Mr. Rogers & The Beastie Boys

Mr. Rogers gave us so much. A kind, gentle spirit for one thing.  A guiding life philosophy, for another. 

I’m not sure if he’s the one who came up with this idea, but he’s the one I heard it from first: “Live your life so that you have no fear of the truth.”

That’s good stuff, that is. Mr. Rogers was awesome. And so was his neighborhood.

Creepy Lady puppet. *shivers*

OK, sure, there was the bad puppetry. That Lady Elaine Fairchilde always creeped me out. And maybe his unusually cordial relationship with his delivery man skewed my impressions of how grown-ups acted toward one another. I mean, has anyone ever talked to a delivery man? Delivery men I know pretty much chuck stuff at my door and drive off.

Lately though, it's become clear that Mr. Rogers influenced me more than I ever realized because of his sweater and sneakers thing. When Mr. Rogers changed into his zip-up sweater and sneakers, it signaled the transition from the big grown up world to the slowed-down world of home and make believe. And that’s exactly what I do when I get down to work. I will often put on my comfiest hoodie as I suit up for battle with the Muse. 

Here's what I generally put on while I write. 

This is my Upstate New York sweatshirt. It's one of a kind and also a bit of a joke between my husband and me. See, my husband’s from Brooklyn and there’s this line of Brooklyn themed clothing that all the cool kids wear. But I won’t wear it because I didn’t grow up in Brooklyn, and I feel it would wrong.

RIP Adam Yauch. Word.

My husband special-ordered this Upstate hoodie for me so I could represent my lame-o, economically depressed, constantly cloudy ‘hood. 

And if you're inclined to take issue with that characterization, let me just point out that ain't nobody's writing rap songs about wanting to get back to Upstate New York. And therein lies the difference between cool and not cool. 

And there it is, right there. Mr. Rogers' wisdom at work: I'm not trying to be something I'm not. I'm living my truth ... about being lame. And I'm doing it in a comfy hoodie.

Do you have a uniform you wear when you're writing? A sweater? A pair of slippers? Sweat pants? Favorite vintage Beastie Boys t-shirt?

Zebra Pride

Saw many interesting things on Ye Olde Road Trip this past week. I saw, especially, a lot of this:

And listened to a lot of music on the radio, and asked myself for the ten thousandth time, what was so great about 1984 and why do so many Upstate New York radio stations refuse to move past it? (See this for fuller explanation).

And wanted several times to pull over to the side of the road and shout: “Here me, O People of Upstate New York, Tyvek house wrap was never intended to be used as permanent siding for your homes!”

But without question, the oddest thing I saw was a plain old, fenced in horse paddock that contained – not surprisingly – horses. Lots of them. Standard colors – mostly brown. And there in the center of the paddock, grazing all by his lonesome, was a zebra. Had to look twice or thrice to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. But, yes, it was a zebra. It’s not like you can mistake a zebra for anything else.

I’ve been thinking about that zebra all week. How on earth did it get there? Does it know it’s a zebra and not a regular horse? Do the other horses treat it any differently? Does it revel in being different or does it sometimes wish it could pass for a plain brown horse because it gets tired of people asking what it does for a living?

You know what? There was a time in my life I didn’t tell anyone I was a writer. I forget why it was important that people not know this about me. I guess I just wanted to pass for normal. Actually it wasn’t so much that I wanted to pass for normal, I wanted to BE normal and have a normal job and not be afflicted by this writing thing. Let’s be honest, folks. Who among us has not wished that law school held as much appeal as sitting alone at the computer, trying to silence the voices in our heads? Sometimes it’s hard to feel like the world of normal is passing you by. Sometimes you can’t help but wish you didn’t have these damned stripes on your back.

But you can’t change what you are. When you're a zebra, you're a zebra. And sometimes you’re a lonesome zebra standing in the middle of a horse paddock. Not normal in the least, but then again, nobody ever said being a zebra was easy.

The Twelve Blogs of Christmas, Day 3

Heart-warming Stories of Holiday Tragedy: News at Eleven



As you’re rushing through your to-do list this holiday season another thing to remember is not to set your house on fire. Where I grew up, in Upstate New York -- or as we liked to call it back then, “Quebec” -- every year, like clockwork, each and every local television station ran a piece wherein the local fire department would demonstrate what happens when a kiln-dried tree is not given sufficient water, is sprayed with highly flammable, aerosolized fake snow, and then wrapped in a shorted-out string of lights. Poof, kids. Poof. “So tell your Daddy to remember to put that cigarette out before putting the star on the top of the tree."

I slept with a fire extinguisher under my pillow every Christmas Eve just hoping to make it ‘til morning without perishing in a blaze of pine-scented flames. I never got any rest. You just can’t sleep with a loaded canister of chemical foam under your pillow.

For years I thought this fiery Christmas tree story was just a “down market” kind of news story. By down market I mean, if you’re covering the local news in Upstate New York, you probably graduated last in your class from journalism correspondence school or you have a second head or you were recently released from a penitentiary and you're just trying to get back on your feet. We had local news anchors with speech impediments and two glass eyes. Upstate New York is just not the kind of place that attracts people at the top of their field, and like I routinely tell folks nowadays, but for the pedophiles we wouldn’t have had any Little League coaches at all when I was growing up. So don’t knock ‘em.

Now I live in an up-market television locale, and yet I still see these same news stories every year, which oddly makes me feel better somehow because it’s one less bumpkinny thing I have to feel self-conscious about. (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ruined Christmas parties by asking why there weren’t any cocktail squirrels.) The up-market addition to this flaming Christmas tree story is the news broadcast concerning a fire breaking out and displacing a local family of nine. You’ll see these folks talking about how they have nothing left and perhaps in the background you’ll see the smoldering remains of their home and all their water-soaked possessions. Always there’s a mattress on the lawn but then, it’s quite possible that the mattress was there before the fire even started.

The reason the Seasonal Home Fire story is so great is that it then provides opportunities for follow-up stories about neighbors reaching out in the wake of this tragedy to provide clothing, toys, and chewing tobacco. In other words, it's a great way to finish out the year without having to beat the bushes for actual news. I hate to say it, but I suppose it’s entirely possible that journalists all over America are the ones setting these fires so they can keep busy during the holidays. But really, who can blame them? The last two weeks of the year are called the news hole for a reason.

Now, just to reiterate: I do not think you should put lit candles on your Christmas tree. It's a bad idea just like sticking your sneaker into a moving escalator is a bad idea and licking cane toads is a bad idea. Additionally if you see someone in your yard with a can of gasoline and a boom microphone, get the hell outta the house. But don’t call the fire department, whatever you do. They’re busy doing a dry run of next year’s public service announcements on lighting fireworks in areas of drought and the perils of deep frying turkeys. In other words, they, like everyone else between Dec 20 and Jan 2, are phoning it in at work.

Hostess With the Mostess

I can’t watch most of what’s on television because I am a big chicken. If there is rising tension, undercover cops shouting at each other over their dying partners’ bullet-ridden bodies, or decomp of any kind involved, I can’t watch it. I also have a strict policy against watching anything where kids get killed. So pretty much there goes all primetime network and cable television right there. Oh, and if there are ghosts trying to avenge their own murders or even ghosts who are perfectly nice but just want to chat because no one else can hear them? Can’t do that either.

What I do watch is the Food Network because here’s an empirically proven fact: food is never scary or stressful. Food is never stressful even when they try to make it stressful with those competition shows or Food Network challenges where the pastry chefs have to reinterpret the work of El Greco in fondant and so on. OK, there’s a time limit and sure, they’re rushing to finish but let’s face it, if your giant sugar sculpture falls over right before judging, well, that’s a shame but a general rule of thumb in my life is, if you make a mistake that can be eaten off the floor by your dog it’s not all that bad of a mistake.

Seeing as my regular T.V.-viewing options are so limited because of my chickenhood, I have probably tried to watch every show on the Food Network. To my dismay, I have found that I cannot watch just anyone chopping onions. For me it’s not so much about the food itself as much as the host’s personality and delivery. Plus there’s what I call the ITWRR -- “in touch with reality ranking” -- with 5 being “fairly grounded, doesn’t insist that we make our own chicken stock” and 1 being “I nearly always have a film crew around me, and I have no idea how average people without access to Japanese eggplant actually live.” If a host’s ITWRR is too low, I just start throwing toast at the television like I’m at the midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

I’ll break things down for you host by hostess in case you ever get tired of watching “CSI: Montpelier” and need a break from the endless parade of recently-discovered corpses:

Paula Deen: OK, I'll admit it. Hers is the only show on Food Network that stresses me out. I fear that someday I'll be watching her show and she will choke to death on her own tongue while trying to pronounce the word “oil.” But if you like that sort of thing, go ahead and watch. Are you over fifty? People over fifty love her. She’s like Garrison Keillor that way. ITWRR: 2.5

Sandra Lee: I have nightmares about that woman and her elaborate tablescapes. I dream that I am caught in a giant doily and she is laughing and wants to put me in one of her signature cocktails that she’s created from the blood of the unrighteous who cannot coordinate their outfits, kitchen décor, and dining room table cloths. ITWRR: 3.14

Bobby Flay: Why is he always insisting on showing up places and demanding to challenge people for dominance? What is he, like, the Scorpion King of food? ITWRR: 3

Giada DeLaurentiis: She and Todd are going to get divorced one day and I’ll tell you why: When your husband has friends over to watch the game, they do not want to eat swordfish on ciabatta bread with tapenade relish. That poor, pasty man probably just wants a plate of goddamned hamburger helper once in a while. Please, Giada, for the sake of your daughter, make some dang cheeseburgers once in a while and, please, NOT with tangy, easy-melting Fontina cheese. Either that or just leave your husband out of it altogether and keep throwing dinner parties for your vapid girlfriends to help celebrate the launch of their new handbag line. ITWRR: 0

Ina Garten: I watch her a lot. I love her show. It’s on Logo Channel, right? Oh, wait, maybe I’m thinking of something else? Her show is the one with all those gay guys who show up and set the table for her and bring her flowers. Then they all eat her food and tell her how fabulous it is. Isn’t that the one? ITWRR: -6

Tyler Florence: He talks too fast. He moves too fast. He once tried to cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner on a 2-minute Today show segment. I think he might be manic. Do you think I should try to contact him and tell him my concerns? I’m sure there are medications that might help or maybe we could just all pitch in and buy the guy a crock pot. ITWRR: 3

Nigella Lawson: She is perfect in every way except that her show’s on too early on Saturday mornings, and I always miss it. I’ll bet you even she wouldn’t get up that early to watch her show but then she couldn’t anyway because most weekends she’s probably stuck to her own sheets after an ill-advised middle-of-the-night icebox raid to dunk pork tenderloin into caramel sauce. ITWRR: 4

Jamie Oliver: I adore him. I would like to carry him around in my pocket like my own little troll doll and periodically muss his already mussed hair just because he’s so cute. Then I would bring him up to a cabin and chain him to the stove and force him to cook meals for me made from ingredients that he gathered in the forest. Because that’s the only way you can make his recipes – to have him do it. I have two of his cookbooks and I can tell you firsthand who can make these recipes: Jamie Oliver can make these recipes. Which is why I needed him to cook for me, officer. I was gonna let him go as soon as he finished with that wild mushroom crepe with ginseng foam and pan-seared brook trout, honest. ITWRR: 2

Rachael Ray: She’s the best thing to come out of Upstate New York since Ironweed. (I’ll just wait while you look that reference up. ) All right, fine, I admit it. I’m a little jealous of her success because I’m from Upstate New York, too, and as we all know there is this huge quota thing going on and only one person from Upstate New York per century can be successful and I guess she’s it. So yeah, take what I say about her and her “delish!” with a grain of salt. ITWRR: 4

Anne Burrell: I like Anne Burrell. OK, bear with me a minute, but I am very certain that Anne Burrell might be the same girl I met once on Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. I just remember going to this party at a motel and there were these girls there who were running around in nighties spraying shaving cream at people off the balcony and playing Romeo Void really loud. They were not attractive girls, OK, let’s be honest, but they were having a fun time of it anyway even with no boys in sight. And they invited us to come and hang out and so we did. Then there were shots of flaming Jell-o and the next thing I knew, I was awakened by the most amazing smell because some angel of mercy was cooking sausage and eggs on a hot plate and they were fargin’ fantastic. And I tell you, that girl who was cooking, she didn’t seem hungover at all, but I am sure she drank more than all of us combined. I’m telling you, it was her. It was Anne Burrell. This is a woman you want to learn from especially when you've had too much flaming Jell-o in a Florida motel room. ITWRR: 5

One last thing: I don’t trust skinny chefs. I know you claim that you looooove food, Robin Miller, and I do believe that you love cooking, but I do not believe for a moment that you like eating because people who love eating are easily recognizable by their fatness. The proof’s in the pudding, people. Or rather, the junk’s in the trunk. So my advice to you is to watch Sunny Anderson and make her stuff ‘cuz girlfriend can OBVIOUSLY cook, if you know what I’m sayin’.

Deep Cuts

I stayed up way too late watching a documentary about The Who on VH1 Classics last night. I’m sure you’ve watched your fair share of these things too. “Behind the Music” was a favorite for a while, but it ran its course due to redundancy. There are only so many ways to dramatically render shooting, smoking and snorting your money away while your friends watch helplessly or nearly as often, don’t realize you had such a problem because, you know, they were drunk. All budding musicians should be forced to complete a scared straight program that consists of watching these rockumentaries for 28 days before being allowed to sign with any major record label. Call it “pre-rehab.” So I stopped watching because they were all so sad and dumb, which I think is an accurate description of many lead singers. That being said, if they should ever do a BtM episode on The Wiggles I will definitely not miss that one.



I grew up in a region of the country known by those of us who know these things as The Classic Rock Corridor. I’m sure there are other pockets of space-time scattered throughout the lower 48, Alaska, and Hawaii where these exist, but this particular area is located in central Upstate New York. Classic Rock inexplicably persists there despite the advancing years and a drastically changed music scene. It is the land that rock forgot – or where rock is eternal, depending on how you look at it. You can tell you’ve entered into the Classic Rock Corridor because suddenly your radio station will fritz out and the only station you get is playing Yes or Pink Floyd or, more often, Boston – and more specifically still “More Than a Feeling,” which I’m pretty sure is the national anthem of the Classic Rock Corridor.



Getting back to The Who for a minute, I should say, they were never one of my favorite bands. I never doubted Pete Townsend was as cool as cool gets, but I think I suffered from “Baba O’Reilly” overdose from too many years of living in the corridor. Now, mind you, I don’t reject my upbringing. I haven’t forgotten where I come from. You want to duel Classic Rock lyrics? Bring it. I know every word of Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” and who among us has not said to his kids at some point: “How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat!”



But I stopped talking about music a long time ago, and I stopped buying music for a long time. I felt that talking about music and bands had become this way to quickly eliminate people from your list of Those Who Should Be Taken Seriously. I thought it was an adolescent thing, but then it seemed to follow me into adulthood as well. People need you to know what bands they like and don’t like. Nowadays I think we no longer worry about having clean underwear on in case we’re hit by a bus. Instead we worry what people would say if they saw every song on our IPod. What if someone found you by the side of the road and saw every single one of your songs – I mean every single one -- and you didn’t have a chance to explain that your girlfriend was the one who’d loaded Lady Gaga? Some people might not bother calling an ambulance. I worry that soon we will not have to have actual conversations; we will just have a bar code on the back of our hands and carry scanners around with us like cell phones. Want to know someone’s whole life story? Just scan them and you can move on if you don’t like their playlist.



Ah, but this is modern life. Short cuts are a fact of our existence, I guess, especially since we’re all so busy, but I will always resist them just the same. When we were younger we all tried to like the same stuff. Now we all seem intent on being as different and singular as possible. But I, for one, want you to know that you should feel free to confess to me that your music tastes are NOT exotic, obscure, and terminally hip. I will not walk away from you at a party. In fact I might find it charming.



My husband gave me an IPod for Christmas two years ago. It was literally the first piece of technology I’d owned since having a portable CD player in 1994. Getting that IPod, not to overstate in any way, allowed me to rediscover one of the lost passions of my youth. My father once told me that the first time he heard a song in stereo – it was The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” – it was so beautiful, such a great leap forward in experiencing the fullness of music, that he wept. It was like that for me, too – getting that IPod was just really effing awesome. One of the first songs I picked from ITunes was “Let My Love Open the Door.” I guess I’ve aged into Pete Townsend finally or maybe, now that I have a choice about it, I can choose the occasional Classic Rock song and feel good about it. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I hope that you’d notice that it got played a LOT. The rest of the songs, well, I’ll keep some of them to myself and just beg for your understanding. After all, it’s not what the music is, it’s what the music does for you.