HOBB was too burnt out to even think about making a movie selection)

Before I left Straub's I found out that they're showing The Bodyguard tomorrow -- which is actually later today -- so I've gotta sign off in order to get there @ 7 a.m. to get in my workout before a killer-diller work day in Manhattan followed by the FREE Laurie Anderson concert at Lincoln Center Out of Doors and a business meeting/karaoke at Soldier McGee's around 10 p.m.

And late, late, late at night -- which might technically be tomorrow morning -- HOBB gets to choose the Netflix movie, which we'll watch together on the non-creaky king-size bed of our apartment if I choose to stay in the city overnight, trading in one paradise for another.

Jerusalem, Viewed from the 9th of Av

On Sunday afternoon, I sat by the waters of Walton Lake and explained Tisha B'Av to my friend Sam, an interfaith minister whose real name is Joanna and who was raised Catholic.

Tisha B'Av is the saddest day in the Jewish calendar, I said. Unlike Yom Kippur -- which is not supposed to be a somber day -- Tisha B'Av is a day of mourning, commemorating many Jewish calamities, including the destruction of the first (586 BCE) and second (70 CE) Temples in Jerusalem, the murder of over 100,000 Jews in the city of Betar by the Romans in 132 CE, which signaled the end of the Bar Kokhba revolt and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492, I explained.

According to Jewish history, Tisha B'Av -- literally the 9th day of the month of Av -- has bad karma. As anyone who has attended a Jewish summer camp can attest, the commemoration of the day often includes a litany of other tragic national events as well as readings or study about the contemporary uber-calamity for the Jews -- the Shoah.

A 25-hour fast day, Tisha B'Av is synonymous with exile, dispersion, wandering, homelessness, the longing for Zion.

Fasting aside, I was telling Sam how much I love Tisha B'Av, love to sink deep into sorrow, love to read the haunting poetry of the Book of Lamentations -- Eicha -- written by the prophet Jeremiah.

I told her how having lived in Jerusalem as a child, the stories of the Jewish people, even those contained in the Five Books of Moses and the books of the Prophets were immediate to me, that the characters therein were my kin.

And then last night, for the first time in my life, I realized something else about my connection to Tisha B'Av.

We were sitting in the Beit Knesset, the prayer house, at Camp Ramah in Nyack, visitors at their Tisha B'Av program. We had already heard a moving reading of Eicha in a candle-lit room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Afterwards, we walked wordlessly outside with the staff of the camp to hear kinnot (dirges) sung by a choir of counselors while the word Yizkhor (remember) was lit aflame on a metal scaffold. When the fire burned out, we walked back to the Beit Knesset as young people formed a path, brandishing Israeli flags.

Inside the Beit Knesset there was more singing of mournful, beautiful melodies. An essay was read, a man with a distinctive Israeli accent began singing Naomi Shemer's classic "Jerusalem of Gold." A screen showed a 3-D depiction of the Temple in Jerusalem. And then, suddenly, there was footage from the Six Day War, film of Israeli soldiers fighting in the streets of Jerusalem.

My eyes filled with tears. On the screen was my Jerusalem, first encountered in that magical moment after the unlikely victory in 1967, the year before I arrived, the 7-year-old daughter of an American rabbi on sabbatical. The city that had been twice destroyed, and now, miraculously reclaimed was the one I first encountered. Watching the black and white film, I dwelled in recollection of that moment in history; it preceded the poisonous political pronouncements about the State of Israel or the rights of the Jews to the land or a state of their own or the misappropriation of the word "Nazi" to refer to the very people who were Nazism's primary target. It was a moment of pure celebration, of global goodwill towards the tiny country that successfully fended off an attack from its neighbors. That moment, that year in Israel following the '67 victory was one of unambiguous joy for the Jewish people. I interpreted it as a second significant sign that the world had emerged from darkness into light and what happened to Jews in the past would not happen anymore. The first was the establishment of Israel after the Shoah; it seemed to me akin to the rainbow after Noah's flood -- a sign of God's covenant and protection.

On Sunday afternoon, Sam listened to me speak about Tisha B'Av then pressed me to explain what the day meant to me. At first I was baffled, then frustrated, then annoyed. I had never sought to analyze my love of Tisha B'Av; indeed, it seemed pretty straightforward to me. Moreover, I was uncomfortable trying to extract a personal message from Tisha B'Av; it is a communal commemoration, as relevant to me as to any Jew in any place throughout time. Tisha B'Av is a link to the Jewish past. It is a moment to mourn without the complexity attached to consideration of Israel; it exists apart from discussions and debates and recognition of policies gone wrong or injustice or social problems in the Jewish state.

Isn't that enough?

Yet last night at Camp Ramah, I gained an insight, which is perhaps the explanation Sam was looking for all along. The lamentation over a Jerusalem Temple destroyed centuries ago evokes tangible grief in me not only because of my early encounter with the land of Israel but because of the particular moment our histories collided. Tisha B'Av is a living day of commemoration for me for I am an American Jew who first met Jerusalem in the heady aftermath of the Six Day War. Even with my feet planted in the soil of the 21st Century, the prophet Jeremiah's poetry surges through my veins, the destroyed Jerusalem Temple is my recent tragedy, the dispersed people are my family, I recall the bitter taste of recent exile. I access the sorrow of the day because I experienced its antithesis. Wondrous, I visited the newly-returned Western Wall, climbed Jerusalem's olive trees and and breathed in the dust of the Old City, walked her streets and walls and prayed in her holy tongue, understanding, for the first time, the meaning of the words. I am the child whose heart was pierced by the joyous present, but also the tragic past, who could never forget Jerusalem, who will forever see herself as a true daughter of Zion.

Birthday in Paris

At 7:33 in the morning, while walking around Goose Pond in downtown Monroe, I called Big Babe to wish him a Happy Birthday.

Twenty-seven years ago, after a troubled pregnancy that never went to term, my first-born child came hurtling into the world, hastening an event that I was hardly prepared for.

I was 23 and newly-married, a contradictory creature -- a young sophisticate/rebel/intellectual/tomboy/Lolita/troublemaker/spy/writer-at-large/abandoned child wanting to be saved. Having a kid was not the last thing on my mind; it was the very thing I was certain would never happen to me.

Yet love, marriage and a baby carriage came upon me in terrifying speed. So fast that it seemed the baby was about to be lost.

But my tiny son proved resilient, with powerful lungs and a feisty spirit. His Apgar score of 9 made me as proud as if he had aced the SATs. Within milliseconds of making his acquaintance, I fell utterly and heedlessly in love with the uninvited, underweight child placed perfunctorily on my chest before being whisked off to the newborn ICU. "Hello, Adam," I murmured, kissing the top of his head.

The thing I thought would signify the death of my youth offered, instead, the most profound spiritual and creative rebirth, the truest reason for being. The wound in my adopted-child soul was healed. I knew myself to be deeply blessed.

My little premie is in Paris today. Last night he sent me an email detailing the magic of his trip, the multiple ways in which his life intersected with the plot of the improbable yet charming Woody Allen film he just saw, Midnight in Paris, which finally made it across the pond. This morning, we spoke briefly as he was going into the Centre Pompidou. I was awash in love and longing...for Paris in the summer, yes, but mostly for my son.

Hanging up, a thousand memories came flooding over me -- the tiny infant, the curly-haired cherub, the chubby grade schooler, the cerebral teen, the young adult with whom I traveled to museums and European cities alike. We have shared a myriad movies, shows, afternoon trips to parks and zoos, adventures good and bad, illnesses, arguments, school performances, graduations, opinions, operas; all the mess and marvelousness of life.

Passing the morning walkers around Goose Pond, I was nearly consumed with pain over the passage of time, the sudden need to see my son, to hold him, to revisit everything that was, to immerse myself in remembrance of things past and moments sweet and forever gone.

But to exist in that place is maudlin and maddening. There is the matter of the here and now, the work requiring my attention, the matter of living, the task of turning pages, stepping forward into the future. I have always been bad at this even as I crave newness and beginnings. Secretly, I am sentimental, something I share with my firstborn.

And so, with great reluctance, I shook off the cloak of nostalgia and climbed out of my mental attic, replacing musty albums on shelves, returning to the Monday morning of a 50-year-old Manhattanite ambling around a pond in downtown Monroe, New York, foothill of the Catskills, repository of memories.

Black Cherries

It is after the deluge.

Crickets and cicadas chirp in the sweet night air outside my bungalow.

A two-thirds moon hangs pendulous in the cloud-spotted sky.

Tired pups rest on the kitchen floor.

A teenage boy -- my youngest -- plays guitar in the back room.

I sit on the screened porch facing the night forest, eating black cherries, my fingers sticky, remembering my Grandma Blanche, who loved black cherries, too.

The Forty-Five Minute Movie Club

Best in Show, the hilarious 2000 mockumentary directed by Christopher Guest that parodies the world of competitive dog shows, has always been one of my fave films... even in my B.C. (before canines) days, before I really knew how crazy dog owners could be.

I've probably seen it more than ten times -- in movie theaters, on TMC on Sunday afternoons at the JCC gym, aboard planes, in hotel rooms, on DVD -- never tiring of the razor-edged spoofery, kooky subplots and the spot-on performances from Parker Posey, Catherine O'Hara, Eugene Levy, Jane Lynch, Michael McKean and Christopher G. himself.

The movie is so beloved to me that, in about ten minutes, I'll be dashing out of the bungalow and driving to Goshen so I can relive the hilarity...while also burning hundreds of calories, sweating like a beast, building my abs, glutes, quads, biceps and triceps and keeping my heart rate elevated.

Where can such an awesome experience be had?

At the Cardio Theater at my summer gym, Straub's Fitness -- a darkened room with ellipticals and stationary bikes instead of seats, a wide movie screen and extreme air conditioning -- the perfect fusion of culture, comfort and calisthenics.

The Cardio Theater at Straub's offers one film per day (which they replay over and over) ranging from the highly acclaimed to the inexplicable. Over the past ten days I saw Blue Velvet; Let Me In; Pulp Fiction and The Fighter...as well as a few other flicks whose names I cannot recall.

Oh wait. I did see something inane called My Fellow Americans. It had something to do with presidents and had an all-star, if elderly, cast. And then there was that clunky movie with Drew Barrymore where she plays a pregnant unmarried girl whose married lover is killed by her new boyfriend played by Owen Wilson. And then there was the one with Ben Kingsley where he plays a psychic psycho who kills people in really sick ways, carving out their eyes or something... I'm not sure because I was only semi-watching.

Yet, the sheer awfulness of these movies make them perfect for the Cardio Theater experience because they mildly entertain, or at least distract me from my exertion and then I have no problem walking away for I harbor no curiosity about the outcome of the plot nor the fate of the characters. It's kinda like a Zipless you-know-what.

Within the context of the Cardio Theater, awful is an asset because it enables me to adhere to my 45 minute cardio routine and then move onto other parts of my workout. In fact, when a movie is truly great, it is painful to leave just when the plot starts thickening. In the case of the quirky and creative Aussie flick Muriel's Wedding, I was so bereft to leave prematurely that I talked friends into renting it later that week so I could find out what happens.

Since Memorial Day weekend, I have seen the first 45 minutes of over 20 movies. Sometimes, my stay at the Cardio Theater is abbreviated because of prior plans (such as last night, where my limited time actually saved me as Let Me In got seriously gruesome around the 27 minute mark) and once or twice a summer I will actually stay for the ENTIRE film.

When this happens, I am left to bathe in the warm afterglow of holistic fulfillment. And wonderment. In a world where so much is wrong, I simply cannot believe that something as amazing as the Cardio Theater exists.

The Cardio Theater offers guilt-free (and FREE!!!) movie-going...any time I want (that is, between 5 a.m. and 10 p.m. five days a week and 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. on weekends...not bad). But the absolute greatest (and most mysterious...to my mind) aspect of the Cardio Theater is that it is the least popular feature at Straub's Fitness, meaning that it is completely underutilized, meaning that it is VIRTUALLY FREAKING EMPTY whenever I arrive!!!!

This means that I not only get the absolute BEST "seat" in the house, smack-dab in the middle of the room, but I score the best machine (the Precor elliptical with the yellow handles) AND THE TRAINER GRACIOUSLY STARTS THE MOVIE FOR ME AT THE BEGINNING AND I get to yap on my cell phone if I want because no one else is in the room with me so I don't become that jerk talking on the cell phone during the movie. I can also text with impunity, unconcerned that I am causing other movie-goers to squint at the glare from my LCD.

This, dear reader, is Bungalow Babe's definition of Nirvana.

Well, I've gotta get to Goshen because I intend to watch an entire movie tonight at the Cardio Theater and it'll take me about 15 minutes to get to the gym. But don't admire my devotion. I'm not being virtuous by planning to exercise for 90 minutes straight. This is sheer indulgence.

And oh, there is a Straub's much closer to me than the Goshen location. My local Straub's is about 5 minutes away, in downtown Monroe, but the movie they are showing today is The Name of the Rose. I saw that on a plane.

I recall that it kinda sucked.

Which would make it absolutely perfect for a 45 minute viewing at the Cardio Theatre if only Best in Show wasn't playing in Goshen.

UPDATE: 10:09 p.m.

I am back in the bungalow, sweaty but happy. Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians can hardly believe their good fortune; their mistress is a human salt stick. They are licking my legs and feet. Now, they have jumped up on the bed and are licking my arms.

When I left the bungalow, I realized that I really didn't want to travel to Goshen because I had driven there earlier in the day with Little Babe to apply for his Learner's Permit at the county DMV. And just before my Goshen run, I had done a round-trip to Manhattan in order to teach a morning class on the Upper West Side. So, with a sigh and a shrug, I turned left off of Route 17M into the parking lot of the Straub's in downtown Monroe.

After all, I can see Best in Show whenever I want. Perhaps on my laptop. I think I even saw it for sale at Shoprite.

Entering the luxuriously empty Cardio Theater, I plunked my bag down, claimed the best machine, took out my BlackBerry and put it on the monitor, removed my tank top and baseball hat and spent 48 minutes running in my sports bra and shorts to one of the most entertainingly bad films ever made: The Name of the Rose.

Alone in the dark room, I screeched with laughter, groaned, snorted, hooted, heckled, conducted a phone conversation, talked back to the screen and generally had a blast. I hardly know what to praise first: the cliched dialogue, the ominous music, the hideous monks, the requisite hunchback, the grotesque murders, the hint of Satan, the creepy castle, the semi-hot nude sex scene featuring a young Christian Slater or Sean Connery as the world's most implausible celibate. Four miles later, I was in a state of ecstasy. And because the movie sucked so badly, it was easy to leave in order to finish my workout in the weight room where I was so inspired that I found myself doing extra reps, which I haven't done in, oh, years.

It was a night to remember at Straub's Cardio Theater.

The Macbethification of America

I've been thinking about some of my favorite recent works of fiction and was surprised, but not really, when I realized that many of them presented a dystopian or simply bleak vision of life in the near-future of the United States of America.

I include in this group Philip Roth's The Plot Against America, Sam Lipsyte's The Ask and my absolute top of the list fave -- Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart.

The idea of America going down the tubes -- socially, politically, economically and spiritually -- resounds for me because it is exactly what I believe is happening.

America's economic melt-down is obvious and ubiquitous. With the sore-loserism exhibited by a large faction of the Republican party after Barack Obama's election a new phase in the history of our nation was ushered in, characterized by a shocking lack of civil discourse, insane accusations and, most scarily, the subversion of reality.

The force promoting these behaviors with great zeal is, of course, the so-called Tea Party.

Generally, I try to tune them out because I find the Tea Party spokespeople unspeakably stupid AND shockingly arrogant, a lethal combination. When I am feeling less charitable, I entertain fantasies of their imminent demise through a variety of means -- natural, extraterrestrial, man-made and otherwise.

Because I am so aggravated and unnerved by their disrespect of our president, I try not even to tune into the news but being a gym rat, it is hard to escape their talking heads on CNN and Fox News.

Though I tried valiantly to close my eyes and run to the music of "Stadium Arcadium" last night at the JCC fitness room, the huge television monitor over my head had a report on denials by leaders of the Tea Party that there is a debt crisis currently underway in the US.

While most sane American busy themselves with understanding the dimensions of this crisis, we have Sarah Palin, Herman Cain and others stating that Obama is exaggerating the problem and, in fact, there is not really a problem.

This one took my breath away.

It also put me in mind of the milieu of Macbeth, a world gone awry, a dimension where witches host the evening news, reminding us that we have entered a place where reality is subverted, where fair is foul and foul is fair.

This place also goes by another name.

America. Summer 2011.

I Kid You Not

Another day, another revelation.

Instead of merely making a personal choice not to breed, there appears to be a cohesive Child-Free movement that seeks to justify the choice not to have kids...as if there was raging opposition to NOT HAVING KIDS, a concerted campaign that sought to force women to open their wombs.

I discovered this demimonde by following a Facebook conversation last week on Lilit Marcus's wall. Lilit is a young writer who has gone public about her decision not to have kids. She feels that having proclaimed herself Child-Free, she is up against a certain amount of prejudice, pressure or simply people who chuckle indulgently, convinced that she is making a premature proclamation and will change her mind in time. (She does appear to be pretty young, perhaps south of 30.)

Checking in throughout the day, I found myself fascinated/horrified by the hatred expressed by those who seem to be less of the Child-Free gang and more of the Anti-Kid society weighing in on Lilit's wall. Evidently, there is a hater branch of this movement consisting of people who actively dislike kids and the adults who have them. They hate the large strollers taking up sidewalk and bar space. They smirk at the smug dumbasses who breed.

Through private message, I shared my surprise with a FB friend of Lilit's whom I didn't personally know but whose incredulous comments I found gutsy. We agreed that something else might be going on for these people than a personal decision not to become parents; we compassionately opined that they might be among the walking wounded. This hunch was confirmed when I started Googling "child-free" and came upon websites hosted by people who seem less than liberated by their decision and more burdened by some heavy-duty emotional issues about becoming parents. Check out Happily Child-Free, which reads as anything but happy; indeed, there is overt hostility towards the act of parenting on that site. The most bizarre page is the one for people who are on the fence about having kids. It provides reasons why NOT to have kids.

Anyhoo...at the bottom of this post I've attached a really unenlightening clip from the Today show, on which Lilit appeared yesterday. Though she is articulate about her stated decision not to have kids, I will bet that more than one viewer might conclude that being Child-Free is not necessarily her final answer. This hunch is based not on the assumption that all women want to or must have children but Lilit's obvious youth. On the show, she says she would love to have a life-long partner, looks forward to marriage. I can't help it, but listening to Lilit -- who has a charming , child-like quality -- the ditty ran through my head, "first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage."

Of course, choosing to be Child-Free is a legitimate life choice. I am hard pressed to think of anyone I know (including my parents!!!) who would contest that. Therefore, what struck me as rather silly is the ridiculous teaser question posed by the show, "Is it wrong for women not to have children?"

Shooting kids at a summer camp in Norway is wrong. Kidnapping, murdering and dismembering a kid is wrong.

Not having kids?

I fail to see the moral dimension of this personal decision. But I do think it is wrong to have on a Today show segment an expert who states that being a parent is not a way of being but a role that people can choose not to play.

Correction. Being a parent is not merely a role. That's completely missing the point. Becoming a parent means entering into a lifelong relationship -- one of the deepest, most intense, most passionate, magnificent and sometimes difficult relationships in the entire world.

But then again, there is no way to understand that from the outside looking in.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

It's Electric! Boogie Woogie Woogie Woogie!!!

A pretty crazy thing happened to me this morning in the bungalow.

After getting off of a phone call while fiddling around with wires to figure out why my internet connection had suddenly gone down, a cloud of pale brown smoke suddenly puffed out of my mouth, filling my nostrils with the smell of something burning while a metallic taste filled my mouth.

After which I got disoriented...which might have just been the result of being utterly freaked out by the sight, smell and taste of smoke coming out of my mouth.

As my mind frantically sought to diagnose the situation, my fingers dialed 911.

"I'm not crazy!" I hysterically sought to assure the operator. "But something in me seems to be burning. There is smoke coming out of my mouth! Could there be a fire inside of me??"

Wondering if my youngest son was going to return home to a pile of ashes and bone inside a pair of sneakers, I called HOBB and kept him on the phone while the ambulance arrived. The smell of burning was very pronounced where I was sitting so I went to another room in the bungalow but it remained. Then I stood outside and still smelled something burnt though it was raining outside. HOBB was trying to figure out what was going on with me.

In about 15 minutes, the ambulance came screaming down to the bungalow, by which time I was vacillating between panic, the fear that I might spontaneously combust (that could happen, couldn't it??) and the worry that I would look like a big idiot because nothing was actually the matter with me and I was making everything up.

After checking the bottoms of my feet and palms of my hands for burn marks (there were none) and hearing I had been fiddling with wires, the guys offered the opinion that I had received a mile electric shock and suggested that I go to the hospital to be further checked out. They were about to offer to take me when they got a call from the day camp across the road that a camper had a seizure.

I felt glad that they were able to be of service to someone more severely afflicted than me and rationalized that the true meaning of bringing them to my cabin was so they might help this girl. The bungalow colony owner, Scott, came down to check on me about half an hour later and told me that the burning smell in my nose was likely singed nose hairs. He also advised me to skip the ER visit, stating that I seemed okay to him. Not eager to spend my day traveling there and waiting to be seen, I took Scott's advice as I would my own doctor's.

It is now about six hours later. I still have the smell of burning something in my nostrils and a warm metallic sensation in my mouth. I feel somewhat disoriented, in fact, if I concentrate too much, my brain feels kind of...fried.

After Scott left, I had my drum lesson with Jeff, my fifth, probably my best one yet. I was able to drag really well and got the complicated jazz beat for the first time, the one I was unable to get last time, the one that requires four different motions from all four limbs. I worked on my rock beat, the one with the ghost notes, the one that works as well for "Californication" as it does for the majority of "Otherside." I practiced a couple of fills. I played a couple of RHCP songs perfectly in beat with the music.

As I played, I felt a new mastery and fluidity. I wondered if this was the result of practicing or whether the electric shock had rewired my brain circuitry, giving me enhanced musical abilities. Like some superhero animated by electricity, I closed my eyes and imagined myself newly possessed of super drummer abilities, jolted into greatness, She-Ra, Princess of Percussion.

Pup Meets Skunk

Poor Alfie!

He was hiding under my bed at the bungalow when I arrived yesterday, recuperating from the harrowing experience he had the previous night -- his encounter with a skunk.

I knew about it, of course, as Little Babe texted me the previous night. Entering the cabin, I smelled something vile and pungent. The scent increased as I approached the bedroom.

Of course, it was the aftermath of Alfie's skunk-summit.

Poor little blonde Pomeranian! His fur was matted black and he reeked to the high heavens.

Two baths and one shower later, utilizing Palmolive and Pantene ProV alike, his fur is clean, and the skunky scent is subtle.

Now, he slumbers blissfully on the couch.

Tonight, will he relive the surprise assault in his dreams?

And if so, will he remember it in the morning?

Raccoons in the Trash

I wasn't really sleeping so I can't claim that the raccoons rifling through my trash woke me up. Still, once I realized what the knocking sound was on the side of my cabin, I was jolted into complete wakefulness.

On my bed, Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians dozed happily, if noisily. Nala, possibly the world's pudgiest Pom, snores. Alfie sleeps as if dead -- silently and in one place -- and then, most adorably, he barks in his sleep. I like to imagine that he is having an adventure dream -- chasing a squirrel, an ice cream truck, saving someone's life by alerting the authorities, being rewarded by a belly rub and large steak.

In the back room, Little Babe and his friend Gabe slept. Finally. They have to be up early for their jobs as counselors at Rosmarins Day Camp. Tomorrow is 80's Dress-Up Day and they have to spend some time putting their outfits together in the morning. Their 7-hour camp day is followed by several hours of hanging out and, in Little Babe's case, music playing. And of course, cyber-socializing through Facebook and texts. Though Little Babe is my third child, I still cannot get over the new reality of adolescent communication, try to imagine what my teen years might have been like if I had access to a smartphone.

Around 10 pm, when I returned from the gym and supermarket, Little Babe commenced making hamburgers. On the counter next to him, his phone kept bleeping and buzzing but he was cool, unconcerned that he was missing the chance to respond ASAP. Believing that he was caught up in the faux-urgent ethos, I volunteered to text whomever it was that Judah was momentarily unable to respond to, worried that he was worried.

Yet my youngest shot me a strange look and returned to his task. He shaped and seasoned the burgers leisurely. When he did pick up the phone, after carefully washing his hands, he read me the dispatches, offering wry commentary, responding even as he read the next text coming in. They were from a girl I had met briefly earlier in the evening. It was a flirtatious exchange, with a quirky twist. The girl was portraying herself as the offspring of two over-protective, possibly psychotic parents, providing examples of the loopy lengths her parents have gone to ensure her safety. She was inventing a persona for herself through the medium of the SMS, something slightly outrageous but not beyond the bounds of credibility. In his responding texts, Little Babe drew her out, sometimes questioning her assertions, other times offering affirmation, steering clear of the acronymic crutches of SMS-speak.

Listening to the banter unfold in real time, I felt like a visitor from Colonial America. Though I actually text with regularity, I've never engaged in anything I might consider a meaningful exchange of ideas or emotions. Also, every time I have a prolonged text conversation, I think to myself, "wow, I'm having a prolonged text conversation."

That was hours ago. Little Babe has gone to bed with his private thoughts about the girl and a stomach full of hamburgers. I retreated to my bedroom to work, to catch up on the various scandals rocking the news world, glibly skipping through half a dozen websites and blogs. Hours passed. Finally, I turned out the light. Shortly thereafter, the raccoons began their rampage through my trash.

By now, the marauders have left, or at least, are quiet. There is the faint smell of skunk in the air. Though they unsettle me, these nighttime creatures have a right to be here, are an integral part of my bungalow summer. I pick up the Pamuk book bedside and ponder reading myself to sleep. But I am deep in thought, unable to lose myself in fiction.

It occurs to me that the nocturnal pests serve as a perfect metaphor for the wretchedness that coexists alongside the idyllic perfection of my personal paradise. In the middle of the night, I ponder the suffering I know about -- strictly secondhand -- and the suffering I may never even hear about. I think about the parents of Leiby Kletzky in their week of shiva, I think of Lauren Spierer's family lying awake at night, wondering where their child is, missing over a month ago from Indiana State University. I think about the Rand family of Manhattan who lost a teenage son in a swimming accident at Cornell University a few weeks ago. I think of Middle Babe's friend Caroline whose mother died of cancer last month. I think about my friend Judy whose 90 year old dad, a Holocaust survivor, just survived heart failure. I think about my own parents in their home in Great Neck, hoping they are comfortable and well. I think of the bereaved and the hungry and the lonely, the names and faces I know as well as those I don't. I think about the neglected and the abused. I think about victims and survivors of acts of God and mankind alike. And then I feel very tired, much as I imagine God does when contemplating the scope of human suffering.

Summer Report, Hastily Rendered

I am typing quickly, before anything happens to take my focus away from the task at hand: blogging.

Or that is, completing a blog post.

And posting the damn thing.

You see, I have about 11 drafts for posts, composed over the past month. None were completed.

I am determined that this one will be.

So I am typing fast.

Forgive any typos that might occur.

The reason I have been unable to even finish a blog post is because this summer is freaking awesome.

Freaking. Awesome.

And busy. Insanely so until last week, possibly just as insane by tomorrow but for the past two days, there was time to breathe and most importantly, think.

I am not in Europe. I am not in the Hamptons. I am not anywhere near the Mediterranean. I am up at my beloved bungalow in the lower Catskills, have been here pretty much full time since the end of Little Babe's school one month ago, though we were spending weekends here since Memorial Day. I've been back and forth to our Manhattan apartment (the urban bungalow) and to meetings, parties, events and other happenings in the city, but am frankly trying to avoid doing so because of the shlep. And the weather. I've gotta go in tomorrow and already am strategizing how to stay cool, what to wear, how to avoid my hair frizzing up into a mushroom formation.

It is a hot, hot summer, in fact, I just took a shower break and am typing with wet hair, a fan blowing warm air on me. Did I say my hair was wet? It was. Briefly. It dried in under 2 minutes.

What makes this summer so freaking awesome? Being at the bungalow, of course, facing the woods while I work on my porch, waking up to greet the sweet new day right outside my window, walking Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians along a quiet country road, being in splendid isolation during work hours, getting crazy social the minute my work ends, returning to my porch at midnight to watch the moon high up in the sky, watching the shadows of my porch light dancing on the trees, stepping outside barefoot to feel the already dewy grass beneath my toes.

Our bungalow weekends are especially awesome. Shabbat is NIRVANA. Delicious dinners late on Friday morning on the porch of the bungalow, just the Bungalow Bunch. Walks early Saturday morning with HOBB along Gatehouse Road. Our havurah on Saturdays at noon when we gather to discuss Robert Alter's astonishing work, "The David Story," a guided reading of the David narrative in the biblical books Samuel l and ll. A pot luck lunch after the learning, including kiddush and hamotzi. A Scrabble game with HOBB, conversations with Little Babe and Middle Babe. Lazy afternoons at Walton Lake, a short walk for us through the woods. Nighttime movies, parties or comedy shows at the Rosmarins casino where classic Borscht Belt fare is served weekly. Sunday bike rides, visits to wineries, jam sessions with musician friends, drum lessons (for me!!!), books, newspapers, trashy magazines, visits from city folk, local culture, Shakespeare in the park, drive-in movies in Fair Oak, hours spent sweating at the local gym, fresh salads, ample sunshine, goblets of wine, blessings without end.

In absolute shock, I noted that I graduated from Columbia J School two months ago yesterday. It feels like a century has elapsed. It feels like it happened just last week. It feels like it happened to someone other than me. Seriously, who is that person who wrote an 11,000 word thesis and a 17,000 word book proposal, who read thousands of pages of articles and a dozen or so books, who hung out with people in their 20's, 30's and 40's over coffee, over wine, overnight??

Now, my days are full of writing assignments and consulting projects and I spent the month of June teaching ethical communications for clergy at a seminary in New York City. Thrillingly, I have been asked to return in the fall, when I will also begin a part time gig teaching spiritual autobiography to high school kids and managing a student paper.

By the fall, I'm also hoping to have completed work on two rather ambitious projects. More deets about these when the time comes.

And I have finally moved into the very place I wanted to be vis a vis my PR and marketing work, guiding one important work through its publication and advising on some other projects, all of which feed my soul, all of which put me in direct contact with great people.

There's my drumming, a brand new undertaking, just a month old. I'm already in love, amazed I never thought to do this sooner. The drum sticks feel natural in my hands. Playing percussion helps to make this summer freaking awesome. I had two lessons over the past two days and rented a rehearsal space this morning at a local music store where I banged away to my heart's delight to the songs of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I did "Otherside," "Dosed," "Dani California," and "Californication." That's me in the picture on top, jamming with my bungalow friends on Sunday afternoon. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight.

When I emerged from the studio earlier today, the store owner, Greg, told me I sounded good . I've been smiling ever since, imagining myself playing with the Peppers or as part of a girl group or even a Jewish wedding band. The presence of Little Babe, now 16 and a fabulous musician, helps to fuel my rocker dreams. In the city, we jam on Sunday mornings, me on keyboard, him on electric guitar or bass or cello. Little Babe is a junior counselor this summer at Rosmarins Day Camp. He's up at the bungalow with his good school buddy Gabe, known here as the Italian Stallion...which worries me just a tad. In the morning, before camp, Little Babe plugs in before he brushes his teeth and plays after camp, sometimes well past midnight. Recently, he reconnected with his summer-time childhood friend Chris over music, in fact, I came home from the gym last night to encounter an unrecognizable Chris sitting on our porch. Little Babe plays with my musician friends here on Sunday afternoons, more than holding his own. He's our homegrown superstar. Sharing a bungalow with him is awesomeness in itself.

Anyway, before I write one more word, I am going to press "Publish Post." I have to do this quickly because there is so much more I want to say, how my fitness club in the country has a room called the Cardio Theatre where they are showing "Pulp Fiction" today; how I am reading Orhan Pamuk's "Museum of Innocence," which I heard him read from two years ago at Humboldt University in Berlin. How I've done a couple of flash mob dances, how I'm planning a global musical flash mob event with a group of artist friends in the fall. How I've reconnected with dear old friends, how being 50 is pretty awesome in itself, a time to simply relax into oneself and then push oneself outside of one's comfort zone. It is also a time to step up one's humanitarianism, giving to people and causes who deserve it while pulling the plug on those who really don't.

Big thanks go to Middle Babe, my wise and beautiful daughter, for helping me articulate an understanding of this last point. It is rather profound, having to do with arriving at the realization that some of the people you considered friends don't actually care for you and no effort on your part will change that. Though this sounds depressing, it is actually liberating. Letting go of lousy friends enhances your sense of awesomeness.

There are so many more reasons why things are awesome but unless I post this now, the world won't know even some of them. Besides, the Cardio Theatre won't be playing "Pulp Fiction" all night.

Congressman Creepy Gym Guy

My fellow Americans.

It is with a heavy heart that I second House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi in strenuously calling for Representative Anthony Weiner's resignation after or even before he returns from his treatment at the Hospital for Public (Male) Figures with Irresistible Self Destructive Urges.

Not because of the cock shot (s).

Not because of the Facebook correspondence wherein the word "pussy" appears with disturbing frequency.

Not because of his comments about Jewish girls and oral sex.

Not because of his hairless pec shots.

Not because of his lies to the American public.

Not because of his penchant for "kosher," that is, virtual, cheating.

Not because of his misuse of social media.

But because of the gym shots released by TMZ, posted here courtesy of the NY Post because I like their coverage.

The latest Weiner pix show more than his pecs, nether regions or abs.

They reveal a man who is a raging narcissist, who is THAT GYM GUY, the one who pauses to check himself out in every passing mirror before he checks YOU out.

It turns out that Anthony Weiner is that self-conscious dude who gazes in admiration at his own biceps as he pumps iron, who uses his iPhone or BlackBerry as a mirror to fix his face, who goes to the bathroom to practice his moves in private in an effort to be a chick magnet.

Weiner is that guy whom you suspect of watching your butt when you are on the elliptical; who seems to catch your eye every time you walk across the gym floor.

Somewhere between irritating, pathetic and stalker-like, Weiner is a known quantity.

The thing is that, until very recently, we simply didn't know it.

But now that we do, it's pretty clear that he's gotta go because the American public deserves more than Congressman Creepy Gym Guy.

Dear Anthony, Dominique and Eliot

I've always loved the word brethren. It has such an Old Testament sound and spirit. It feels good exiting one's mouth. It is classic and dignified.

I associate the word brethren with my dad the rabbi and with Conservative synagogue services, especially those that took place in that rocking era for the movement, the 1970's. In those long-gone days, I loved sitting in shul on any random Shabbos and listening to the hymns recited intermittently in English, which thrillingly utilized such antiquated words as brethren. I recall that more than one such hymn began, "O God and God of our Fathers" in the days of pre-feminist liturgy. At least a decade away from female ordination within the movement, few quibbled with the ubiquitous male imagery in our religious language. Though I appreciated that the word brethren was meant to be gender-inclusive -- in that male-is-normative way -- I always longed for a feminine equivalent but wondered what it would be. Sistern?

Well, the good old associations of dignity are forever shattered for me as I watch my brethren, that is, my Jewish brothers, disgrace themselves publicly in breathtakingly sordid ways.

The latest is, of course, the current non-stop entertainment fest known as Weinergate.

And even as I've tuned into every fascinatingly sleazy detail, practically drooling with transfixed attention, I am soul sick about the fall of yet another seemingly smart and decent (and married) Jewish man, another example of something that seems to be the result of hubris, insanity and the wish for self-immolation. With DSK there is a whole cultural overlay that has to be factored in; he is truly a visitor from another planet, the planet of public disregard for the sexual exploits of politicians. A planet where the sistern or women in general roll their eyes or forgive or ignore men's cheating; a planet where poor immigrant women come to expect harassment or abuse from men in power. The French are appalled at the "treatment" of DSK by our judicial system. So, again, he possibly belongs in another category.

With my homeboys Weiner and Spitzer, though the misconduct is sexual, I don't know if out-of-control sexuality is really the matter. Yes, it is obvious that libido is involved but these copycat crimes are really about something else. Governor Spitzer was revealed to be a hypocritical sleazebag and Congressman Weiner just some pathetic middle-aged douche flirting and sexting via Facebook and Twitter.

It's just so freaking depressing. Married to women who are accomplished and attractive if not beautiful, both appear to have some kind of inner eject button, a wish to self-implode.

Not that I feel sorry for them.

I actually feel sorry for us.

And by us, I mean, the Jewish People.

Once upon a time, Jewish men, especially Jewish husbands, had a sterling reputation. So sterling that non-Jewish women wanted to wed them, which is exactly what happened with Spitzer and Weiner.

There has been a level of gossip within the Jewish community linking the fact of Spitzer and Weiner's shiksa spouses to their misdeeds though it is unclear what is cause and what is effect or if there is any connection worth noting.

Obviously not every Jewish politician who marries a Christian or Muslim woman is destined to act like a dickhead and destroy his political future. But perhaps Weiner/Spitzer's choice of non-Jewish spouses is based on their own queasy feelings about being Jewish or wanting to raise Jewish children. Maybe they are bringing themselves down BECAUSE they are Jewish, acting as their own inner Nazi stormtroopers, crafting Final Solutions for their public careers, acting like pigs because they secretly believe that Jews are swine.

Attention brethren. You are seriously pissing off this particular sister. I'm happy to share my tribal membership with you but only if you stop perpetuating the stereotype of the Dirty Jew.

Wednesday (Columbia J School Graduation)

7 a.m. waking up in the morning

Gotta get dressed gotta blow my hair

Gotta have my Joe, gotta choose my clothes

Weather is grey and the wind is blowing

Raining on and on, check out the campus

Looks just like a hurricane

Gotta get to graduation soon

Where I'll see my classmates

Standing with the MA's

Freezing in the May rain

Gotta hold my tears back

Can't believe it's here....

It's Wednesday, Wednesday

J School Graduation Day

There were times I didn't think

I'd make it, make it

It's Wednesday, Friends Day

I'm so proud we made it

J School's just another name

For Journo Boot Camp

Yeah....riffing on "Friday" is kind of old by now but this just popped out of my head and onto the computer screen. I'm sitting in my nightgown blogging when I should be cleaning the apartment for our lunch party but had to mark this moment with a quickie post.

Today, I will join together with the class of 2011 of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism in celebration of our momentous achievement: we have survived a magnificent and often grueling year of journalism education.

Today, we become Masters of Arts from Columbia.

It was a short, intense and sleep-deprived road.

A few thoughts before I begin doing what I wrote about in "Friday," that is, get dressed and get my butt to the sodden campus....

Columbia J School Class of 2011, I am so happy to be among you. What a collection of gifted journalists and fantastic people! I am leaving having expanded my social circle and my writing circle and so many of you will be lifelong friends. You have brought new perspectives from often faraway places and I am deeply grateful.

You have been my teachers.

To my professors: you have literally been my teachers! I leave Columbia J School with a new perspective and vast reservoir of knowledge. I have been both breathless with excitement and bored. There have been some struggles. In some classes I felt more nurtured than others. There were a few ideological clashes. There were lessons I resisted and others that will be with me for the rest of my life. I am forever changed.

A shout out to my professors:

David Hajdu

Dean Nicholas Lemann

Michael Schudson

Saskia Sassen

Sam Freedman

And my kind adviser, Fletcher Roberts. And the greatest deans of students in the world: Melanie Huff and Sree Sreenivasan. And Tali Woodward, thesis adviser. And everyone else in the school who gave this 50 year old grad student an encouraging "you go, girl."

Time to get ready.

It's raining diplomas, Halleluyah.

The Final Stretch

Apologies for not posting sooner, or anytime since April 7th, when I was buried beneath the mound of a 42,000-word draft of my thesis.

As of last week at this time, my thesis: Stranded in Neverland: Young Americans Lost and Found in Berlin, was FINISHED. I got a thumbs-up email from my adviser, Fletcher Roberts, took that as the green light to go to the gym (for the first time in Gd knows when), joined Middle Babe at some form of medieval torture known as Core Fusion at some upscale subterranean joint on Central Park South, joined my family for a late last-night-before-Passover dinner at Peacefood Cafe and spent Sunday evening preparing a list of my sources and their contact info, a document entitled How I Got That Story and conducting some last-minute, nervous fact-checking. Though I went to bed in an optimistic spirit, I lay awake for hours, worrying about my thesis and my book proposal, up for discussion the following day in my book writing seminar.

Up at the crack of dawn (after about two solid hours of sleep), I read through my 10,600-something word thesis and got over to the J School to print The Monster out. Reader, I was LITERALLY the first person to physically submit the two hard copies to Tali Woodward at 9:07 a.m. in the World Room of the J School....after which I ran to my book writing seminar to hear my proposal critiqued, a process that left me wondering what my book was about...in a good way. When the class broke at 2:30ish, I ran home to pack for the first days of Passover in Great Neck with AGMOBB....the Almost Ganse Mishpoche of Bungalow Babe, that is, my mom, dad, brother and sister-in-law, their five kids, HOBB, Middle Babe, Little Babe and Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians, who camped out in my parent's detached garage.

The first two days of Passover were spent in a high-carb state of post-traumatic stress-induced euphoria combined with creeping panic about my book project and family warmness mingled with some surly complaints from my offspring. My personal joy was also tempered by the sober knowledge that one friend's father was dying and by the revelation -- delivered on the first day of the holiday -- that another friend was battling cancer.

I rejoined the secular world on Thursday for my Arts and Culture seminar and heard that my last paper of the semester would be due at midnight the following Monday, that is, the beginning of the eighth day of Passover. I also realized I didn't yet have a topic. Indeed, as I sat in class wondering what I would write about, I couldn't think of a single thing. My brain was on strike. And, oh, yeah, the sample chapter of my book project was due at 9 a.m. on Monday, the seventh day of Passover, which was only slightly problematic because I was no longer certain what my book was about (and because there was a Sabbath separating me and Sunday, the only day I could really focus on the writing, a shortened day not only because of the advent of Yom Tov at 7:24 that evening but because of a special excursion that evening to hear the performance artist Reverend Billy with my Arts and Culture seminar.)

Friday dawned with the funeral for my friend's father. Mid-morning, I remembered that I had committed to reading the first two aliyot at shul on Shabbat. After the whirlwind of appointments, meetings and food-shopping and cooking, I prepared my Torah readings Friday night, minutes before my standing Scrabble game with HOBB. Having learned that tequila was kosher for Passover, I had bought a small bottle of Patron silver and while cooking for Shabbat, I downed about 3 shots, which certainly made me sing the ancient cantillation with great flair. I hoped that my spirited home performance would be duplicated the following morning in shul when the effects of the tequila were long gone.

It is now Sunday morning, a half hour before noon. My Torah reading went well, a good thing since the dean of the J School was part of the congregation. (Afterwards, I joked with him that at least I could look forward to a job reading Torah post-graduation. Ha ha.) I have been scribbling since Shabbat let out, trying to find the thread of the story in my sample chapter. This is a book about being adopted, which has been done before, but never by me. This is a book about adoption as identity, about how it forms a distinct personality and character. In my sample chapter I am writing about bodies -- mine, my mother's, my birthmother's, my kids'. I am writing one facet of my tale through the lens of the body.

I am camped out on my bed, wearing running clothes, surrounded by my laptop, my Pomeranians and books on adoption, most of them courtesy of Columbia's Social Work School library. Woe unto anyone who needs these books from now until June, when they are due back. As I write, I am laughing and crying and looking up all kinds of things on the Internet, relevant and not. I find myself irritated by the ubiquitous lists of "famous adopted people" most of whom are not really adopted. Or famous. My guess is that these lists were compiled to give adopted kids and adoptive parents hope that not all adoptees will become Son of Sam. My work is interrupted by a call from my mother in Great Neck. My call with my mother is interrupted by a call from Big Babe in Berlin.

Little Babe has just woken up and is preparing a Pesach-fabulous brunch for himself. Middle Babe is at her friends' house and will doubtless return home shortly, asking me to join her for a midday Core Fusion exercise class, which I cannot handle in my present state. HOBB is in his office, grading papers. Though the forecast calls for rain, it is sunny outside and I think I will take a break, go to my gym and sweat it out on the elliptical machine. I have two major assignments due within two days. It is the spring of my graduate school adventure. I am fifty years old but I feel like I am an adolescent, on the cusp of becoming.

Scenes from the Writing of my Master's Thesis at The Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism (aka J School)...Part Deux

Just got back from my morning seminar on Copyright Law and the Google Books Settlement and am preparing to wrestle The Monster.

Engaging in an intelligent discussion on legal matters is difficult when you are extremely sleep-deprived.

Sitting in class and feigning interest in anything other than your Masters thesis is difficult when it is due in about 10 days.

Notice the use of the word "about."

I am so overwhelmed that I don't even want to think of my deadline in actual, quantifiable terms.

Yesterday I awoke at 4 am and worked, pretty much undisturbed, until 9 pm. At that time, I went to visit a friend who is recuperating from surgery. When Little Babe and HOBB came home from school, I shouted a greeting to them through the closed bedroom door. Later, feeling like a slacker mom and wife, I emerged from my lair and dispensed hugs. If either had asked me for anything, I might have screamed.

On the way back from visiting my friend, I stopped at a J-School computer lab and printed out The Monster. You can see it, resting on the table.

Earlier, for the span of 17 hours, until I showered and got dressed to go outside, I worked in a tank top and underpants, on my bed, surrounded by my dogs.

The only other things I did include eating, drinking and going to the bathroom.

Oh, yeah. And fielding calls for other, non-school projects I am involved with.

But I had to feign interest in those subjects as well.

There is a scene in the movie Amadeus where we see Mozart composing his music leaning over a billiard table. He hears the orchestrated piece in his head as he transcribes the notes.

When he is interrupted, the music stops and he looks up, distracted and disoriented. The sudden silence sounds like noise.

I am Wolfgang Amadeus Bungalow Babe, a 50 year old student at Columbia J School. The music I hear in my head is a conversation about young Americans in contemporary Berlin.

Until I finish composing my masterpiece, everything else will sound to me like so much noise, a distraction, utterly disorienting.

Scenes from the Writing of my Master's Thesis at The Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism (aka J School)

Here are my research assistants, Alfie and Nala.

Though their native language is Pomeranian, they are multi-lingual by which I mean that they like to lick everything.

The next post will probably feature a picture of Alfie licking my toes. It's those small pleasures that get me through the [fill in your favorite word connoting extreme hardship] process.

But the dog is the father (or mother) of man (or woman) and so I make Alfie and Nala my parental proxies and from them, I learn the value of working doggedly.

Indeed, they are an integral part of the writing of my thesis, sitting on my lap while I read, barking in rebuke when I wake up at 4 a.m. to write, looking at me with sad puppy dog eyes when they need to go out for a walk, which invariably leads me to unexpected inspiration.

So, thank you, my dogs, my teachers, my research assistants, my little, loving, furry toe-lickers.