Pamela Carey's Blog, page 16
September 30, 2014
Squeaky-Clean in Morocco
My friend, Pat, followed her tour guide to the waiting bus. There were four men and seven women who had signed up for the hammam experience in Tangier, after two days in the desert. One of the men was Pat's husband.
The hammam is a bathhouse. Since the Moroccans visit the hammam just once a week, there were probably more foul-smelling visitors than the Western travelers.
They drove to the Ouifak Hammam, where two gorgeous ladies, Yatto (age 30) and Etoh (age 26), greeted the seven women. The men in the group expressed their disappointment that they had been greeted by a Moroccan male.
The seven women followed Yatto and Etoh into a changing room, where a large number of women stood in nothing but their panties. Young daughters stood next to their mothers in the same state of un-dress. Their djellabas and hijabs (robes and headscarves) hung from pegs.
Any female who's tried on clothing in a communal dressing room can picture the scene - perky boobs still pointing at the ceiling that hadn't nursed, saggy boobs in a race to reach the navel, minuscule boobs that raised the question, "Male or female?"
Like the others, Pat and her fellow travelers stripped to their panties. Etoh led them through two rooms of white marble to a wall, where she instructed them to sit on a colorful tile floor covered with hot water.
Istanbul hammamShe put a blob of dark olive oil soap in each visitor's palm and asked them to lather themselves, except for their faces.
SURPRISE! As in the ice bucket challenge, Pat felt the shock of a bucket of water flung at her. The only difference was there were no ice cubes.
Pat was first in the lineup. She heard Etoh say something and point at her. Etoh wanted her to lie on the hot, wet tiles on her back. Immediately, Pat felt a loofah mit scratching her arm. It seemed like steel wool rubbing her skin off. When that arm was complete, the attendant scrubbed Pat's other arm and then her legs, ending with the stomach and chest. The attendant turned her over like a flopping fish, and the torture began on her back and legs.
"Back to the wall, please," she heard and obeyed, waiting till everyone had had a turn with the loofah.
SURPRISE AGAIN! More buckets of hot water flung at her to wash the dead skin and soap down the drain.
"Please stand up," Etoh said. She led the seven Westerners in a column to a cooler room, where they sat against another wall to.....SING. The only English song Etoh knew was "Cum - bye - ah, my Lord," so that's what they sang. Seven naked ladies sitting against a wall singing "Cum - bye - ah."
One by one Etoh brought Pat and her now-best-buddies forward for the olive oil rub. Up one side and down the other again, but this time Pat's beet-red skin stayed in place.
Shampoos followed. On the wet tile floor, her back to the attendant, Pat aimed her nose to the ceiling and felt water splashing on her head, as if a neophyte in baptism. The attendant worked olive oil shampoo into the wet strands and combed it through without restraint. More buckets of hot water!
But wait...Pat's feet were still unclean! A pumice stone fixed that, removing calluses that had built up hiking in the desert, as well as some live skin.
Ninety minutes later Pat and her best-best-friends emerged looking radiant. She didn't tell me how much the hammam had cost, but she said her husband looked like a new man, so it was probably worth it.
The hammam is a bathhouse. Since the Moroccans visit the hammam just once a week, there were probably more foul-smelling visitors than the Western travelers.
They drove to the Ouifak Hammam, where two gorgeous ladies, Yatto (age 30) and Etoh (age 26), greeted the seven women. The men in the group expressed their disappointment that they had been greeted by a Moroccan male.
The seven women followed Yatto and Etoh into a changing room, where a large number of women stood in nothing but their panties. Young daughters stood next to their mothers in the same state of un-dress. Their djellabas and hijabs (robes and headscarves) hung from pegs.
Any female who's tried on clothing in a communal dressing room can picture the scene - perky boobs still pointing at the ceiling that hadn't nursed, saggy boobs in a race to reach the navel, minuscule boobs that raised the question, "Male or female?"
Like the others, Pat and her fellow travelers stripped to their panties. Etoh led them through two rooms of white marble to a wall, where she instructed them to sit on a colorful tile floor covered with hot water.
Istanbul hammamShe put a blob of dark olive oil soap in each visitor's palm and asked them to lather themselves, except for their faces.SURPRISE! As in the ice bucket challenge, Pat felt the shock of a bucket of water flung at her. The only difference was there were no ice cubes.
Pat was first in the lineup. She heard Etoh say something and point at her. Etoh wanted her to lie on the hot, wet tiles on her back. Immediately, Pat felt a loofah mit scratching her arm. It seemed like steel wool rubbing her skin off. When that arm was complete, the attendant scrubbed Pat's other arm and then her legs, ending with the stomach and chest. The attendant turned her over like a flopping fish, and the torture began on her back and legs.
"Back to the wall, please," she heard and obeyed, waiting till everyone had had a turn with the loofah.
SURPRISE AGAIN! More buckets of hot water flung at her to wash the dead skin and soap down the drain.
"Please stand up," Etoh said. She led the seven Westerners in a column to a cooler room, where they sat against another wall to.....SING. The only English song Etoh knew was "Cum - bye - ah, my Lord," so that's what they sang. Seven naked ladies sitting against a wall singing "Cum - bye - ah."
One by one Etoh brought Pat and her now-best-buddies forward for the olive oil rub. Up one side and down the other again, but this time Pat's beet-red skin stayed in place.
Shampoos followed. On the wet tile floor, her back to the attendant, Pat aimed her nose to the ceiling and felt water splashing on her head, as if a neophyte in baptism. The attendant worked olive oil shampoo into the wet strands and combed it through without restraint. More buckets of hot water!
But wait...Pat's feet were still unclean! A pumice stone fixed that, removing calluses that had built up hiking in the desert, as well as some live skin.
Ninety minutes later Pat and her best-best-friends emerged looking radiant. She didn't tell me how much the hammam had cost, but she said her husband looked like a new man, so it was probably worth it.
September 21, 2014
From the Sublime to the Ridiculous
Nikki Falls accompanied by her dad and my sisterTogether with my sister's extended family, we celebrated her step-daughter's wedding in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. We removed our shoes to walk to our seats in the sand, cooled from the wind and rain of the previous day. Sunlight bounced off the tips of waves, and a huge fish jumped out of the sea in front of us. The steel drummer announced the bride, accompanied by my sister and her husband. The junior high school cheerleader had blossomed into a responsible, loving woman, starting a new life full of hope and promise.On the almost-nine-hour drive home, Charley and I got off Route 95 in southern Connecticut at Exit 5/ Riverside/Old Greenwich. It's where I grew up, and we knew the McDonald's was right off the exit. In fact, it's where we took our two sons over the years we visited my parents.
After we got our bag of burgers and drinks, a woman entered the restaurant. She was approximately six feet tall, wore black patent stiletto heels (which added another six inches), tights in a flowered pattern, and a very, very low tank top. As she came toward me, my mouth began to smile its proverbial "Hi," but stopped, frozen. My focus became not her eyes, but the globes that faced me.
I do not mean perfect round breasts peeking from the top of the tank top. I mean perfect round globes, as in the kind that spin to show us the world.....which is what she was doing. The Amazon and Southern Hemisphere were clear outlines under the flimsy material.
It's a wonder she didn't approach Charley to proposition him, but he was standing with a smirk on his face and had no idea Diet Coke had overflowed from his cup all over him while he tried to get the lid on.
This was MY McDonald's - the McDonald's where my parents and my kids
My parents, Evelyn and Walter Plumb, on their wedding day, 1938used to eat.
"Eyes ahead, forward, march!" I commanded. Arm-in-arm we exited, as brides and grooms have done for centuries into their new life. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
September 12, 2014
My Television Appearances
For my first book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, my publicist got me a five-minute spot on Fox television in Providence, R.I. It was a show called, "The Rhode Show," and featured locals with stories to tell.
I agonized for weeks over what to wear and finally decided on a black dress with a red jacket. I didn't want to disappear into the backdrop but I didn't want to be too flashy. My necklace and earrings had to be visible but not overwhelming. I decided on a string of black beads and black earrings.
I had talked about the book for weeks in radio interviews and speeches, so the topic was no problem. Besides, the studio had been sent an advance copy.
When I arrived thirty minutes early, I had to be buzzed into the locked studio. I signed in and the News Director took me to a waiting room, where four others sat in plastic chairs. She offered me donuts, coffee, or water and told me the order of our appearances. I went to use the restroom.
When the person before me was "on air," an intern led me past miles of wiring and props to the set. Behind a partition was a fake kitchen. Well, the appliances, sink, and counter were real. It was where the chef exhibited his talents during the cooking segment. We walked through the pretend kitchen toward the set for "The Rhode Show." The intern attached a tiny microphone to my lapel and told me to stand with her till the previous guest was finished. During an advertisement, I took my position on the couch next to the show's hostess, while the previous guest scrambled off. My book was propped on the coffee table in front of us. Lights glared down from the darkened exterior. The intern was attaching a microphone to the guest that would follow me, in the same spot where I'd stood.
The dynamic of having to respond with information and wit within seconds on live television is entirely different from being on the radio in the comfort of my living room or standing in front of an audience with notes. I gave lots of information but my eyes bugged out. My hands felt glued together on the side of my lap. I made sure to keep my legs together. My publicist told me I appeared stiff. Although I nodded, smiled, and shook hands with the hostess, I hadn't been dynamic enough. "Television is a visual medium, after all!" the publicist said with an exclamation point in her voice.
For my second book, ELDERLY PARENTS WITH ALL THEIR MARBLES: A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR THE KIDS, a new publicist got me a two-minute spot on ABC6 "Noon News" in Providence. This time when I arrived thirty minutes before air-time, I'd gone to the bathroom first. I wore the same red and black combination, but the red was a blouse and the black was a skirt. As it turned out, I would be sitting behind a news desk.
I was met by the News Director, who introduced me to the News Anchor named Matt. He had to be younger than my kids! I handed him my book so he could look it over. The News Director escorted me to an 8x8' waiting room, where I sat alone for twenty-five minutes. No donuts, no coffee, only water. Same plastic chairs. Finally an intern brought me past a room with hair brushes and make-up (nobody was there, so guests were on their own!). We continued past the darkened control room, where the News Director sat, and other tidy rooms to the news set. I stood in the wings with the intern, till Matt motioned me into a swivel chair next to him behind the elongated desk. "How much time left?" he asked the intern.
"About thirty seconds," she said, fastening the microphone to my blouse and draping the wire behind my neck and down my back.
'"Just look over there at the camera, unless you look at me," Matt said, giving a swipe of his arm to a vague area in complete darkness.
We began. I smiled at the cameras in every direction, since I didn't know where I was supposed to look. I smiled at Matt. I used my hands and arms. I picked up the book lying on the news desk, and gave lots of animated information. I even flashed a sign I'd made about caregiving: ASK FOR HELP! I tried to be dynamic without spinning in the chair or dancing on the desk. The two minutes were over in a flash.
I stepped off the news platform and the same intern disengaged my microphone. Matt mouthed a "Thank you" during an advertisement. I waved good-bye and turned into the open office to retrieve my purse.
"You smiled too much," my new publicist said. "You looked unnatural. And you were looking in different directions. But you gave lots of good information. If you want me to market your book for nation-wide television audiences, you'll have to make a video trailer," she said.
I'll put that on my blog when it's ready. Meanwhile, the ABC6 segment is linked below.
www.abc6.com/story/26458647/noon-guest-author-pam-carey
I agonized for weeks over what to wear and finally decided on a black dress with a red jacket. I didn't want to disappear into the backdrop but I didn't want to be too flashy. My necklace and earrings had to be visible but not overwhelming. I decided on a string of black beads and black earrings.
I had talked about the book for weeks in radio interviews and speeches, so the topic was no problem. Besides, the studio had been sent an advance copy.
When I arrived thirty minutes early, I had to be buzzed into the locked studio. I signed in and the News Director took me to a waiting room, where four others sat in plastic chairs. She offered me donuts, coffee, or water and told me the order of our appearances. I went to use the restroom.
When the person before me was "on air," an intern led me past miles of wiring and props to the set. Behind a partition was a fake kitchen. Well, the appliances, sink, and counter were real. It was where the chef exhibited his talents during the cooking segment. We walked through the pretend kitchen toward the set for "The Rhode Show." The intern attached a tiny microphone to my lapel and told me to stand with her till the previous guest was finished. During an advertisement, I took my position on the couch next to the show's hostess, while the previous guest scrambled off. My book was propped on the coffee table in front of us. Lights glared down from the darkened exterior. The intern was attaching a microphone to the guest that would follow me, in the same spot where I'd stood.
The dynamic of having to respond with information and wit within seconds on live television is entirely different from being on the radio in the comfort of my living room or standing in front of an audience with notes. I gave lots of information but my eyes bugged out. My hands felt glued together on the side of my lap. I made sure to keep my legs together. My publicist told me I appeared stiff. Although I nodded, smiled, and shook hands with the hostess, I hadn't been dynamic enough. "Television is a visual medium, after all!" the publicist said with an exclamation point in her voice.
For my second book, ELDERLY PARENTS WITH ALL THEIR MARBLES: A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR THE KIDS, a new publicist got me a two-minute spot on ABC6 "Noon News" in Providence. This time when I arrived thirty minutes before air-time, I'd gone to the bathroom first. I wore the same red and black combination, but the red was a blouse and the black was a skirt. As it turned out, I would be sitting behind a news desk.
I was met by the News Director, who introduced me to the News Anchor named Matt. He had to be younger than my kids! I handed him my book so he could look it over. The News Director escorted me to an 8x8' waiting room, where I sat alone for twenty-five minutes. No donuts, no coffee, only water. Same plastic chairs. Finally an intern brought me past a room with hair brushes and make-up (nobody was there, so guests were on their own!). We continued past the darkened control room, where the News Director sat, and other tidy rooms to the news set. I stood in the wings with the intern, till Matt motioned me into a swivel chair next to him behind the elongated desk. "How much time left?" he asked the intern.
"About thirty seconds," she said, fastening the microphone to my blouse and draping the wire behind my neck and down my back.
'"Just look over there at the camera, unless you look at me," Matt said, giving a swipe of his arm to a vague area in complete darkness.
We began. I smiled at the cameras in every direction, since I didn't know where I was supposed to look. I smiled at Matt. I used my hands and arms. I picked up the book lying on the news desk, and gave lots of animated information. I even flashed a sign I'd made about caregiving: ASK FOR HELP! I tried to be dynamic without spinning in the chair or dancing on the desk. The two minutes were over in a flash.
I stepped off the news platform and the same intern disengaged my microphone. Matt mouthed a "Thank you" during an advertisement. I waved good-bye and turned into the open office to retrieve my purse.
"You smiled too much," my new publicist said. "You looked unnatural. And you were looking in different directions. But you gave lots of good information. If you want me to market your book for nation-wide television audiences, you'll have to make a video trailer," she said.
I'll put that on my blog when it's ready. Meanwhile, the ABC6 segment is linked below.
www.abc6.com/story/26458647/noon-guest-author-pam-carey
September 3, 2014
The Five-Day Challenge
I took the challenge. No, it wasn't a bucket of ice water over my head for MLS or a cleansing of my organs or any kind of iron-woman challenge. It was the Skoop 5-day challenge.My daughter-in-law asked me, "Would you like to try a powdered product I believe in?"
I knew she was a former spinning instructor and into all things healthy, including juicing. "What is it?" I said.
"It's a plant-based super-food, really healthy. I don't juice any more, because this one product contains so many of the natural foods I put into the juicer, and more."
I remembered her kitchen, littered with rinds and seeds after one juicing session. I wasn't about to make that kind of a mess in my kitchen and besides, I was retired with no time to waste - there were more important things to explore!
"Like what?"
"Like antioxidants, veggies, probiotics, omegas, fruits, and greens in the form of grasses. They're all super-foods from plants."
"Sounds like fodder for cows to me!" I could still taste the juicing concoctions she'd put together that tasted like cucumber and not much else.
"Skoop 'B Strong' is a protein boost, without cholesterol or sugar. You could try the Skoop 'A Game' for energy. There are different flavors, if you want to do the five-day challenge. The first day there's a packet with chocolate flavor, the next one has the flavor of greens, then the chocolate, and so forth for five days."
"How do I make it so I can actually swallow it?"
"You add frozen fruit or a non-fat soy or almond milk."
"Can I still eat my meals?"
"Well, I take mine first thing in the morning for a real energy boost. On those days I usually skip breakfast because I mix the Skoop A and B together for a complete meal. But you can put it in food, not just drink it. You can mix it with yogurt or oatmeal or bake with it."
"So I won't need my Kashi twigs and blueberries on the day I use my potion?"
"Nope. The super-foods grow tissue, fight sickness and infection, heal wounds and inflammation, and give you energy. Oh, and the Skoop owners started something called MISSION NUTRITION. They pledged a child's serving of fruits and vegetables placed in school lunch salad bars across the country for each serving of Skoop sold."
"You're a good rep for the product! I'd try the five-day challenge with some 'A Game' samples." Which she promptly produced.
I have to admit, I cheated. Chocolate tops the list of my primary food groups, but the first day's chocolate powder, frothing in the blender with a cup of water, tasted nothing like the Hershey bar I was imagining. And the only fruits I had in the house were blueberries and apples. So I added some cherries from a can of pie filling, including a couple of tablespoons of the thick, sweet syrup. I sipped mouthfuls of the concoction, no problem.
The next day I dumped the green-grass powder into my blender for breakfast. I figured mixing it with water wouldn't hide the flavor of still-ripe hay. So I poured a cup of vanilla-flavored soy milk in. Downright tasty! Much better than the chocolate, actually.
The next day's packet was chocolate again. By then I'd bought a package of frozen pineapple/strawberries and fresh bananas. I dumped some of each into the whirl. Tasted just like a milkshake - really.
We had to go away for two days to attend a memorial service. I welcomed my Kashi twigs with blueberries, but didn't tell my daughter-in-law that. I'd promised to finish the challenge, and I would.
After my liquid energy boosts, I ran around the tennis court like a gazelle. Maybe my daughter-in-law was onto something for us over-60's? If only Skoop would help my golf game!
Visit trish.healthyskoop.com for information about the company's three products.
August 25, 2014
The Travels of a Real-Life Sheldon
Our friend's son is doing post-doctoral research in bio-chemistry in France and hopes to be the first to
publish his findings on a particular protein, the name of which his parents can't pronounce. If you've ever watched "The Big Bang" on television, take Sheldon's smarts and height and add a few pounds and a shock of auburn hair.
When Jed was ten, his mother would call him but he wouldn't respond. He was solving something in the outer galaxies somewhere. Finally his father would yell, "Earth calling Jed, earth calling Jed."
Jed eventually answered with, "I can't process that disc right now. Give me a few more minutes."
Jed recently traveled from France to Boston to visit his family. He didn't fly from a large Paris airport, but used a smaller one outside the city to connect in Belgium for his final leg home. The small airport had no amenities except toilets and a coffee machine.
Typicallly, he arrived late - fifty minutes before departure - with a hockey bag of belongings and his computer.
"Sorry, we've closed the baggage intake," the agent said. "You have two options. You can buy a ticket for the next flight in two days and check your bag then or fly without the bag."
"Where can I leave it?" Jed asked.
"You could destroy it," the French agent said.
"Don't you have any trash bags?" Jed asked in a soprano voice.
"Sorry, sir, we don't."
Without time to think of another alternative, Jed hurried outside the terminal. He found a large bush with loose gravel underneath and......buried the bag. He made his flight before the ramp closed, computer slung over his shoulder. Mom and Dad would have to provide a toothbrush and some clothes.
In Brussels, he was escorted off the plane by security. "Come this way, sir," two guards said. They led him to a detention room because he'd been flagged by the agent at the counter. After an hour searching his computer, they decided he was safe to board to Boston.
Following his visit, his parents drove Jed to Logan International Airport for the return flight. Halfway there, Jed discovered he'd forgotten his papers stating he was employed in France. They were back at the house and there was no time to turn around if he wanted to make the flight.
Without work papers, Jed was again forced to wait till he cleared security. Since he was flying without luggage, work papers, or a round-trip ticket back to the States, his parents had no alternative. They bought a refundable one-way ticket back to Boston - for $3,000 - and were told that if his work visa was found, they could get reimbursed.
Which they did, eventually.
Jed's duffel bag was never found.
publish his findings on a particular protein, the name of which his parents can't pronounce. If you've ever watched "The Big Bang" on television, take Sheldon's smarts and height and add a few pounds and a shock of auburn hair.When Jed was ten, his mother would call him but he wouldn't respond. He was solving something in the outer galaxies somewhere. Finally his father would yell, "Earth calling Jed, earth calling Jed."
Jed eventually answered with, "I can't process that disc right now. Give me a few more minutes."
Jed recently traveled from France to Boston to visit his family. He didn't fly from a large Paris airport, but used a smaller one outside the city to connect in Belgium for his final leg home. The small airport had no amenities except toilets and a coffee machine.
Typicallly, he arrived late - fifty minutes before departure - with a hockey bag of belongings and his computer.
"Sorry, we've closed the baggage intake," the agent said. "You have two options. You can buy a ticket for the next flight in two days and check your bag then or fly without the bag."
"Where can I leave it?" Jed asked.
"You could destroy it," the French agent said.
"Don't you have any trash bags?" Jed asked in a soprano voice.
"Sorry, sir, we don't."
Without time to think of another alternative, Jed hurried outside the terminal. He found a large bush with loose gravel underneath and......buried the bag. He made his flight before the ramp closed, computer slung over his shoulder. Mom and Dad would have to provide a toothbrush and some clothes.
In Brussels, he was escorted off the plane by security. "Come this way, sir," two guards said. They led him to a detention room because he'd been flagged by the agent at the counter. After an hour searching his computer, they decided he was safe to board to Boston.
Following his visit, his parents drove Jed to Logan International Airport for the return flight. Halfway there, Jed discovered he'd forgotten his papers stating he was employed in France. They were back at the house and there was no time to turn around if he wanted to make the flight.
Without work papers, Jed was again forced to wait till he cleared security. Since he was flying without luggage, work papers, or a round-trip ticket back to the States, his parents had no alternative. They bought a refundable one-way ticket back to Boston - for $3,000 - and were told that if his work visa was found, they could get reimbursed.
Which they did, eventually.
Jed's duffel bag was never found.
August 19, 2014
Video of a Losing Coach's Inspiring Words
As former residents of Cumberland, Rhode Island, for twenty-three years, it is with pride I share this link. The Cumberland Little League team, ages nine through twelve, won the New England Regionals this year but lost in the Little League World Series last night in double-elimination.
My husband, Charley, coached one of the Little League teams in Cumberland between 1979 and 1983. Both our sons played on his team and won the town championship.
Fast forward thirty-one years, as we watched our sons' assistant hockey coach, Dave Belisle, on television at the helm of the Cumberland Little Leaguers!
Please click on the link below to watch and hear Dave's words for the team last night after their loss. They serve as a reminder how to motivate and encourage children, while underscoring the benefits of team sports.
www.providencejournal.com/sports/content/20140818-donaldson-dave-belisles-wonderful-words-to-his-cumberland-little-leaguers.ece
My husband, Charley, coached one of the Little League teams in Cumberland between 1979 and 1983. Both our sons played on his team and won the town championship.
Fast forward thirty-one years, as we watched our sons' assistant hockey coach, Dave Belisle, on television at the helm of the Cumberland Little Leaguers!
Please click on the link below to watch and hear Dave's words for the team last night after their loss. They serve as a reminder how to motivate and encourage children, while underscoring the benefits of team sports.
www.providencejournal.com/sports/content/20140818-donaldson-dave-belisles-wonderful-words-to-his-cumberland-little-leaguers.ece
August 14, 2014
The Alien Baby
In a recent article in The Providence Journal titled, "Baby's Brains Rehearsing Speech" (July 28, 2004), Katherine Long reported that even seven-month-old babies are "mentally working out the mechanics of how to form words with their mouths, well before they're able to utter their first recognizable syllable."
The findings, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, emphasize the importance of speaking to babies from the minute they're born. They also reinforce a longstanding observation of scientists: that babies get the most out of one-on-one human interactions, such as speech or games, which can't be replaced by high-tech toys.
Which led me to think about the comic genius our nation lost this week - Robin McLaurin Williams.
How did he learn to take our common language and reshape the sounds, mimic it, recreate its rhythms, or semantically take it on a flight to elongate a story? Did his mother talk to her toddler in dialogue with different characters' voices? Reported to be shy in high school, did he learn his rubbery versatility at Julliard or was he coiled with manic energy as a child?
His impersonations as sometimes troubled lunatics or offbeat authority figures showcased his gifts in movies like "Dead Poets Society," "The World According to Garp," "Good Will Hunting," and "Mrs. Doubtfire." But the role I most remember was in "Good Morning Vietnam." It was there his feverish free associations reigned supreme.
However his brain reshaped his mother's words into loose-knit spontaneity, he remained an alien we understood. When he used pure sound in an octave higher (or lower) than his own speaking voice, somehow we understood (like a woodpecker's "rat-a-tat-tat-tat"). His imitation of dialects and his mumbled asides took us on free associations, but somehow we followed. His routines stretched stories out to the planets, then brought us back with a snap, like Mork's rainbow-colored suspenders.
Yet he remained an alien. His ability to play disturbing characters ("Insomnia," "One Hour Photo"), gave his genius the freedom to expand and grow inside characters we couldn't like. He was tormented with interior demons, we know, living in a universe most of us will never inhabit, like his disturbing characters. But unlike them, he will always be loved.
If only we had a clue as to the sounds he heard as an infant, we might begin to understand the development of his creative powers. They might have been the same sounds we heard in his stand-up routines, sounds that, like his genius, couldn't be contained.
Robin McLaurin Williams 1951-2014
The findings, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, emphasize the importance of speaking to babies from the minute they're born. They also reinforce a longstanding observation of scientists: that babies get the most out of one-on-one human interactions, such as speech or games, which can't be replaced by high-tech toys.
Which led me to think about the comic genius our nation lost this week - Robin McLaurin Williams.
How did he learn to take our common language and reshape the sounds, mimic it, recreate its rhythms, or semantically take it on a flight to elongate a story? Did his mother talk to her toddler in dialogue with different characters' voices? Reported to be shy in high school, did he learn his rubbery versatility at Julliard or was he coiled with manic energy as a child?
His impersonations as sometimes troubled lunatics or offbeat authority figures showcased his gifts in movies like "Dead Poets Society," "The World According to Garp," "Good Will Hunting," and "Mrs. Doubtfire." But the role I most remember was in "Good Morning Vietnam." It was there his feverish free associations reigned supreme.
However his brain reshaped his mother's words into loose-knit spontaneity, he remained an alien we understood. When he used pure sound in an octave higher (or lower) than his own speaking voice, somehow we understood (like a woodpecker's "rat-a-tat-tat-tat"). His imitation of dialects and his mumbled asides took us on free associations, but somehow we followed. His routines stretched stories out to the planets, then brought us back with a snap, like Mork's rainbow-colored suspenders.
Yet he remained an alien. His ability to play disturbing characters ("Insomnia," "One Hour Photo"), gave his genius the freedom to expand and grow inside characters we couldn't like. He was tormented with interior demons, we know, living in a universe most of us will never inhabit, like his disturbing characters. But unlike them, he will always be loved.
If only we had a clue as to the sounds he heard as an infant, we might begin to understand the development of his creative powers. They might have been the same sounds we heard in his stand-up routines, sounds that, like his genius, couldn't be contained.
Robin McLaurin Williams 1951-2014August 7, 2014
Two Plane Stories
I recently read a post on Peter Greenberg's blog (Out of the Office) titled, "The Crazy Things We'll Do to Get on a Plane." Peter is the Travel Editor for CBS News and says he travels 300 days a year around the globe. I will be paraphrasing two stories from his blog here.
A friend of Peter's was booked from Lagos, Nigeria, to London on a 727. He received a hand-written boarding pass two hours before flight time. When the flight was called, the crowd bolted onto the tarmac and ascended the stairs to the plane. It crushed past the lone gate agent and one timid policeman.
Within two minutes, according to Peter, there were fifty people stranded on the stairs and tarmac who had boarding passes but no seats. Punches were thrown and the army was called in. A lone colonel arrived. He shot his weapon into the air and the mayhem stopped.
"Everyone off the plane," he ordered. "No exceptions! Drop your carry-on bags under the fuselage." He lined up all the passengers under the left wing. "Stay here till you hear me fire my gun again," he said. "Then run completely around the plane once, grab your bag, run back under this wing and up the stairs. The first 125 will get seats."
Which they did, even the little old ladies. After 125 passengers boarded, huffing and puffing, the colonel barred the doorway, firearm ready. The 50 "losers" had to wait two days for the next flight, when the colonel showed up again, just in case.
That story doesn't sound so crazy now, with the Ebola outbreak there!
In his second story, Peter tells of a flight scheduled to leave Beijing at 10:00 a.m. for Hong Kong. The year was 1999. Peter waited from 8:00 till 10:00 without any call to board. AT 10:20 a.m. a Chinese gate agent announced, trembling, "Plane is very sick. Please walk to next gate and we take that plane."
However there was no plane at the next gate. Around 11:30 a.m., an aircraft landed and taxied to that gate. At 1:15 p.m. the same gate agent stuttered, "Very, very sorry again. This plane more sick than other plane...so we take...other plane."
All the passengers, including Peter, boarded the first "sick" plane...and took off. "Why in the world did I do that?" Peter is still asking himself.
Which reminds me of a a flight Charley and I were taking from LaGuardia to Florida on Delta. We had boarded and sat on the runway in a queue of twelve to take off. Half-asleep, we heard, "Sorry folks, we have to turn around." That was it? In the dark and in pouring rain we disembarked in some remote corner of the airport to take buses back to the terminal. Dogs sniffed our luggage, strewn on the tarmac. Ambulances and fire trucks surrounded the plane. A phone call had threatened to blow up our flight!
We waited...and waited. When no bomb was found, we were given the option to wait for a flight the next morning or re-board and proceed south.
We landed that night in Florida without incident but to this day we wonder, What were we thinking??
A friend of Peter's was booked from Lagos, Nigeria, to London on a 727. He received a hand-written boarding pass two hours before flight time. When the flight was called, the crowd bolted onto the tarmac and ascended the stairs to the plane. It crushed past the lone gate agent and one timid policeman.
Within two minutes, according to Peter, there were fifty people stranded on the stairs and tarmac who had boarding passes but no seats. Punches were thrown and the army was called in. A lone colonel arrived. He shot his weapon into the air and the mayhem stopped.
"Everyone off the plane," he ordered. "No exceptions! Drop your carry-on bags under the fuselage." He lined up all the passengers under the left wing. "Stay here till you hear me fire my gun again," he said. "Then run completely around the plane once, grab your bag, run back under this wing and up the stairs. The first 125 will get seats."
Which they did, even the little old ladies. After 125 passengers boarded, huffing and puffing, the colonel barred the doorway, firearm ready. The 50 "losers" had to wait two days for the next flight, when the colonel showed up again, just in case.
That story doesn't sound so crazy now, with the Ebola outbreak there!
In his second story, Peter tells of a flight scheduled to leave Beijing at 10:00 a.m. for Hong Kong. The year was 1999. Peter waited from 8:00 till 10:00 without any call to board. AT 10:20 a.m. a Chinese gate agent announced, trembling, "Plane is very sick. Please walk to next gate and we take that plane."
However there was no plane at the next gate. Around 11:30 a.m., an aircraft landed and taxied to that gate. At 1:15 p.m. the same gate agent stuttered, "Very, very sorry again. This plane more sick than other plane...so we take...other plane."
All the passengers, including Peter, boarded the first "sick" plane...and took off. "Why in the world did I do that?" Peter is still asking himself.
Which reminds me of a a flight Charley and I were taking from LaGuardia to Florida on Delta. We had boarded and sat on the runway in a queue of twelve to take off. Half-asleep, we heard, "Sorry folks, we have to turn around." That was it? In the dark and in pouring rain we disembarked in some remote corner of the airport to take buses back to the terminal. Dogs sniffed our luggage, strewn on the tarmac. Ambulances and fire trucks surrounded the plane. A phone call had threatened to blow up our flight!
We waited...and waited. When no bomb was found, we were given the option to wait for a flight the next morning or re-board and proceed south.
We landed that night in Florida without incident but to this day we wonder, What were we thinking??
August 3, 2014
Link to Newspaper Article on "Fist Bumps"
Here is the link to the complete article on the study of hygienic fist bumps vs handshakes and high-fives:
www.nydailynews.com/life-style/health/fist-bumps-hygienic-handshakes-scientists-article-1.1884534
www.nydailynews.com/life-style/health/fist-bumps-hygienic-handshakes-scientists-article-1.1884534
