Friday, September 09, 2005


It is hard to know what charity to donate to in the wake of this tragedy, so horribly compounded by the fiasco of what our government failed to do. An accountant friend recommended something called the Presidential fund, but as there has been nothing presidential about anything this president has done, I passed on that one. The Red Cross sometimes has a questionmark around its bureaucratic costs, so in the end I thought of choosing some Jewish fund, well-researched to make sure all the money was going to victims, but as they are concerned with helping mostly the Jews of New Orleans, and I want to help everyone, including the pets, I decided to go with the Quakers, the American Friends Service Committee, which is always above reproach and doesn't spend money on itself. My main thought, though, is that we should have a separate humanitarian drive for Barbara Bush, who said, in essence, that so many of the people in New Orleans had no quality of life to begin with, they were better off being forced to move. At least I hope that's what she meant. It is my hope she didn't think they were better off dead. Perhaps we could arrange a sensitivity transplant. Not since Marie Antoinette. So now we can all be assured that not only does blood run thicker than water, the Bush skin runs thicker than anyone's.
I am, strangely, both reassured and helped by the presence of Mimi. Mimi, as you know, is a Bichon Frise, the same dog as Marie Antoinette;s. As a result of her admiration for her dog, Marie dressed her wig in the same style as her Bichons'. After her guillotining, the French didn't like to be reminded of her, and so hated the Bichons, and, lore has it ,started offing the dogs. The Italians rescued them, and made them their own, enhancing their innate gifts, teaching them to dance, as they did, quite easily, on their back legs. Once the French discovered the dogs were gifted, they of course took them back.
But let us now to George Bush. How long, oh my father, will it be before people wake up?
As I have lost and in a later, wiser moment, taken from my mailing list all Republicans, as they were incensed at my view of Bush and language I used with respect or disrespect to him they considered 'inflammatory,' I suppose I should of my own volition turn eye and mind to those things in this world that are still of wonder. It is good to be in New York, especially after the joyful realization that my Inner hippie she am dead and gone, which epiphany occured in Big Sur. There were glorious days here over Labor Day weekend, weather being something we had best be grateful for, it seems, when it is fine. Today I walked with Mimi around the Central Park lake which appears to be clearing of its neon green muck, the Duckweed that they had posted signs insisting was good for the habitat, so you can see the water again. I am hoping that is a metaphor for the consciousness of this country. Oops. There I go again.
Using the window of A La Vielle Russie, one of the highest priced antique shops in the city, on Fifth Avenue, as a mirror, a homeless man dry-shaved himself. Homeless does not necessarily mean tasteless, so I hope he noted the Faberge,
My best friend from the third grade,Joanne Greenberg, who wrote I Never Promised you a Rose Garden, was here over the holiday being exceptionally sane as she has more right than most people to be, having recovered from schizophrenia. We saw 'Doubt,' which is really a play, in a season and setting that has offered very few you can feel that about, in fact none if you don't count the magnificent performance of Marian Seldes in 'Dedication' which would hardly be theater if it weren't for her. But Doubt is worth seeing, as is also the way Joanne looks at things. She made me go see 'Grizzly Man,' because of its message, meant directly for me according to her thinking: How over-passion can obscure a long, calm appraisal of things. The documentary about Terry Treadwell, who lived with the grizzlies, considering them his friends, and thinking he was protecting them and was ultimately eaten, along with his poor girlfriend, is genuinely fascinating and curiously un-horrible. It was clear to me that he was crazy, but there was a beleagured sweetness in his conviction. Penguins, though, remain my favorite group of the summer, so touching in their march and steadfast loyalty to their purpose they restored my faith in humanity.
Restoring my faith in movies is 'The Constant Gardener', which I urge you all to rush and see. Now if only someone would restore my faith in this government.

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