august 26

Yeah I like you in that like I like you to scream  But if you open your mouth then I can't be responsible for  Quite what goes in or to care what comes out  Quite the week. Writing for magazines introduces me to a variety of ... personalities. Most of whom, when you get right down to it, are much more fascinating, creative, exciting than myself -- which makes sense, since I'm getting paid to talk to them, not the other way around.  (I find those interviews where the author inserts herself into the story – "Here I am, in Brian Wilson's hot tub" – to be self-aggrandizing and ultimately boring; if I wanted to read about the writer, I'd buy a magazine where she's being interviewed.) Recently, I've had some of my more interesting experiences of the last two years with subjects of the stories. First of all, a truly interesting person: Edet Belzberg, who is winning a Gotham Award next month for her documentary, Children Underground. They sent me a copy so I'd know why she was winning it, and I'm so pleased I saw it. Pleased in a nauseated way, that is; the story being told is something you wouldn't believe if a science fiction writer stepped up and said This is the world in 2001. I've known for some time about the true difficulties in Eastern Europe since the Cold War ended ("Hey, we're taking down your wall! We're not giving you any support for the transition from a communist to free-market economy! Have fun!"), but the ones that have mostly grabbed headlines are the wars in Bosnia, etc. What's going on in Romania, however, is much quieter – and so much sadder in its own way. For some time, 20/20 and the newsmagazines have shown scenes of the orphanages over there, of the abandoned children who – if they're unlucky enough to have AIDS or be mentally ill or sick in some other way – are often tied to beds or left in their own filth for hours or days on end. The system has no support, there is no money to help raise these children, and there are so, so many of them. I read a fictionalized account of a woman who adopted a Romanian child, brought him to the U.S. and then watched as he terrorized her family and tried to kill her biological child – and how ultimately she had to give him up, a scenario terrifying on so many levels for someone who was adopted herself. Yet I sympathized. So I've had a cloudy but not totally ignorant picture of the life that is attempting to go on in Romania. Belzberg's documentary puts a focus elsewhere – here's part of the press release blurb:   Five children, age 8 - 16, boys and girls, living in and around a Bucharest subway station, are filmed for more than a year. They are but a few of the more than 20,000 Romanian street children, the human cost of the Ceausescu regime (1965-1989), which banned abortion and even contraceptive devices, to increase the country's work force.  In the 1990s, the country's failure to adjust to a market economy left its social programs in collapse, driving thousands of orphaned, abandoned or runaway children to the streets to fend for themselves. Unwanted, unloved, the subjects of CHILDREN UNDERGROUND live like a feral pack, foraging for food and water, begging, fighting, playing and fantasizing. The drug of choice is Aurolac, a highly toxic metallic paint whose fumes they inhale. It is easily bought over the counter. Like homeless children the world over, they are an undeniable black eye on the face of humanity, captured here with searing honesty. The children she highlights range in ages; Christina is 16 and shaves her head and dresses like a boy so she's less likely to be messed with, one of the starkest and most heroic steps I've ever seen anyone take; littler Ana is 10 and watches after her younger brother, who she brought with her when she last ran away. She gets beaten up fairly regularly. This is no Oliver Twist fantasy; this is far more wretched, pure anarchy – these are children who don't identify themselves as being human like the rest of us; being told they once had a mother or father is sometimes like hearing a fairy tale. And they really don't have anywhere to go home to – you see two of their families the indifference, or sheer inability to take responsibility for their children is astounding. I know all Romanians aren't like this; I know all Romanians who are poor aren't like this. That there are enough to make a documentary, however, is shocking. Is it any better over here? Maybe. A child who runs away in the U.S. has a safety net, at least – there are governmental services, there is foster care, however imperfect – and getting things like food and water isn't anywhere near as difficult as it is for these kids. It just breaks your heart for an hour and a half. Talking with Edet afterwards I found it so hard to form the right questions. She was really shaken up by what she'd seen and done over there. She deserves an award, but she deserves far more recognition than she's gotten so far. These kids need more help. The more I think about it, the more of a useless person I feel. Next: I interviewed D, who's doing some music -related work for an upcoming new fall show on CBS. We hit it off, and he's a big jazz nut, and so we started sharing a few emails about that. Kind of fun, and a nice unexpected connection. Then he asked to see a photo of me, and I thought, well, what the hell. It's a fine line here – not that I have anything against making a friend or making a date in this way, but there was nothing indicated along those lines, and I just figured, okay – this may be a line that's being crossed, it may not, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Then, it turned out CBS was sending him out from L.A. to New York for a few days to do some work on the show, and we agreed we should get together for a drink when he hits town. He called about 20 minutes after landing, while still in the taxi going to a friend's house on the Upper West Side, where he'd be staying a day or two before getting a hotel room. Called later on, and the next evening we decided to get a drink after work. All very cool and fine; I figured we'd have a good jazz discussion, maybe even see some. We ended up having a drink in the apartment (I'm a sucker for seeing Upper West Side places, and the view from the roof was very sweet) and getting some dinner at Ruby Foos down the block. Had a great time, or so it seemed to me, instant rapport on all manner of conversational topics. I like a guy who's not afraid to use a two-dollar word – and more importantly who's not afraid to use it and make it seem totally natural, rather than someone who uses it and takes a pause like he's waiting for a cookie. Things got a little touchy-feely, shall we say, beginning on the roof and continuing as he walked me to the subway after the meal. Hey, that was all cool, although I don't know why it is I never see the line coming up to hit me in the face. Was I, as a grown adult, supposed to think: Oh, drinks in the apartment (he had to feed the cats, he said, which he did) means such-and-such? Was I supposed to think, Send me a photo means such and such? The whole I'm from another planet which is why I don't read the signals right feeling hit me in the head. Still, the whole evening was a pleasant time out, and he's all about the "I'll call you tomorrow" business. It all seems hokay dokay. Well, next day goes by, no call. No biggie, although he had said something about coming down to where they were filming some scenes. Day after that is Thursday, and I'm out of town Friday through the weekend, and I thought we'd at least chat once before he went home. So I called the cell phone, and we talk for about five minutes before he gets another call he's got to take. No problem. This is a business trip, not a social one. He says he'll call back in five minutes. Nada! Nothing! Niente! The null set! Because I'm a sad case, I call back about an hour and a half later and there's no one in the hotel room. Or at least, no one picking up my call. And since then, further nada, niente, nothing, null set. Not even an email! I know, I know, it isn't even that important. And men don't think like women. And yadda, yadda. But this is what continues to baffle me. It makes me tired all over to even bother trying at this point. What is the reason to even put on a clean shirt if it all comes to nada, nothing, niente, null set? Why bother? Why are people schmucks? I suppose if I stop trying, or stop caring, I stop living. But I fail to see what's so hard about being a human being when you deal with other human beings. Unless, in fact, I really am an alien.     before.... after! Other details of the week: Shelves went up in the living room. They're floor to almost ceiling, stained a deep cherry wood, and are made of birch. They're flush up against the wall, so if I move they've got to be disassembled, but I'm not planning on moving any time soon. Oh, such lovely shelf space for all of my books! For once, I have more space than books! It's a glorious feeling. I've organized them, too – by subject matter mostly, so I can find things later. Though Stephen King and Jonathan Carroll and John Irving all have their own shelves. And I've even got a shelf for the childrens books.     And this weekend I took off Friday so I could meet Mom (that's her, below) and Larry down in New Jersey (just outside Parsippany) for a work-related picnic. Larry spends some of his time in Jersey with the same company that employs him in Maryland, and the picnic was held outside this water park near a lake. A really nice idea – but someone might have mentioned that a bathing suit would have helped. Mom and I sat around talking – and talking to several of his co-workers, some of whom were idiots (a gene for AIDS? Good grief) and some of whom were lovely (there was a woman from Belgium who talked about visiting Spain), ate various picnic-related foods, and swatted wasps. (There was a large beverage truck which on one side featured spigots for beer, the other had spigots for water, lemonade and root beer. The bees were in heaven.) I also convinced mom to come out on a big goofy boat shaped like a swan, which you moved around by pedaling. Her legs didn't reach so I did the work, but getting her in was the real challenge. She's like a cat when it comes to water. She kept saying for the whole 20 minutes, "I wish Larry could see me in this! He'll never believe I did this!" The rest of the park was pretty cool, for the single-digit crowd; the owners of the park made a faux beach out of white sand along the lake, and in the shallows placed several water toys – a large alligator, a big tomahawk (the park was on Tomahawk lake, and the attitude and graphics were definitely pre-PC viz a viz Native Americans – the toilets were for "Squaws" and "Braves"), a floating wooden dock to jump from. Supposedly there was a miniature golf course, but we learned the year before it had been flooded out. I got rather tired towards the end of the day and slept on the way back to Parsippany and our hotel. (Which was worth digging; sure, it was all prefab and indoor plants, but they gave us free drink tickets and free breakfast meals, plus Mom and I watched Shrek on Saturday night after ordering in dinner. Larry was busy with a football game in the other room – we had a suite.)  way, down upon the swannee river... there's fear in those eyes.... And so there's the week that was. Shelves! Foo! Men! Sad documentaries! Ah, a full life indeed for us aliens. P.S. Thinking of sending me an endlessly-forwarded email? Don't. Read this first.