Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 206
June 3, 2015
men men my favourite men
Riding home from Ryerson tonight, feeling the chill in the air and remembering how hot the day was, I had a sudden startling thought: My God, this is actually spring!
This is what spring feels like. I've joked for years about Toronto's absurdly short springs - seventeen minutes between fleece and snow boots, and tank tops. But this year, we are getting a real spring - a cautious exploration of the concept of heat, with a few forays into warmth during the day and a quick retreat to cold at night.
When you were a child, did you own a spring coat? I did - my mother made sure I had a spring coat, which was sort of heavy but not too heavy. And that's what's needed this week, in Toronto.
Last night, oh the pleasure - two of the most spectacular men on the planet in conversation: New York's mayor Bill de Blasio (be still my beating heart), the tallest and most intelligent and socially conscious mayor ever in the history of the world, and Jon Stewart, my beloved Jon, the shortest and most intelligent and socially conscious TV host in ... etc. Could I love these men more? Only by a smidgen, because the day before I watched, on TCM, "The Long Hot Summer," a 1958 movie starring Joanne Woodward, Orson Welles, and the sublime Paul Newman. In heaven, I want to sit at Paul Newman's feet, or, no, on the back of his motorcycle. What a great man - not only smart, incredibly handsome and talented, but a star who married and remained faithful (as far as I know) to a woman more famed for her sharp intelligence than her beauty.
In the past two days, I've been awash with Paul, Jon and Bill. Jon was particularly brilliant last night about Caitlyn Jenner.
Ryerson student Laura, who was at the So True readings, said about it tonight, "The stories were so good, it was like being at the movies."
Oh, to be a movie producer. And cast Paul Newman.
This is what spring feels like. I've joked for years about Toronto's absurdly short springs - seventeen minutes between fleece and snow boots, and tank tops. But this year, we are getting a real spring - a cautious exploration of the concept of heat, with a few forays into warmth during the day and a quick retreat to cold at night.
When you were a child, did you own a spring coat? I did - my mother made sure I had a spring coat, which was sort of heavy but not too heavy. And that's what's needed this week, in Toronto.
Last night, oh the pleasure - two of the most spectacular men on the planet in conversation: New York's mayor Bill de Blasio (be still my beating heart), the tallest and most intelligent and socially conscious mayor ever in the history of the world, and Jon Stewart, my beloved Jon, the shortest and most intelligent and socially conscious TV host in ... etc. Could I love these men more? Only by a smidgen, because the day before I watched, on TCM, "The Long Hot Summer," a 1958 movie starring Joanne Woodward, Orson Welles, and the sublime Paul Newman. In heaven, I want to sit at Paul Newman's feet, or, no, on the back of his motorcycle. What a great man - not only smart, incredibly handsome and talented, but a star who married and remained faithful (as far as I know) to a woman more famed for her sharp intelligence than her beauty.
In the past two days, I've been awash with Paul, Jon and Bill. Jon was particularly brilliant last night about Caitlyn Jenner.
Ryerson student Laura, who was at the So True readings, said about it tonight, "The stories were so good, it was like being at the movies."
Oh, to be a movie producer. And cast Paul Newman.
Truth and Reconciliation - at last
This country has done something necessary and good, at last, with the publication of the Truth and Reconciliation Report on aboriginal residential schools - the Canadian attempt at genocide. Though, in truth, the Canadian government might have set the policy of removing First Nations children from their homes to put them in hideous schools, but it was the Catholic Church that ran them and subjected the children to unimaginable abuse of all kinds. I've been avoiding reading specifics, I heard some of the stories once and can't bear to hear any more; the level of depravity was staggering. Thank God, this filthy black mark on our nation's soul is at last out in the open.
Okay, how do I follow from that? Except to say that though I gather it's still nearly snowing in Nova Scotia, it's at last beautiful here. Not warm - last night, riding home from U of T after class, I wished I had gloves. But beautiful - and there is one perfect, creamy bloom on my gardenia, with many more buds ready to open, and on the rosebush too.
And I have personal good news: today I went for an osteoporosis consultation with my endocrinologist, Dr. Yu. You could do a good Stooges routine with her name. "Who's your doctor?"
"Yu."
"No, not me, your doctor, who is it?"
"YU!"
Etc. Imagine if her first name was Mee.
Anyway, she's very nice, and she was pleased with me. According to my blood test, my ... wait while I look up my notes ... my beta crosslaps have dropped from 438 to 64! Whatever that means, it's good. I'll have a bone scan to confirm and see her again in November, perhaps for the last time. I said, "Please tell me what I need to do to make sure my bones go on getting stronger," and Dr. Yu said, "That's simple. Keep doing what you're doing."
That means a Prolia injection every six months, lots of yogurt (not cottage cheese, she told me, it actually has very little calcium), cheese and milk - gruelling, all that cheese, but somehow I'll manage to choke it down - and weight-bearing exercise. Lifting up my hefty grandson and the hefty new baby, that'll keep my bones fit. And all the gardening I need to do this next while before the Cabbagetown Garden Tour on Sunday - that will too.
Scent of gardenia wafting in on the breeze and beta crosslaps of 64: I give thanks for this day.
Okay, how do I follow from that? Except to say that though I gather it's still nearly snowing in Nova Scotia, it's at last beautiful here. Not warm - last night, riding home from U of T after class, I wished I had gloves. But beautiful - and there is one perfect, creamy bloom on my gardenia, with many more buds ready to open, and on the rosebush too.
And I have personal good news: today I went for an osteoporosis consultation with my endocrinologist, Dr. Yu. You could do a good Stooges routine with her name. "Who's your doctor?"
"Yu."
"No, not me, your doctor, who is it?"
"YU!"
Etc. Imagine if her first name was Mee.
Anyway, she's very nice, and she was pleased with me. According to my blood test, my ... wait while I look up my notes ... my beta crosslaps have dropped from 438 to 64! Whatever that means, it's good. I'll have a bone scan to confirm and see her again in November, perhaps for the last time. I said, "Please tell me what I need to do to make sure my bones go on getting stronger," and Dr. Yu said, "That's simple. Keep doing what you're doing."
That means a Prolia injection every six months, lots of yogurt (not cottage cheese, she told me, it actually has very little calcium), cheese and milk - gruelling, all that cheese, but somehow I'll manage to choke it down - and weight-bearing exercise. Lifting up my hefty grandson and the hefty new baby, that'll keep my bones fit. And all the gardening I need to do this next while before the Cabbagetown Garden Tour on Sunday - that will too.
Scent of gardenia wafting in on the breeze and beta crosslaps of 64: I give thanks for this day.
June 2, 2015
June 1, 2015
So True: better and better
In February of last year, I went to a reading on the second floor of the Black Swan on the Danforth and said to myself, This is it, the space I've been looking for. I'd wanted to find a way for my longterm students to take their work out to the world, and here it was, a warm room, long, narrow and comfortable, with, most important of all, a stage at one end and a bar at the other.
So I said to my Thursday writers - Hey kids, let's start a show! And we did. I asked the charming, funny, utterly adorable Jason to be the M.C. The first batch of readers, last May, was all from my home group, but the next, in July, included other students of mine from U of T and Ryerson, and we went on from there. Yesterday was the fifth So True. And yesterday's was the best so far. We're getting good at this.
I have to admit, at the risk of sounding blowing own horny - I am now the producer of a powerfully moving and interesting show. Yesterday four men and five women read pieces on the topic Mother/Father. Many read about their missing fathers, ranging from Merrijoy, a university professor who has only recently retired at 87, about her beloved father who was born in 1894, to Neudis, 27, from Venezuela, about how she was only six when she saw her father "in a long, dark box." Shanny, who leads bicycle tours in exotic countries, read about his hippy parents and his search for the truth about his long-dead dad, and Morgan, who writes about sports for the Toronto Star, about how much, at sixteen, he knew he would miss his dying father who inspired him in his football career.
Jason read a hilarious piece about his overprotective parents, still wanting to drive him home at 35, and Karen a letter to her difficult, judgemental mother, which made us laugh even as it made us wince. Carol told us about her terror and joy at adopting a baby in the Caribbean, and Michael, about learning that his workaholic father did not show him how to live - that in fact his dad, despite his surface success, was wrong about almost everything.
And finally Helen showed us her terrified mother, in Czechoslovakia in 1948, holding her two small children by the hand and running past a guard post in the woods near Austria, to escape the Soviets.
Thrilling, all of it - such breadth of human experience. Sam wrote today, I was laughing and crying through the readings all evening, and had a wonderful time! Can you believe it has been a whole year of wonderful stories in that magical venue, thanks to your vision and inspiration?
Well - the vision was just a stage and a bar. And the inspiration is asking people to be part of it and editing them to death until their pieces are wonderful. It's a lot of work, and with my usual genius for marketing and profit, I make less than minimum wage doing it. But it's a joy to watch writers bloom.
Thanks to them all: to Ralph, who runs the Black Swan's second and the new third floor spaces, which are now called the Social Capital; to the highly professional Gord, who runs our lights and the always-appropriate music between readers; to Jason, who does a spectacular job keeping us entertained; and most of all, to the readers, for their courage, hard work and generosity.
And to the audience - thank you for coming. Please come back for the next So True Sunday October 25 at 4.30. Topic: Departure. You won't forget your time with us, guaranteed.
So I said to my Thursday writers - Hey kids, let's start a show! And we did. I asked the charming, funny, utterly adorable Jason to be the M.C. The first batch of readers, last May, was all from my home group, but the next, in July, included other students of mine from U of T and Ryerson, and we went on from there. Yesterday was the fifth So True. And yesterday's was the best so far. We're getting good at this.
I have to admit, at the risk of sounding blowing own horny - I am now the producer of a powerfully moving and interesting show. Yesterday four men and five women read pieces on the topic Mother/Father. Many read about their missing fathers, ranging from Merrijoy, a university professor who has only recently retired at 87, about her beloved father who was born in 1894, to Neudis, 27, from Venezuela, about how she was only six when she saw her father "in a long, dark box." Shanny, who leads bicycle tours in exotic countries, read about his hippy parents and his search for the truth about his long-dead dad, and Morgan, who writes about sports for the Toronto Star, about how much, at sixteen, he knew he would miss his dying father who inspired him in his football career.
Jason read a hilarious piece about his overprotective parents, still wanting to drive him home at 35, and Karen a letter to her difficult, judgemental mother, which made us laugh even as it made us wince. Carol told us about her terror and joy at adopting a baby in the Caribbean, and Michael, about learning that his workaholic father did not show him how to live - that in fact his dad, despite his surface success, was wrong about almost everything.
And finally Helen showed us her terrified mother, in Czechoslovakia in 1948, holding her two small children by the hand and running past a guard post in the woods near Austria, to escape the Soviets.
Thrilling, all of it - such breadth of human experience. Sam wrote today, I was laughing and crying through the readings all evening, and had a wonderful time! Can you believe it has been a whole year of wonderful stories in that magical venue, thanks to your vision and inspiration?
Well - the vision was just a stage and a bar. And the inspiration is asking people to be part of it and editing them to death until their pieces are wonderful. It's a lot of work, and with my usual genius for marketing and profit, I make less than minimum wage doing it. But it's a joy to watch writers bloom.
Thanks to them all: to Ralph, who runs the Black Swan's second and the new third floor spaces, which are now called the Social Capital; to the highly professional Gord, who runs our lights and the always-appropriate music between readers; to Jason, who does a spectacular job keeping us entertained; and most of all, to the readers, for their courage, hard work and generosity.
And to the audience - thank you for coming. Please come back for the next So True Sunday October 25 at 4.30. Topic: Departure. You won't forget your time with us, guaranteed.
May 31, 2015
celebrating toy trains, Gaslight, Laurel and clutter
It is FREEZING and very wet. I should have known this would happen. The windows in my study are behind my very long desk; to open them, I have to climb up on the desk and strain. So I wait until the last moment to make that effort, and yesterday was so hot, I did. I hoisted myself up on top of the desk and struggled to open the windows.
This morning, the house was so cold, I turned on the furnace and then climbed back up on top of the desk and closed the windows again. It's like when you finally decide it's time to put your winter coats away, and you haul them to the basement or wherever they go - that's a guarantee that the very next day, it will plunge to minus five.
Yesterday, much pleasure. Anna was going crazy - Eli's dad was supposed to take him to visit family but got stuck at work, so what was meant to be a day off for Anna turned into a cold wet day with a restless young man sitting at the back door looking out. "A lot of rains," he said. "Very rains."
So I went over, to read some stories - including The Day the Crayons Quit and Sam and Dave Dig a Hole, fabulous books - and to get down on the floor and make Thomas the Tank Engine go round and round. And round.
And then on to Gaslight, Sam's restaurant, to meet Laurel for dinner. Laurel came to my class maybe ten years ago; she had always wanted to write and never had. And as I've mentioned proudly before, including on this website under "Teaching," the piece she wrote for the very first class turned into the multi-prize-winning children's book "I know here." She has since published her second book and is working on her third. She still sends me stuff to read, and now I send her stuff to read. Her husband, who joined us briefly, is a musician, her four children are all interesting and creative, we talked non-stop for hours in the dim light of that wonderful, funky restaurant, watched over by Sam, while eating broccoli poutine and other good food.
This morning I'm in bed as the rain pours. I was going to garden all morning - the Cabbagetown Garden Tour is NEXT SUNDAY and the garden is not ready! - but luckily it's too horrible out there. So I'm in bed to try to get rid of my cough before So True. Reading a stack of newspapers and books, while the rain falls - does it get better than this? You know the answer.
Here's a great article from the NYT - celebrating clutter. A woman after my own heart.
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/31/style/lets-celebrate-the-art-of-clutter.html?smid=fb-nytimes&smtyp=cur&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1409232722000&bicmet=1419773522000&_r=0
This morning, the house was so cold, I turned on the furnace and then climbed back up on top of the desk and closed the windows again. It's like when you finally decide it's time to put your winter coats away, and you haul them to the basement or wherever they go - that's a guarantee that the very next day, it will plunge to minus five.
Yesterday, much pleasure. Anna was going crazy - Eli's dad was supposed to take him to visit family but got stuck at work, so what was meant to be a day off for Anna turned into a cold wet day with a restless young man sitting at the back door looking out. "A lot of rains," he said. "Very rains."
So I went over, to read some stories - including The Day the Crayons Quit and Sam and Dave Dig a Hole, fabulous books - and to get down on the floor and make Thomas the Tank Engine go round and round. And round.And then on to Gaslight, Sam's restaurant, to meet Laurel for dinner. Laurel came to my class maybe ten years ago; she had always wanted to write and never had. And as I've mentioned proudly before, including on this website under "Teaching," the piece she wrote for the very first class turned into the multi-prize-winning children's book "I know here." She has since published her second book and is working on her third. She still sends me stuff to read, and now I send her stuff to read. Her husband, who joined us briefly, is a musician, her four children are all interesting and creative, we talked non-stop for hours in the dim light of that wonderful, funky restaurant, watched over by Sam, while eating broccoli poutine and other good food.
This morning I'm in bed as the rain pours. I was going to garden all morning - the Cabbagetown Garden Tour is NEXT SUNDAY and the garden is not ready! - but luckily it's too horrible out there. So I'm in bed to try to get rid of my cough before So True. Reading a stack of newspapers and books, while the rain falls - does it get better than this? You know the answer.
Here's a great article from the NYT - celebrating clutter. A woman after my own heart.
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/31/style/lets-celebrate-the-art-of-clutter.html?smid=fb-nytimes&smtyp=cur&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1409232722000&bicmet=1419773522000&_r=0
May 29, 2015
proud mama
This is an official announcement - I am now used to my son's tattoos. They're part of him, and they're beautiful. Except for the sailing ship on his chest and a few bits and pieces, they're all animals - otters, an owl, giraffes, a red panda - and each animal is for someone specific in his life. (The giraffes covering one calf - a mother and a baby - are for me.)Yes, the ones on his fingers I could live without. But when I look at this man, I don't see the scribbles on his skin, I see the most beautiful face in the world, except for two others. He's kind, loyal, hilariously funny and full of life.
I sorta like him.
cover indeed
Beautiful weather, perfect. I am happy about many things right now: life in general; the way the So True readings are shaping up after last night's rehearsal with an extraordinarily diverse group of great writers; the buds on the rosebush; the pretty summer skirt I found at Doubletake; Jon Stewart's brilliance and humour, a marvel that we can still enjoy for a few more months; the fact that I don't care about the shocking FIFA scandal, because nothing could matter less to me. Small mercies.
This is for my daughter, who will breastfeed anywhere she damn well pleases.
This is for my daughter, who will breastfeed anywhere she damn well pleases.
May 27, 2015
That was spring?
That was it, folks, a few days ago - Toronto had its seventeen minutes of spring, and now it's summer. Saturday night there was a frost warning, and by Tuesday, it was boiling hot, everyone's in tank tops. Unbelievable.
And of course, I celebrate the change in the temperature by getting a cold. Snivelling dripping coughing. Otherwise, filled with joy.
No, really, all is well despite the empty balloon in my head. Monday Sam came over with Eli to give his mother a whole bunch of hours off, which is all she wanted after throwing that massive party on Saturday. So Sam and I spelled each other off with the young man, we went to a playground and to Doubletake and did some gardening and mostly, Eli watered everything in sight, including himself. Then my son cooked his usual spectacular meal and took his nephew home at 7.30; Eli, who'd had his bath here, fell asleep in the cab, and I, exhausted, not long after. I was worn out after one afternoon with him, with someone to help. Anna does it alone, 24 hours a day, pregnant. And soon there will be two. Yikes.
Good thing she's young. Ish.
Speaking of old-ish, Sam just texted me a photo. I looked at it - there's Eli, but who's that ugly old man with him? And then I realized - it was me. Sam had taken a photo of us fooling around at Doubletake, wearing straw hats. The ugly old man was me.
I wrote sadly to my son, and he wrote back, It's not a great picture, but you're a beautiful woman. And I wrote back, GET YOUR EYES CHECKED! Which he actually needs to do. It does make me sad, sometimes, to catch a glimpse of myself. But mostly I don't care. This is what 64 looks like. Get over it. I will not however be buying that particular straw hat.
Busy busy busy 64 - editing like crazy for the So True readings this coming Sunday - this time, NINE stories plus my own, which will be - I think - a short excerpt from the new memoir - readers ranging in age from 27 to 87, four men, five women and moi. Teaching three times this week, hoping I don't sneeze all over my students. But the fridge is full of delicious leftovers, the polls are not good for the Conservatives, and the garden is bursting with green. Happiness is.
And of course, I celebrate the change in the temperature by getting a cold. Snivelling dripping coughing. Otherwise, filled with joy.
No, really, all is well despite the empty balloon in my head. Monday Sam came over with Eli to give his mother a whole bunch of hours off, which is all she wanted after throwing that massive party on Saturday. So Sam and I spelled each other off with the young man, we went to a playground and to Doubletake and did some gardening and mostly, Eli watered everything in sight, including himself. Then my son cooked his usual spectacular meal and took his nephew home at 7.30; Eli, who'd had his bath here, fell asleep in the cab, and I, exhausted, not long after. I was worn out after one afternoon with him, with someone to help. Anna does it alone, 24 hours a day, pregnant. And soon there will be two. Yikes.
Good thing she's young. Ish.
Speaking of old-ish, Sam just texted me a photo. I looked at it - there's Eli, but who's that ugly old man with him? And then I realized - it was me. Sam had taken a photo of us fooling around at Doubletake, wearing straw hats. The ugly old man was me.
I wrote sadly to my son, and he wrote back, It's not a great picture, but you're a beautiful woman. And I wrote back, GET YOUR EYES CHECKED! Which he actually needs to do. It does make me sad, sometimes, to catch a glimpse of myself. But mostly I don't care. This is what 64 looks like. Get over it. I will not however be buying that particular straw hat.
Busy busy busy 64 - editing like crazy for the So True readings this coming Sunday - this time, NINE stories plus my own, which will be - I think - a short excerpt from the new memoir - readers ranging in age from 27 to 87, four men, five women and moi. Teaching three times this week, hoping I don't sneeze all over my students. But the fridge is full of delicious leftovers, the polls are not good for the Conservatives, and the garden is bursting with green. Happiness is.
May 25, 2015
Stephen Harper in the closet
Hooray for Ireland and its vote on gay marriage! Not a surprise, given the kindness and generosity of the Irish. Though they've been under the thumb of the Catholic church for so long, it is incredible how fast they've freed themselves.
Waiting for some of my family to arrive. Sam's Mother's Day present to his sister and me is to take Eli off her hands and over to my house where he'll cook. So she gets a break and I get my grandson and dinner. Deal.
Visited Annie yesterday, the first of my close friends to downsize - she and her husband recently sold their family house and moved to a rented condo right on Queen East. It's lovely, bright and in the perfect location; we walked along the seawall surrounded by hundreds jogging, rollerblading, sunbathing, playing beach volleyball - like another Toronto entirely.
Saturday was Eli's actual birthday party, and once again, I take my hat off to my daughter, who's a lunatic but a wonderful one. By the time I left, exhausted, there were in her backyard at least 15 children under the age of ten and their parents - relatives, friends, neighbours, with ever more arriving. The kids were all busy with various activities, and Anna fed everyone. Eli was swimming in gifts and two birthday cakes. He is a lucky boy. Apparently, speaking of lucky, Anna's 3 best friends cleaned up.
Bruce just sent me this picture - me arriving in Rome last year. I'd flown from Paris to Rome and taken the subway from the airport into the city, to find him waiting on the platform. How happy I was to see him!
And - here's the best political cartoon of recent days. For those of you not in this country, our esteemed Prime Minister, when an armed gunman broke into Parliament, ran into a broom closet to hide. And now, in the run up to our national election, he has refused to participate in most debates.
That sums him up. Have any of you noticed I don't like him? Very perceptive of you.
Waiting for some of my family to arrive. Sam's Mother's Day present to his sister and me is to take Eli off her hands and over to my house where he'll cook. So she gets a break and I get my grandson and dinner. Deal.
Visited Annie yesterday, the first of my close friends to downsize - she and her husband recently sold their family house and moved to a rented condo right on Queen East. It's lovely, bright and in the perfect location; we walked along the seawall surrounded by hundreds jogging, rollerblading, sunbathing, playing beach volleyball - like another Toronto entirely.
Saturday was Eli's actual birthday party, and once again, I take my hat off to my daughter, who's a lunatic but a wonderful one. By the time I left, exhausted, there were in her backyard at least 15 children under the age of ten and their parents - relatives, friends, neighbours, with ever more arriving. The kids were all busy with various activities, and Anna fed everyone. Eli was swimming in gifts and two birthday cakes. He is a lucky boy. Apparently, speaking of lucky, Anna's 3 best friends cleaned up.
Bruce just sent me this picture - me arriving in Rome last year. I'd flown from Paris to Rome and taken the subway from the airport into the city, to find him waiting on the platform. How happy I was to see him!
And - here's the best political cartoon of recent days. For those of you not in this country, our esteemed Prime Minister, when an armed gunman broke into Parliament, ran into a broom closet to hide. And now, in the run up to our national election, he has refused to participate in most debates.
That sums him up. Have any of you noticed I don't like him? Very perceptive of you.
May 21, 2015
Three small madmen who are three, and "Mad Men"
I hope you'll indulge me, dear readers. My grandson was three today, and his birthday was a grand celebration which I share, below, with you. His real party is on Saturday; this was just a small event with his best friends Finn and Marcus. Imagine, having two best friends before you're three. My daughter's backyard is better than a playground, just full of toys, the hangout for lots of local kids, which is fine with her. Now more than ever, I'm sure - because my gift, which had been requested, was a large wading pool. They spent some time filling it up and the rest of the afternoon emptying it - scooping water out and splashing. The pool, believe it or not, has 3-D fish on it and 3-D goggles so you can appreciate them.
Consultation on protocol.
Time out for smashing things.
And things with wheels.
Anna made the cupcakes and Finn's mother decorated them. With threes!
Waiting for the cupcakes.
Singing Happy Birthday.
A pretty damn good life, I'd say.
A quick comment on finales in television, of which we had two this past week -"Mad Men" and David Letterman. And both of which meant almost nothing to me. I never watched Letterman - it was on at 11.35, for God's sake, who stays up that late, except to watch Stephen Colbert? People keep saying how will they live without him - but what about Jon Stewart, he's the one we won't be able to live without.
Well ... I won't be able to live without. An interesting funny friend on the glassy screen late at night: what Jon is to me, what Dave was for millions.
As for "Mad Men," I'm really sorry I didn't watch what was obviously stellar television about a fascinating time in American life. I did see the last 3 episodes, because now - as those of you who follow these chronicles know - I have a PVR, and I actually managed to use it to tape the show. So I saw the famous zen finale and the famous Coke ad - and had no idea what to make of it, since I hardly knew the characters. But I was upset by what was shown - Don Draper flailing about in the middle of nowhere, learning that his ex-wife is dying of cancer and instead of returning to be a comfort or at least help out with his children, just keeps on going in a selfish alcoholic stupor. But then, he was a man of his times. Which weren't that long ago and yet felt like the Dark Ages, in some respects. Terrific TV.
It's 11.35. If Letterman were on, I could actually watch him for the first time. But he's not. Thank God, I get to go to bed.
Consultation on protocol.
Time out for smashing things. 
And things with wheels.
Anna made the cupcakes and Finn's mother decorated them. With threes!
Waiting for the cupcakes.
Singing Happy Birthday.
A pretty damn good life, I'd say.A quick comment on finales in television, of which we had two this past week -"Mad Men" and David Letterman. And both of which meant almost nothing to me. I never watched Letterman - it was on at 11.35, for God's sake, who stays up that late, except to watch Stephen Colbert? People keep saying how will they live without him - but what about Jon Stewart, he's the one we won't be able to live without.
Well ... I won't be able to live without. An interesting funny friend on the glassy screen late at night: what Jon is to me, what Dave was for millions.
As for "Mad Men," I'm really sorry I didn't watch what was obviously stellar television about a fascinating time in American life. I did see the last 3 episodes, because now - as those of you who follow these chronicles know - I have a PVR, and I actually managed to use it to tape the show. So I saw the famous zen finale and the famous Coke ad - and had no idea what to make of it, since I hardly knew the characters. But I was upset by what was shown - Don Draper flailing about in the middle of nowhere, learning that his ex-wife is dying of cancer and instead of returning to be a comfort or at least help out with his children, just keeps on going in a selfish alcoholic stupor. But then, he was a man of his times. Which weren't that long ago and yet felt like the Dark Ages, in some respects. Terrific TV.
It's 11.35. If Letterman were on, I could actually watch him for the first time. But he's not. Thank God, I get to go to bed.
