No, I have no idea what it means. But I’ve been saving the more creative spam subject headers for a while now. And I’ve decided that this one is as good an excuse as any to ask people what they celebrate and how. How, in effect, do you in change the ambassadorial?
Years ago, I started buying myself little gifts when I finished a book, usually a pair of earrings. Nothing expensive or elaborate; I just wanted to mark the occasion. But in 2002, while in Boulder, Colorado with one of the best media escorts on the planet, I was encouraged to buy a pair of antique white sapphire earrings in a simple hoop setting. After all, I had just finished a book and was coming up on the first anniversary of my life as a fulltime novelist. So now I have a pair of earrings that I wear every day, and I have to find a new way to celebrate finishing a book. I can’t remember what I did in 2005 — went to Philly for the 215 festival? Hey, I saw Dave, Duane and Wallace, which is pretty fun under any circumstance, and I met the Bride and the Brood for the first time, which was beyond fun. However, I still remember 2004: I bought expensive almonds and vodka. And in 2003, I finished By a Spider’s Thread while sitting in a hotel room in Edinburgh, but I don’t remember buying anything except some unfathomably expensive underwear in Dublin a few days later, where we figured out that buying new underwear was much, much cheaper than asking the hotel to launder our dirty underwear. (Much of the final draft of Spider’s Thread was completed in Galway, however, and I have a sentimental spot for that city and the lovely hotel where I stayed.)
Of course, buying things is not, and should not be, the only way to mark a special occasion. The walk I took in the autumnal twilight the night I finished To the Power of Three was as important as the almonds and vodka, more so. And, sometimes, the real celebration is simply a shower. Depending on the circumstances, I tend to work dirty toward the end of a project. Interpret that as you will.
At any rate, the 340 pages that make up NO GOOD DEEDS are sitting within arm’s length and the blogosphere seems to be filled with anniversaries and accomplishments this week. (See Secret Dead Blog for the latest on Duane’s third novel. Meanwhile, Kevin Wignall is writing a serial online and Bryon has just published his first online ‘zine, Demolition, and Jennifer Jordan is making progress on the Anthology That Dare Not Speak Its Name In Front of My Parents.)* I’m going to walk my pages down to the UPS store, photocopy the whole thing, and then buy a cheesesteak at the Greek place, the one that makes subs in pitas. Eventually, I might even wash my hair and clean my office. And I think I’ll buy a potato or two because I’ve just learned how to make homemade potato chips in the oven. The Gourmet Cookbook says this recipe alone is enough to justify the purchase of a mandoline and my first round of satisfied customers, which included two very hungry 11-year-old boys, agree with Gourmet.
So in change the ambassadorial home-made potato chips. Now that we’ve had such a hatefest on this page, how about a fest-fest? Or memories of places you love because of unlikely things that happened there? I spent only three days in Edinburgh, but I love it still. Not a hard thing to do, admittedly, but when I think Edinburgh, I don’t first remember the castle or the salmon, or the amazing productions of The Seagull and Hamlet, or the fabulous Irish comedian, or even the statue of Arthur Conan Doyle.** I remember sitting in a rather cramped hotel room, looking in wonder at a book that had decided it was finished.
*By the way, if there’s an easy way for an idiot such as myself to insert links here, I’d be happy to learn it.
**I just realized that Endinburgh is the city where I was given the Claddagh heart I wear. Still, truth be told, I remember finishing the book.
I like to mark writing milestones with a grotesque, uber-sized– indeed downright unfinishable by yea, verily, even the reigning professional eating contest triple-crown title-belt holding Ugly American of the most appalling sumo-gourmand-esque stripe and all of his/her friends and family–cornucopial onslaught of takeout sushi.
Something about falling back defeated in the face of the last “oh how I wish I could but I’ve hit the damn wall here five times over” plastic clamshells arrayed with quail-egg-bedizened uni and scissored-to-punky-astroturf-mohawk-fringe green-plastic-sheeting-embellished tobiko, respectively, feels auspicious and celebratory in just the right way.
Have also been blessed with surprise gifts of thoughtfully groovy jewelry from writing group pals twice, on the road to publication. A cool stretchy bracelet of black and silvery rhinestone-centered medallions when I finished the first draft, and a pewter city skyline brooch (engraved with the book’s former title) when it got bought. Seeing each of these bijoux for the first time got me all choked up, weepy, and goofy-grinned. Still feel that way whenever I put them on.
I don’t know if you could call this anything special, because it’s what I normally do two or three times a week, but I go to a smoky bar and play loud electric blues with friends. That’s how I celebrate, and it kicks ass.
Last night we had a blackout in the bar and we went acoustic, playing by candlelight. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate, even if it’s just the end of a productive day.
“John D. (as in Dortmunder?)”
Nope. No relation. We just share the same first name and last initial (and the same kind of luck, for that matter). Since I’m about out of Dortmunders, I may try TRUST ME ON THIS next. I bought it in paperback to read last summer and never got around to it.
inserting links – when you’lve learned, tell me? The erudite smart tech types like Keith do it with abandon – I just cut and paste ‘em in but they don’t hyperlink/take you there.
When I finished my Master’s thesis, no,not when I finished it but when that $#%&^!#$%#$* fracking jerk finally accepted it (I didn’t have an advisor for it – the appropriate professor to advise me was on sabbatical and we never met; he came back only after I’d left and was a total pig about things. Oh, I’ll stop before I acctually DO explain. Sorry) I wanted SO badly to celebrate but I just cried. I:don’t recall celebrating and I should have becaue it waa a huge thing in my life.
The Dixie Chicks get chicken feet tattoed on THEIR feet for every – what is it – platinum record? Ouch.
John Rickards, over at Empire of Dirt, has very set ideas about how to celebrate. He just finished TWELVE, his latest. And I see at Jim Winters’ blog that Ken Bruen just hit #1 in Ireland and the UK. Oh, and I held the galley of Baltimore Noir in my hands last night for the first time. Something’s in the air.
A small celebration is Ruffles, French onion dip, and a nice bottle of white wine. Something about sitting around snacking on something naughtily yummy and sipping sauvignon blanc is just fun and festive.
Larger celebration is Paris. I’ll never forget the first time I emerged from the metro onto the streets – it was like coming home. And it still feels like home, every time I visit. I have many fond memories…one that comes to mind at the moment is standing outside Balmain on the Left Bank with a French woman, sharing a non-verbal female bonding moment as we admired the couture. It was just so Gallic. And hanging out, people watching in the Luxembourg Gardens. What a great city. Love it.
Don’t you love those chips. I found my recipe in Cook’s Illustrated. For a while I was cutting the potato by hand (not very well I might add). Then I got the bright idea of using the side of my box grater (a bit better but still not ideal). I finally gave in and bought a mandolin last week and I love it. Might just have to make up some chips this evening. Its a good way to handle a cold, windy, rainy day like today.
I have absolutely no self-control and tend to reward my self with mostly whatever I want when I want it. If I can afford it of course. My writing projects all tend to be finished right at the last minute of a deadline, so just getting the damn thing out of my house is reward enough. For other special moments, I tend to take little trinkets and souveniers for memories.
I just finished reading the galley of my first-to-be-published-but-far-from-first-written novel, and just getting the blasted thing out of my sight was reward enough. By now I am frankly sick of my own, too-familiar words. But following Laura’s example, I’ll think of some additional way to reward myself, probably something involving chocolate. I hope my enthusiasm for the book returns to its original level in the coming weeks.
I love Edinburgh, too, and the rest of Scotland, from the grime of Glasgow to the lovely long-haired sheep of Skye. My Grant blood insists that I could be happier there than anywhere else on Earth.
I asked for a mandoline for my birthday some years ago and have never used it- but my husband does and makes excellent oven chips.
Rae spoke of stepping off the metro in Paris. When I went back to Paris after 20 years, I came out of the metro at Boul. St. Michel, saw Notre Dame and wept. I don’t think it was Notre Dame that made me weep but the joy and relief at being back in Paris after being away so long.
I reward myself(who knows for what-I don’t write) by having a nice lunch out by myself.
Please, no justification for rewards! Just about any project brought to completion counts. I’ve rewarded myself for cleaning the basement. And surviving dental appointments. (After some pretty rough surgery three-plus years ago, I stocked up on DVDs and spent the day off the sofa, then made myself a cheese souffle.)
When I left a particularly awful job, I celebrated by buying myself a new dictionary to take to the new job. Okay, so I’m a word geek.
As far as places I love because of unexpected things that happened there, well, the rather dirty but albeit charming city of Yueyang in Hunan, China will always have a place in my heart because that was the day my daughter finally decided to smile at us for the first time.
I’m easy to reward. I just make a tall Gentleman Jack & Soda, turn off my computer, pretend what I’ve spent weeks and weeks and weeks conjuring won’t make me cry when I pick it up to edit it again. If, after that last edit-I haven’t cried too hard, I’ll make homemade ravoli and pig out. If my crying is really bad, my husband takes me out for Chinese.
I used to buy a piece of art whenever I finished a book. But after finishing “For the Dogs” (a beautiful Sarah Noel ceramic) I decided it was bad karma until the book was actually sold (not least, because FtD failed to sell in the UK).
So even though I’ve finished my new book, I won’t buy my piece of art until I’ve sold it.
In addition, life is so short that I now celebrate even the smallest piece of good news by cracking open a good bottle of champagne and drinking it with anyone who’s at hand.
And thanks for the plug – for those who are interested, I’m writing a live novella over at http://likeplastic.blogspot.com/ I should stress though, that it’s VERY different to my usual work – I just wanted to let off steam! You’ll know how that feels…
A travel fest-fest: Just this grey, drenched morning, I was at my java homebase, the Green Line Cafe in West Philadelphia, and Dave, the cool guy who is the ringmaster/coffee server there, was talking about always having a little Beach Boys in your heart. I told him how I always do, because I always have a place in my heart called the Blueberry Cafe in Santa Monica. While engaging in some deee-licious chow and conversation with a fellow breakfaster at the start of what I thought would be a meandering three day jaunt up the coast to San Francisco, I was told that I needed to stay that night at – go *immediately* to – the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. This Cali trip was already pretty pixilated – I had spent until 2 AM that same morning stargazing as celebs entered the post-Oscar Vanity Fair party at Morton’s – so I thought, sure, makes sense to me, I’ll go to Esalen.
I knew a little about Esalen – massage? – but did not fully comprehend that Big Sur was so awfully far away (especially as Route 1 was washed out north of Santa Barbara), and that Esalen really didn’t take the casual overnight guest, and… well, all sorts of other things. But that evening, when I was floating naked in a natural hot springs tub at Esalen, listening to the surf crash against the rocks of Big Sur and doing stargazing of another kind than I had 24 hours before, I thought, yes, I got myself here, and all because of choosing the Blueberry Cafe …Santa Monica… California.
By the way, congrats, Laura on the book. I don’t know what you are going to buy, but I just celebrated your accomplishment by buying two books on Amazon that will hopefully stir my creativity: they were featured in an article I read last night in How magazine. Even though this is a graphic designers’ magazine, and I am an aspiring writer, something is compelling me to check out my visual art skills as a means of informing my writing. Believe me, I would just like to write this off as a stalling technique, because there is part of me that is scared shitless to embark on being non-verbal in this way, but it feels too calm and too good to put that crap on it.
>>The walk I took in the autumnal twilight the night I finished To the Power of Three was as important as the almonds and vodka, more so.<<
A fitting tribute/reward for The Power of Three, which is IMHO your best, so far. I await No Good Deeds with great anticipation.
I do not write, other than letters and email. However, I celebrate my good deeds to myself (new exercise program) and others (dinner for two to a sick friend) by picking out a new bookmark. Go figure!
Whenever I finish a grad course, I check a Donald Westlake novel (one of the Dortmunder series) out of the library to read. I have five courses to go, and I’m about out of Dortmunder books. Guess I’ll need to find a new way to “change the ambassadorial.”
John D. (as in Dortmunder?)
I adore Westlake and here’s a plug for two favorites: TRUST ME ON THIS and BABY, WOULD I LIE? I think BABY has one of the most satisfying, well-choreographed reveals in the crime genre. (It’s about a murder trial in Branson, Missouri.)
Okay, so I’m not a writer and I don’t finish anything that deserves a reward, except maybe the laundry… but I am the mother of two insane toddlers (referred to as “the brood”), so every two weeks I go and get my nails done. It is one of the things I look forward to each week. And every once in a while, I really treat myself to a manicure and a pedicure. Then, for the next two weeks (or longer), I look down at my toes and smile and know that I’ll be treating myself again, soon enough.
I believe a mother deserves daily, even hourly rewards. And pedicures are fabulous. More guys should get them. In fact, I think the world be a better place if a few world leaders would just get regular pedicures.
Really? You know, I like to think I’m in touch with my feminine side – I’m not some kind of retro macho male, but the prospect of having someone fussing over my nails like that is just horrendous. To paraphrase Bukowski, I’d just feel like my life was ebbing away while it was being done.
For the “big” birthdays (the decades), I start thinking far in advance about what material item I want. For my 30th birthday “consolation prize,” I thought I’d want a fur coat. But by the time I hit 30, my conscience wouldn’t permit that. So I settled for a gorgeous 3/4-length black leather coat from Eddie Bauer, with a down liner. (Just as warm as fur, but somewhat more ethically acceptable, if you’re not too fond of goats.)
For my 40th, we spent the weekend at a suite at the Plaza Hotel. Bourgeois, maybe, but I loved it. Did the formal Sunday tea and all. It was classic, and timeless.
I still have a few years to go before the big “5-0,” and I’m taking suggestions for what to request to commemorate that one.
(BTW, the rest of the time, I seldom splurge. We celebrate events in my daughter’s life (age 11) more than our own. I’m usually happy with really little indulgences for me–scented soap, pretty undies, neat socks, cheap earrings [I'm bound to lose one anyway, why spend a lot on them?]. Gotta save up for those once-in-a-decade birthday gifts, you know?)
Just before I had major surgery in late December of 2003, we went to New York for several days (We both grew up there and it is still home). This year, before having cataract surgery, we did the same. When Rudy finally finishes his book, I will take him to New York for a celebration. It’s a special treat to go home, especially when you know you can never move back permanently.
Kevin,
You can read during the pedicure! (I plan to do it tomorrow, as I have six manuscripts I’m reading for a course next week.) Although if you go to the cheapie walk-in places, where the workers tend to be recent immigrants, you will endure the Seinfeld-esque experience of hearing long sentences in an impenetrable language, then bursts of intimidating laughter, and it’s hard to believe it’s not at one’s expense. At the risk of sounding airy-fairy, your feet do hold you up all day, and I think it’s smart to tend to them. I don’t get manicures, as I ruin them in a matter of minutes, but I am devoted to pedicures. Then again, the almost-severed-toe incident (see elswhere on this blog) has left me with some very lumpy scar tissue and an on-again, off-again belief in reflexology.
And Karen I., you should be glad you went to the Plaza for your 40th, as it’s gone now, being converted to condos. Almost a year ago this week, on a frigid night, I went to New York for the “Dangerous Women” publication party and met S.J. Rozan in the Oak Bar there. It’s a memory I cherish. We expect things like the Plaza to be there forever, but that’s a dangerous belief.
Forget nails. When I’m in the mood to really treat myself, I have my spleen waxed and buffed. Invasive, yes, but satisfying in a really deep wa…
Okay, okay. I’m with Kevin–don’t like people fussing over me. Wouldn’t like getting haircuts, except that my barber is a cool middle-aged Italian guy who makes me feel like we’re two paisans just shooting the shit.
The Bride and I celebrated THE BLONDE with our usual Friday night “date night” fare: Chinese take-out from our favorite restaurant, a tumbler of wine, a glass of scotch, and a movie. Although in this case, it was “American Idol.” Which shouldn’t be the centerpiece of any celebration, ever.
You’re right about “American Idol.” Project Runway is the far superior program.
“We expect things like the Plaza to be there forever, but that’s a dangerous belief.”
yeah, no kidding. Yesterday afternoon I was near there and watched the construction, then decided to walk a bit further up Fifth Avenue because I wanted to check out what stood in the place of a five story mansion originally located on 814 (ah, research…) I knew it wouldn’t be the mansion, but the fact that there was this ugly gray-blue building obviously built in that brutalist style inexplicably popular in the early to mid 1960s saddened me. Where did the old New York glamor go?
Hell, now they’re even dismantling the Second Avenue Deli. Which both depresses and spooks me.
As for pedicures, they are the best.
Candlestick? Or do you mean 3Com/Monster? As a baseball stadium, it sucked. As a football stadium, it’s even worse. Baseball in July with a cold wind blowing pitchers off the mound was as bad as it sounds. Candlestick separated the most dedicated fans from the fairweather attendees (that would include me) with conditions so harsh the Giants invented the Croix de Candlestick, a pin given to fans who stuck out an entire extra-inning game. The best thing about Candlestick was the curious name, and then they went and sold that, twice.
“We expect things like the Plaza to be there forever, but that’s a dangerous belief.”
Laura, you could devote a whole thread (or more) to this. I suspect that everyone has some bittersweet memories of places or people that are gone, and it probably says a lot about the person to learn their specific objects of wistfulness.
Naturally, the older you get, the more things and people there are to miss. Every week, something I loved is gone, or going. Last week a friend told me that Marshall Field’s in Chicago is being turned into a Macy’s [insert long sigh here]. I have such fond memories of roaming the State Street store in the 1990s, both pre- and post-renovation. (I liked it better pre-renovation, actually, because it was a time capsule of earlier decades.) I’m grateful to have lived within walking distance of that store and calling it my neighborhood shop.
Back to the Plaza Hotel theme, two things: 1) thank god I went to hear Bobby Short sing at the Cafe Carlyle (NYC) in the early 1990s. He passed away last year at age 80, after holding court at the Carlyle regularly for more than 30 years. I honestly never thought there’d be a time when he wouldn’t be charming audiences with Gershin and Porter standards. I’ll always treasure the memory of the evening I saw him perform.
Amd the other Plaza/NYC item: there’s an architectural salvage company selling a few marble mantels and other high-end items from the Plaza. (I don’t know the price range, but I assume it’s in the thousands.) Regrettably, they are way out of my price range. But if anyone else is seriously interested in purchasing a piece of 20th-century New York, you can e-mail me for the URL.
Things I’ve seen, things I’ll never see. I have to say, I feel sorry for anyone who didn’t know New Orleans, pre-Katrina. I am hopeful that the city will return, and not as some sort of touristy JazzWorld, but it will never be the same.
I’m glad I knew the old Memorial Stadium and that I’ve had a chance to attend a ballgame in Wrigley. But I’ve yet to make it to Fenway and I’ll never make it to Candlestick.
I’m glad I got to tour the real Hershey factory, as opposed to the ersatz for-tourists-only version.
I’m glad I actually heard someone say “Stop the presses.” Okay, it was to fix a horrendous glitch, not for breaking news, but it still counted.
Speaking of which, I’m glad I know what an AP machine sounded like and how the bells rang when a big story ran.
I’m glad I knew Haussner’s, the old German restaurant with the remarkable art collection.
I’m glad I saw Ethel Merman in a revival of Annie Get Your Gun. I am sorry that I didn’t see Muddy Waters and that I never went to the Checkerboad Lounge on Chicago’s Southside. I’m glad that I went to La Mere Vipere, a punk club that burned to the ground early in its life.
I’m glad I said “hi!” to Clint Eastwood and that my friend Rob Hiaasen persuaded me to talk to Brooks Robinson.
I’m glad that I’ve eaten at the Second Avenue Deli and that I went up in the Washington Monument when one was still allowed to walk down. (Perhaps you still are?)
Most of all . . . I’m glad I knew a time when it was possible to come home from a long journey and see someone waiting at the gate for you, not in the hallway beyond security.
What I reward myself for are small things in comparison to some of you. I used to give myself favorite foods but now that isn’t good for me any longer I give myself special books or DVDs or Cds that I had decided were too expensive.
I’m not a writer and I’ve never been to Europe but I do have celebratory rituals for any event that makes me feel excited, proud or relieved or needs homage paid to. I can truly empathize with the people who’ve expressed the misses and near misses of events like the Plaza Hotel and seeing certain greats before they die as I have a few of both, just missed or made it just before. I’m from San Francisco and the story about Candlestick is so true, what an aweful place. Some of the most beautiful scenes I’ve ever seen are the rolling hills after rolling hills of vineyards in California where if one were driving in the right direction there’d be the promise of a glimpse of the pacific sparkling in the distance. This is something the Atlantic doesn’t do, is sparkle it’s fairly grey in comparison to the Pacific. But not even the Pacific of the coast of California can caompare with the Pacific of the Hawaiin Islands in colors.
I miss taking that drive on the backroads of Northern California, on the way to visit friends. I moved to Alaska about 18 or 19 years ago. I’ve lost exact track as I feel like a native now and it doesn’t seem as important to know just exactly how long I’ve been here.
One of the first things that was closed down in California that broke my heart was the boardwalk with all it’s rides and masses of interesting people at Santa Barbara. It was my childhood retreat while my grandmother visited her sister and my 2nd cousins and I would hit the boardwalk and the ocean. One of those cousins turned out to be the dean of music later on in his life at the UofC at Santa Barbara. My grandmother taught me to eat. I laugh now as I say that but it’s true she was great at treating herself and gave me good lessons. It’s had a bad affect on me as I got fat and now I’m a diabetic but it was loads of fun getting here to this decrepit state. She was a piano teacher and had two grand pianos in her studio which was an elaborate room in this Spanish style house filled with antiques in Concord, California. (it’s competely gone now as is my great grandparents house that was on the street around the corner) It was my job, when visiting or living there during one of my mother’s escapades to polish those antiques and the hardwood floors and as a reward I would get fudge and popcorn. Or fresh homemade bread and real butter from the Graham brothers grocery store, or freshly made ice cream from the creamery down a block the other way and across the street on Willow Pass Rd. The creamery was a round building and made mostly of glass bricks and when the lights were on inside at night it was really bright and colorful. It’s a car lot now or at least it was the last time I was there about 20 years ago.
Even though I’d never been to the Plaza Hotel it broke my heart to know it woulld be gone. That I didn’t get to the Algonquin Hotel when I was last in New York City, (which it’s looking like really the last time) because of the way it became a hangout for writers like Dorothy Parker and many others whose names won’t come to me at this moment. I better stop now or this will be so long that even I wouldn’t want to read it.
Sly in Anchorage, Alaska
Another NYC icon that’s gone is the Russian Tea Room. I’m so thankful to have had some memorable meals there before they closed up shop. I’m doubly glad to have taken my daughter (third-generation Russian descendant) there, though she was only 7 and doesn’t remember it now.
But I also miss Furio’s, a neighborhood Italian place just west of the Loop in Chicago. Very small, unassuming, casual, never crowded, garlic bread to die for…. The first time I ate there, the chef/owner’s granddaughter ran through the dining room, chasing her cat, who had escaped from the residential portion of the building that adjoined the restaurant. (You don’t see that at the Russian Tea Room.) Furio’s always had a table occupied by guys in dark suits. Big, expensive cars often slowed down outside to peer in the windows. I felt very safe, knowing how much firepower was likely to be in that room with me, if you know what I mean. Furio’s closed when Chef Giuseppe died; his sons didn’t want to continue in the family business. Now I live elsewhere, so I couldn’t go back anyway, but I would feel better if I thought that Furio’s was still there, serving up that mouth-watering garlic bread to the handful of hungry diners lucky enough to have discovered it.
At my old job, we spent a week in Baltimore each year, at the beginning of the year, and there were a host of little rituals we’d go through. We always had dinner at Amici’s the first night we were there. There was always an ill-fated night when we Washingtonians would get ourselves hopelessly lost some where in the Inner Harbor and only manage to find our way back by either the light of the bloody Hard Rock sign or totally give up and hail a cab.
Sadly, that job ended and this is the first January in four years I won’t be in Baltimore. I can’t even go of my own accord, given I’m now half the country away. But I am searching for a way to mark this moment, outside missing Amici’s as well as Charm City itself.
Laura, you are a wondrous force of nature.
I’m glad I took the free tickets that were handed out in our Top 40 AM station and drove down to Philadelphia to the Electric Factory where I saw, for free, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Byrds, Vanilla Fudge, Country Joe, and a dozen other bands in the lean days between high school graduation and my draft induction.
I’m glad I asked the manager of the Durham Bulls for one of the two pieces of sports stuff I have in my office – a Durham Bulls baseball signed by Tim Robbins. My other? A ball signed by Brooks Robinson. I loved watching Brooks do the impossible at Memorial Stadium’s hot corner.
I’m glad I took my daughter to NYC to watch me direct Madeline Kahn in a commercial. Ms Kahn was lovely, and spent a lot of her time talking to Molly. It was a very special afternoon.
I’m glad I took Molly to the Russian Tea Room after the session.
I’m glad I didn’t know that the ten or twelve blocks between the restaurant in Pacific Heights and City Lights went straight uphill. And I’m still glad I walked.
I’m glad I answered an open audition for summer theater. In the back row, while watching a rehearsal for a Gerswin pastiche, I saw a tall, captivating actress with a terrific voice and the comic timing of Jack Benny. We’re now working on year 26.
I’m glad I had a chance to remember these things. Thank you.
Laura, you may not walk up or down the Washington Monument anymore. Too much vandalism. How anyone had the energy (or just plain meanness) to destroy the placques, I will never understand.
Guess what- with only a masters degree in museum education, I ran the elevator in the Washington Monument from February to May, 1976. Vandalism in the monument is not new- as we were told. Walking down was allowed(and required by a few park technicians daily) and at the end of each day, we would find trash, dirty diapers and often a teenage couple making out. I don’t exactly remember used condoms but it is a possibility