Boston, the day after

Checking in at the B.U. Admissions desk they inform us that "lunch on us" is for students only. They hand me a yellow sheet with recommendations to fend for myself. The mom next to me asks which of the choices has "good salads." The desk guy says enthusiastically, "Boston Beer Works." I don't feel like I know Boston at all. Certainly haven't been able to recognize any of it from the maps. But it's a beautiful day, sunny for the first time in this northeastern swing and I''m game to set out. I walk left. Turn right and aha, there's the Citgo sign that John made such a big deal out of last year when we were here. Of course, it's the Citgo sign you see from Fenway - not that I ever have. But I remember him saying that. And I realize we were right across the street on our last trip here a year ago, showing Reel Paradise at B.U.
















I cross and head right, up a hill, over a bridge over traffic. OK, I see some restaurants. In fact, some sporty restaurants. And Duh! ohmigod, there's the green. There's Fenway! Right in front of me, jammed behind these restaurants. It's a hilarious realization, sweetened by the two recent wins. I'm so not a sports fan, but even I am delighted by the Red Sox this year, and all things Boston (Go Ben and Gone Baby Gone!) and thrilled to be in the neighborhood this second day after.



















I head into Boston Beer Works where the host suggests I sit at the bar. It's mid afternoon, semi empty, lots of room to spread out the NYT and two Boston papers while I lunch alone. Looking forward to reading in Escapes the two articles John's tipped me too - one on rafting on the Deliverance river, the other on the wonder of daytrips to Cold Spring. No, there aren't really any salads on the menu, but the burger sounds good. And it is. The bartender is adorable, adding to the good vibe. He's whizzing around, and several times I notice he's pouring drinks with something in them. Something dark and round. A bit like the bubble tea I finally experienced yesterday on a lovely side street in Philly. I'd thought the "bubble" referred to some kind of bubble. In fact it refers to a kind of marzipan chewy circle. Were they putting that in the beer too? I signal the bartender, "what up?" Not ordering, just asking. He slides me a sample taste of their famous brewed ale with maine blueberries. Blueberries! It's disgusting. But immensely popular.


















I head out amused. What is it about Boston that's so different from Austin? And Philly and Pittsburgh too? Ignorantly, I think it has everything to do with the Italians and Irish. I feel their influence so intensely in these eastern states. So familiar. Enjoyable. Even more so now that I'm loving Texas so much. It's all about the contrasts. Pittsburgh and Philly and Boston, and even the sad town of Bethlehem PA all the more sweeter from my Texas skew.

More Wyatt

I'm having the greatest time traveling with my son. I love traveling with him. Not necessarily doing anything specific, just traveling. It took months for him to come around to the idea of visiting colleges in real time. It took awhile to get him to agree to take off a few days from high school. But here we are, on the road. Carnegie Mellon, Lehigh, Penn and B.U. in a couple of days. Planes, trains and automobiles. So far so good. So far really enjoying this different moment.

With all this one-on-one time, different from the constant sports banter he and his Dad enjoy, he told me about his computer class blog. I looked, I cracked up. I loved it. He won't allow me to print the name (trust me, as he says, "it's genius,") or link to it, but he said I could share the first post:

It begins...

My name is Wyatt. Now that i have a blog i feel like i have a personal relationship with every other person in the world. I hope you share this deep connection with me. Now that the formalities are out of the way I would like to introduce you to the class that started it all. While i was once incapable of doing anything productive on a computer, computer applications with Mr. Bjerke has taught me otherwise. I have learned how to make myself known, and you dear reader, should let yourself be known back to me. The computer is no longer the gateway to games and porn, it is now the gateway to knowledge and the betterment of life. So dear reader, i am signing off for today but i looked forward to the relationship that we will share and build for the rest of our lives.

Wyatt

The Wyatt Way

Driving from Pittsburgh to the airport today on a kamikaze college tour with my son Wyatt, I noticed an industrial bldg by the side of the road. It's corporate name emblazoned boldly all along the top:




My son was asleep and I couldn't grab my camera quick enough. But it totally cracked me up. (I know, a name's just a name. For most of my life I've known almost no one named "janet." In texas it's as common as water. ) But "wyatt" is still relatively rare and I certainly had no idea there was a corporate reference. Later, checking out their website, amused further:

Welcome to...

Wyatt Incorporated

The Wyatt name has been associated with interior construction since the 1960's. The company was formed in 1967, and the current management team has been in place since 1970. Our business has grown steadily over the years. In the late 1970's we opened a complete woodworking millshop and manufacturing facility near Pittsburgh, PA. And in the early 1980's, we opened our Philadelphia, PA operations center.

We believe our company has grown and prospered for one primary reason - good people in the field and in the office consistently doing superior work for the customer. That simple statement is the core of our approach to the interior construction business.

Everyone promises to do superior - quality work on time and on budget. Not everyone delivers. When our people talk about quality, completion dates, and cost estimates, their words are backed up by the Wyatt name and what it stands for:

• A reputation among building owners, contractors, and architects for top quality and dependability;

• A track record of steady growth over several decades;

• Countless repeat assignments from satisfied customers both small and large;

• Financial strength and stability, which translate into economies and efficiencies for our customers.

We do not claim to be perfect, but we have a deep commitment to our way of doing business. We continuously strive for economy, quality, and efficiency for every client on every project. That is the Wyatt Way.

It's funny the resonance you can feel with a name. With both my kids I'm deeply attached to the way their names look written. It's a visual thing as much as a sound. Why? What's it's mean? Who cares? When I was pregnant John used to say, "just pick any name. It doesn't really matter." But it does. A resonance is a resonance. The sound, the look, it all contributes to how you feel. You say it so much in a lifetime. You write it so often. Today a momentary drive by, a total delight.

Maker Faire Austin yeah!

I just had a great time at Maker Faire Austin. Engineers, artists, craftmakers, recyclers, computer geeks, showmen, hippies, kids. It's the ultimate DIY mishmash. I didn't get there til the final two hours. An easy 15 minutes from my house, the city left behind in like 10 minutes. After that, felt like rural Texas. The faire was held at the Exposition Grounds. Like so much in Austin, easy. No walking for miles once I parked, instead easy access, easy. The main entrance housed much of the computer, electronic and robot gear. Passing into the outside again was food, the art car display with one in the making by Harrod Blank - Man I love his cars!, the Maker Store, some live music, and the crafts "pavilion". Dirt on the floor, corrals to my right I guess. Of course, this is Texas. And this is where they'd house the cattle. Must be. A little bit further and there's the bike art, the fanciful bike inventions, the pedal moving ferris wheel, the modern day joust on bikes. More stages with live music. Had fun running into the women from Hawgfly with their gruesome special effects and gore cannon.

I walked around, not knowing a soul, trying to focus, for the most part marveling. I'd squint then crack up. Hilarious concepts. The electronic furby sound performance. The marionette operated via pulleys and gears from a laptop. Delicate jewelry from computer parts, solar chips where the diamonds would have been. Great looking girls in true hoop skirts. The Chakra Tron.

I'm not that guy. That DIY guy. But I'm thrilled he/she exists. I get this Maker movement as an antidote to our consumer culture. As they say, "Build, Craft, hack, play, Make."

cascading mis-truths

Meant to blog about this fascinating NYTimes article earlier this week. It's basically about how some "expert" truths get thrust into common wisdom, then repeated ad nauseum. People defer assuming the first guy knows what they're talking about. Many of the examples used are from the world of medicine.

Diet and Fat: A Severe Case of Mistaken Consensus

By JOHN TIERNEY

Published: October 9, 2007

When a group of people agree on something, that doesn’t always mean they are right.

We like to think that people improve their judgment by putting their minds together, and sometimes they do. The studio audience at ''Who Wants to Be a Millionaire'' usually votes for the right answer. But suppose, instead of the audience members voting silently in unison, they voted out loud one after another. And suppose the first person gets it wrong.

If the second person isn't sure of the answer, he's liable to go along with the first person's guess. By then, even if the third person suspects another answer is right, she's more liable to go along just because she assumes the first two together know more than she does. Thus begins an ''informational cascade'' as one person after another assumes that the rest can't all be wrong.

Because of this effect, groups are surprisingly prone to reach mistaken conclusions even when most of the people started out knowing better, according to the economists Sushil Bikhchandani, David Hirshleifer and Ivo Welch. If, say, 60 percent of a group's members have been given information pointing them to the right answer (while the rest have information pointing to the wrong answer), there is still about a one-in-three chance that the group will cascade to a mistaken consensus.

A great example of just this kind of mindset and misinformation can be found in Osler's Web, book about Chronic Fatique Sydrome that I read when we lived in Fiji. It chronicles the history and personal stories of the disease, but what I most enjoyed was the political and economic process of the testing and validation. You can start with one M.D. who does a shoddy study, but happens to be well connected and influential so gets further grants, and gets to sit on panels and judge studies, determining further credibility and resources. It shows how mixed up the politics, economics and science of any health issue are.

I know how prey I am to this kind of cascading mistruth myself. I often assume others are right in their assumptions and theories. I figure they've done their homework. And if it's not my area, particularly if science or numbers are involved, I all too readily cede the authority.

Definitely check out the NYT article, and the book.

Gone Baby Gone - Highly Recommended

Caught Gone Baby Gone this afternoon. It's great - top to bottom, the screenplay, the look, the performances - all beautifully done. Highly satisfying. Great job. Go See. (Although the music in the trailer misleading. I hate that cliched building choral stuff at the end. Just heard it in the trailer for the first time - don't remember anything like that in the film.)

Things that Feel Good

I used to have a friend, a highly ambitious super smart go-getter film friend, who bought a new lipstick every single day on her lunch hour. Some women (though not really in my peer group) compulsively buy shoes. Others, housewares and candles. Around here, a lot of people drink, a lot. In the last 10 years, I've become a devotee of bodywork. Massage, shiatsu, chiropractic, acupuncture, yoga and pilates - I'm into it. Today, I had my first ever reflexology experience. It was the greatest!

I've had problems with my feet all my life. From my youngest days it was complicated. I couldn't find shoes that fit. Blisters, no arch support. My father forced me into saddles shoes in those important 4th/5th grade years when everyone else was wearing loafers, or the luckiest, sneakers. Forget about flipflops - that was torture. It's been a real albatross - stopping me from things that would otherwise be great for me. Hiking. Walking. Now dancing. I'd been in a pretty good place for awhile, living here in the car country of Texas, and confining my shoe choices to Danskos and cowboy boots. But age and the dancing, precipated a new crisis. Mentioning the burning to Adrianna the other day she chipped, "Oh you have to try my reflexologist. And he's right in the neighborhood."

I wasn't sure what to expect. I'm familiar with the concept, that there are reflex areas in the feet and hands which correspond to all of the glands. organs and parts of the body. I understood that somehow in manipulating the feet, you'd be treating the rest of the body. What I wasn't prepared for was just how awesomely great it would feel, and deeply relaxing.

Maybe because for so long I lived in my head. For decades people hassled me, "You think too much!" So in this later phase, I've been embracing the modalities that get me out of my head. The mind/body connection is powerful and real. And once you come to understand and start to work with it, the changes are palpable.

I remember the year my father was dying. He lived in California. I was in NY. I'd speak to him nightly, going through details and listening to his frank talk about dying. "I'm a doctor. I can face these things," while the next minute he was buying chandeliers for his new condo. As the year progressed, I'd roll out of bed and stutter down the stairs. One foot at a time. Literally hunched over. After he died, my sister treated me to my first ever shiatsu in L.A. The masseuse was a blind Japanese named Mr. Hamm. "You really need this!" he said. Walking out of his office I realized I could straighten up. I could breathe. The wellbeing, which lasted a full three days was profound.

The next reinforcement came in 1995. I was typing John's book, writing the PTA newsletter, and into email into a big way. 12 hours daily typing, easily. I woke up one morning and couldn't use my left hand at all. It was locked into a kind of gimp spasm. It was a crisis; the book was near done but not finished, and my computer input and editing was crucial. I started seeing two different masseuses each week for six weeks. It was lifechanging. It didn't just feel good, it was essential.

So I've continued when I can, limited only by financial and time constraints. I'm amazed by the exploration of the different ways energy moves (or doesn't) in the body. I find the work miraculous, and the excellent practitioners who practice, fascinating. I know it's indulgent. But amazing. Powerful.

NYT David Carr on today's "Glut of Cinema"

Welcome to my life. From David Carr's "Not Just Some Movies: This is a Glut of Cinema" in the NYTimes today:

This weekend, if you are one of those people — there are worse vices — you will simply have to go see “Lars and the Real Girl,” the comedy starring Ryan Gosling and a blowup doll that was the talk of the Toronto International Film Festival. And then you better drink a few lattes, because “Control,” the black-and-white biopic about the leader of the rock group Joy Division, also opened this week. And start early, because “Elizabeth: The Golden Age” is taking a bow, with Cate Blanchett under all the ferocious makeup again.

Don’t make plans for Saturday, because you’ll need that matinee time to take in Kenneth Branagh’s remake of “Sleuth,” featuring the acting chops of Michael Caine and Jude Law and a screenplay by Harold Pinter. And even after all those wind sprints between theaters, you’ll need a clone to take in James Gray’s New York narco-drama “We Own the Night,” or any of the other 10 new movies that open this week in the city.

Maybe you can bluff your way through the “Have you seen ‘X’?” conversation this weekend and catch a few films in the days following, but next week the onslaught continues. “Gone Baby Gone,” Ben Affleck’s directorial debut, based on a Dennis Lehane novel, piles in. So do “Rendition,” “Reservation Road,” “Things We Lost in the Fire” and “Wristcutters: A Love Story,” all must-sees for dedicated consumers of specialty film. And that’s not even including smaller but still notable projects that will have been released in little more than a week, like “Out of the Blue,” “Terror’s Advocate,” “Black White + Gray” and “King Corn.”

The problem has been growing for years, and it's something too many people forget when they talk about the "un-distributed gems" or lack of movie screens. It's just a simple logistical nightmare, even for those of us to love to keep up. John and I make a point of seeing a lot, and not just by screeners or DVDs in the house. We're out regularly to movie theatres.

Our old friend Bingham Ray's ending quote (describing the change just in our cinematic lifetime) really cracked me up:

“I very much doubt this environment would have given people a chance to see ‘My Dinner With Andre,’” said Mr. Ray, mentioning an unhurried indie classic, released in 1981, that crept into public consciousness in its own sweet time. If someone is contemplating a sequel in today’s climate, it will probably need to be called “Eat and Run.”

Art for Everyone 20x200

Got an email from my old friend, artist Laura Levine the other day, (whose Bjork photograph is one of my most prized possessions) announcing one of her fabulous paintings available in a print form. And affordable! $20. I had to pull out my charge card. What a great concept! A new edition every week, limited run, 20x200:

A glimpse of intimacy

Driving across 2222, by the HEB's red light, I see a threesome waiting for the bus. A round hispanic mom, her maybe 7 year old daughter, and a skinny guy. The kid punches the guy's middle, then hugs him, the mom does the same. I realize it's affectionate foreplay. I guess. I mean it looks like affectionate foreplay but the concept is so foreign to me I'm not sure. I guess I've seen it in movies and tv - that kind of punching and hitting as a kind of tease. In my own life, I can't imagine the instinct. Is it a class thing? Ethnic? Clearly one of the many varieties of human interplay.

In our own life, I'm surprised as well by a new little ritual. As I've written repeatedly, I stay up late. I've always stayed up late. John used to stay up with me, but now as he rises earlier and earlier, he doesn't. (And don't worry about our private life - there are still plenty of other hours of the day. I don't subscribe to that busy-married-with-children-give-up-your-sex-life cliche. In fact I was emailing with a writer/director about it recently, commenting on her recent script where I was happy to see at least one married couple still coupling but the others too glibly giving in to the lull, and not even lamenting. She was a bit defensive -

Re: sex. I think when you have two parents working demanding f/t jobs w/ two kids and you live in NYC it is actually very hard to navigate a sustained sex life. Or at least that's what I see and hear for the most part, and what I know from my own experience. But I commend you for keeping it going, throughout everything. That's a big deal, and rare, believe it!

She was, I'm happy to report, inspired to re-double her efforts after our back and forth. In fact she said,

Talking about it w/ you inspired me to focus more on making it a priority though... (and we just celebrated our 11 year wedding anniversary). Too easy to sweep it aside and yes, it is dangerous to the relationship. Choosing to keep one's life more porous and less driven in order to keep sex a priority in a marriage is kind of a fascinating subject... Maybe you should write about that!

But that's not what I meant to write about here.

Until recently, I would climb into bed trying not to disturb the sleeping guy. But then one day he surprised me with a request for a goodnight hug -- at whatever hour it was that I made it in. I was surprised but ok, why not, 25 years in, sure. A tiny thing. And surprised even more so by the response. Because every night, there is a distinct response. From deep in sleep it registers. Not pro forma but specific. And every night a bit different. A real connect. And of course I'm surprised by the sweetness it creates in me, when it had never even occurred to me in the first place.

This is so sad

Noticed a headline relating to weird death of Betsy Gotbaum's 45-year-old stepdaughter in an Arizona airport in the NYT earlier this week. It was deep in the first section. I couldn't understand why it wasn't on the first page. Well today it is. "Life of Comfort and Pain Ends in an Airport Cell", by Eric Konigsbert. This is a sad sad tale.

Sad and worth reading on its own. But of course I have a couple of personal reference points. One trivial - at a friend's grand mostly blue blood wasp NYC wedding a few years back we ended up sharing a table with an older gentlemen. As we started to introduce ourselves, he said, "I'm the Jew." Which at the time made us laugh. He was jovial and charming. And Betsy Gotbaum's husband. On an even sadder note, it brings up a scar never healed, of a mother of three, a friend of mine, who some years ago also died from her struggle with alcoholism. Not violently among strangers in an airport, but still devastating with its secrecy and long term pain.

work on your ego

Years ago, my witty and wise astrologer, with whom I've talked for an hour, every year, for 25 years, said, "Work on your ego, I mean really work on it." I didn't know what she meant. I couldn't understand. Me? I'm too insecure to have an ego problem. What did that mean? Now I think I get it. It's a crazy seesaw. I spend half my life disconnected; in my life, enjoying it, but also somehow invisible and at a remove from my accomplishments. Things happen and I'm not clear about my cause and affect. (sic.) I guess I spend the rest of the time hungry. For attention? No. For credit? Sure. Not for visibility. Is acknowledgement the right word?

Watching Oprah on the telly in Wellington, NZ in 2004, she said that in her time interviewing, all anyone ever wanted was to be validated. To be acknowledged. I think I want the credit for the work. Is that egotistical, if it's not just about me? Well sure. That's exactly the problem. Now I think the crazy contortions of preferring the shadows yet feeling deserving is the rift. It creates an impossible situation.

I think I'm generous and giving, working for the greater good, until something happens which triggers me to be petty and pissed off. A perceived slight? Being left out? Someone ignoring how generous and giving I am? Hardly the Christian ideal. And while I'm nowhere near a Christian, nor desire to be, I see the paradox.

"Work on your ego. I mean really work on it."

Ick and Oh Yeah

Now this is the kind of critical rhetoric that makes sense to me:

“And it’s both the ‘Ick’ reaction and the ‘Oh, yeah’ reaction that gives it its staying power.”

Courtesy of In Sunny Southern California, a Sculpture Finds Its Place in the Shadows. Written by Edward Wyatt, New York Times.

The quote from: Carol S. Eliel, the museum’s curator of modern and contemporary art,

NYFF opening weekend 2007

New York City - what a blast!

Thursday, I was driving around Austin, happy, thinking about how much I love it here. Friday, at the crack of dawn, I flew to NYC. As my cab crossed the East River onto 53rd Street, a street very familiar from my youth, I felt an intense exhilaration. Not a conscious decision, but a bubbling up from somewhere very deep inside. Oh god, how much I love New York! The weather was perfect; sunny and warm, but I don't know, a good 10, 15, 20 degrees cooler than Austin. I get to our hotel, The Dream on 55th, a new experiment this year. Pretentious but adorable, perfectly situated for the weekend's activities. Rusty with my subway lines, the concierge directs me to the R train at the end of the block which takes me straight to Prince and Broadway. The night before I'd thought, if only I'd had the time to see Joni, how wonderful that would be. Walking west on Spring to get to my 2:15pm coffee, I look to my right and see her husband crossing the street. He's only the first of several directors I'll see this weekend that I consider among my closest friends.

Years ago my brother in law asked, "but who are your real friends? Not just the people you know through your work, your real friends?" I didn't know what he meant. Well that's not true. Of course I know what he was saying, I just never felt it was a relevant distinction for me.

I stop into Eileen Fisher to check out the latest and come out with what will immediately become another new favorite black shirt. My gal director pal finds me on the way to our rendezvous and we share in a few minutes shopping before we move on. The talk is immediate and intense. We've been friends since the early 1980s. Not involved daily in each other's lives but enough, and during enough key moments for the friendship to deeply matter and resonate. Time and some key shared components, fuel the bond. She surprises me too, throwing in a new deep relationship with our old stomping grounds in the Hudson Valley. It was so unexpected, I could literally feel the virtual map descend in my head, pushing to make room among the Austin and NYC currencies. Two fabulous hours later I run up to meet John at the hotel (not before running into Brian Brooks by the subway. I think it would have been a pretty amazing weekend even if I'd just stood on Prince and Broadway the whole time.)

We observe our little NY Film Festival Opening Night ritual. We dress in black tie then head out to meet two of our favorite people in the world for an intimate dinner, catching them on a rare moment passing through town. It's luxurious to have this time together. They walk us over to the Opening Night festivities, starting with the premiere of The Darjeeling Limited, begging off themselves. The whoosh begins. Hundreds and hundreds of people we know, have known over a course of 30 years. Hell, some even longer, as I run into the producer I grew up with. It's a deep hug, a few words, sometimes simply a nod or wave.

We've told almost no one we were coming in - the whole point to just give into the flow. And that we do. It's an exhilarating emotional overload for the next several hours. I know it's only scratching surface but I can't bog down in that. I enjoy who I can. We head on down to the after party - a rather civilized arrangement conjured up by some new young turks in the last couple of years. Before that, for decades, a few of us would wander around and around looking for a place to continue the party. This village soire is great. Some excellent new connects with some new blood in this world. By 4am we'd had enough. Really interesting and fun. Driving back up to the hotel in the cab we find ourselves cracking up at the hordes of bodies still out on the street. Just past 14th Street, again @ 53rd, just crowds and crowds of people milling around at 4am.

Saturday morning, hit a very familiar diner round the corner from DuArt, (there's nothing like NY diners!) and out to 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, the Cannes prize winner from Roumania. I was engrossed immediately in this harrowing tale. Yes, about an illegal abortion under communist rule. And yes, absolutely about so much more! There are a series of moral choices and negotiations and betrayals - the central girlfriend relationship devastating with the half truths and allegiances. It's a powerful work signaling a tremendous new talent. From that, straight into Ira Sach's Married Life - a wrye, entertaining romp peopled by some of my favorite actors: the incomparable Patricia Clarkson, Chris Cooper, and Pierce Brosnan. Very well done.

Downtown for drinks in a great old NYC joint with a journalist settling some unfinished business, then dinner with our close pal Amy. Back up to meet the The Orphanage team - a film we got to enjoy via one of the secret screenings at the Fantastic Fest in Austin. John hangs on one end, with a Picturehouse rep, the producers, and screenwriter. I jump in on the other, with the director and superb actress - really enjoying them, really celebrating this moving, accomplished first feature. We discuss how scary it really is. I, for one, joining them in believing it's more humane than genre. A human story of a mother's love and loss.

Sunday morning up and to the Diving Bell - my highest want to see from the accolades at Cannes. Boy, it does not disappoint. It's triumphant! You hear the description and can't imagine the humour or liveliness realized. It's a truly great film. An incredible achievement! A total kick to see it in NYC, to see Schnabel walk onstage of the venerable jazz hall at Lincoln Center in his shorts. Damn he's something. Larger than life. Not a guy I know but certainly wish I did. He looks like someone who relishes life on every level. I've loved all this films but Diving Bell is exceptional. Longtime esteemed producer John Kilik gave this answer onstage when Schnabel quipped, "I don't know why he hangs around with me but I certainly appreciate it." "All you have to do is have dinner with Julian once to see why I keep working with him."

Another NYC diner, this time with my mom. Then onto the LIRR for a quick detour to Port Washington and a backyard bbq before flying out of JFK. Great old friends we love, a little R&R and glimpse into their homelife and the daily roller coaster that exists anywhere teenage daughters do. Parents ourselves beyond that stage, we just laugh.

Just a perfect weekend. John and I have been hitting that party and event together since 1982, a year after I ventured out alone, tentatively staking my claim in the NY film world. What a great run it's been.