lisabirnbach

[lisabirnbach]

FIVE THINGS THAT MAKE LIFE BETTER (for me) (Who Else?)

It's Friday, and the heavens have opened up over the East Coast.  I've decided that since I've been blue since approximately (checks calendar, which in my case is in a leather-bound book) November 8, 2016, I would try uplift by way of five things that cheer me up, or that I appreciate every week.  Five For Friday.

As I'm a giver, I am happy to start this off, but don't be shy.  I'd love to read your Five Things too. We all would, right?  (Everyone is nodding vigorously.)

I will try to do this every Friday.  Maybe we can turn this into a thing (We have italics here on Squarespace!) 

The Students of Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School:  They survived the unthinkable and the unforgettable and have transformed swiftly into leaders.  Do they make me hopeful?  You bet.  Somehow these young, fragile voices are carrying where ours seem to go nowhere.  With passion, authenticity, and fervor they just might be able to change our country's love affair with weapons of war. 

 Half and Half:  Any brand, as long as it has full fat.  We only use a few drops anyway; why not make your coffee delish?  (And when friends and acquaintances order their half caff/ skim latte/all foam drinks and look at me and say, "You're so bad!" I feel sorry for them.  Is this bad?  Really?  I could show you bad.  And even the French fries I plan to eat aren't bad. They may not be healthy, but they are not evil or cruel ... unless they are cold.)  If you are allergic to lactose or cow's milk, that's another story, and I am sorry.

Nylon Dog Poop Bag Holders:  

 I used to have an embarrassingly large red then blue then green plastic bone-shaped container that attached to our dog's leash.  Dependably, half of the bone would somehow unscrew itself, and I would be trailed by a stream of poop bags.  When this happened I was unaccountably embarrassed -- it was a public accident.  Makes no sense, but I would panic and try to gather up all the bags quickly without garnering attention.  (Think toilet paper on your shoe.)  Anyway, this carrier is guaranteed not to break.  Yay.

Henry, aged 8 or 9:

Henry is a Hoosier, a rescue, and a good boy.  Naturally, he is the reason for the gizmo I praised above.  He may be a Schnauzer, is certainly a terrier, and has changed our lives for the better, though certainly added complications, too.  The big question I wonder sometimes is "who rescued whom"?   At the moment, Henry is sitting in a chair near mine, listening to me type and listen to....

WQXR classical radio:  Based in New York City, you can stream it online as well.  My parents had this radio station on all weekends in their house and I go through periods of my life where it is essential to my wellbeing.  Originally owned by the New York Times, the station is owned now by WNYC, our public radio station, so news breaks are provided by NPR.  I don't know how many classical radio stations exist in this country, but they are precious.  

 Have a great weekend.  Stay warm and dry.  

 Love, Lisa

[lisabirnbach]

A Friend Writes In

I received an email yesterday on my website, lisabirnbach.com, from a fellow who feels the bond of connection through my understanding of him and his family; (he says I explained them well in The Official Preppy Handbook). He wanted to share an observation, which I’d like to pass along to you.  

(And here is his exact text)

“Two strangers with radically opposing political viewpoints can meet at a charged political event and instantly feel like long lost friends and drop the hatred IF they are both preps. I have seen it happen a lot. It is curious that left wing Democrat preps and right wing Republican preps can be great friends. It is the common prep experience that allows this to occur.”

Readers, do you agree with his opinion?  I certainly think this is a moment so dramatically fraught that I’ve seen couples, lifelong friends, and family members take oaths to not discuss politics since, oh, November, 2016 in order to keep the peace. 

 “Oh you know Baxter... he’s a Fascist, but I love him!”

I also believe that when two strangers have a common experience it is a lot easier to find a middle ground.  They are less threatening; you, as my correspondent informed me, know them.

The letter writer suggested that preppies can get along with one another because we’re all snobs and elitists -- so perhaps he meant we only get along with one another, whatever our politics.

I’m going to suggest the opposite.  I’m a believer in warmth and openness, so I will suggest that the experience of shared preppiness -- particularly if you ever lived in a dorm -- can actually grow your native friendliness.  Why not be positively primed towards someone new?  (I know; there are a million reasons. And I haven’t been in the most sparkling mood myself, lately, either.)  But to see one’s privilege as an entitlement from birth?  That’s vulgar.  Let’s take nothing for granted.  Fortunes come and go.  Unfortunately, so does good health.  So I recommend gratitude whenever you can muster it.  (Trendy, I know.)

People we know -- even people we love -- can fall under the spells of witch doctors, gurus, maniacal therapists, and controlling partners.  We read stories about these emotional kidnappings every day.   (Long ago, I received a letter from a close friend telling me that she believed our friendship was unhealthy for her.  I was devastated.  I didn’t know how to answer her.  In my frequent rehashing of our final exchanges before this letter, I couldn’t come up with anything that was offensive, nor anything that had changed in our interactions.  Her wording was stiff.  Some friends thought it was a kind of form letter enforced by a quasi-religious cult. And writing this now, I realize it’s been probably 25+ years since then, and we haven’t had a shared moment; not a Facebook memory, not a reunion siting, not a stroke of “isn’t that?” at the Metropolitan Museum.)  

Look, it’s hard to know even the people you know.  I am continually surprised by people I think I know.  My Exhibits (TM) keep surprising me in ways I could not predict.  The rate of change is causing changes that predictors could not have predicted.  (Old School Lisa  Tangent here:  I lament the absence of human telephone operators and human customer service clerks.  I know that within five years the huge job force that makes up taxi, Lyft, Uber, and other local car services will be out of work.  People need jobs!!  Not just American-born people; all people.)

So for the time being, let’s try to keep the guardrails down, and the conversation flowing.

Now you:

[lisabirnbach]

Tweeden and Tweedledum

So Tweeden and her buddy, Roger Stone planned to take down Al Franken. Besides trying to destroy the career of a civil servant -- someone whose only fault is he thinks differently from them (and he THINKS -- italics would be nice here), they are also insulting the women who have actually been groped and harassed. For example, they further diminish every woman who, as a young girl was intimidated and perhaps pounced on by Roy Moore, DA.

If you have the chance, take a look at Leann Tweeden's "body of work". A woman who poses in the nude or provocatively in the semi-nude, whose work before she was a right wing radio person was in the sex business -- it is hard to actually fathom that the jokey, puerile, picture of comedian Franken wounded her. She too grabbed men's asses during the same USO tour, by the way. I'm all for sisterhood, but she can't have it both ways.

In the #MeTOO of it all, we each have our own thresholds of what is and isn't acceptable, what is and isn't taboo, and how much really hurts or did hurt or has contributed to the valleys of our lives.

We do not make our lives better by simply pointing fingers at one another. We don't improve lives by bringing someone down if it doesn't genuinely help others. It's not competitive. Your groping wasn't worse than hers or his or mine. If we pollute the message by looking only for attention, we haven't helped one another at all.

[lisabirnbach]

THE OCCUPATION

With a noticeable chill in the air my mind drifts to the many rituals associated with the Fall that my Exhibits and I have shared.

The unpacking from summer travels, the endless laundry and looking for drawer and closet space for what once fit in so nicely, the getting ready for school and all that entailed (checking the class lists, registering shock at which parents did split up and which ones didn’t), doctors’ visits, shopping for new clothes, shoes, and school supplies, coordinating morning commutes…. It all seems so delightfully innocent and simple.

Now only one Exhibit is still in school — college — and she is pretty much resistant to my offers of help and organization. However, I will be driving her and her minifridge, bedding, fan, storage ottoman, floor lamp, bicycle, and clothing up to campus, and then…. I won’t be needed.

Which gives me more time to dwell on what’s going on inside my head.

It feels like an enormous infection has been growing in my brain. It is angry, breathless, impulsive, braggy, self-centered, and insatiable. It is Trump. In addition to all the buildings that have leased his name and gotten shiny signs and brass for a price, he has taken over the real estate inside my brain — for no money down. Such a deal! For a while that was considered a prime location.

I have lunch with a friend I haven’t seen in a while. We tell each other our news, our children’s doings, our parents’ health, our partners’ ankle injury or hypertension. And how great was your trip to Iceland! And how wonderful the scenery! And you learned how to paddle board! And then it hits me. I realize you learned to paddle board, yay, but Trump was still the president.

I pledge to stop reading news on my phone (as often as I was reading it before). I succeed but still news of his dishonesty, news of his Cabinet’s malfeasance, news of his family’s lack of awareness and lack of hubris (ditto for everyone attached to him) linger in my thoughts like a thistle whose hooks are stuck in my favorite sweater. I don’t want to risk damaging the wool, so I leave it alone for a while, hoping it’ll just fall off. I don’t think about specifics, as I am going to sleep, but I am thinking about consequences.

I’m thinking about the world we are leaving to our Exhibits. It’s not fair. They didn’t grow up recycling all their lives to have a government dismantle the EPA and deny climate change. They didn’t study hard (two of them, anyway) and do community service just to see the rights of the under-privileged sliced away further. They are good people, just like your children, and they deserve to feel safe, to feel they inherited a promising future in a world where their children can play in the grass and climb trees and rocks, and swim in lakes and oceans without permits or risk.

Not only do I add to my own growing lump of worries; even worse I am contributing to the overabundance of Trumpy thoughts in the world.

I know you are but what am I?

In the future, when there is no Trump in the White House and our republic has begun the long slog towards repairing and healing [note spelling], we will find a new normal. And if we’re still suffering from insomnia, we’ll find less news and more old-fashioned self-promotion on our timelines.

[lisabirnbach]

Check out my latest blog post at http://lisabirnbach.com

[lisabirnbach]

SUCCESS! "Lisa Birnbach in Conversation" at the 92nd Street Y

LISA BIRNBACH in Conversation:  Our Turn: Women Leading Academia

Did you know that women lead half of the Ivy League, many elite liberal arts colleges and giant public systems?

Award-winning journalist Lisa Birnbach sat down on Tuesday October 12th, 2015, with Nancy Cantor (chancellor of Rutgers University–Newark), and presidents Amy Gutmann (University of Pennsylvania), Biddy Martin (Amherst College) and Christina Paxson (Brown University) to discuss their career paths, balancing their distinguished careers with family, and the challenges they face in this era of overwhelming college costs and competition from online programs.

#Lisa Birnbach #92Y #92nd Street Y #Nancy Cantor #Amy Gutmann #Biddy Martin #Christina Paxson #Rutgers #University of Pennsylvania #Amherst College #Brown University

[lisabirnbach]

Summer School

“Workshop” is one of those words that is meant to be a noun and only a noun.    (“Task” is another.)  I heard a writer use it as a verb – to workshop -- and say that she hated it, but it was efficient, and we all knew what she meant.  When one reads ones writing in a class and takes notes from ones classmates, for example, one could be said to be “workshopping” the manuscript.  (And that –ing ending, I believe, is called a gerund.)

 In other words, I have attended a writers’ workshop.

 I was barely legit.

 I was frankly filling in for a serious writer whose schedule changed at the last minute.  He was supposed to read an excerpt and be interviewed by another writer/editor.  I was available, like so many Regis Philbins, and Tony Randalls before him.  So I traveled out of town to the workshop.

 I arrived just in time for my program to begin, having prepped with one brief rosé in the village before hitting campus with an old friend.

 It was a little abrupt, even for me.  With one or two exceptions, I had no idea who was in the room.  Were they students?  Locals?  Hobbyists?  Published writers?  Some seemed eager to be there; others were less intent, though nobody walked out.

 Reader, I became a total ham:  I read, I keened, I bellowed, and I mimicked.  Sometimes I really am annoyingly animated.  But then, during the conversational part of the evening, the talk turned – as it often does – to the economics of being a writer, one of my least favorite topics.

 We are overwhelmed by too much content everywhere we go.  It finds us:  online of course, in print, on airplanes, at some gas stations, in the elevators of office highrises, within taxicabs, and now on wristwatches.  Soon, our Nicorette patches will deliver the news, weather, and celebrity tidbits.

With so many outlets it is harder to be remunerated for what we write, even if what we write has literary or merit or originality.  (Scrapbook that!)  Having to perform as ones own agent is a graceless part of the work, which requires a different set of skills from being alone with ones ideas and words.

In a class I attended today, we heard that we must have passion, (check), be flexible enough to trash the first belabored 80 pages (check – without enthusiasm), read the masters (check), and persevere (check).

But sitting in an auditorium filled with writers and writers-in-wanting, I was moved by the wanting, moved by how 40 brains will take in the same prompt for an in-class assignment and come out with 40 extraordinarily different cakes.  We all had eggs and flour and then we diverged in surprising ways. 

 I remembered how much I loved school.    Even just two hours of it. 

[lisabirnbach]

The Last Woman in Town

It’s not scientific yet, but all evidence leads to the fact that I was the very last woman in New York City to take a spinning class.  And fellow investigators take note:  it wasn’t even a class.

A number of weeks ago a distinguished physician at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital sent letters to the many friends of the late writer-artist-performer David Rakoff, asking us to join a “Cycle for the Cure” fundraiser.

Soon the doctor wrote again.  Then again.  Each time he addressed the masses with a printed “nudge.”  How many times do I need to get nudged to move off my ass?  Apparently the correct answer is five. 

After five nudges I signed up to what I thought would be a quiet hour on a bike in a gym. 

Having recently recovered my hearing, I can tell you that my experience wasn’t quiet, wasn’t contemplative, wasn’t “biking,” but was bizarre.  To me. 

 Everyone else  – maybe 300-500 people assembled into teams by various groups who’ve been touched by cancer – was an experienced spinner.  Everyone there had spun.  The centrifuge around whom the room spun was a taut pigtailed woman called Story (or Storie or Storee or Storey) who could ride and cajole and shout for 3 or more hours without breaking a sweat. 

 She made everyone sprint, and stand up, and tighten, and loosen, and scream and rise and fall and push push push.  And pretty much everyone did as told.

 The woman on my left pedaled so hard during the sprints that I realized she hated cancer even more than I did, and I hate cancer.

 The woman whose bike I inherited wasn’t relieved she could sit down.  Au contraire, when I assumed her bike (and realized it was a spinning thing, not a cycling thing) she kept moving, and joined the large group of dancers who were also marathoners. 

 Keep moving, keep shouting, keep going, keep fighting cancer.

Even I had sponsors, and I am happy to say I did complete 45 or 50 minutes astride the machine.  (The timer was broken.)  Afterwards, I was allowed to leave and saw Storie in the dressing room,  where the taut, cheerful, tattooed (sure) woman told me she was one of the first spinning teachers ever, and that she had three kids and was 47 years old.

Then I couldn’t find my locker.    I remembered the combination but couldn’t open this locker.  Or maybe it was the one over there.  I was operating in a post-spinning fog, feeling a little like the little metal ball in a pinball game.  (Do they still have those?)  The idea that the gym would be closing and I’d still be looking for my locker got more real by the moment.  It was so noisy, so sweaty, so crowded that my only comparable experience was having gone to Studio 54 a long, long, long time ago.   Luckily I found a woman with a magic key and I could eventually  get my jacket and return home.

But now I’ve gone spinning.  Thanks to Jonathan, Laurie, Peter, Diane, Diane, Mara, Mary, Dani, Michael, Elise, Neil & Anne, Lenny & Tory, Celia, Leonie, Harri, Barbara, and E. Jean I’ve raised $1180. 00 to go directly to researching the rare cancers that elude fundraisers and ribbons.    Our team raised over $23,000.  

 And now I’m almost like a typical New Yorker,  #becausespinning.

 Next I’m thinking of trying yoga.

[lisabirnbach]

Life after Oscar

How I used to anticipate the Academy Awards show!  I'm not sure when I became attached to it, but I used to care so deeply about watching it.  (When I used to lecture at colleges around the country, my contract used to specify that if I appeared at a university on Oscar night, I'd be done with my talk by 9 pm so I could watch the big show.  I'm serious, and also a little embarrassed about it.)

Needless to say, this was in the 20th century, before I knew anything about the movie business.  But even as the blinders were lifted from my eyes and I knew more about the business and more about the people nominated and more about studio politics, and how the balloting works…. even then I couldn't wait for Oscar night.  And in those days I might not have even seen all or most of the movies.  But I cared deeply about everything, as one did.

My best friend -- who inconveniently for me lives on the other coast -- and I made elaborate plans for the evening together.  Some years we could manage to be together in Los Angeles; most years we watched over the phone together (before the Internet, baby), and shared a personal, gossipy, fun night of excess and celebrities together.

That's so over now.  

Here's (in part) why:  By the time the Oscars come along, we've been up to our teeth in award shows.  We've seen pictures of the same stars coming and going:  at the gym, leaving that highly-trafficked Starbucks on La Vicente, getting their hairs done, going to Sundance, SAG, Grammys, Golden Globes, Peoples Choice, MTV, Independent Spirits, and on and on.  In my memory part of what made the Oscars grand was that these movie stars were not constantly available.  It's not their faults.  The insatiable news cycle demands constant replenishment, even if it's just another shot of Reese Witherspoon's new It Bag.

In the old days there was a sense of danger -- Cher would come up with her own ideas about why to wear and you knew it would be interesting.  Now of course, the whole pageant belongs to the highly-rewarded stylists, who are now more in-demand than the actors and actresses themselves.  In turn, they become celebrities with their own short lists and everyone looks tasteful in their priceless couture gowns.  So not only do we see everyone over and over, they're all dressed similarly and tastefully.

The Red Carpet Blather:  Listening to what passes for conversation on the red carpet is demoralizing.  

Bobble head host:  Who are you wearing?

                        Styled Star:             This is Lanvin/Armani/Saint Laurent/Chanel/Prada,etc.

                       BHH:                         You look amazing!

                       SS:                             Thanks!

                      BHH:                          Are you excited tonight?

                      SS:                             Yes.  I mean It's so great and like, it's just an honor to be here and we've had such a great time with this movie and I'm going to have a great time tonight, no matter what happens.

                                                              End Scene.

If we're going to watch a spectacle, maybe they should just play music over the banality, the profoundly dull words of ill-equipped interviewers.  

The Show Itself

Following (what feels like) 5 hours of pre-show, the home audience, especially those on the East Coast and in Europe are already tired by the time the official broadcast begins.  The show -- no matter who hosts and who produces -- cannot win.  Big production numbers, comic monologues, "funny business" in the audience…. it's hard to steer the big ship in the right direction.  Mostly it seems the best moments are moments of true emotion that come out of the winners' mouths.  Everything else feels more or less canned.

And I always end up feeling sorry for the hosts.  It's a thankless job being blamed for technical glitches, bad writing, and stilted moments.  The hosts cannot control any of that.

Well, look at what I did!  You'd think the Oscar show was important to me.

The very best part of watching the show is that you know everyone else is watching it to, so there is a feeling reminiscent of the Good Old Days ™ when television watching was a communal activity.  When the choices were more limited, and you could only watch the show once when it was broadcast -- everyone could talk about it the next day, whether it was the Oscars, or "The Man from U.N.C.L.E."  

At my house last night, everyone was busy (myself included) writing judgmental tweets and Facebook posts.  So we had some community, but not with one another.  Actually, that's not correct.  We'd read aloud our posts as we typed them into our thingies.

And my friend in Los Angeles?  Of course we were in touch.  She texted me a couple of "Not funny" or "She's annoyings" and I returned fire with "Agreed" and "Disappointings".  Then we said we'll never watch again.

Which we said last year.

[lisabirnbach]

Joe Franklin, TV  Star

As promised, I wanted to remind you (and myself) about the experience of appearing on "The Joe Franklin Show" in 1980.  (I've never seen the episode; I doubt kinescopes of it even exist.)

This was before The Official Preppy Handbook was published, before I could envision myself on a television set, screen, show, or even inside a green room.  This was before I could even declare myself a writer (which I actually was, working full time at The Village Voice for a small but just about manageable salary) without saying it as a question?  It was -- to this day -- my only crime of upspeaking in what is now a long life.

The publicists at Workman Publishing asked me if -- in the most extremely remote case -- "we should get some interest from the broadcast media" in my little handbook, on what show would I want to appear?  

Straight up I said Joe Franklin.  

Obviously I was a fool.

Joe Franklin was one step up from cable access. 

This was before Cable Access.

He was local.  I wouldn't imagine he sold many books.  Looking back, I don't recall being aware that anyone I knew watched the program, unless they were sick at home or stoned or both.  Certainly no one of my generation.  And definitely no preppies.

Joe Franklin was a lilliputian-sized guy with a terrible comb-over and a strong New Yawk accent.  His appeal was hard to define; in a way it was his sheer longevity that made him worth reckoning at all.  He seemed to have no real skills as an interviewer, and possibly a problem paying attention to his guests.  But I liked that.  I liked that he would interrupt a guest to promote Hoffman sodas or Martin Paints, or whomever had paid for his show.  I was entertained by his view of entertainment:  the old MGM stars, the Borscht Belt comics, and Benny Goodman -- these were the people that mattered.  The newer faces and voices were less important to him, and he let you know it by interrupting their anecdotes and going off on a thoroughly unrelated tangent about Deanna Durbin, a singing actress from the 1930s and 40's (who "withdrew from public life in 1949").  

Joe Franklin would have obviously been a great canvas for drinking games.  But this was before TV drinking games. 

How did the publicists of Workman react to my answer?  If they hadn't been so well-raised, they might have executed a Danny Thomas-style spit-take.  (Google him, kids.)  They rolled their eyes and did their best to maintain their cool, and asked for other shows that might be on my wish list.  

"The Today Show", "The Tonight Show", "The Tomorrow Show", right?  Also "Merv Griffin," so my grandmother could see me on the show she watched every night.  Perhaps I'll describe my 1980s Guest On Talk Shows Life another time, but the short answer was that yes, I was able to appear on Joe Franklin's show.  In Franklin's obituary, one of his programs was called "Memory Lane."  By the time I came around I believe it was simply called "The Joe Franklin Show" and he used the phrase "Memory Lane" prodigiously.

As I recall it, I was invited to appear along with my three co-writers.  The place was a vanilla unadorned set, with loads of mismatched office chairs in a waiting room/green room/vestibule.  The little host came out of his (frighteningly cluttered) office and said, "raise your hand if you're on today's show."  By now I had already appeared on lots of local shows in many cities, and I had never ever seen that casual bordering on careless kind of production.   Even local network affiliate show producers sometimes asked for a pre-interview over the phone.  And come to think of it, I don't recall meeting a producer.  This seemed to be all Joe.  I remember thinking, "Someone could sneak onto the program!"  And then thinking, "so what if they did?"

We raised our hands.  

Like four foreign tourists, we threaded our way through Broadway press agents, and wannabe chorines, and sat on Joe Franklin's shabby well-worn couch next to his desk and multi-cushioned (or phonebook piled) seat.  Franklin guilelessly told us on camera that he had not cracked open our book, so he asked us to explain what was in it, and what preppies were.  We tried to use our tongue-in-cheek preppy patois, but when that seemed too alien and perhaps unkind, we lapsed back into Queens' (NY) English.   Going nowhere fast, Joe rescued our appearance by interrupting us, asking us what we thought of big band music. 

   Rest in peace, Joe.  Yours was a great career.

[lisabirnbach]

Trying to make sense.

2015 certainly galloped in, didn't it?  Galloped in and left destruction and despair all over.  Right now, we are with the French people, we are with civilized people all over the world, the ones who probably watch news in their countries and wonder at all the gun fatalities in the United States.  And now, regardez:  

#IAmCharlie  #JeSuisCharlie #JeSuisJuif #WeAreNotAfraid.  

Some days I wonder whether my ideas and the way I express them are clear enough.  Communicating digitally one risks the loss of nuance.  Irony is lost.  I've had some unpleasant surprises when I thought my irony or -- horrors -- sarcasm -- was misunderstood.  Years ago a friend asked me to lunch by email, and I responded, "Well…. okay, if you insist."  I thought I was being droll; he thought I was not interested in getting together.  A faux pas was born and I've never forgotten it.

And, to paraphrase Jon Stewart, funny isn't the same as courage.  It was never meant to be.  To poke fun is meant to create dialogue, not to ask for trouble.  Not every cartoon will strike everyone as funny, or tasteless, or vulgar, or clever, or mundane, or blasphemous.  That's what makes this an interesting ride.  

Our differences are profound.  Sometimes when I talk to friends, I'm amazed by how differently we see the world, and yet there's more to learn from people who see things in a new way.  

Captain Obvious, wishing you a peaceful weekend.  

[lisabirnbach]

Hi Lisa! The new Apple Watch just came out, and wearing it goes against everything my preppy compass says I should never wear it... but how can I say no when I can get in 18-karat gold with a leather strap? Please help.

We all have to hold strong on this subject.  Here's the thing:  an Apple watch will be cool -- at first, and maybe at second.  But personally, the idea of wearing my emails, texts, voice mails, and other obligations is more connectivity than I would ever want.  

Not to mention the fact that there are so many handsome 18-karat gold wristwatches with leather straps already.  Some are antique.

I feel your pain, but I'd just say no.

Hope this helps.

[lisabirnbach]

Re your recent post: You're still our hero!

Thank you.  I don't know what I said to deserve it, but I'll take it.

[lisabirnbach]

I recently bought your book True Prep, and it just so happened that when I mentioned your first book The Official Preppy Handbook my father recognized the name and remembered when that came out!

Some (good) things never change, Virginia!

[lisabirnbach]

Thanks For Everything!

It's A-Little-Past-The-Afterglow-Of-Tryptophane-O'Clock.    Do you want to see another roast turkey this month?  Haven't you seen enough?

And when I think of roasts -- things that are fully cooked -- I think of this hugely negative final quarter of 2014.

I'm thinking of the epidemic of on-campus rapes and the campus administrations and trustees who would prefer to look the other way rather than examine why this problem proliferates so.  Jackie, the student at the University of Virginia  who was beaten, gang-raped, abused, and mocked by a gang of brothers at a Phi Psi party was told by the friends who rescued her afterwards that if she complained about Phi Psi and what happened to her at their fraternity party they'd never be invited to another fraternity party again.   It's not just U.VA.  It's not just elite schools.  It's not just schools with Greek systems.  It's not just the alcohol.  It's a culture of aggression, of captures, of "winning" (in the Charlie Sheen sense of the word), it's the culture of getting away with it.

I'm thinking about Bill Cosby and his now 19 alleged victims.  They are still alleged, I suppose, but it doesn't sound good for good old Dr. Huxtable.

I'm thinking about Jian Ghomeshi of the CBC -- Mr. Charm I thought to myself when I was a guest on his show, "Q" a few years ago -- who engaged in sadistic behavior that was not consensual with another series of women who are now speaking up.  

It's about the gun violence that has become a daily part of our news cycles.  I pointed out another school shooting to one of my exhibits, who said something like (but not these words) "What else is new?"  

A toddler kills his mom when she's changing her infant's diaper.  Well, duh -- there was a loaded gun in the sofa -- what a cool toy to have lying around.  

I'M NOT SAYING I CAN'T HANDLE BAD NEWS.

I'm not subscribing to those anodyne "good news all the time" feeds that strike me as tone deaf as hearing Christmas carols in the mall in September.  

I'm saying these are painful times.  That's all.

I had an English professor who taught us a class in 18th century American literature.  He began each lecture by intoning this quote:  "These times clean fail me; yet still I yearn."  

I wish I could remember who wrote those words.  Not even Google knows.  I thought he knew everything.

These times clean fail me; yet still I yearn.

[lisabirnbach]

Captain Obvious, Reporting for Duty

Hello again, friends.  My super power seems to be to state what we (not all of us, but many of us) are thinking.  [Time Out: I love that Tumblr has italics.]  Anyway, there have been so many articles about the college application process.  (I'm not including any that have come from my pen.)  Yes, it's a grueling experience.  The gauntlet is no fun, the referendum on one's young life is no fair, and by the way, nothing about it is fair.

In the final analysis, so much comes down to influence and money.  The 1% throws its entitlements around -- personal letters of reference that actually refer to a student's character and personality don't matter as much as generic letters by billionaire patrons, written by their executive assistants.   Ridiculous.  Offensive.

The truly impoverished also get a big leg up if they attend a high school that cares about its students enough to become proficient in the ways of financial aid applications.  (And there are high schools with administrators  who care.)

To everyone in the vast middle:  I wish you all luck and say for now, you will be fine.

If parents start thinking about where their kids should attend college before those kids have reached 9th grade, they are doing a disservice to themselves, their children, and their children's high school education.

 If you wait until the much more proximate sophomore year in high school, you'll allow your child to start to figure out who she or he really is, and what he or she wants to study and where he or she wants to live for those very formative undergraduate years.  And it might not change the outcome if you let them achieve the grand age of 15 before the pressure mounts.  (Believe me; I have 3 exhibits.)  

The other overly-mined train of thought is the Return on Investment (ROI) school which states categorically that a four year college education is only worthy if it leads directly to a high-paying job.  Ergo, study engineering, even if it doesn't speak to you.  And those pathetically retro Humanities programs? They're just for wastrels who have no impetus to work.

Captain Obvious wants to tell you about learning to think, learning to become independent, and the blooming of what over time becomes one's personal philosophies.  This is what happens ideally during one's university years.  It doesn't only happen in the classroom.  We don't learn as much from our successes as we do from our failures, and we have to allow our children to make some mistakes, even though it's incredibly tough to watch them happen.

Finally, Captain Obvious has been silent on the subject of the family that needs to be constantly photographed and reported on in order to survive.  To speak of the picture that was released last week is to indulge their vulgar aims.  

It's not easy, but I will try to control myself.

[lisabirnbach]

PREMATURE

So what else is new?  It's the last quarter of FY2014 and I'm still thinking of the brave new world of websites.  In fact, I no longer can explain the stubborn reluctance I had about establishing a website in the first place.  I saw other writers' websites and thought them fine, pleasant, complicated.  

Did the notion itself seem…. pushy?  (Yes, I'm whispering.)  Did it seem unnecessary?  (Ditto.)  Did I think I earned some kind of life credits for going without a website?  (No comment.) 

Interruption:  When I tried to find a visual to post here which would suggest pushiness, Google suggested I use a picture of Princess Michael of Kent, shown here:  

Rude, no?  When I think of "pushiness" I think of stage mothers

Or the people who thrive off them.

Pushy, Pushier, PUSHIEST.

  But, back to me.

photo, courtesy of Elena Seibert.

I am going to launch a website, and this will happen soon.  It also took me years to get cable, join Facebook, and learn to drive.  Soon, I will be a full-fledged member of the digital race.  And then I will be better able to communicate with you and my science experiments.

  #TaTaForNow