The Michael Brown Decision: Sad, Mad, and Who's Bad?

This morning I searched The New York Times for clarification/commiseration about the Michael Brown case in St. Louis and the grand jury's decision announced last night that the policeman who killed Brown would be indicted for nothing.                               

The Times didn't seem to have an opinion, perhaps because the decision was announced so late, so at 7:45, I called my friend Elisabeth, who comes from St. Louis and who has been obsessed with this case for months (and rightfully so).  She said she felt very sad, and that she, too, had searched The Times for reaction.  Both of us long for an in-depth New Yorker piece with solid information and analysis.  Both of us felt sad, outraged, and just shy of hopeless about race in America.

In the meantime, I'll give you my reaction, because it helps me to write it down:

Here's what I think:

1. We've got a lot of work to do, we Americans.  Ideally, we'd drop everything and have every reputable therapist and sociologist leading groups of people of all races talking, talking, talking.  And some groups of Caucasians only, so we can air our racist assumptions, however subtle and shameful.

2. Gun control is part of the issue.

3. Caucasians know very little about how African Americans experience life in our society.  Very little.  I think this because of my work at the Berkeley Food Pantry, where about half of the clients are African American.  I have polite, but way-less-than-authentic interchanges with many of them.  The chasm between races is wide and deep.

4. There are people of goodwill out there who want to make it better.

Thanksgiving Do's and Don'ts

So, here comes a copy of Bon Appetit in the mailbox.  (If only they knew--I'm the last person they should send a complimentary copy of that magazine to.).

I flipped through it and found an article  "modern manners" for Thanksgiving by Ben Schott.  Some tips seem helpful, some pointless. See what you think:

For hosts:

• Always invite a non-family member to lighten the atmosphere.  I agree. The more, the merrier. 
• Don't tell guests when dinner will be or some will arrive at the last minute.  Really?
  
• Bathrooms should be well stocked and absolutely spotless.  I guess that's a no-brainer, but it shows what an octopus-like commitment hosting Thanksgiving Dinner is and why I try to get out of it whenever possible..
• No scented candles.  "Roasting turkey and stuffing should be the only aromas."  Least of my worries.
• Don't carve the turkey at the table.   For God's sake, why not?  Norman Rockwell shows it that way.
• Suggestions for non-alcoholic drinks:  sparkling apple cider, cranberry or cherry juice and seltzer, iced Earl Grey tea.  And two things I've never heard of--please enlighten if you can: Blenheim ginger ales and homemade vinegar shrub.
• How to seat people:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    










And for guests:

• Never arrive empty-handed, even if the host tells you to bring just yourself.  Schott's suggestions: candied fruit or caramels; pumpkin-seed brittle; granola; artisanal white bread; really good bacon; small potted herb, such as lemon thyme. 
• Resist the temptation to bring wine, unless asked.  Alternatives: good olive oil, vinegar, or liquor.  Not sure I agree with this--even if the hosts have chosen wine for the dinner, they can drink it another time, when you're not around and they've unbuttoned their waistbands.
• Never surprise your host with food that requires oven time.  Boy, do I agree with this one.
• Ahead of time, feel free to Google guests you haven't met.  This is supposed to break the ice, but won't you look nosy if you seem to know too much? 
• Thank the host within 12 hours via phone call, text, e-mail.  I vote for e-mail. 

We're going to the Claremont Hotel for dinner--yay!  Remodeling got me off the hook this year. But there's even advice for slackers like me:  Tip like Sinatra.

And for everyone:  don't be banal or offensive, argumentative or rude. (Doesn't it sound boring? Or just peaceful?)

Happy Thanksgiving!  We're still here, and Obama's still President.

The Mysterious Structure in the Front Yard

 

What the hell is it?

a.  Shelter for a homeless person

b.  Sculpture transported from the Albany Bulb

c.  Tent made to protect a tile-cutting machine from rain

The answer is "c."    It's actually raining.

Yes, we're still in the middle of a remodel that affects three rooms and the upstairs hall.  I have a toilet parked in my studio, and there's a sink in the living room. 

Haven't had it together to write a blog post, due to having to watch "Selling New York," in a stupor, in which I study one turn-key upper East Side apartment after another.  If I'm not binge-watching,  I'm out running errands, anything I can think of, except buying Christmas presents, which I can't even think about.

More later.

Whoever Invented Stretch Jeans Should Get a Nobel Prize

Senator Chew Toy

So the Republicans triumphed; Mitch McConnell, who my friend Val thinks looks like a chew toy, trumpeted; and the horrible conservative columnist for the SF Chronicle, Debra Saunders, said, "it was a beauteous night."

Wretched

Oh, to hell with her.  It's just one more election.  There will be another one in two years, and Hillary might even win.

I don't think I'm in denial about the election--I just went micro.  There are definitely some things to be glad about around here, such as the new cabinet that just got installed in my studio closet:

 Even without drawers, it's thrilling.

And a rose bloomed on a plant I thought had had it:

 Of course, we still have a toilet in the hall.

* * * * *

This morning in the dressing room at the pool, I overheard a couple of women talking. The first said that her mother died two weeks ago.  Then she said some things I couldn't hear, and the other woman responded, "Oh, you mean she chose to leave."

She chose to leave.  Which is how I've been thinking about Brittany Maynard, who ended her life last weekend at the age of 29,  because she had terminal brain cancer.

I went over and asked the woman who'd said that, a regal African American lady (I wondered if it was a  very wise cultural saying) if I'd heard her correctly.

"Yes," she said.  "My mother chose to leave a few years ago."

"Did she use drugs to do it?"  I asked.

"No," said the woman.  "She just gave up.  Too much cancer pain.  She didn't want to live anymore."

"I like that saying," I said.

"People can choose to leave, however they do it," she said.  "It's fine."  She said this in such a deeply grounded, gentle way that I felt she was giving all of us permission to choose to leave, if we find ourselves in the state her mother or Brittany Maynard were in.

(Of course, Debra Saunders railed against Brittany Maynard.)

* * * * *



 Yeah, right

 Claudia M. and I went to buy some clothes in Walnut Creek.  She's employed, so she needed some outfits that look pulled together, and she found a couple of shirts, blouses, and sweaters.  I bought two pairs of jeans and a t-shirt.

What on earth did we do before stretch jeans?  That's about as foreign to me now as wearing a garter belt every day of high school (or rolling my hair each night, for that matter.  Every. Single. Night.  From 1964 to 1968.).  So uncomfortable.

Clothes sizes now are so insane that I'm wearing a size or two smaller than I did in high school, and I weigh 15 pounds more (or 20,  let's be honest). When I pointed this out, the saleswoman nodded and said "It's American sizing."   I said, "What do you mean, obese?"  She said, "You're funny."  Politely.


She kept urging us into smaller sizes, because--guess what?--stretch fabric stretches out.  I thought, So what? They'll be comfortable.

Afterward, we went to Starbuck's for a drink and a couple of chocolate-coated graham crackers, since we were we were smaller than we thought.  Why not?