Music Lover

Two thousand eighteen turned into two thousand nineteen and even a small slice of two thousand twenty. His average concert attendance was probably around once a week.

But averages tell an incomplete story. There were the nights when he zigzagged all over the city, attending three distinct and separate musical performances in one evening. More often than not he could go to as many as four intriguing gigs at any given time, but unable to clone himself, chose the most important, the cheapest, the newest, or the most convenient. If he could be physically present at more than one concert he would. 

Often he extended invitations to other music lovers but having a friend along was not a deal breaker. The truth is, he didn’t care much one way or the other. At least three quarters of the time he went alone. 

He’d go from home, comfortable in his own skin, clad in jeans and a tee shirt bought at another band’s merch table, taking a train to the upper west side or a crazy quilt of transportation to some out of the way neighborhood at the edge of nowhere. He liked stadium shows and tiny intimate venues.

He’d go straight from work, dressed for the office, the oldest guy in the room, people  assuming he was the manager or from the label. 

Eventually he organizes himself differently around after-work performances. He brings jeans, a signature tee shirt and casual socks to work. Concerts outside of the rarified classical or New Music genres can be sticky affairs. He does not relish the idea of spilt beer on his dress shoes or briefcase. In changing from one costume to another, he refuses to be placed in a box. He had the satisfaction of surprising colleagues, who only knew the business side of him.

If good music was playing or had been played, he belonged there. This belonging, giving himself a seat at the table allowed him to stride purposefully to the bar, the front of the stage or backstage to talk to the headliner, the drummer, the raw opening band singer, the accomplished cellist. Knowing that he loved a good musical hang, and would be late coming home I insisted on a cab. He complied.

Rock, folk, hip hop. classical, avant-garde. country. Music impossible to define. Blockbuster acts almost everyone liked, folks no one has heard of but him and half a dozen people. Nose bleed seats at Carnegie Hall. Standing for hours, eyes affixed on the tiny stage. Dancing wildly among strangers at a DJ set. One of the crowd at Madson Square Garden. Folded into a camp chair in leafy Prospect Park. Every one of them is his happy place. He’s not put off by the minuscule smattering of people at a brave, first concert. He is also perfectly fine being cheek by jowl in a  sweaty, overheated mess. 

More often than not a concert will have a second life. He likes nothing better than to tell other people what to listen to and why. He will work his words, his photographs, his intricate impressions into a story. He will remember every musician’s name and every note. He will notice what they do not notice themselves. 

He is not an epidemiologist or a fortune teller. He doesn’t know what a pandemic will be like until he is in one. One day he is squeezed around a table, listening to a vocalist with the voice of an angel, a windswept walk away from home. He thinks nothing of leaning in close to our friends, friends of friends, and friends’ new boyfriends to whisper between songs. The next instant he is locked up. 

Heroes go to work and ride the subway but everyone else is on lockdown. He’s cooped up, but so are the musicians. Everybody regroups. 

He shows up in virtual spaces and is not constrained by the rectangle to which he’s relegated. Singers, guitar players, people making their own instruments. He’s witness to their living rooms and basements, empty stages, the accidents happy and unhappy. 

He casts live concerts, enlarged and hyperreal to the TV. He plays vinyl, old and new on his turntable. He stands before his collection, and transfixed, pulls out a CD and stares. Music accompanies him while working remotely at our dining table, soft and low. His movements are curtailed by four walls but because of screens he travels to other continents, cultures, and time zones. He is witness to musicians reinventing themselves and they see him too.

He is rapt as though this were his chosen path, the only place to be. 

He must miss his former life. There was a time when he breathed the very same air as these musicians. Never once did he behave as though a Zoom concert was second fiddle. Not once did he complain. 

When his turn comes, he’s vaccinated. Afterwards he remains cautious and calmly watchful. The two year old child I lost to cancer was his too. He knows that life is fragile. He is not afforded denial. He makes do without it.

When the CDC says that vaccinated people can do whatever they like, he hangs back. When they change their stance, he is unsurprised. He has an inner compass which tells him what to do. It tells him to be careful.

Like a rare jewels or diamonds in the rough, some live music beckons him and he follows. He attends a concert at dusk in a historic, old cemetery. As the sun sets he walks about, masked and in like company, from one musical station to the next. For one precious evening those living mingle with the dead. 

He briefly digs in his heels about a gathering in a city park to honor a famous dead musician. It is the one time when his patience around the pandemic becomes frayed and britttle. As the guest list expands, then bloats to a number he deems unreasonable he reluctantly stays home. 

He attends an outdoor concert on a brand new island cooled by wind coming off of the water.

A favorite musician plays in an apple orchard and he shows up. Musicians can be afraid too. Musicians gather a community in the freshest, safest, most fruit and tree perfumed air. They do his bidding and he theirs. 

If the weather holds, if the pandemic doesn’t get any worse, if a natural disaster doesn’t threaten the shoreline, he is scheduled to go to a concert soon. He will be listening to live music. He will be listening while seated in a canoe. 

From the archives:
I suffered for their art
Take This Inspiration And Shove It
Lucky

Night Before French Toast

When I was a kid, my mother started this tradition. I vaguely remembered that she got the idea from someone else, but I couldn't remember who. Then one day, a couple of years ago, I posted about the tradition on Facebook. 

A couple of extended family members saw the post and told me who it started with. It was my step-grandma Shirley. My mother picked it up from her. Turns out that it's branched out quite far now. I do the tradition. Shirley's granddaughters and granddaughters-in-law also do the tradition. My mother still does the tradition. It would not surprise me at all if Hannah carried it on someday.

This tradition is called Night Before French Toast.

Every Christmas Eve, my mother would make Night Before French Toast. You refrigerate it all assembled over night and put it in the oven the next morning. This dish works extremely well on Christmas morning. The whole idea is that you are not chained to the stove, but you can still serve a fancy and delicious breakfast.

Soon after I got married, my mother gave me the recipe. She typed it on this recipe card. I still have it.

I started making Night Before French Toast when I wasn't with my mother for Christmas. The first year was when I was expecting Jacob. In December of 1996, Jeremy and I had the sweetest little Christmas at home in Park Slope. 

I made the Night Before French Toast this Christmas. I also recommend it at other times. It's fantastic when you have people over for brunch. Jeremy and I once hosted his family along with relatives from California at our place one year, and I made two big batches. People loved it. The only person I've encountered that doesn't is Noah. I feel that he may come around to it someday.

I also find that it works really well when kids sleep over at our house. It's very special but it's almost no effort for me. It goes over really well and then I am perceived as the cool mom.

If you want a great New Year's day breakfast, make it and put it in the fridge before you go out on New Year's Eve. 

This is the basic recipe. Over the years I've adapted it. 

One of my secrets is that I substitute buttermilk for half of the milk in the recipe. I started doing this because Jeremy and I are crazy about buttermilk. I believe that the buttermilk makes it very custardy on the inside and crisp on the outside.

You can also vary the bread that you use. Lately, I've been making it with Challah bread. That is a natural for this recipe and it goes with it beautifully.

I've also used sourdough bread with Nite Before French Toast. I'm a big fan of the sweet/sour/savory combo. Hence the buttermilk and sourdough bread.

Living With Rodents: Part One

Babysitting Rodents

Anyone who knows me knows I do not like rodents. If you are going on vacation, do not ask me to babysit your rodent.

I once agreed to babysit the rodent of an extended family member while they were on vacation. I thought it would be a pretty easy gig. That is why I said yes without consulting Jeremy.

Jeremy may have seen the writing on the wall beforehand regarding the babysitting of this rodent. I told him that we were babysitting the rodent, but not to worry because I would be doing all of the work.

Jeremy looked askance. He asked that the rodent's cage to be placed far from sleeping and eating areas. He was concerned about the odor and allergens involved with babysitting a rodent.

One of the things I did not anticipate was that this previously healthy rodent had become quite ill. The onset of the rodent disease process predated the babysitting. It had nothing to do with me.

The extended family members went on vacation, leaving the rodent in my care. They were a little bit concerned about the health status of the rodent. But they were not worried enough to change their vacation plans. They were also not worried enough to take the rodent with them on vacation, even though I think they could have shown this rodent a very good time.

I took a gander at this sick rodent. I was worried about the rodent passing away while I was babysitting. I did not want to have to make that kind of phone call.

No one likes making these calls. I rehearsed it in my mind, just in case.

I'm going to ask you to sit down. I'm afraid that I have some very sad news. Your rodent has passed away. I hope it brings you comfort when I tell you that I believe that your rodent is in a much better place. He went peacefully.

I did not want to have a dignified burial for the rodent and take photographs of the proceedings as keepsakes for my extended family members. Nor did I want to put the rodent in a Ziploc bag in the freezer so that the extended family members could say their final goodbyes when they returned from their vacation.

If Jeremy did not want a rodent habitat anywhere near places where he eats and sleeps, I did not think he would agree to make our freezer into a temporary morgue.

I was going to have to make every attempt to keep this rodent alive.

When I babysit, I take that responsibility seriously. Usually, I am babysitting a human being. I listen carefully to the instructions from the parents. I'm very careful while I am babysitting because as I have said many times before, I don't want anything happening on my watch.

If the child is old enough to have a conversation, they usually ask if they can do something ridiculous and potentially dangerous while I am babysitting because my mom and dad let me do this all the time. Yeah right, bud. Nice try. Not on my watch.

I like to think I have a real knack with children. How hard could babysitting a rodent be?

It turns out that it was a little bit harder than I anticipated.

I dutifully approached the rodent habitat at the designated time to feed the rodent. I had rodent food ready. I also had some medicine for the rodent. I knew how to work the latch at the top of the rodent house.

I gingerly opened the latch to the habitat. I was getting ready to put the food inside. It was at that point that the rodent became very excited, God love him. He was smart. In spite of being close to death, he was very hungry. He perked up. He came running over to the food and in the process, his skin - fur? - brushed up against my fingers.

I latched the top of that house as quickly as I could. I am not proud of what happened next.

There was me screaming because the rodent's fur touched my hand. There was an overwhelming sense that I could not go near the rodent cage again. There was Jeremy saying oh for Christ sake! in a very impatient tone. Not yelling, as he is a man of peace. But definitely in a firm, raised voice.

I did not feed the rodent. I did not give the rodent his meds. It turned out that Jeremy did these things. He did them for the rest of the family vacation.

Jeremy did not divorce me.

Sometimes you do something so bad that you realize that you don't have a leg to stand on. There is nothing you can do but say you're sorry and then be extra nice to the person you've offended for the next several days.

If Jeremy hired a lawyer and then filed for divorce, I'd have to get my own lawyer. But there wouldn't be much that counsel could do. Yes, I agreed to babysit the rodent without discussing it with Jeremy. Yes, I said I would do all the work and then did none of the work. You're not giving me much to go on here, the lawyer would say.

Everything turned out okay. The important thing was that rodent stayed alive until the extended family members returned from vacation. I don't remember how much longer the rodent lived. He could still be alive for all I know. Or that could be a different rodent. Hamster, gerbil, squirrel, rat. They all seem the same to me.

The extended family members took Jeremy and I out for dinner after their vacation to thank us for babysitting and also for collecting the mail. I wondered if I should stay home and just let Jeremy go. Don't be ridiculous, Jeremy said.

You could consider everything I wrote up to this point as a cautionary tale. If you are a rodent loving person, then by all means go ahead and babysit one. Knock yourself out. But if you are not a person who likes rodents, then I would just say a polite no to people who ask you to babysit and call it a day.

Living With Rodents: Part One is the first in a four part series about life in NYC with rodents. Watch this space for parts two, three and four in what promises to be an interesting, informative and somewhat entertaining first hand account of my relationship with rodents.

One Of These Psychoanalysts Cannot Be Wrong

I made my way from Park Slope Brooklyn to the Upper West Side of Manhattan for my therapy appointment. As I settled into the comfortable chair facing my therapist, I got started on my topic for the day. Jeremy and I were seriously contemplating a move from Park Slope to the Inwood section of upper Manhattan.

After a bit of one-sided discourse, my therapist cleared his throat. I don't usually like to do this, he said. But I feel I would be remiss if I didn't say something. I think it could be a mistake for you to move to Inwood.

This definitely got my attention. The therapist was psychoanalytically trained, and for a young guy, rather orthodox. I was not used to receiving direct, immediately implementable advice from him. Our work together was more amorphous and long range.

Because of the rarity of the situation, I decided to strike while the iron was hot. I was aware that this was a potentially exciting development because the therapist was going off script. Naturally, I asked him to elaborate.

He went into several reasons why he was more comfortable with Park Slope than Inwood. He was also more comfortable with many neighborhoods that were not Park Slope and also not Inwood. He listed some of these neighborhoods.

I just think Inwood could be dangerous, I remember him saying.

As I left my session for the day, I put his thinking into the hopper. I wasn't going to rule out a move to Inwood based on what he said. I also wasn't going to dig in my heels and not listen to him. I was going to think about it some more.

Not far from where I was on the Upper West Side, Jeremy was also meeting with his therapist. This guy was also psychoanalytically trained. He was in fact recommended to Jeremy by my therapist.

If you compared the two of them, Jeremy's therapist was somewhat looser than mine. He could be a bit more direct. However, he was still not fond of outright telling Jeremy what to do. The general idea was for him and Jeremy to talk and then for Jeremy to generate good ideas on his own.

At dinner that night, I told Jeremy what happened at therapy that day. Jeremy found this very interesting because of what happened at therapy with him.

I don't like to tell you what to do, Jeremy's therapist said. But I think that if you don't take this opportunity to move to Inwood, it could be a big mistake. He went into all kinds of reasons why he thought that moving to Inwood was the best option.

During the conversation, Jeremy shared that he would miss riding his bike in Prospect Park if we moved to Inwood. At that point, his therapist became even more opinionated. I don't want to see you pass up what is clearly a great opportunity over bike riding, he said.

Jeremy and I discussed it further over the next several days. We talked it over a bit more with our therapists. We each told our own therapist what the other one said. Both of them found this very interesting. Even my rather serious therapist had to admit that the whole thing was funny.

We also consulted with family members and got more information. Jeremy's mom was especially helpful. Once we ultimately decided to move to Inwood, she coached us through the bidding process on the apartment.

It's been 16 years since moving to Inwood. If this decision were like most things in life, I would say that moving to Inwood has been good, but not perfect, and that each therapist was correct in their own way.

But it appears that this decision did not turn out like most. Moving to Inwood was not a mixed bag. Moving to Inwood was clearly a great idea. It has only gotten better the longer we've lived here.

So in this one case, Jeremy's therapist turned out to be right and my therapist was wrong. It turns out that my therapist was more helpful when it came to how to live, but not necessarily about where to live.

The title of this blog piece pays homage to the song One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong by Leonard Cohen. It is one of my all time favorite songs.

On Polygamy

Jeremy and I enjoyed watching Big Love on TV. Occasionally, I've been known to watch Sister Wives. This has given me the opportunity to think about the kind of arrangement where a man may have more than one wife.

Because Jeremy and I come from a tradition where you are allowed only one wife at a time, naturally the guy on Big Love having three at once brought up some questions. Which one do you think is the prettiest? I asked Jeremy. If you could pick only one of these wives which one would it be?

He chose wife #1, the dark haired beauty with high cheekbones. She also seemed to be the most stable and reasonable of the three.

My own choice, if I were a dude from this religion, would be wife #2. The chick was seriously high maintenance and very emotional. However, in my opinion she was the most gorgeous and interesting. I know it would end badly and I would regret it later. But what fireworks while it lasted!

One of the main advantages to having sister wives, is the social aspect of it. I imagine there would be a lot of hanging out. Because there would be two or more other women there, you'd have a live-in captive audience for whatever was bothering you.

There are things that interest women more than they interest men. For instance, I feel like the sister wives would be really interested and supportive if I received an email that really hurt my feelings. I could discuss the hurtful email all I wanted without their eyes glazing over, then Jeremy would be free to pursue what interests him. This is a good example of the kind of camaraderie I could expect from other wives.

However, this advantage could quickly turn into a problem. Since I am Jeremy's only wife, in order to socialize with other women, I either have to text one and ask them to lunch, or do laundry in our building's laundry room when friends are down there. The friends aren't just in my apartment at all hours.

While having the other wives around all the time might prove fun at first, all of the conversation, wine drinking, reality TV viewing, discussing meals, venting about the kids and reassuring other wives that they aren't fat, would eat into productivity and individual goals. I've come to the conclusion that being the only wife here is good in terms of getting anything done.

Another situation that comes with some pros and cons would be the sharing. I really would be fine sharing some clothes with my sister wives. In fact, there is a potential there for having many more clothes to choose from than I do now. There's a chance that the fat sister wife might feel left out of the closet shopping and clothes swapping. What fat sister wife? Come on. You know there would be one.

I'm a little more leery of sharing makeup. This is what I would say to my sister wives. You can borrow my makeup if you ask. And then it depends on which thing you want to borrow. Bronzer yes, lipstick, no. And make sure you clean my brushes when you're finished.

The biggest problem with the sister wife thing is the part where I would have to share Jeremy with them. I'm sorry, but that doesn't float my boat. I'm possessive. Whenever Jeremy goes on a business trip, I remind him no hanky panky.

Even if I could get my mind around sharing Jeremy, I know I'd be really secretly competitive with the other wives. I would be all nice and we're all in this relationship together on the outside. But on the inside it would be a different story. It would bring out my worst qualities.

I'd be on the treadmill working out, keeping myself all tight and fit. I'd look over at my lazy sister wives, sitting on their asses eating Ferrero Rocher and reading magazines and feel really superior. I'm ashamed to admit this, but it's true. I would be committing the sin of pride.

I would do all sorts of things to try to be the most pleasing sister wife. Some of them would be the same things I do now because face it, I want to remain vivacious and interesting. But if the competition were in my house, day in day out, I'd have to seriously up my game. I'd have to buy a blow dryer and learn to use it. I might feel obligated to get a Brazilian.

As I look around my very nice but small apartment, some practical matters come to mind. Where would we put everyone? It's not just the wives. Naturally, if Jeremy and I were polygamous, the other wives would want to have children with Jeremy. I couldn't very well insist that he only have children with me. That wouldn't be fair.

I can tell you right now, Jeremy and I would not want to move to a McMansion in the suburbs. Or a creepy compound.

The one thing I could see working, if I had to be in such a relationship, would be a large loft space in an up and coming neighborhood. Presumably, at least some of the wives would have lucrative careers and maybe then we could all live somewhere really hip.

There would be the corporate sister wife making the big bucks. Maybe there would be another DIY crafty, urban homesteading  type and she could raise chickens in the tiny yard outside of the loft and sew clothes for everyone. If it weren't for me being such a jealous type, this scenario could work. It isn't half bad.

But there's another issue. I'm a feminist. This patriarchal bullshit would bug me. I also feel that what's good for the goose is good for the gander. So if I'm going to have to share with other wives, then there needs to be brother husbands, or at least some boyfriends.

Which reminds me of something that happened way back when, at my kids' nursery school. I'd picked up Noah from the nursery school class and was strapping him into his stroller. At the same time, I was handing my sister in law's phone number to one of the dads who was there to collect his kid.

The reason I was doing this was that the dad was kindergarten shopping for his son, and was strongly considering a school that my niece and nephew were attending at the time. My sister in law said she would be happy to talk to the dad about this school.

So I'm getting ready to leave, and I notice one of the teaching assistants give me a look. What? I say to her.

She just keeps giving me this significant look. Then I figure it out. She thinks I'm giving my phone number to this dad so we could hook up later. I can tell by the look on her face, that is what she is thinking. What a dirty mind on that woman!

Listen. I say to her. Don't give me that look. I'm not even giving him my phone number. It's someone else's.

I continued. I already have one husband. And let me tell you, one man is more than enough for me. And with these kids and my job and this husband I am more than busy. I am too busy and too tired from this husband and these kids to have any kind of affair.

I could have left it at that. But one thing I have to mention is that although this dad is very nice he was not my type. I felt a little bad that the teacher's assistant thought I'd give out my phone number and plan a hook up with him, when there were other dads there that I would easily choose over him.

I wasn't choosing them, because of being more than satisfied with Jeremy and also too exhausted to think of such a thing. Also Jeremy is much more handsome than any of the dads. I'm just saying.

So I added one more thing. And if I did want to have an affair with someone, it wouldn't be him.

By this time, the teaching assistant was lying down on the classroom rug, near the dress up corner laughing hysterically. She was basically incapacitated. That's what she gets for getting up in my business I thought. I handed Noah some Pirate’s Booty and wheeled him out of there.