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departments 24 TRAIN OF THOUGHT My fantasy parents: Sonny and Cher. by Nancy Balbirer 33 THE LOCAL SCENE Fascinatin’ Neighbors. 124 IN GOOD TASTE Georgette Farkas, the Woman behind Rotisserie Georgette. by Kathleen Squires 132 I’LL TAKE MANHATTAN NYC anew. 140 DA MO DA MERRIER Construct Your Own Happy Place. by Simone 148 LIKE A ROLLING STONE Adventures around the world. 166 MODEL CITIZENS High Performance Outerwear. 176 THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS Luxury lifestlye. 192 APPRAISED AND APPROVED Style and Substance. 217 INDEPENDENT SCHOOL GUIDE Institutions for all kinds of learning; Story Pirates take the stage. 272 COMMUNITY ROOM The Great Game of Women’s Tennis. by Christine Juneau
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Alan and I knew instantly that our child was exceptional. He was just so adorable, with his pentagram birthmark and little, grasping claws. —from the story “Gifted” “The funniest thing I’ve read in a long time.” —Conan O’Brien, on the story “Guy Walks into a Bar,” via Twitter “Rich knows how to balance the smart with the funny.” —Patrick Cassels, New York Times Book Review “One of the funniest writers in America.” —Daily Beast
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TRAIN OF THOUGHT
Sonny and Cher By Nancy Balbirer
ALP i NE W estchester
greenwich Westport NewCanaan hamptons Longisland Litchfieldcounty COUNTRY CAPITALIST
I spent an inordinate amount of time as a child lying in my canopy bed fantasiz- ing about Sonny and Cher being my parents. I’d imagine them wending their way down our long gravel driveway in the Con- necticut woods, to claim me in their VW bus, along with little Chastity, some stray dogs and cats, and a trunk, (emblazonedwithmy name), full of tie-dyed casual-wear, and miniature Bob Mackie gowns. I figured that while my parents would be a bit sad to lose me, they’d get over it; they had other kids and they’d conclude that I really was better suited to living with a pair of Hollywood Hippies. I had always been a bit “out there”; a sort of pint-sized rabble-rouser, marching to the beat of a different drum, and my parents had, without fail, wholeheartedly supported my myriad nutty endeavors. Once, in Kindergarten, we were asked to paint a life- sized self-portrait. Our teacher, Miss Cohen, had us all lie on individual rolled out white sheets so that she could trace our outlines; our task, then, was to simply paint in the specifics: hair; eyes; clothes, etc. Ostensibly, the point of this exercise was to notice, perhaps for the very first time, who we are, and how we are differ- ent. Even at the tender age of five, I thought the whole undertaking was a big yawn, so instead of filling in my outline with my ac- tual features (dark brown hair, green eyes, pale skin), I filled them in with the comedian Flip Wilson’s (kinky black hair; dark brown eyes; brown skin). Miss Cohen, being a literalist, was none too pleased by this abstraction; I was duly reprimanded for insubordination and ex- iled to “the corner” for the remainder of the afternoon. When my mother came to pick me up and was informed of my malfeasance, she asked to see the offending painting. “I don’t see what the problem is,” she said, perusing my handiwork. “Flip Wilson’s never looked better.” Later, at dinner, when my mother shared the story with my father, he took it as an opportunity to teach me the meaning of the word pedantic. And, that was that. But, as understanding and encouraging as my parents were of their child’s offbeat tem- perament, even they had their limitations. The
experience I could have as the tag-along daugh- ter of counter-culture Glamazons like Sonny and Cher would surely trump anything they could offer me in the pretty-but-staid woods of Connecticut. And so, with heads held high, they would agree to hand me off to the Bonos, whilst I kissed them good-bye tearfully, and promised to write postcards each week from the road. And then, Sonny and Cher would whisk me back to the VW and off we’d go on an endless, pleasure-seeking Summer of Love. When I was eight, and Sonny and Cher announced they were getting divorced, I was completely despondent; it clearly signi- fied The End Of Everything Good. I sort of never accepted it. Yeah, OK–they “split up”; Cher got with Gregg Allman; Sonny re-mar- ried and then re-married...blah, blah, blah… whatever. I just never was willing to believe that they stopped loving each other; that they were not soul-mates; that one day, in my (apparently romance-starved) imagination we’d, all of us, not be reunited as a “family.” I N MY EARLY TWENTIES , I PARTICIPATED IN A weekly poker game with Chastity Bono. One day, I shared with her my kooky early-child- hood dreams of her parents, and the very pro- found inferences I ascribed to the love that they had once shared. Basically, I told her the whole, ridiculous thing. She was standing in my tiny kitchen on Twelfth Street, making us all Sonny’s famous steak recipe for dinner, and as I recounted my tale, she chuckled, knowingly. “I felt that way about ‘Sonny and Cher’ too…” “You did??” “Sure,” she shrugged. “Of course.” Cutting into the meat to see that it was done to perfection, she added: “And, it’s good to have fantasies, Nance. But, you know what?” “What?” “It’s even better to have steak….” Nancy Balbirer’s first book, Take Your Shirt Off and Cry was published by Blooms- bury in 2009. She is currently at work on her second book, A Marriage in Dog Years. She lives in Manhattan with her daughter. *
Editor and Publisher Eric S. Meadow Editor Celia R. Meadow Art Director TimHussey Executive Editor Debbie Silver Travel Editor Susan Engel Editors at Large Paula Koffsky, Simone Meadow, Rich Silver General Counsel Bruce Koffsky, Esq. Contributors Bonnie Adler, JacobM. Appel, Natalie Axton,
Nancy Balbirer, Julia Bobkoff, Suzanne Clary, Amanda H. Cronin, Alena Dillon, Amy Ferris, Thomas G. Fiffer, Hillary Frank, Christine Juneau, Jonathan Lethem, LincolnMacVeagh, RichMonetti, Simon Rich, Fred Sanders, Christy Smith-Sloman, Kathleen Squires, Ted Thompson, GretchenVanesselstyn, Mary EllenWalsh Contributing Photographer SuzyAllman Cover Illustration Dave Cutler Social Media Director CamilloFerrari DistributionManager Man inMotion LLC Advertising Sales Manager Libby Rosen Advertising Sales Representatives Michael Certoma, Avicii Flowers, JensenFrost,
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“The first great novel about post-crash American disillusionment, the flip side of The Wolf of Wall Street.” —NY1’s The Book Reader
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the local scene
Speaker’s Corner by JacobM. Appel The New Yorker’s Barry Blitt: Litchfield County’s renowned illustrator
Streets and Avenues by Jonathan Lethem Park Row paranoia Acts of Kindness 38
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Weston Magazine Group: Since 1992, you’ve illustrated more than 80 covers for The New Yorker. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to start with The New Yorker cover from the 2008 Presidential campaign that made you famous, in which you depicted Senator Barack Obama as a turbaned Muslim fist-bumping his wife, who sports military fatigues and carries a gun. Can you tell us what you were thinking when you initially came up with this image? What were you trying to say? Barry Blitt: Sure! As you can imagine, I never tire of explaining a cartoon from six years ago that almost no one got. But seriously: it was meant to be a sly visual collection of all the ridiculous innuendo being spread by then-candidate Obama’s more virulent detractors. I thought it would render the crazy stuff laughable on its face. [Oh, to be middle-aged and naive again.] WMG: Youmust have realized that some readers would be offended. My understanding is that even your own mother was upset at you.What surprised you most about the public reaction? BB: Yeah, I figured there would be some limited outrage. I wasn’t expecting anything so viral. I’d drawn covers that ruffled feathers before, but this was the first one that really had the internet behind it [my previous controversial one was in 1942], and it went from kerfuffle to brouhaha overnight. [Or perhaps vice versa.] But that was what surprised me most—the connectedness of the web, and how the story was suddenly everywhere at once. [And yes, it even reached my mother.] WMG: Any regrets about the cover? BB: I sort of wish it was a better drawing [but that BARRY BLITT THE NEWYORKER’S COVER ILLUSTRATOR UNCOVERED by JacobM. Appel
sentiment isn’t limited to this particular image, alas.] WMG: President Obama has reportedly hung another of your covers in theWhiteHouse and requested an autographed copy of a third. Does this mean that you and Barack have patched things over? BB: Um. I believe [former senior advisor] David Axelrod had a print of a subsequent cover hanging in his office at the White House [“Vetting,” which depicted himself, the President, and Rahm Emmanuel interviewing dogs—when the Obamas were talking about getting a pet]. And someone from the White House called and asked for a signed copy of a cartoon I drew [that featured a donkey doctor putting on a latex glove–about to give an elephant patient a prostate exam, shortly after Obamacare passed]. Apparently it was being given to President Obama. But I’d sort of be amazed if he knows this cartoon was drawn by the same punk who did the
* of it as I can convey. It’s not real regimented. It’s different every time. Often there’s weeping involved. WMG: I read a profile by Ashley Waters in which she reported that you grew up in a home without The New Yorker. Is this possible? Do such places really exist? BB: You sound like the Manhattan residents who were amazed Ronald Reagan got elected, because they didn’t personally know anyone who voted for him. [But yes, no New Yorker magazines in my home growing up. No culture whatsoever. I never saw broccoli or asparagus until I was 22.] WMG: On your website, instead of a biography under the “about” heading, there is a sketch of a man passed out in his boxer shorts, surrounded by bottles of “envy,” “gall,” “rancor” and “regret.” The caption reads, “Mr. Blitt is about to collapse.” Is this true? BB: It’s a sanitized version of the truth. Let’s just say I have to have my bile ducts drained regularly to stay sane. WMG: You have a reputation (at least on the Internet) as a very private person. Should we infer from your cryptic biography that you have something to hide? BB: Seriously? I’m answering all your questions about my background and my working process and my bile ducts, and you think I’m a ‘private person?’ WMG: On a more serious note, how does being a widely known and often controversial artist affect your personal life? BB: It helps me get hair appointments with almost no advance notice. WMG: You live in Litchfield County, CT, far away from the political fray in Washington. Is keeping your distance a conscious choice? BB: Nothing in my life is a conscious choice. I stumble into everything. But it’s nice to be able to live in a quiet setting, and scan and email my drawings into the fray from afar, without having to rise from my chair or put on socks. WMG: Any chance you’ll run for office in Litchfield County? I imagine you’d have fantastic campaign posters. BB: You have a wonderful sense of humor. [I think.] Jacob M. Appel’s most recent books are a collection of essays, “Phoning Home,” and a short story collection, “Scouting for the Reaper.” He is Assistant Professor of Psychiatry at the Mount Sinai School of Medicine, where he teaches medical ethics and creative writing.
fist bump cover. [So let’s just say my relationship with the president is evolving.] WMG: Are you expecting anything in return for your autographed cover? Possibly an ambassadorship? BB: Well, I just became an American citizen, and an ambassadorship to my native Canada would be extremely handy. Who do you suppose I get in touch with about that? WMG: In many of your covers, you display a knack for capturing widespread public sentiment about well-known political figures far more effectively than pundits can do with words–whether it’s the iconic image of Hillary Clinton, as a senate candidate from New York, wearing both a Yankees cap and a Mets cap at the same time, or President George Bush, armed with a feather duster, playing housewife to cigar- smoking Dick Cheney. What’s your secret for distilling the public consciousness so effectively? BB: The panic of a last minute deadline helps. A lot of the topical covers really have to be put together with no time to spare. Sometimes I’ve got a few hours to think of something, get it approved, and draw the final artwork. Obviously, scores of political cartoonists live by this process, and handle themselves with greater aplomb. I never expected to be doing newsy stuff. I certainly don’t know much about politics. I probably lean heavily on my ridiculousness radar [but I’m not sure that really answers your question about a trade secret]. WMG: Do you think being a Canadian lets you see things differently—maybe with more detachment—than if you’d been born in the USA? BB: Well, there’s certainly no shortage of Canadians working as professional smart-asses down here. [My own little brother Ricky is a comedy writer in LA.] I’ve heard that theory— about the sense of detachment. There are a lot of Canadian illustrators working in the States. A great history of Eastern-Europeans here as well. Maybe if I’d been born in Michigan I’d be a game show host. It’s hard to know. WMG: You contribute to a wide range of leading periodicals—not just The NewYorker, but The New York Times, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, and The Atlantic. How, if at all, is a particular drawing shaped by where it will appear? Is there a “Barry Blitt New Yorker” style and a distinct “Barry Blitt Vanity Fair” style? BB: I definitely don’t start with a political message—I’ll go to any angle of a story to get a laugh, even if it’s at odds with my own. [There’s a sickening admission.] As far as my process, I think just sitting down and scribbling, is as much
streets & avenues
ENTRY OF BUILDINGS BY JONATHAN LETHEM
They caught him at the door of the American Tract Society Building, on Nassau. He was entering the building and they caught him at the door, two private security guards from the Park Row Building around the corner. Someone there had called security when they saw him in the lobby, peering around corners, examining elevators. The guards had followed as he exited. They’d stayed at a distance, watching, as the man stuck his head inside the Potter Building on the corner of Beekman. An ordinary looking older man in a transparent raincoat over a dull brown suit, a hat with a withered peacock feather, and carrying a thick book under one arm, glancing at it periodically for – what? Inspiration? Information? It was worrying. Finally, at the doorway of the Tract Building, they pounced. The man seemed shocked to be confronted. He held the book in two hands at his chest. “Visiting,” he said. “That supposed to mean?” “Whatcha got there – a Koran?” “Visiting – buildings,” the man said. “Entering buildings. I beg your pardon.” “Visiting for what purpose?” “I would be embarrassed to say.” “Lemme see that.” It was an odd tall paperback the thickness of a Yellow Pages. The AIA Guide, by White and Willensky. Subtitled The Classic Guide to New York’s Architecture. “What are you planning? A bomb, maybe?” “Never.” The man trembled. “Explain yourself.” “I couldn’t. I’m only visiting. Entering, then leaving. Give me the book.” “This is no time for random visiting and entry, guy.” “I’m sorry to differ but it’s in no way random.” “You know someone? Got business?” “Looking for something?” “What’s the game, man?”
“Don’t touch his book!” The one guard frowned at the second for the panic, then looked at the page. After a moment his partner joined him. They read together, standing on the sidewalk. For a moment they all saw it, the city’s history unfurling backwards, tallest by tallest, to when some church spire, perhaps, towered over the whole enterprise. The island where they stood, once green. “Nine years it held that status,” said the man, gently. “Dang,” said one guard to the other. “Yes,” said the man. He closed his book. “This is all you’re doing?” said the other guard after a minute. “Just, what did you call it – entering?” “A moment inside, then out. No time for more.” “You doin’ that whole book?” “It seemed – it seemed to need doing. Before anything–” Again the man fell silent. They all did. “All right, listen,” said one of the guards. “Just go.” “No police?” “Not today. They’re too busy to waste their time.” “He’s lettin’ you go, man, so go.” “I can’t promise to stop.” “Listen, you have our blessing.” The man only nodded his thanks. He tightened his raincoat, tucked his book, and moved uptown again as though he’d never been intercepted. The two watched him go, then glanced up at the Park Row’s two ornate turrets. Nine years, a fair run. It was a hell of a job to guard a building, but at least they were drawing a check.
“Believe me, my mind is lately going in circles. I’m telling what I can tell.” “It’s suspicious behavior. We have to call the cops.” “You’re not police yourselves?” “We’re uniformed citizens and we’re holding you for the cops.” “Here?” “Back at our building.” The security guard struggled, lacking a precedent. A problem lately everywhere. “Where we took the complaint. We’ll wait and you’ll explain to the authorities.” “Make him walk ahead of us. I don’t want him behind. He could be booby-trapped.” They turned the corner, walking in formation, back to Park Row. “The book, please,” said the captured man. “What are you, mister, hung up on buildings?” The book was returned. “In a way. I’d prefer to say nothing.” “Just entering and leaving, huh? That’s your game?” “I felt an urge to visit.” “Gotta control those urges.” The man shrugged. They came to the entrance of the Park Row Building. “Inside,” they commanded. “This is yours? You work here?” “Sure.” “I envy you. This structure has a major significance.” “How’s that?” The man puffed up with what he had to tell them. “Listen, the buildings, the vanished ones, they were the tallest, yes?” “Sure.” “Now it’s the Empire, correct?” “Get to the point.” “Yours, the Park Row, it was–” He flipped the book’s pages, searching. “Between 1899 and 1908, it was the world’s tallest. The city’s, therefore. 386 feet, it says here.” “Don’t shit me.” “I wouldn’t. Look.” “He’s not booby-trapped.” “Make him walk ahead.”
From:110 Stories 2002
Jonathan Lethem is the author of Dissident Gardens and eight earlier novels. He lives in Los Angeles and Maine.
“Nothing to do with business.” “You’re talking in circles, man.”
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ALL STAR BASEBALL CLINIC
BUILDING FIELDS AND DREAMS: CC AND AMBER SABATHIA’S PITCCH IN FOUNDATION
T HE PITCCH IN FOUNDATION IS A 501 ( C )(3) NON - PROFIT organization co-founded by CC Sabathia, pitcher for the New York Yankees, and wife Amber. The foundation’s mission is to enrich the lives of inner city youth by raising their self-esteem through educational and athletic activities in the New York Tri-state area and Northern California. The foundation showcases three signature programs that provide young people with the tools to be successful in school and on the field. Additionally, the PitCCh In Foundation is dedicated to supporting and renovating baseball fields in the community. All of the foundation’s programs are focused on facing family hardships and challenges. Kids need to be active and engaged in new experiences that motivate them to have a better life and give back to others. CC and Amber’s goal is to set the example and serve as role models. The PitCCh In Foundation partners with community-based organizations to host movie nights, take kids to Yankees games, and bring them prom dress shopping to ensure they aren’t missing out on things because of cost. SIGNATURE PROGRAMS All Star Baseball Clinic • Introduce a new generation of boys and girls to baseball, ages 5-13. • Amber and CC gift young kids a place at the PitCCh In baseball clinic to participate in drill stations and games. CC goes from station to station taking group photos and providing instruction. An important component to the clinic is not only to learn technical
skills, but also sportsmanship and greater confidence. • Over 1,000 kids have participated in clinics on the east and west coasts.
Youth Backpack Program • Since its inception in 2009, the Youth Backpack Program provides backpacks and supplies to kids in communities most in need and has surpassed several milestones on the east and west coast. • On the west coast, CC’s mom, Margie Sabathia-Lanier, serves as the Foundation representative, presenting backpacks filled with school supplies to all first and second graders in the Vallejo City Unified School District. • On the east coast, Amber and CC distribute backpacks to young students at two locations—PS 106 and the Juvenile Justice Program at Legal Aid Society in the Bronx.
ALL STAR BASEBALL CLINIC
AMBER AND CC AT A PITCCH EVENT
* scouts came to see him play and dream of what was to come. The PitCCh In Foundation once again partnered with the Good Tidings Foundation, and with permission from the Vallejo City Unified School District, recently completed the three-month refurbishment. To donate or get involved with the PitCCh In Foundation, please visit www.PitCCh.org
AMBER PRESENTS BAG
TO YOUTH GIRL
AMBER AND CC TAKE 150
KIDS FROM MADISON SQUARE
BOYS AND GIRLS CLUB TO SEE
MILLION DOLLAR ARM
HOLIDAY CARAVAN Each holiday season, Amber and CC play Santa Claus on both coasts to support all age groups, from infants to the elderly. They host special events in Manhattan for youth from the Tri-State area, such as the Madison Boys and Girls Club. On the west coast, CC and Amber return to their hometown of Vallejo to give back.
BASEBALL FIELD RENOVATIONS THURMONFIELD INVALLEJO, CA
CC spent much of his young life learning the skills and techniques of baseball with the North Vallejo Little League (NVLL). NLL uses Thurmon Field and PitCCh In partnered with Good Tidings Foundation to help renovate the field. Countless hours from volunteers in the community helped to make the renovated field a reality. Since the renovation, Little League sign-ups have gone from 55 kids and 3 teams to averaging over 250 kids registered and 16 teams per year.
CC Sabathia Field at Patterson Park at Vallejo High School in Vallejo, CA
Vallejo High School is Amber and CC’s alma mater. CC has many special memories on the baseball field at Patterson Park, including one where
the next chapter
S he must have a window seat. This, she promises, is her last phone call for the night, reminding me one more time, it must be a window seat. I tell her I will do my best, the plane seems awfully full, and since it’s a last minute book- ing, it might be hard. “If I tell you I want a window seat, get me a window seat.” Click. This phone exchange was not long after she had been diagnosed with moderate stage dementia. She had some scary moments; un- settling, jarring, and confusing moments. Having found her curled up in a ball, naked on the floor in her bedroom in Florida while visiting for a long weekend, I knew she had absolutely no recollec- tion of how she landed there. When I shook her from her sound sleep, she smiled and told me I looked a lot taller than she remem- bered. “Ma, you’re on the floor.” “Oh. It feels comfy though, you sure it’s the floor?” A Bat Mitzvah in Scarsdale, New York spurred her into major travel frenzy. She wanted desperately to go. “I have to go. I have to see Gertie. I have to go.” Gertie was her sister. Theirs was a relationship not dissimilar to Palestine and Israel. “I have to go. Don’t tell me I’m not going.” The thing about my mom, she was as stubborn as the day was long. God’s honest truth, sometimes it was really hard to tell if it was the dementia, or my mother just being herself. “Ma, I don’t think it’s a good idea, you traveling by yourself.” “Oh, really? Fine. I’ll drive to Gertie’s.” Having rammed her car into a fire hydrant – a glaring sign that she should never be behind the wheel ever again – “It came out of no where,” she said, “One minute I was sitting there, minding my own business, and the next minute, there it was, crossing the street.” What do you say? Really? “Ma, it can’t walk, a fire hydrant doesn’t walk.” Unbeknownst to us, my mother had an expired driver’s license. I worked it out so a car service (a very kind man who lived a few doors down from her) would come and pick her up, drop her off at the JetBlue Terminal, and make sure there was no seen or unfore- seen problems. I paid the guy to wait an extra half-hour. I called the airline, JetBlue, and spoke with a reservation agent, who had just the right combination of humor and sympathy and could not have been any more cordial or kind. She promised they would do whatever they could to accommodate my mom, but she needed to remind me that the plane was in fact full, and hopefully someone would be able to move if there was not a window seat available. I ask her if there is a ‘companion’ person – a representative – who can help my mom get settled. Help her with the boarding pass, and the other unexpected frustrations that may arise. Yes, she says,
THE WINDOW SEAT by Amy Ferris
someone will help my mom. I can only hope and pray for my mother to come ‘face to face’ with kindness. I think of all the times I gave up a window seat for an elderly person, or a pregnant woman, or a wife who wanted to sit next to her husband. I am hopeful. She is picked up at the designated time – standing outside her condo with her suitcase and an overnight bag, hav- ing packed enough clothing for an en- tire month. “Maybe I’ll stay for a few extra weeks,” she tells me the night be- fore when she lists all the clothing she’s bringing. I can hear in her voice something I never heard before: loneliness. She gets to the JetBlue terminal, she checks her suitcase outside with baggage claim, and – I am told by the neighbor/car service driver – she hands a crisp ten dollar bill to the lovely bag handler, telling him he is a lovely, love- ly, kind man. He deeply appreciates her gesture. Little does he know that the remaining ten or so crisp ten and twenty dollar bills that she has tucked ever so neatly in her wallet will make their way to others who smile, offer a hand, let her get ahead in line, help her with her carry-on. She makes her way up to the counter, where a ticket should be waiting for her. Yes, there is a ticket, but she must go to the gate, in order to get a window seat. She goes through the whole secu- rity scene – I am told by the neighbor/ car service guy – the taking off of her shoes, the removing of her belt, the telling a joke or two about her hip re- placement after she in fact set off the security alarm and how the sound re- minded her of the old days in Las Vegas when someone won at the slots. It was a sound filled with ‘good wishes.’ “No more,” she says loudly as if tell- ing it to every single person on the se- curity line. “It’s a phony sound, it has
no heart. Gimme back my shoes.” The neighbor/car service guy cannot go any further with my mom. The rules. The com- panion person from JetBlue now meets her, thankfully. There is no window seat available. She has an aisle seat. It appears that no one wants to give up a seat. I am horribly sad by this lack of generos- ity for this old, frail woman, and dare I say, embarrassed, because this old frail woman is in fact my mom. This is where I get to relive the whole crazy scenario as it is re- peated to me: My mother throwing a shit storm of a nut-dance, hurling a racial slur at the African American flight attendant, and then, if that wasn’t enough, causing another passenger who was somewhat overweight to breakdown and cry. “You know how fat you are? You have your own zip-code.” The ad- ministrator told me on the phone it was like an unstoppable chaotic ruckus. A tornado. A whirlwind. I am sad. I tell her that my mom has the beginning stages of dementia. It comes and goes, but mostly it’s coming these days. I give her all the broad strokes, my dad died, she’s living alone, we know, we know, it’s time to get her settled, she’s stubborn, she’s independent, and there’s the whole question of what to do now. Move her, or does she stay? And she’s always been much more strident and righteous and defiant. Not going gently into the good night. She’s escorted off the plane, and somehow manages to get back to her condo by renting a car even though she has an expired license. I would just love to meet that Avis rental per- son who gave my mom a red Mustang to tool around in. She calls me in absolute hyper-hysterics. She wants me to fire every single one of those nasty, bitchy flight attendants, and pilots, and the co- pilot, he’s as much to blame. And where is her luggage, her f---ing luggage? “I bet they stole it. They stole it and you should fire them, the whole lot of them. Now. I want you to fire them now.” “Okay, Ma. I’m gonna fire them now.” I find out from the very cordial and patient JetBlue rep that her luggage is on its way to New York. I am in Los Angeles on business; my brother is at a birthday celebration on Long Island. Neither one of us expected this hailstorm. I try to deal with the airport bu-
“See that, see that, they’re dancing together. Just like Daddy andme. You can only see this kind of magic from a window seat.”
reaucracy and arrange for my mom’s luggage to make its way to Fort Lauderdale within 48 hours, barring any glitches. My mother refuses to speak to anyone. She feels duped and lied to and the fat girl should have gotten up. “My God, she took up two god-damn seats.” And then she said, “I always, always have to sit at the window.” Why, I ask her, why? “F--- you,” she hangs up on me. Shortly thereafter, I moved my mom to New Mexico where she was about to start living in an assisted living facility. “Did you get me a window seat?” “Yeah, Ma, I got you a window seat.” “Good,” she said, “Good.” As the plane revved its engines, and was about to take off, my mom took my hand and squeezed it, staring out the window – watch- ing the plane disappear into the gorgeous white clouds – and after a few long, long, mo- ments, she turned to me, and said: “Up here, in the clouds, I can dream all I want.” Then she pointed to two clouds, almost intertwined, and she said with such joy: “See that, see that,
they’re dancing together. Just like Daddy and me. You can only see this kind of magic from a window seat.” In that moment, on that plane, it was as if every memory was intact. She started to giggle. She was so happy, con- tent. The lines on her face smoothed out, her eyes filled with a sparkle and a twinkle. It was here – up here – that my mother had always been able to see and feel and imagine clouds dancing, forms taking shape, lovers kiss- ing, the intertwining of souls, and as her hand pressed up against the window, she could, in fact, feel the kindness of Heaven. Amy Ferris is an author, editor, screen- writer and playwright. Her memoir, Marrying George Clooney, Confessions From a Midlife Crisis (Seal Press, 2010) was adapted into an Off-Broadway play in 2013. Amy dropped out of High School, and never looked back. Coming from a middle-class Jewish family on Long Island, this was, as you can imagine, not received well. Her parents sat shiva for two years. *
• Quartet Residency by Attacca Quartet • U.S. Premiere of La Celestina by Opera Erratica • American Premiere of Superposition • John Zorn Composes New Work for The Cloisters • Masters at the Met Presents Five Extraordinary Singers • SPARK: A Conversation Series Continues For tickets, visit www.metmuseum.org/tickets or call 212-570-3949. Tickets are also available at The Great Hall Box Office, open Monday-Satur- day 11:00 a.m.—3:30 p.m. Tickets include ad- mission to the Museum on day of the performance. 1000 5th Ave, New York, NY. 212/535-7710; www.metmuseum.org
YOUNG JEAN LEE
THE PUBLIC THEATER STRAIGHT WHITE MEN November 7 – December 7, 2014 Written and directed by Young Jean Lee Featuring Austin Pendleton, Scott Shepherd, Pete Simpson, and James Stanley The New York Times has named Obie Award win- ner Young Jean Lee (The Public’s Church and We’re Gonna Die ) “the most adventurous downtown playwright of her generation.” The Public presents the New York premiere of STRAIGHT WHITE MEN, in which she defies expectations with a con- ventionally structured take on the classic American father-son drama. When Ed and his three adult sons come together to celebrate Christmas, they enjoy cheerful trash-talking, pranks, and takeout Chinese. Then they confront a problem that even being a happy family can’t solve: when identity is the cornerstone of one’s worth, and privilege is in- creasingly problematic, what is the value of being a straight white man? 425 Lafayette Street (at Astor Place), NewYork, NY. Taub Box Office: 212/967-7555 (10:00 AM - 7:00 PM daily); www.publictheater.org
YOUR COSMETIC PORTRAIT
BY HELENA RUBINSTEIN
BOOKLET COVER, 1935
LA CELESTINA RENDERING
COURTESY OF OPERA
THE JEWISH MUSEUM Helena Rubinstein: Beauty is Power October 31, 2014 - March 22, 2015
On view throughMarch 22, 2015, this exhibition will explore how Helena Rubinstein – as a busi- nesswoman, arts patron, and one of the leading collectors of African and Oceanic art of her time – helped break down the status quo of taste by blur- ring boundaries between commerce, art, fashion, beauty, and design. Through works of art, photo- graphs, and ephemera, Helena Rubinstein: Beauty Is Power reveals how Rubinstein›s unique style and pioneering approaches to business challenged conservative taste and heralded a modern notion of beauty, democratized and accessible to all. 1109 5th Ave, New York, NY. 212/423-3200 www.thejewishmuseum.org THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART 2014 –15 Season of Met Museum Presents Performances and Talks That Enrich and Reinterpret the Met’s Collections and Galleries, and Offer a Range of Classic and Cutting-Edge Music, Theater, Dance, and Spoken Word The Metropolitan Museum of Art is more than just a showcase of artifacts; it is home to a broad range of ideas and personal narratives from every civilization. The 2014–15 season of Met Museum Presents brings these stories to life through theater, performance, and discussions. • Artist Residency by The Civilians; Steve Cosson, Artistic Director
AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY Pterosaurs: Flight in the Age of Dinosaurs Through January 4, 2015 Neither dinosaurs nor birds, pterosaurs are an extraordinarily diverse group of winged rep- tiles—the first vertebrates to evolve powered flight. First appearing some 220 million years ago, pterosaurs traversed the skies for roughly 150 million years before becoming extinct. Visitors will see pterosaurs up close on land, in the sky, and flying over water. Fossils of ptero- saurs and other species as well as casts, lifelike models, videos, and a virtual flight lab that lets visitors pilot a pterosaur using motion sensors will bring these amazing animals to life. Central Park W & 79th St, New York, NY. 212/769-5100; www.amnh.org
THEATER FOR THE NEW CITY Negative is Positive November 6- November 23, 2014
Negative Is Positive is a full-length Dramedy by playwright Christy Smith-Sloman. The play centers on a newlymarried, interracial, up- wardly mobile couple who appear to be leading an idyllic life until an unexpected incident forces them to explore issues of trust, failed expectations, jealousy, friendship,
resentment, infidelity, race and social class. 155 1st Ave, New York, NY. 212/254-1109 www.theaterforthenewcity.net
FROM A PEPPERCORN TO A “PATH THROUGH HISTORY” by Suzanne Clary
as dedicated parkland. Visitors to the Jay Estate can sit in wicker chairs on the mansion’s veranda and revel in the sight of red-tailed hawks ca- reening above ancient horse chestnut trees or just get lost scouting for the movement of newborn wild turkey poults in the tall stands of In- diangrass. The ¾ mile vista to Long Island Sound is incredibly serene. No doubt Manhattan counterparts are feeling the same way as they use binoculars to spot the aeries of peregrine falcons overlooking Bowling Green or enjoy playing ten-pins with the NY Chapter of Lawn Bowlers. According to the NY City Park website, “Bowling Green Park, the first official park in New York City, was established in 1733 and named by a resolution of the Common Council on March 12 of that year: “Re- solved, that this Corporation will lease a piece of land lying at the lower end of Broadway, fronting to the Fort, to some of the inhabitants of the said Broadway in order to be inclosed to make a Bowling-Green thereof, with walks therein, for the beauty and ornament of said street, as well as for the recreation and delight of the inhabitants of the city, leaving the Street on each side thereof 50 ft. in breadth.” The green was leased at an annual rent of one peppercorn to none other than John Jay’s father, Peter (1704 -1782) and two of John’s uncles. These three were awarded the privilege to design and improve the park with grass, trees, and a wooden fence and most famously a field to play “the sport of bowls” (a game more closely related to bocce) and anecdot- ally, the Dutch nine-pins immortalized in Washington Irving’s tale of “Rip Van Winkle.” For all that Peter Jay did to create a beautiful park in the 11 years, by the time the lease was up, two of his children had been blinded by smallpox after an epidemic in the city. With another child, John, on the way it was prudent to move out of the city and Peter purchased 250 acres inWestches- ter County from one John Budd in 1745. Young John, born on December 12 of that same year undoubtedly grew up playing games of “bowls” in Rye, perhaps while his grandfather Auguste watched with pleasure, remember- ing what it was like to play with his own son in Manhattan. This country seat at Rye had to have been an easy sale. The property ran from the Old Pequot Path or King’s Highway (today’s Boston Post Road) to the Sound and provided water access with a dock. But the most striking fea- ture of the Jay estate had to have been its view back in time. The Jays took possession of a 10,000-year-old, man-managed meadow. At the time Peter Jay purchased the land he was looking back at a wide open Siwanoy hunt- ing ground and settlement with piles of shell middens that testified to the plenty of oysters and clams being seined in the harbor. Within the month he made the additional purchases of land to increase the estate to 400 acres plus, and secured a 23 acre parcel called “Hen Island” on top of that. This green oasis nurtured the spirit of one of our greatest patriots and he returned here throughout his life and storied career. From
BOWLING GREEN PLAQUE
Who came up with the idea for our first park in New York City? At which park can you find the oldest man-managed meadow in all of New York State? You’d be surprised at the answers as we take you on a path through Rye and New York history. From the 18 th century to modern times, one renowned family recognized the power of verdant views to refresh and inspire; in fact they were the first to formalize designs for both the oldest park in Manhattan – Bowling Green; and the oldest man-managed meadow in New York State – located at John Jay’s ancestral home in the city of Rye. From the 1700s to the 1900s, these two deliberately articulated spaces provided fresh green havens outside the havoc of noisy urban and even suburban streets. Most remarkably they still serve that function for the public today
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