Dancing With Myself (August 10, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

dog

I had the oddest and oftentimes, the loneliest birthday weekend I can recall. But that seems fitting as we are collectively in the midst of one of the oddest, most lonely epochs confronting the nation. I saw the apprehension and confusion of the country reflected on the faces of my network of friends and family – more of whom are searching for work than actively employed.

The festivities got off to a rough start on Friday evening. Eddie unveiled the news that he has six to eight weeks before his services are no longer needed at the Chicago company where he works as a contractor. Instead of keeping IT development in-house, they are going to outsource to a consulting company in order to conserve cash. Two months is plenty of cushion for Eddie to find a new job, and we are used to this sort of uncertainty in his field, but of course the big question is whether or not he’ll be forced to travel again. We don’t like that prospect much at all, having spent the nine months of our engagement apart, the first year and a half of our marriage, etc.

So Eddie had the weekend away from being the slave to work he has been recently, and for all those hours of devotion, he was rewarded with a hearty “thanks” and the need to start the hustle all over again. The market is still awful as we all know, but as contractors are glorified, overpaid gypsies willing to board a plane to anywhere, they always land on their feet. They just may not know where their feet actually are when they wake up in the morning, and this pattern is certainly disruptive to marital harmony.

Though I am well aware that we’re luckier than many, I was a little bummed. Then some ridiculous family drama occurred that isn’t even worth laying out in detail. But I do have a question: why can’t dilemmas in my family be of the usual kind: pregnancy, divorce, he said/she said arguments. Must they ALWAYS involve one or more felonies?

But I digress. Friday was definitely draining and killed the buzz I started with my friend David, when we left the office early at 3:00 to grab an early birthday drink.

In fact I spent most of the weekend drunk, an idea that would have left me satisfied in my 20s, but this year rendered me bloated, dehydrated, depressed and feeling rather unaccomplished. Sunday the 8th was my actual birthday, and I made plans to duck out with a group of friends to the annual Market Days festival in Boys Town, so Eddie could job hunt in peace. I tried to regain my birthday momentum that morning, feeling I owed it to the gay community. After all, last week saw the empowering strike down of Prop 8 by a Federal court. The weather in Chicago was hot and humid, and with the thrill of victory, the LGBT community was more prepared than usual to party half naked.

My friends and I arrived separately, leaving me with over an hour to wander the festival grounds solo, admiring for the first time in many years the wonderful, colorful, sexy spectacle of it all. It was over 90 degrees at 6:30 PM and I was surrounded by beautiful, dancing men. Things could definitely be worse. I pulled my wild curly hair off my neck, got a class of cold champagne and let my senses be inundated.

Ostensibly, I had called my pals to Market Days to catch the closing musical act of the weekend – Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Ms. Jett has lost absolutely nothing since her 80s heyday in terms of look, magnetism and talent. A free concert starring a real rock star on my birthday. How could I resist? The set was due to start at 8:00, and around 7:30, I started needling my buddies that we should head over to the main stage. For a variety of reasons, my pleas went unheeded.

By 8:15, the time we finally begin to migrate toward the stage, trying to shuffle more than a few inches reminded me very much of trying to walk a straight line though the streets of Mumbai – sweaty, claustrophobic work. I held hands with my mates and wanted very much to steer the group toward the perimeter, where we could breathe and at least listen to the music. We couldn’t see anything pinned against a dense row of bodies anyway. But there was no appetite for this amongst my (by now) heavily intoxicated friends. At some point, I found myself separated from the group and waited for a reunion call or text message from the right side of the overflowing portable toilets, but this call never came. I finished my current drink to the wailing strains of “Bad Reputation” and “Cherry Bomb” before catching a cab back home.

When I arrived home at 9:30 PM, I thought Eddie might be free. He said he was getting to work when I walked out the door at 4:30. Later, he claimed an early case of “writer’s block,” that rendered him useless until 7:30, but I suspect this “block” arrived in the form of a nap or a Bollywood movie from Netflix. In any case, it seemed my return home was an ill-timed irritant.

By now truly intoxicated and disgruntled (can’t a girl get a little attention on her birthday!?), I poured myself another glass of wine and strapped on my iPod. I made my way to the balcony toward the rear of our apartment, and as I walked, inspiration struck! I had been denied companionship, affection and live music this weekend, but I would after all have the celebration of my life I sought. I made a playlist that began with the first songs I could remember loving as a child: “Xanadu” (Olivia Newton-John), “Celebration” (Kool & The Gang) and “Ride Like the Wind” (Christopher Cross). I worked my way through the decades: through Madonna, Whitney Houston, Survivor, Patty Smyth, Dr. Dre, New Kids on the Block, TLC and ended up at Justin Bieber (yes, I adore “Somebody to Love” – suck it), Rihanna and Kings of Leon.

Did I mention that this musical retrospective of my life came replete with dancing? Oh yeah baby. I was getting down on my balcony and lip synching as though my very life depended upon it. After awhile, I started noticing blinds being drawn up on a few of the windows across the street. Fine. I was not going to let self-consciousness end the first truly good, abandoned time of the weekend. So on I danced, and as I did so, snatches of memory flashed through my mind, each new song bringing its own associations. Some made me laugh and smile. More than a few brought tears. I am certain that I appeared for the entire world to be in the midst of a schizophrenic breakdown, but it was cathartic and reminded me that I had lived. Despite the loneliness that currently threatened to overtake my spirit, I existed. I had been places and done things – all of which took up valuable real estate in my consciousness. I could recall these associations and wade in them through the medium of interpretive dance.

After two hours of this mad reminiscing, I wore myself out (naturally), drank a Gatorade, popped a couple Advil and went to sleep. I wasn’t worried about what I had done without any longer. I was raring to get up the next morning to begin the next 32 years of my life. What would the soundtrack to those years sound like?

Obama’s “Bad Blood” with Business (August 5, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

Much has been made recently of the strained rapport between the Obama administration and corporate interests. Various talking heads and opportunistic Republicans have seized upon the trumped up “war” between the President and Big Business as the cause of everything from the consistently high unemployment rate (“corporations are afraid to hire in this era of policy uncertainty”), to hard times for small business (“Obama’s desire to let tax cuts for the wealthy expire harms entrepreneurship”), and even, to my incredulity, the fallout from the BP oil spill. For example, the UK’s new Business Secretary, Vince Cable has been quoted as saying of Obama’s rampant criticism of BP’s actions before, during, and after the deep well explosion, “the president talks in a cheap way about ‘kicking ass’. Whether or not the American president can kick our asses, he can certainly hurt our wallets and purses.”

Thank you Mr. Cable for your ever so enlightened inclusion of ladies’ “purses” in your corporate lament. We now see you for the truly forward thinking, fair-minded guy you are (cue laugh track).

Even the “liberal media” has enjoyed taking the issue apart. Sunday morning talk show Meet the Press featured a panel discussion this past weekend including New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg and former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan. Greenspan, while rightly declaring the state of the economy to be “touch and go,” also added “The financial system is broke and I see we just stay where we are. There’s nothing out there that I can see which will alter the level of unemployment.”

As soon as the former Chairman uttered these words, I gleefully clapped my hands together and waited for host David Gregory to give him the what for. After all, that is what the incomparable and disinterested Tim Russert would have done. But the moment never arrived. How can Greenspan credulously state that he “sees nothing out there” to act as a positive force on current unemployment rates, at a time when Big Business is posting record profits, and holding onto wads of cash?

Companies like Adobe, AirTran, Honda – even the once shaky banks and mortgage lenders who needed a taxpayer bailout are suddenly right as rain. With all this good news, why isn’t a stronger bottom line leading to improvements for long struggling job seekers? As I perused The New York Times last week, suddenly the answer became clear:

Industries Find Surging Profits in Deeper Cuts

Writer Nelson D. Schwartz declares, “Many companies are focusing on cost-cutting to keep profits growing, but the benefits are mostly going to shareholders instead of the broader economy, as management conserves cash rather than bolstering hiring and production.” On so very many levels, this makes me ill. Seems to me that instead of focusing on the trumped up antagonism between Obama and corporations, we should be talking about how Fortune 500 establishments have become the tormenter of American families.

So to return to my earlier question, how did the rumor that the Obama administration is the enemy of business get started, and more importantly, why is it being perpetuated? From where I’m sitting, it seems that it’s never been a better time to be a CEO, if not a regular working stiff. In addition to the record profiteering, I don’t recall Obama slamming the door in the faces of banks, automakers and other industries that showed up on Capitol Hill with a tin cup begging for change.

Probing a little further, it seems that the convoluted health care and financial reform bills could be the tacit excuse. Big Business would have you believe that the runaway regulations being passed by the “socialist” President are the root cause of its persecution complex (see first paragraph – “corporations are afraid to hire in this era of policy uncertainty”).

Pardon my French, but what a bunch of horse shit. If anything, President Obama hasn’t done nearly enough to roll back the heady days of Clinton/Bush deregulation. I believe I am not alone in my frustration – having to listen to the tiny violin playing martyrdom of corporations, even as they pop champagne over record profits, commending themselves for delighting shareholders on the backs of the jobless masses.

If the Obama administration has been the arch nemesis of business, how much worse off would the nation be if he acted as a friend?

Lessons in Lindsanity: Or, How to Wear Orange with Grace (August 3, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

lindsay

Lindsay Lohan’s release from a Los Angeles jail at 1:35 AM yesterday morning, after serving just 13 days of a 90 day sentence, annoys me.

Please tell me how this woman will EVER learn her lesson? And by “lesson,” I do not mean that the hopeless train wreck should have been “scared straight” by her days in the clink, nevermore to find herself on the wrong side of the law. None of us are naïve enough to expect that, and in fact I look forward to the evidence of Lohan’s recidivism with relish. This is, after all, her second trip to the pokey at the ripe old age of 24.

What Ms. Lohan should have learned by now after a dizzying amount of arrests, lawsuits, and video images documenting the rampant drug habit that only she and her mother are delusional enough to deny, is how to besmarter with her lawbreaking. And please Lindsay, if you can’t manage to do that, and insist on sporting “fuck you” nail polish to court, at least have the wherewithal to expect the book to be thrown at you.

But it’s clear, against all logic, that Lohan was genuinely shocked to discover that the laws of the little people also apply to her. Thus the widely circulated You Tube video of Lindsay’s sentencing hysterics on July 7th. This reminds us of the equally humorous “Mommy, it’s not fair!” ejaculations unleashed on the court by Paris Hilton three years ago, before she was hauled away pursuant to a DUI conviction, for a brief stay in the same jail.

Would I be totally perverse if I welcomed the increase in she-celebrity incarceration as evidence of feminist gain? There was a time, not too many decades ago, when ladies were deemed too “soft” to handle the psychological and physical torments of jail, particularly members of the well-to-do crowd. Small crimes committed by women were thus either covered up or ignored, and this might have been fine except for the maddening and condescending implication that female criminals were not self-aware enough to comprehend their actions. Those of us who want equal rights must not cherry pick the situations were they should apply. Therefore, I truly applaud the fine work of the L.A. court system, which has made inmates out of not only Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton, but also Nicole Richie, Michelle Rodriguez and a host of other bad girl celebs.

I am pleased to say that Richie and Rodriguez took their lumps like the tough girls they are. Lohan and Hilton, as we have already affirmed, not so much. The pathetic lack of fortitude displayed by Lohan throughout her two-week stay in the Big House, punctuated by late night wailing, catatonic despair and the ironic continuation of the drug abuse that landed her there in the first place (Adderall and Ambien among the list of approved “medications”) leads me to dislike her more than the thoughtless and dangerous actions that warranted the initial attention of the 5-0. Though I will never be proud of my own visit to jail in the summer of 1999, I can at least satisfy myself with the certainty that when trouble and I found each other, I dealt with it as a chastened adult.

Before being picked up in the small town of Kentland Indiana, on August 9, 1999 – the day after my 21st birthday – I often wondered what I would do if the moment arrived. If I found myself in hock with the law, would I panic and break down? Kentland (population 1,822), part of Newton County, outdoes Mayberry in stereotype, with its stated distrust of “big city folks.” While driving back from a weekend celebration in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I was pulled over by a Conservation Officer (whom I dubbed “Fish Cop” behind his back), who actually had to call in another patrolman with the authority to arrest me. It is, my friends, a fine thing to have to filibuster and make small talk with the man ruining your day, while he waits for the authorized cavalry to come slap the cuffs.

Because I had just turned 21 and was, by any measure, a complete moron, I was breezily speeding down the highway at a clip of 80 MPH while simultaneously smoking a “happy birthday to me” joint. I was but minutes from the Illinois border, en route to the University campus at Urbana-Champaign, a place where the marijuana laws were much more forgiving to students such as I.

My bad luck to be picked up in Indiana. My worse luck that I had just come from a shopping spree at a renowned head shop in Michigan. When the fish cop asked if he could take a look in my trunk, this is what he found: an 1/8 ounce of weed, a six pack of beer, incense, a new and unused gas mask, three bowls of all materials (glass, wood and stone), and a brand new water pipe (more commonly called a “bong,” for those of you who actually studied in college).

Thus when Fish asked me to pop open my trunk, tipped off as he was by another motorist, I had no recourse other than to approve his request. Unlike Lindsay Lohan, I was not however, taken aback when I found myself snugly encased afterward in a pair of form fitting silver bracelets, and led to the back of a squad car.

I wish I had a copy of my mug shot for posterity but the Newton County jail is pretty stingy about souvenirs. This bad humor did not however stop a bunch of officers from posing jovially with the armloads of contraband they had snatched from my vehicle. They even had the bad taste to enjoy themselves in my line of vision as I was printed and booked. Abu Ghraib anyone? I have oft suspected that not all the “evidence” found its way to the locker that evening.

I cooled my heels in jail overnight, before my angry and embarrassed mother came to bail me out the next morning. My cell mates – three prostitutes and a crack head – could not have received me more cordially had it been their own parlor, rather than county lockup. They handed me the best reading material in their possession, and informed me of the unlimited calls I could make. Things definitely could have been worse.

In the end, I paid a $1000 fine for my indiscretions, and was ordered to perform 100 hours of community service. After a full year of good behavior, my probation period ended and my record was wiped clean. Know why? Because I kept my nose clean (pun intended Lohan!) and didn’t make myself more annoying to the law than I already had. I finished school, paid my debt to society and most importantly of all, didn’t cry about it. I had been caught red handed. What was the point? I won’t say I never smoked pot again, but I sure didn’t indulge while operating a moving vehicle. Lesson learned.

Making a lot of noise over my deserved punishment would have made it that much harder for myself and everyone I loved to put the incident behind them and move on. Do you hear that Lindsay? It’s called taking responsibility. I owed those who believed I was on my way to life as a hardened convict, the strength of character to bear my sentence with a modicum of composure.

I wish she had served the full 90 days of her sentence. Maybe that extra time would have served to break and humble her, which is really what a situation like this requires.

Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

I am an unironic fan of 1987 coming-of-age film classic “Dirty Dancing.” In my humble opinion, there have been but two actors within the last 30 years able to pull off a seamless transition between the best in song and dance, and the virile masculinity of a rugged action star. Those two actors are the gone-too-soon Patrick Swayze, and the thankfully still-kicking Hugh Jackman.

There are, of course, many other reasons to love the movie. That soundtrack. Jennifer Grey’s beautiful curly hair. The nostalgia for the early 1960s. But really? “Dirty Dancing” turned Swayze into an icon — deservedly so.

And yet, the film is not without its problems, one of them being its virtual disregard of the Civil Rights era. Sure, heroine Baby Houseman has vague notions of joining the Peace Corps and making a difference, challenging her father to walk the walk of upper middle class white liberalism by accepting her relationship with dancer Johnny Castle. But as Baby herself notes in the movie, as well as in Broadway in Chicago’s production of “Dirty Dancing,” “You told me you wanted me to change the world, to make it better. But you meant by becoming a lawyer or an economist, and marrying someone from Harvard.”

The stage musical, directed in this limited Windy City run by James Powell, attempts to address the sociopolitical shortcomings of the source material in its first act. Making much over Neil Kellerman’s revisionist humanity (in the film, the character is a proud one percenter), actor Ryan Jesse gawkily and charmingly plans a Southern Freedom Ride with several members of the resort staff. There is a community listening of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech around the vacation bonfire. The scene enriches the fun and frothy experience of the production’s striking and sustained song and dance display.

Alas, those attempts at serious conversation ultimately go nowhere at all in the second act. They are lost in a bewildering rotation of scenery and set pieces, interspersed with small snatches of dialogue from characters who would probably break the metrics functionality of their Fitbits in 2015, there’s so much walking on and offstage. That’s a fair metaphor for my overall assessment of “Dirty Dancing” the stage production: Too busy and unfocused, too much green screen and too much promenade.

The show does have a full awareness of its camp, which is a plus. In an amusing dance training montage, the terrific Gillian Abbott and Christopher Tierney, as Baby and Johnny, move through a series of natural events (swimming, rain, etc.) that simply can’t be staged believably with only lights and moving parts. So the technical team and actors give up entirely and hand the audience a knowing wink, infused with affectionate warmth and respect for its inspiration.

The work is nothing if not faithful to the ’80s cultural phenomenon of “Dirty Dancing.” Most of Baby’s classic wardrobe is carefully re-created by Costume Designer Jennifer Irwin. In fact Irwin does a spectacular job overall capturing the trends and style of the “Mad Men” era, with a modern stage nod to vibrant color. The dialogue is purposefully intact, not withstanding some edits and the addition of scenes that as mentioned, beef up some side characters and attempt to provide historical context.

True fans of the film will enjoy Broadway in Chicago’s mounting of “Dirty Dancing.” And they will be positively overwhelmed by the vocal talent of Jennlee Shallow and Doug Carpenter, who evenly distribute subtlety and show-stopping power in new renditions of standards like “In the Still of the Night (I’ll Remember)” and “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life.”

But the show has its limits, despite trying to be everything. And that won’t be enough for “Dancing” newcomers. This becomes painfully apparent throughout the production’s second act. A lot less of everything would amount to more.

“Dirty Dancing” runs through August 30 at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, 151 W. Randolph, Chicago, IL. For information or tickets call 800-775-2000 or visit the Broadway in Chicago website.

Carly Fiorina: The Media’s Faux Feminist Alternative to Hillary

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

carly fiorina

On August 12th, writers Amy Chozik and Trip Gabriel of the New York Times collaborated on an article entitled, Carly Fiorina Emerges as a G.O.P. Weapon Against ‘War on Women’ Charge. In it, they quote Kellyanne Conway, a Republican strategist, as saying, “[Republican] Donors have looked at her as the answer to Hillary.” In a GOP field overrun with misogyny, the perception of Fiorina as Clinton’s conservative foil may partially explain the former’s recent rise in the primary polls.

But calling out the obvious discrimination the former CEO of Hewlett-Packard often experienced at the hands of her male colleagues, hardly makes Fiorina Norma Rae. After Donald Trump’s abysmal references to debate moderator and Fox News commentator Megyn Kelly’s “bleeding” earlier this month, she told Jake Tapper of CNN, “I’ve had lots of men imply that I was unfit for decision-making because maybe I was having my period. So I’ll say it, O.K?”

 Well, I guess that’s good enough for most members of the corporate media. Carly Fiorina once ran a huge business operation. She’s appealing to voters for an opportunity to take on the nation’s most important job, the presidency. She’s a woman. She’s had men behave like asses toward her. Ergo, she’s a feminist.

This narrative is helpful and accessible to the uninspired press and provides an air of undeserved legitimacy to a 2016 Republican campaign notable for its brazen rhetorical assaults on women and brown people. And we thought 2012 was the lowest we could go. Perhaps recognizing that the party is well on its way to alienating a combined majority of voters (again) in a national election, journalists such as Seth McLaughlin of The Washington Times have resorted to sad Jedi mind tricks. He opens a recent piece with this:

For years, a question lingering over the Republican Party has been whether it was ready for a woman to lead the ticket in a presidential election. Now some are wondering whether Carly Fiorina could be the one to punch through the glass ceiling — possibly setting up an all-female race against Democrat Hillary Rodham Clinton.

This fantasy ignores a few inconvenient facts about Fiorina’s anything but feminist record. As part of her stated platform, the failed California Senator opposes a government requirement that would give private sector workers paid leave. This despite the clear fact that the absence of paid leave opportunities disproportionately affects female employees. Fiorina’s position reflects a lack of empathy with the challenges faced by her gender, as well as an ignorance about the way real Americans live. Democratic Senator Kristen Gillibrand of New York was quoted by The Huffington Post as saying:

I think it will overwhelmingly [hurt] her with both male and female Republican voters because overwhelmingly, they all support paid leave…She may just not be aware, she may be in her own world, her own bubble where she can afford child care, she can afford support when she needs it, but her low-wage worker can’t.

Another area of feminist failure for Fiorina? Despite the relatively short 95-year history of female suffrage, she cast ballots in a mere 25 percent of the California elections for which she was an eligible voter. Michael Hiltzik of the Los Angeles Times reprints this explanation from the CURRENT CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT: “I felt disconnected from the decisions made in Washington and, to be honest, really didn’t think my vote mattered because I didn’t have a direct line of sight from my vote to a result.” Susan B. Anthony she is not. Nor is she in possession of an iota of self-awareness.

The hypocrisies continue in conservative and unmotivated media efforts to paint Carly Fiorina as a viable alternative to Hillary Clinton’s message of female empowerment: her backward-looking health care policy (Deregulate! Obamacare is destroying us!), opposition to funding for Planned Parenthood. I could go on, but plumbing the depths of Fiorina’s not-feminism starts to get depressing.

She is no more a competitor for the general female vote than Sarah Palin was in 2008. While Fiorina may be less laughably and proudly buffoonish than the former Governor of Alaska, the idea of her as a serious option for women, or voters who care about them, is equally ridiculous.