.Thursday, March 21, 2002

reflection of construction in a downtown rooftop pool

FFP's slippered feet by pool

"Be really reserved with everybody, and seemingly reserved with nobody; for it is disagreeable to seem reserved, and dangerous not to be."
Lord Chesterfield (1694-1773)

I organize some pictures on my computer, scan something, do some e-mail, read a little, finish yesterday's NY Times crossword. I do a little work, keeping up with e-mail.

I am supposed to have lunch with a friend. That doesn't come off due to some work obligation that comes up for her. So FFP and I consider getting some takeout or going out. Then we decide to make a spinach, bacon, feta salad. I fry up the bacon and crumble it. We make a fresh pot of coffee.

FFP's day is pretty busy. I can tell by the phone calls and stuff.

I go over to the parents. I take Dad a book I bought him on sale at Restoration Hardware about propagating plants. I take Mom some little miniature chairs that I bought on sale. They have two leaks on the screen porch and their washer isn't working. Dad calls the handyman about the leaks. I confer with FFP and we pick someone to call about the washer. (We got these appliances with the house and they are sort of old so it isn't surprising.) It is always something with houses.

Dad and Mom have things to tell me besides the problems. Dad has seen and identified some Titmouse or the other (a bird) in the yard and has some lillies coming up in the yard and is growing tomatoes in pots. Mom feels better but, as usual, 'not perfect.' We discuss my uncle (Dad's sister's husband) who is in the hospital exhibiting some kind of mental breakdown or dementia. "His brain just cracked," my mother says, "that's what the doctor says." I wonder if this is a medical term.

My dad has finished two of the books I took him. One is about seven Japenese-American families living in Hawaii in 1941 who had relatives back in Japan. When my dad finishes a book of mine now, he writes in the front, writes a capital 'B' and draws a circle around it and writes beside it '02' to show he read it this year. In this one he has also written, 'War is Hell!" with a very large exclamation point. Indeed, it is.

Political fundraiser. Forrest and I try to remain above the fray, politically. We vote although we didn't vote in the Dem. or Rep. primaries. (You know, if you do, you can't go to the Libertarian county convention or any other splinter partie's do. Not that we would do that either.) FFP doesn't want to offend a client and inevitably there are clients on both sides. I think all politicians are a little slimy at the end of the day. If they win, it certainly takes, um, compromise. And if they get into power. Well, Bill Clinton is as good as an example as any.

Still. Somehow we have contributed to this fundraiser in the most inadvertent way. And since it involves getting to see the most amazing downtown address going these days and a concert at the Paramount, well why not?

We get ready and go downtown via streets. We are actually early and we scout around and find a parking place on Congress. We are therefore at the event precisely at five. There are only a few people there. We beat the candidate even. He comes in after us. The house is in a converted store front. It is relentlessly modern set against a multistory limestone wall revealed and rennovated from the orginal building. There are TVs all over the house and they are set at the moment to the security system. A guy paces in the alley and I wonder whether he knows he's on camera. We can see guests arrive at the front door and assure ourselves that no one is lurking in the mechanical stuff on the roof. We wander through the master suite and the exercise room and up to the rooftop pool. Every square inch is decorated and done. There are Four Seasons banquet waiters pouring drinks and renewing various stations of crab cakes, sushi, pot stickers and smoked salmon.

We greet people we know. Regardless of the party, we know people. The candidate asks if he can mention our names since we've asked not to appear in printed matter. "Yes, sure." Among the faithful, why not?

Just before leaving for the concert, we talk to Jimmy Treybig. I haven't spoken to him, I don't think, since I worked for Tandem. Which is now Compaq and, I guess, on its way to becoming HP. Jimmy was always a drinker. We are both drinking Chardonnay. A gal I know walks up with a bottle and drains it into my glass, leaving him a few drops. I find this satisfying although I never finish the big dose of wine.

Robert Earl Keen. Perhaps you are a fan. To me, though, his music seemed lugubrious and repetitve. Some of the lyrics clever as poetry. The band kind of rocks out to close the first set as if to show that they can actually play when not strumming along to funereal dirges (wait, that's redundant).

The rest of the crowd seems quite enamoured of it. We leave and go to the Four Seasons.

So when the elite starts to arrive in the FS bar for a drink after the event we are settled in, me sipping a sherry, FFP a coffee drink. We've already ordered and consumed a pizza. And talked to the mayor of the Four Seasons, we like to call him, because he is a lawyer who holds court there. Rebecca is playing tunes. She left her microphone at home. I like this music. I'm an old fuddy duddy. (Not really, I still like Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan, old style Bob that is, and old Rolling Stones tunes as well as American standards.) Rebecca's SO shows up with the mike and she sings some, smiling bemusedly at us when I look over.

The in folks stream in, the candidate, the GM of the hotel, etc. We talk to folks.

And, we go home. It all makes me a bit sad. I loved the house. But I couldn't even afford the taxes on the place. Actually, the event isn't making me sad. It's the limits of life making me sad. The inevitable compromises and the self-imposed rules. The fact that we work and work to get a bit of money only to keep driving even though we know that time is short, our time here is well over half gone, our healthy years perhaps quite short. Yeah, during part of Robert E. Keen's dirges (that were in fact supposed to be amusing, some of them, not sad), I just let tears roll down my face. It feels good sometimes to be sad. Feeling bad for my uncle and his family, for all the lost souls and people in pain, feeling like my own life has been a waste. Sometimes it is just good to be sad and get over it. We live the most charmed lives and it always amazes me that, having none of the problems of most of the people in the world, we can still feel so grim.

So, home, to bed, the cheap Chardonnay playing havoc in my brain...I sleep uneasily, finallly getting up for my 'cure' in the middle of the night...two Aloe Vera gel caps and a couple of Advil.

JUST TYPING
Time off.
Practicing.
A dilettante life.
Not just sort of dilettante.
But. Completely so.