We're all getting older, some of us more visibly than others.
I remember when "getting older" was a clichéd joke that I would hear "adults" use in a quasi-self-deprecating way.
I say “quasi” because Americans are generally bad at self-deprecation. A woman’s “I’m sooo old” usually comes off not as humorous self-indictment but as hopeless sincerity borne of extreme self-consciousness, begging to be rebuffed with a "don't be absurd, you're not old" from a caring friend. Meanwhile the caring friend diverts her eyes away from the crow's feet that seem to have mysteriously overtaken her friend’s entire face.
I guess I should have realized sooner that I was old. There have been so many clues, all of which I’ve willfully ignored or misinterpreted.
Maybe I should have realized it last weekend, when I stayed in a hotel in South Beach, Miami that manages to charge top Euro (now that only Europeans can afford America’s better hotels, “top dollar” is considered anachronistic) for mediocre rooms just because they house a decent contemporary art collection. The “contemporary artists” were 10-15 years younger than I. I always think of contemporary artists as 10 years older than I am. Maybe it was intended to be a collection of child-artists . . .
But today I finally realized I am old, and this is how I found out. . .
Today my shoulder and I had our first MRI in 18 years.* Eighteen years ago, we volunteered for an MRI, as part of an experiment, but today we needed an MRI. Last October I fell down the stairs and landed on my shoulder. First there was excruciating pain and then a series of doctors. I used to jump down flights of stairs for fun—since when did such a slight tumble require medical attention? Since when had the sturdy bones and cartilage that make up this invulnerable “me” become so fragile?
When I arrived at the imaging center, I was impressed by how much MRI culture had evolved. Of course there’s still the infamous clanging, but it has been muted with certain creature comforts.
MRI centers now offer music. My underage (under which age, I’m not sure) technician offered me a headset and asked whether I would like to listen to "80s" music. It wasn’t a good guess of my age—she had the patient info sheet and knew exactly what I would have been listening to in college.
As she slid me into the massive cylinder that would host the magnetic resonance session, I was looking forward to a light nap accompanied by New Order or Simple Minds. OMD’s “If You Leave” would certainly help me ignore the clanging. Instead, I was jolted awake somewhat by the sound of John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders.” At first I thought it must be a mistake but next came Captain & Tenille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together,” followed by Elton John’s “Bennie & The Jets.” I still remember listening to this 45 on my sister’s record player when I was 7 years old.
Without realizing there was any distinction to be made among the various pre-1990s genres of music, what she had actually put on were, as you surely recognize, 70s tunes. For her, 70s and 80s music was all part of a single prehistoric musical era that pre-dated CDs and iPods.
Yet, couldn’t she hear the difference? Couldn’t ANYONE with ears hear the difference? Maybe not—it wasn’t hyper-techno and there were no rap lyrics. To her ears, it was all a part of that uniform world of sound that preceded her musical consciousness. And I must be part of that uniform world of “older” people who would listen to such music. After all, what distinction is to be made between 42 years of existence and 52 years of existence—both represent a really long time.
And what do I have to say about this long long time I’ve been hanging out and existing? What did I have to show for it? Just as I felt a panicky midlife crisis moment coming on, it gave way to a midday epiphany.
One of the advantages of getting older is seeing the nuances that you could not appreciate when you were 19 or 20. Sure, maybe some wrinkles and grey hair come along with those nuances and subtleties, but, all in all, I think I’d rather be able to appreciate the finer distinctions I glossed over at age 20 (even if it means I have to color my hair to hide the grey) than actually be 20 again.
So today for lunch, I ate a little pride but gained a sense of peace.
Notes
*I was a subject of an experiment conducted by a friend who has since become an expert in studying the brain through magnetic resonance imaging. Dr. Fahmeed Hyder is a doctor passionate about his work and the only boyfriend I've ever had who gave me a picture of my brain for my birthday (and, for any ex-boyfriends reading this, not only do I in fact have a brain, but the MRI did not reveal any missing portions or general deformities).
Friday, February 19, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Lunch Report: Leaving Who Dat Nation
Apologies for taking so long to share my lunch experience with you. Usually I like to write about my lunch when all the flavors and tastes are still fresh on my tongue. The tastes from recent lunches were so overwhelming that it's taken me two weeks to make sense of them.
I spent the last two weekends lunching in Who Dat Nation. No, I am not mocking anyone's speech patterns. "Who Dat Nation"* is a legitimate reference to the community of New Orleans Saints fans, a community that has had good reason to celebrate lately.
Unruly and unbridled passion—my own or others—has always scared me. Yet, passion was exactly what I was hoping to find down there. I found passion, someone else's passion—another city's passion—but not my own.
This was not for lack of effort. On January 16th, I attended the Saints game against the Arizona Cardinals, my first NFL game ever. For goodness sakes, I wore a body length gold lamé unitard with a Drew Brees jersey on top and screamed myself horse in the New Orleans Super Dome. I even participated in Bobby Hebert's* live post-game radio program held at Deanie's Seafood Restaurant. To my surprise, the experience far exceeded my expectations.
So I prolonged the effort. I spent a second weekend in New Orleans and even hosted a Saints party at a suite in one of the French Quarter’s historic hotels (a bit redundant considering you can’t spit in the French Quarter without hitting an historical landmark). I watched the Saints defeat the Vikings in over time while dining on fried chicken and sharing shots with my new best friends, most of whom I’d never met.
They weren’t all strangers. A male friend hosted the party with me. Even well before the 5:40pm kick-off, he had been transformed by Who Dat delirium. Throughout the game he was a black and gold storm of energy leaping from one room to another, opening beers, hugging male friends and glaring at the TV, daring the Vikings to try to take his team down. The only time he sat still was when Hartley prepared for the final kick that made the whole Who Dat fantasy real.
Then the craziness really began. All the NYTimes' accounts of the revelry that followed the Saints' victory against the Vikings on January 24th are true. City-wide high fives, an early Mardi Gras celebration on Bourbon Street, and the Who Dat chant* reverberating throughout the Quarter. I wished I could have immersed myself in it but it turned out not to be my style.
A part of me wouldn’t let myself be swept away by their joy. If I were the protagonist in my own life—and sadly I usually am not—my inability to cede to passion would be my tragic flaw. I wanted to know what it felt like to want or need to hug strangers.
Maybe I knew deep down that there is always a dark side to every passion. Like when your male friend—the Southern gentleman who allegedly has nothing but the utmost respect for all his female acquaintances—begins pawing a tired bar tendress at 2am, tells her she's the most beautiful waitress he's ever seen, and then shoots an icy stare at you and snaps "Don't be jealous."
Yes, despite all of the bohemian freedoms of the Crescent City,* where even the water meter covers boast "Love, Faith & Strength,"* they still try to tell you what you should feel and lash out at you when they think you're feeling the wrong thing. Ironically, I was not jealous at all—I was perversely intrigued by how properly inspired "passion" can manifest itself as recklessness, thoughtlessness and immaturity, the dark side of passion.
Maybe I'm just a spoil sport. After all, I saw two of the most exciting football games in NFL history. I witnessed firsthand a tangible surge in New Orleanians’ morale, as the entire nation focused its attention on their city and their team.
Despite all of that, I felt sad, inadequate and irritated. Sad and inadequate because I did not want to run down Bourbon Street, hug strangers or kiss the ground. Sad and irritated because even a "good" friend thinks excitement is a fair excuse for insulting behavior. Maybe I just digest things differently. I'm beginning to think I like reading about Who Dat Nation in the NYTimes much better than I do spending time among its citizens. Maybe it's time to leave Who Dat Nation and revoke my citizenship. Maybe. I’ll watch one more game this weekend and then decide . . .
Notes
*See http://www.whodatnation.com; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Dat%3F
*Bobby Hebert, Jr. is a retired quarterback for the New Orleans Saints who works now as a sportscaster. The "Cajun Canon," as he is known, holds a live radio show after each Saints game at Deanie’s seafood restaurant and responds to questions called in to the program or, in my case, delivered live at the restaurant on the mike. Granted, I could have come up with a more probing question rather than throwing Bobbie a curve ball (sorry to mix sports metaphors) and ask whether Reggie Bush was single. If I took the time to read Page Six more often, I would have known that he has an on and off thing with Kim Kardashian.
*New Orleans is also known as The Crescent City because of the way the Mississippi flows through it, creating the shape of a crescent.
*The water meter covers in New Orleans are so artistically noteworthy that people would steal them as souvenirs. Many souvenir shops in the Quarter now make pendants and rings featuring the water meter cover, its stars and "Love, Faith & Strength" motto in the hopes that people will purchase the souvenirs and leave in tact the few water meter covers that remain.
*Who Dat chant refers to the Saints’ cheer: "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?" I wish I could provide an audio link to the entire Super Dome chanting this. Without that, it’s difficult to appreciate this cheer.
I spent the last two weekends lunching in Who Dat Nation. No, I am not mocking anyone's speech patterns. "Who Dat Nation"* is a legitimate reference to the community of New Orleans Saints fans, a community that has had good reason to celebrate lately.
Unruly and unbridled passion—my own or others—has always scared me. Yet, passion was exactly what I was hoping to find down there. I found passion, someone else's passion—another city's passion—but not my own.
This was not for lack of effort. On January 16th, I attended the Saints game against the Arizona Cardinals, my first NFL game ever. For goodness sakes, I wore a body length gold lamé unitard with a Drew Brees jersey on top and screamed myself horse in the New Orleans Super Dome. I even participated in Bobby Hebert's* live post-game radio program held at Deanie's Seafood Restaurant. To my surprise, the experience far exceeded my expectations.
So I prolonged the effort. I spent a second weekend in New Orleans and even hosted a Saints party at a suite in one of the French Quarter’s historic hotels (a bit redundant considering you can’t spit in the French Quarter without hitting an historical landmark). I watched the Saints defeat the Vikings in over time while dining on fried chicken and sharing shots with my new best friends, most of whom I’d never met.
They weren’t all strangers. A male friend hosted the party with me. Even well before the 5:40pm kick-off, he had been transformed by Who Dat delirium. Throughout the game he was a black and gold storm of energy leaping from one room to another, opening beers, hugging male friends and glaring at the TV, daring the Vikings to try to take his team down. The only time he sat still was when Hartley prepared for the final kick that made the whole Who Dat fantasy real.
Then the craziness really began. All the NYTimes' accounts of the revelry that followed the Saints' victory against the Vikings on January 24th are true. City-wide high fives, an early Mardi Gras celebration on Bourbon Street, and the Who Dat chant* reverberating throughout the Quarter. I wished I could have immersed myself in it but it turned out not to be my style.
A part of me wouldn’t let myself be swept away by their joy. If I were the protagonist in my own life—and sadly I usually am not—my inability to cede to passion would be my tragic flaw. I wanted to know what it felt like to want or need to hug strangers.
Maybe I knew deep down that there is always a dark side to every passion. Like when your male friend—the Southern gentleman who allegedly has nothing but the utmost respect for all his female acquaintances—begins pawing a tired bar tendress at 2am, tells her she's the most beautiful waitress he's ever seen, and then shoots an icy stare at you and snaps "Don't be jealous."
Yes, despite all of the bohemian freedoms of the Crescent City,* where even the water meter covers boast "Love, Faith & Strength,"* they still try to tell you what you should feel and lash out at you when they think you're feeling the wrong thing. Ironically, I was not jealous at all—I was perversely intrigued by how properly inspired "passion" can manifest itself as recklessness, thoughtlessness and immaturity, the dark side of passion.
Maybe I'm just a spoil sport. After all, I saw two of the most exciting football games in NFL history. I witnessed firsthand a tangible surge in New Orleanians’ morale, as the entire nation focused its attention on their city and their team.
Despite all of that, I felt sad, inadequate and irritated. Sad and inadequate because I did not want to run down Bourbon Street, hug strangers or kiss the ground. Sad and irritated because even a "good" friend thinks excitement is a fair excuse for insulting behavior. Maybe I just digest things differently. I'm beginning to think I like reading about Who Dat Nation in the NYTimes much better than I do spending time among its citizens. Maybe it's time to leave Who Dat Nation and revoke my citizenship. Maybe. I’ll watch one more game this weekend and then decide . . .
Notes
*See http://www.whodatnation.com; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Dat%3F
*Bobby Hebert, Jr. is a retired quarterback for the New Orleans Saints who works now as a sportscaster. The "Cajun Canon," as he is known, holds a live radio show after each Saints game at Deanie’s seafood restaurant and responds to questions called in to the program or, in my case, delivered live at the restaurant on the mike. Granted, I could have come up with a more probing question rather than throwing Bobbie a curve ball (sorry to mix sports metaphors) and ask whether Reggie Bush was single. If I took the time to read Page Six more often, I would have known that he has an on and off thing with Kim Kardashian.
*New Orleans is also known as The Crescent City because of the way the Mississippi flows through it, creating the shape of a crescent.
*The water meter covers in New Orleans are so artistically noteworthy that people would steal them as souvenirs. Many souvenir shops in the Quarter now make pendants and rings featuring the water meter cover, its stars and "Love, Faith & Strength" motto in the hopes that people will purchase the souvenirs and leave in tact the few water meter covers that remain.
*Who Dat chant refers to the Saints’ cheer: "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?" I wish I could provide an audio link to the entire Super Dome chanting this. Without that, it’s difficult to appreciate this cheer.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Lunch Report: The Happiest Lunch Is NOT in Louisiana
Today is clearly one of the coldest days of the year (it better be, because I can't withstand temperatures much lower than this).
Bitter cold can be a source of grave misery. It ravages the skin, stirs up the static (try walking into a meeting with hair standing on end, makes quite an impression) and serves as too easy an excuse to hit the bottle before dusk (even now when the sun sets by 5pm).
Nonetheless, I was prepared to ignore the cold today. I was going to put my nose to the grindstone and get down to the business of being happy, NYC-style, by being extraordinarily efficient, vigorously checking things off my “to do” list, immersing myself in work and indulging in all the superlatives that NYC has to offer (best shopping, best theatre selection, best gyms, etc). By the end of the day I would be incapacitated with a sense of satisfaction.
And then I opened the newspaper and logged on to the Web:* there it was, we in NY are the unhappiest folks in all the land, 51st out of 50 (they even included Puerto Rico).
And the happiest state? Louisiana. Really? At first I was defensive. Maybe if we had their climate, we’d be happy too.
Besides, people forget the many advantages of unhappiness:
+ In NY, we have free license to complain. Happy people aren't allowed to complain and will elicit no sympathy when doing so. In NY we can complain about the budget, the disproportionate effect that the financial crisis has had on our state, the weather, etc. This may be why we're never lacking for conversation in NY.
+ In NY we're more productive. Angst and depression can be tremendous sources of inspiration, both in finance and the arts. In fact, probably the only reason folks in Louisiana are happy is because of the financial tools invented by NYers, the magazine written by NYers and the clothes designed by NYers. Our productivity is subsidizing their happiness. Maybe we should be getting some sort of a tax credit for this?
And then I looked a bit closer at the criteria for the study and realized the problem with the study. In all their scientific wisdom, the scientists were measuring happiness by asking people if they were happy, a fatal flaw in the study’s design that flies right in the face of the Heisenberg Principle.*
In Louisiana, they don’t actually know what happiness is. How could they? In NY we have more psychiatrists per person and the average literacy rate is much higher.* What with the dearth of psychiatrists in LA and the comparatively low literacy rate, how could they even know if they are happy or not?
Being Southern and all, they were undoubtedly motivated by a sense of politeness in their responses. If you’re Southern, it’s better to confirm your happiness than burden a complete stranger with emotional confessions, especially when the stranger is simply trying to conduct a scientific study for which he or she has already decided the conclusion well in advance of initiating the study.
And then I really got it. The study and its results are part of an elaborate marketing campaign designed to stop the constant flow of people into NY and the potential dilution of our per capita happiness. People in NY are the happiest in America but we rely on studies such as these to ensure the secrecy of our happiness.* Similarly, people in Louisiana need polls like this to persuade them of their sense of contentment (although with the literacy rate in LA what it is, a study published in the Journal of Science may not be the most effective way to spread the message there).
Come to think of it, we're so damned happy that we turn to those sad gits in Louisiana when we need some depressing literature to bring us down a notch (Tennessee Williams comes to mind . . .).. I once had a friend who saw two Tennessee Williams plays in one day. She was so depressed I had to bring her to the ER. Thank goodness we also have some of the best medical care in the nation in New York.
Happy Holidays to everyone in America, no matter what state you inhabit.
Penelope Frost
p.s. I was so happy today that I forgot to have lunch. Cost: $0.
Notes
*The Wall Street Journal, p.1; http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20091217/sc_livescience/happieststatesrevealedbynewresearch
*The popularized version of this principle posits that the act of observing something changes the object of observation.
Another fatal flaw, the study concedes, is that the LA interviews took place before Hurricane Katrina. To be fair, though, the stunning and unexpected victories racked up by the New Orleans Saints in 2009 could very well counter much of the continued emotional effects of Katrina.
*The literacy rate in LA is 28% compared with 50% in NY. This could mean we’re either twice as happy or twice as screwed up but I’m still working on the equation and related algorithms to demonstrate this.*As it turns out, the study was financed largely by capital sourced in NY.
Bitter cold can be a source of grave misery. It ravages the skin, stirs up the static (try walking into a meeting with hair standing on end, makes quite an impression) and serves as too easy an excuse to hit the bottle before dusk (even now when the sun sets by 5pm).
Nonetheless, I was prepared to ignore the cold today. I was going to put my nose to the grindstone and get down to the business of being happy, NYC-style, by being extraordinarily efficient, vigorously checking things off my “to do” list, immersing myself in work and indulging in all the superlatives that NYC has to offer (best shopping, best theatre selection, best gyms, etc). By the end of the day I would be incapacitated with a sense of satisfaction.
And then I opened the newspaper and logged on to the Web:* there it was, we in NY are the unhappiest folks in all the land, 51st out of 50 (they even included Puerto Rico).
And the happiest state? Louisiana. Really? At first I was defensive. Maybe if we had their climate, we’d be happy too.
Besides, people forget the many advantages of unhappiness:
+ In NY, we have free license to complain. Happy people aren't allowed to complain and will elicit no sympathy when doing so. In NY we can complain about the budget, the disproportionate effect that the financial crisis has had on our state, the weather, etc. This may be why we're never lacking for conversation in NY.
+ In NY we're more productive. Angst and depression can be tremendous sources of inspiration, both in finance and the arts. In fact, probably the only reason folks in Louisiana are happy is because of the financial tools invented by NYers, the magazine written by NYers and the clothes designed by NYers. Our productivity is subsidizing their happiness. Maybe we should be getting some sort of a tax credit for this?
And then I looked a bit closer at the criteria for the study and realized the problem with the study. In all their scientific wisdom, the scientists were measuring happiness by asking people if they were happy, a fatal flaw in the study’s design that flies right in the face of the Heisenberg Principle.*
In Louisiana, they don’t actually know what happiness is. How could they? In NY we have more psychiatrists per person and the average literacy rate is much higher.* What with the dearth of psychiatrists in LA and the comparatively low literacy rate, how could they even know if they are happy or not?
Being Southern and all, they were undoubtedly motivated by a sense of politeness in their responses. If you’re Southern, it’s better to confirm your happiness than burden a complete stranger with emotional confessions, especially when the stranger is simply trying to conduct a scientific study for which he or she has already decided the conclusion well in advance of initiating the study.
And then I really got it. The study and its results are part of an elaborate marketing campaign designed to stop the constant flow of people into NY and the potential dilution of our per capita happiness. People in NY are the happiest in America but we rely on studies such as these to ensure the secrecy of our happiness.* Similarly, people in Louisiana need polls like this to persuade them of their sense of contentment (although with the literacy rate in LA what it is, a study published in the Journal of Science may not be the most effective way to spread the message there).
Come to think of it, we're so damned happy that we turn to those sad gits in Louisiana when we need some depressing literature to bring us down a notch (Tennessee Williams comes to mind . . .).. I once had a friend who saw two Tennessee Williams plays in one day. She was so depressed I had to bring her to the ER. Thank goodness we also have some of the best medical care in the nation in New York.
Happy Holidays to everyone in America, no matter what state you inhabit.
Penelope Frost
p.s. I was so happy today that I forgot to have lunch. Cost: $0.
Notes
*The Wall Street Journal, p.1; http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20091217/sc_livescience/happieststatesrevealedbynewresearch
*The popularized version of this principle posits that the act of observing something changes the object of observation.
Another fatal flaw, the study concedes, is that the LA interviews took place before Hurricane Katrina. To be fair, though, the stunning and unexpected victories racked up by the New Orleans Saints in 2009 could very well counter much of the continued emotional effects of Katrina.
*The literacy rate in LA is 28% compared with 50% in NY. This could mean we’re either twice as happy or twice as screwed up but I’m still working on the equation and related algorithms to demonstrate this.*As it turns out, the study was financed largely by capital sourced in NY.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Lunch Report: Correction and Addendum to The Breakers
I wanted to share with you all what I learned today in my follow up conversation with Mr. James Augustine Ponce, The Breakers’ official historian and Palm Beach’s only designated living landmark.
Hey, when a 92-year old Palm Beach scholar takes time out of his day to call NYC and educate some corporate lawyer about The Breakers, I think it’s noteworthy.
Italian Inspiration for The Breakers. Because of the conflicting explanations I encountered when researching the architectural inspiration for The Breakers, I omitted this detail from The Lunch Report. The inspiration for The Breakers was in fact the Villa de Medici in Rome. Admit it, you all thought The Breakers in RI was the original inspiration.
That Curious Fountain Out Front. I was misguided by the staff at The Breakers. The fountain featuring the questionable acts among cherubs, alligators and pelicans (they look like swans, I swear) was not inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It began as a replica of a fountain in the Boboli Gardens in Florence. The animals were then changed to alligators and pelicans to add a southern Floridian touch. Also, the cherubs are “wrestling with,” and not “choking,” the animals. I apologize for my inflammatory suggestion that violence against animals was involved. Obviously, the cherubs (dumbasses that they are) are playing with the alligators (as one does in FL) and not trying to hurt them.
Hotel Nacional in Havana. Based on a recent trip to Havana, Mr. Ponce was able to confirm that Hotel Nacional bears a striking resemblance to The Breakers, from the outside at least. Once inside, he explained, all resemblance stops. We’ll see . . . Mr. Ponce also confirmed my suspicions that the Embargo is the “silliest thing” ever.
Please see the attached link for a fascinating tribute to The Breakers and Mr. Ponce:http://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/node/304524
Hey, when a 92-year old Palm Beach scholar takes time out of his day to call NYC and educate some corporate lawyer about The Breakers, I think it’s noteworthy.
Italian Inspiration for The Breakers. Because of the conflicting explanations I encountered when researching the architectural inspiration for The Breakers, I omitted this detail from The Lunch Report. The inspiration for The Breakers was in fact the Villa de Medici in Rome. Admit it, you all thought The Breakers in RI was the original inspiration.
That Curious Fountain Out Front. I was misguided by the staff at The Breakers. The fountain featuring the questionable acts among cherubs, alligators and pelicans (they look like swans, I swear) was not inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It began as a replica of a fountain in the Boboli Gardens in Florence. The animals were then changed to alligators and pelicans to add a southern Floridian touch. Also, the cherubs are “wrestling with,” and not “choking,” the animals. I apologize for my inflammatory suggestion that violence against animals was involved. Obviously, the cherubs (dumbasses that they are) are playing with the alligators (as one does in FL) and not trying to hurt them.
Hotel Nacional in Havana. Based on a recent trip to Havana, Mr. Ponce was able to confirm that Hotel Nacional bears a striking resemblance to The Breakers, from the outside at least. Once inside, he explained, all resemblance stops. We’ll see . . . Mr. Ponce also confirmed my suspicions that the Embargo is the “silliest thing” ever.
Please see the attached link for a fascinating tribute to The Breakers and Mr. Ponce:http://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/node/304524
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Lunch Report: Lunch at The Breakers, Recession-style
I remember the first time I visited The Breakers (Palm Beach, FL). The castle-like facade overwhelmed me. Royalty must dwell inside, I thought. I didn’t even understand it was a hotel.
As I approached the main entrance, the perfectly parallel palm trees spaced apart with mathematical precision made me feel self-conscious about the symmetry of my gait. Rolls Royces pulled up and tuxedo-ed men and Dior-clad women spilled out. The display of wealth was obvious yet, strangely, not ostentatious—wealth was apparently expected here.
Most are too distracted by the grandeur of The Breakers’ entrance to notice the curious fountain out front. It’s encircled by eight demonically gleeful cherubs choking swans and strangling alligators*—a strange touch, perhaps intended to presage violence or decadence lurking within the castle. I was told it was inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I recall Persephone being raped in Metamorphoses but I don’t recall anything as disturbing as violence against alligators, do you?
F. Scott Fitzgerald would have felt at home here—as soon you step inside, you know you’re entering some golden age, even if it’s not the 20s. That is, until recently, when the “bargain” was introduced.
I was there the day the “bargain” was posted on The Breakers’ website. Half-price rooms and unlimited golf (no greens fees). It was the same day I saw an employee post a sign for half-price drinks during the Tapestry Bar “happy hour,” where cocktail hour had never been called “happy hour.” I swear I saw him cringe.
The Tapestry Bar, which houses a collection of 16th-18th century tapestries,* is where one has a warm up drink (or three) before heading to dinner or one of the many benefits the hotel may be hosting.
This week was my first time back in a while and the “bargain” has been in full swing for months now.
Last night I showed up for my pre-prandial cocktail in well-fitted slacks and a tunic top with a soupcon of sequins around the neck and cuffs. My sequins almost fell off when we entered the 33-foot-ceilinged room. We were accosted by denim and polyester, rather than welcomed by the silks and cashmeres we’d been accustomed to seeing here. Shirts weren’t tucked in and belt loops hung listlessly, beltless. We even saw flip flops—nothing but a thin slab of rubber separating feet from carpet.
I wandered out, disappointed, and headed towards the Seafood Bar. On the way, I caught Henry Flagler’s* eye, his look decidedly more severe than usual. Even he was horrified by the “bargain.”
Today I woke with fresh resolve to admire The Breakers. A day of golf at Breakers West, my golf Brigadoon, is usually my favorite part of any Breakers visit. Just 10 miles west of the main Breakers palace, Breakers West offers nothing but golf and tennis, a haven of purity compared to the baroque materialism that permeates the main palace, where Worth Avenue* peddlers, such as Ralph Lauren and Burberry’s, line the halls.
The pro’s eyes lit up when I walked into the pro shop. He’s always glad when I visit but there was a certain desperation to his greeting today. After a short conversation about the new “clientele” the bargain had ushered in, I understood why. Tears came to his eyes as he described the divots and ball marks these bargain hunters were leaving in their wake. Apparently Breakers West was under siege as well.
He explained that my presence was a reminder to him of another era (ironic when you consider how much hotel shampoo I’ve pilfered over the years). He saw in me a golfer who would treat the course with tenderness and respect. I may steal shampoo but, for God’s sakes, I repair my ball marks and replace my divots!
My usual lunch routine here is to grab some complimentary pastries at the pro shop so I can play golf all day without stopping for lunch. There were no pastries in the pro shop. Were they that expensive to provide or did they fear guests might break into a fist fight over the pastry? The latter, no doubt.
Fortunately, with the help of my friends in the pro shop and the grill room, I was able to create a sanctuary overlooking the 9th green. Today I had for lunch:
*One BLT on toast with an abundance of mayonnaise.
*One diet coke
*Saltine crackers
Cost: $0. The lunch was on the house (probably in recognition of my loyalty—they knew it wasn’t the “bargain” that lured me here and no matter how much I have to scrimp to spend another weekend at The Breakers (post-“bargain”), I will do it).
It may be a while until The Breakers has been fully restored and the bargains hunters have dispersed. In fact, for now I may have more luck recapturing The Breakers I miss at Hotel Nacional in Havana.*
__________________________________________
*The tapestries were a gift by Dr. Owen Kenan, Mrs. Flagler’s (see below) cousin. Dr. Kenan boarded RMS Lusitania in 1915 to rescue his art collection (including the tapestries) from his apartment in Paris. As legend has it, Kenan survived thanks to a life jacket provided by the valet to Alfred Vanderbilt, who sank with the ship.
*Henry Flagler Morrison (1830-1913), photos of whom populate the East Wing, is credited with the development of south east Florida. He had The Palm Beach Inn built in 1895. By 1901 it had tripled in size and had been renamed The Breakers. It would burn to the ground twice before being resurrected in its current form designed by Leonard Schulz, also The Waldorf-Astoria’s architect.
*Worth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Florida, features Cartier, Valentino and Hermes, among other luxury goods stores.
*Hotel Nacional, a McKim Mead and White creation, was designed as a replica of The Breakers.
As I approached the main entrance, the perfectly parallel palm trees spaced apart with mathematical precision made me feel self-conscious about the symmetry of my gait. Rolls Royces pulled up and tuxedo-ed men and Dior-clad women spilled out. The display of wealth was obvious yet, strangely, not ostentatious—wealth was apparently expected here.
Most are too distracted by the grandeur of The Breakers’ entrance to notice the curious fountain out front. It’s encircled by eight demonically gleeful cherubs choking swans and strangling alligators*—a strange touch, perhaps intended to presage violence or decadence lurking within the castle. I was told it was inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I recall Persephone being raped in Metamorphoses but I don’t recall anything as disturbing as violence against alligators, do you?
F. Scott Fitzgerald would have felt at home here—as soon you step inside, you know you’re entering some golden age, even if it’s not the 20s. That is, until recently, when the “bargain” was introduced.
I was there the day the “bargain” was posted on The Breakers’ website. Half-price rooms and unlimited golf (no greens fees). It was the same day I saw an employee post a sign for half-price drinks during the Tapestry Bar “happy hour,” where cocktail hour had never been called “happy hour.” I swear I saw him cringe.
The Tapestry Bar, which houses a collection of 16th-18th century tapestries,* is where one has a warm up drink (or three) before heading to dinner or one of the many benefits the hotel may be hosting.
This week was my first time back in a while and the “bargain” has been in full swing for months now.
Last night I showed up for my pre-prandial cocktail in well-fitted slacks and a tunic top with a soupcon of sequins around the neck and cuffs. My sequins almost fell off when we entered the 33-foot-ceilinged room. We were accosted by denim and polyester, rather than welcomed by the silks and cashmeres we’d been accustomed to seeing here. Shirts weren’t tucked in and belt loops hung listlessly, beltless. We even saw flip flops—nothing but a thin slab of rubber separating feet from carpet.
I wandered out, disappointed, and headed towards the Seafood Bar. On the way, I caught Henry Flagler’s* eye, his look decidedly more severe than usual. Even he was horrified by the “bargain.”
Today I woke with fresh resolve to admire The Breakers. A day of golf at Breakers West, my golf Brigadoon, is usually my favorite part of any Breakers visit. Just 10 miles west of the main Breakers palace, Breakers West offers nothing but golf and tennis, a haven of purity compared to the baroque materialism that permeates the main palace, where Worth Avenue* peddlers, such as Ralph Lauren and Burberry’s, line the halls.
The pro’s eyes lit up when I walked into the pro shop. He’s always glad when I visit but there was a certain desperation to his greeting today. After a short conversation about the new “clientele” the bargain had ushered in, I understood why. Tears came to his eyes as he described the divots and ball marks these bargain hunters were leaving in their wake. Apparently Breakers West was under siege as well.
He explained that my presence was a reminder to him of another era (ironic when you consider how much hotel shampoo I’ve pilfered over the years). He saw in me a golfer who would treat the course with tenderness and respect. I may steal shampoo but, for God’s sakes, I repair my ball marks and replace my divots!
My usual lunch routine here is to grab some complimentary pastries at the pro shop so I can play golf all day without stopping for lunch. There were no pastries in the pro shop. Were they that expensive to provide or did they fear guests might break into a fist fight over the pastry? The latter, no doubt.
Fortunately, with the help of my friends in the pro shop and the grill room, I was able to create a sanctuary overlooking the 9th green. Today I had for lunch:
*One BLT on toast with an abundance of mayonnaise.
*One diet coke
*Saltine crackers
Cost: $0. The lunch was on the house (probably in recognition of my loyalty—they knew it wasn’t the “bargain” that lured me here and no matter how much I have to scrimp to spend another weekend at The Breakers (post-“bargain”), I will do it).
It may be a while until The Breakers has been fully restored and the bargains hunters have dispersed. In fact, for now I may have more luck recapturing The Breakers I miss at Hotel Nacional in Havana.*
__________________________________________
*The tapestries were a gift by Dr. Owen Kenan, Mrs. Flagler’s (see below) cousin. Dr. Kenan boarded RMS Lusitania in 1915 to rescue his art collection (including the tapestries) from his apartment in Paris. As legend has it, Kenan survived thanks to a life jacket provided by the valet to Alfred Vanderbilt, who sank with the ship.
*Henry Flagler Morrison (1830-1913), photos of whom populate the East Wing, is credited with the development of south east Florida. He had The Palm Beach Inn built in 1895. By 1901 it had tripled in size and had been renamed The Breakers. It would burn to the ground twice before being resurrected in its current form designed by Leonard Schulz, also The Waldorf-Astoria’s architect.
*Worth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Florida, features Cartier, Valentino and Hermes, among other luxury goods stores.
*Hotel Nacional, a McKim Mead and White creation, was designed as a replica of The Breakers.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Lunch Report: My Lunch with Tiger Woods
Given the continued coverage of Tiger Woods’ non-golfing activities, I thought I should come clean with my readership. I had lunch with Tiger Woods.
It all took place at Sawgrass in 2003.* Elin and he were not married at the time so, technically, it wasn’t a "transgression." I was a guest speaker at a conference hosted by UBS, which was also sponsoring the PGA event taking place at the same time, and so was generously provided with courtesy tickets to the golf tournament.
Tiger’s and my meeting was completely accidental and perhaps a result of a breach in Tiger’s security protocol and my innate disrespect for boundaries. I remain bound by various confidentiality agreements and cannot elaborate much on our meeting. Suffice it to say, he extended a very private lunch invitation.
Given our age difference, I suppose it was more of a cougar-cub thing than anything else (although at 27 Tiger was an aging cub and I, at 35, was just a baby cougar, if even).*
So why aren’t I one of the Tiger Tramps* named by the media in Tiger-gate? I think you know why. If there is a Tiger tramp, she must be a busty model of Amazonian height with the finest features this side of the Atlantic (or the Pacific, given Tiger's birthplace in CA)—not a bespectacled corporate lawyer of modest bosom and height with a quirky nose, like Penelope Frost.
Real stories about real relationships are complicated, messy and not easily summed up in 3-word titles with pithy 4-word subtitles and borderline porn photos. Reality is in fact much more nuanced and requires many more words and much more time to adequately discuss, which is exactly why most of us don’t want to read about it.
There's been a lot of talk about Tiger being "human" in the news coverage but in fact the media has taken Tiger's alleged escapades well beyond "human" and well into the realm of super human. If there were infidelity, surely it would not have been any ordinary indiscretion. Tiger must have broken a record.
At this point we're all tired of the coverage and amateur analogies and metaphors cropping up, including the "the fairways of his life," how many "birdies" (women) he "scored" (bedded) on "the back nine" and triple-entendred references to his "swing" (sorry, Yahoo internet policies prevent me from translating these last two).
But there is no longer any point in asking "Who cares?" Apparently everyone does and no one believes he is human, even if he is. I’m afraid we can expect the media to ride the Tiger* a bit longer as Tiger’s closeted tendency to "be human" takes on more epic and outlandish proportions every day.
Penelope
P.S. As I am sure you have divined by now (and if you have not, The Lunch Report is probably over your head and you may want to stick with the NY Post), I did not in fact have lunch, or anything else, with Tiger Woods. Don't think I haven't contemplated it—what female hasn't contemplated it, at least once, as she watches Tiger stride up the 18th fairway on a Sunday afternoon with a double digit lead—it’s only "human."
Notes____________
*The Stadium Course at TPC Sawgrass (Jacksonville, FL) is the site of an annual PGA event.
*According to the New York Times, cubs range in age from 23-31 and cougars range in age from 35-56. See "In Cougar Territory, Cubs Take the Lead," New York Times, November 14, 2009.
*"N. ‘ty-gur tramp. Any of the comely participants involved in the extraordinary romps of the formerly inscrutable golf superstar Tiger Woods. Usage: As news of the Tiger Woods scandal spread, one "other woman" after another emerged with a love story to tell or sell. Within a week, more than ten Tiger tramps had revealed themselves, and it became clear that the taciturn, no-show golf pro had set himself quite a tiger trap." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com/
*"V. ryd thu ty-gur. To report or to track the evolving Tiger Woods scandal as zestfully, tenaciously, and as often as possible. Usage: Journalists on every news station rode the Tiger all week long, rushing to communicate every bit of gossip or scandal to their viewers as soon as it emerged, as if they were reporting on a war, flood, earthquake, or other issue of unquestioned human relevance." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com.
It all took place at Sawgrass in 2003.* Elin and he were not married at the time so, technically, it wasn’t a "transgression." I was a guest speaker at a conference hosted by UBS, which was also sponsoring the PGA event taking place at the same time, and so was generously provided with courtesy tickets to the golf tournament.
Tiger’s and my meeting was completely accidental and perhaps a result of a breach in Tiger’s security protocol and my innate disrespect for boundaries. I remain bound by various confidentiality agreements and cannot elaborate much on our meeting. Suffice it to say, he extended a very private lunch invitation.
Given our age difference, I suppose it was more of a cougar-cub thing than anything else (although at 27 Tiger was an aging cub and I, at 35, was just a baby cougar, if even).*
So why aren’t I one of the Tiger Tramps* named by the media in Tiger-gate? I think you know why. If there is a Tiger tramp, she must be a busty model of Amazonian height with the finest features this side of the Atlantic (or the Pacific, given Tiger's birthplace in CA)—not a bespectacled corporate lawyer of modest bosom and height with a quirky nose, like Penelope Frost.
Real stories about real relationships are complicated, messy and not easily summed up in 3-word titles with pithy 4-word subtitles and borderline porn photos. Reality is in fact much more nuanced and requires many more words and much more time to adequately discuss, which is exactly why most of us don’t want to read about it.
There's been a lot of talk about Tiger being "human" in the news coverage but in fact the media has taken Tiger's alleged escapades well beyond "human" and well into the realm of super human. If there were infidelity, surely it would not have been any ordinary indiscretion. Tiger must have broken a record.
At this point we're all tired of the coverage and amateur analogies and metaphors cropping up, including the "the fairways of his life," how many "birdies" (women) he "scored" (bedded) on "the back nine" and triple-entendred references to his "swing" (sorry, Yahoo internet policies prevent me from translating these last two).
But there is no longer any point in asking "Who cares?" Apparently everyone does and no one believes he is human, even if he is. I’m afraid we can expect the media to ride the Tiger* a bit longer as Tiger’s closeted tendency to "be human" takes on more epic and outlandish proportions every day.
Penelope
P.S. As I am sure you have divined by now (and if you have not, The Lunch Report is probably over your head and you may want to stick with the NY Post), I did not in fact have lunch, or anything else, with Tiger Woods. Don't think I haven't contemplated it—what female hasn't contemplated it, at least once, as she watches Tiger stride up the 18th fairway on a Sunday afternoon with a double digit lead—it’s only "human."
Notes____________
*The Stadium Course at TPC Sawgrass (Jacksonville, FL) is the site of an annual PGA event.
*According to the New York Times, cubs range in age from 23-31 and cougars range in age from 35-56. See "In Cougar Territory, Cubs Take the Lead," New York Times, November 14, 2009.
*"N. ‘ty-gur tramp. Any of the comely participants involved in the extraordinary romps of the formerly inscrutable golf superstar Tiger Woods. Usage: As news of the Tiger Woods scandal spread, one "other woman" after another emerged with a love story to tell or sell. Within a week, more than ten Tiger tramps had revealed themselves, and it became clear that the taciturn, no-show golf pro had set himself quite a tiger trap." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com/
*"V. ryd thu ty-gur. To report or to track the evolving Tiger Woods scandal as zestfully, tenaciously, and as often as possible. Usage: Journalists on every news station rode the Tiger all week long, rushing to communicate every bit of gossip or scandal to their viewers as soon as it emerged, as if they were reporting on a war, flood, earthquake, or other issue of unquestioned human relevance." Source: http://wordbirds.tumblr.com.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Lunch Report: Lunch in Little WASP Town
Today I accidentally lunched at The River Club, tucked inconspicuously at the eastern most extremity of the Beekman neighborhood, 447 East 52nd. I say "accidentally" because I had forgotten that the club is practically "in" the East River, a good two miles east of my office, an impossibly long walk in heels and simply uncab-able during midday midtown traffic.
The River Club distinguishes itself among its “peer” clubs, such as the Links and the Knick, by its original aspiration to serve as both a country club as well as a living cooperative (through its neighboring River House). Housing its own pool, tennis and squash courts, some say it succeeded.
Chartered in 1930, members could moor their yachts at the club's strictly private, block-long pier and enter the club without ever sullying their shoes on 52nd street. Perhaps the unfettered water access was intended to simulate the experience of stepping off a gondola in Venice straight into a palazzo (albeit an Art Deco one).
Like many UES cooperatives, the River Club maintained its cultural integrity (ie, WASPs only, not even Mackerel Snappers* allowed originally) until unseemly financial needs supposedly forced it to modify its admissions policy—financial needs have often prompted a love of diversity. At lunch I was told the club now, proudly, admits Jews. Looking around, I suspected this might be a rumor circulated by politically correct members ashamed of the club’s historic associations with anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathizing.* According to one source, no Jews were admitted until the mid 50s.
I was struck by my fellow lunchers’ ethnic uniformity (or lack of “ethnicity,” because in America, WASPs (or WASCs*) are not ethnic). I could size them up immediately by their teeth. Many of these teeth summer on Fisher's,* I'm sure. These teeth are not the fluorescent white teeth one sees nowadays on the finance crowd and their well-heeled spouses. At the River Club, people know that glow-in-the-dark teeth mean you and your teeth are trying too hard. No orthodontic excesses here, just good genes and the faintest hint of ochre that occurs naturally with age.
The food was appropriately bland, as club food should be—exotic tastes are a creature comfort of the nouveau cultured—their taste buds so finely tuned that they can no longer appreciate the elegant simplicity of a grilled cheese sandwich or chicken noodle soup—American staples that may soon disappear amidst “fusion cuisine,” whereby the fusion of two unrelated cuisines (think Japanese-Mexican) is meant to be superior to either individually, yet often results in gustatory discord.
Cost: $0 (like all good clubs, one pays with a membership number, to avoid the vulgarity of cash or credit cards)
I know I was supposed to hate this lunch and feel stifled by this club, yet, with great shame, I admit that I was relieved to spend 90 minutes in a strangely familiar atmosphere where I did not need to explain anything about my background or why I enjoyed squash—you’d think I told people I beat disabled Mexican children with polo mallets when I see the reaction to this “confession.”
I am as big a fan of diversity as the next person. I’ve visited Little Italy, Little India, and Little Brazil, none of which would have been created were it not for some Italians, Indians and Brazilians wanting to create a cultural enclave within a bigger culture. I’ve indulged in so much diversity that I may have forgotten what really feels like home to me and forgotten that there is no shame in feeling at home.
So, as I lift my gin and tonic this evening and reflect on my lunch, I would like to toast all of the cultural enclaves of NYC, including Little WASP Town at Beekman Place.*
Cheers,
Penelope
_______________________________________________
*”Mackerel Snapper,” which refers to the pre-Vatican II custom of Friday abstinence from meat, is a derogatory term for Roman Catholics which became popular in the 1800s as a means of distinguishing Catholics from Protestants in America.
*The club’s members included, most famously, Charles Lindbergh, long accused of Nazi anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathies.
*Let’s not forget that prior to Hank’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon and his subsequent separation from the Church of Rome in 1533, Catholics were very much establishment creatures.
*Fisher’s Island (named Visher’s in 1614), has been a popular summer destination for well established and old money families since the turn of the 20th century. Situated approximately 7 miles southeast of New London, CT and 11 miles north of Long Island, Fisher’s is part of Suffolk County, New York.
*Ironically, Beekman Place passed through a slum phase after the wealthy Beekman family left the area in 1854 and before its revival by the Morgan banking family in the early 1920s.
The River Club distinguishes itself among its “peer” clubs, such as the Links and the Knick, by its original aspiration to serve as both a country club as well as a living cooperative (through its neighboring River House). Housing its own pool, tennis and squash courts, some say it succeeded.
Chartered in 1930, members could moor their yachts at the club's strictly private, block-long pier and enter the club without ever sullying their shoes on 52nd street. Perhaps the unfettered water access was intended to simulate the experience of stepping off a gondola in Venice straight into a palazzo (albeit an Art Deco one).
Like many UES cooperatives, the River Club maintained its cultural integrity (ie, WASPs only, not even Mackerel Snappers* allowed originally) until unseemly financial needs supposedly forced it to modify its admissions policy—financial needs have often prompted a love of diversity. At lunch I was told the club now, proudly, admits Jews. Looking around, I suspected this might be a rumor circulated by politically correct members ashamed of the club’s historic associations with anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathizing.* According to one source, no Jews were admitted until the mid 50s.
I was struck by my fellow lunchers’ ethnic uniformity (or lack of “ethnicity,” because in America, WASPs (or WASCs*) are not ethnic). I could size them up immediately by their teeth. Many of these teeth summer on Fisher's,* I'm sure. These teeth are not the fluorescent white teeth one sees nowadays on the finance crowd and their well-heeled spouses. At the River Club, people know that glow-in-the-dark teeth mean you and your teeth are trying too hard. No orthodontic excesses here, just good genes and the faintest hint of ochre that occurs naturally with age.
The food was appropriately bland, as club food should be—exotic tastes are a creature comfort of the nouveau cultured—their taste buds so finely tuned that they can no longer appreciate the elegant simplicity of a grilled cheese sandwich or chicken noodle soup—American staples that may soon disappear amidst “fusion cuisine,” whereby the fusion of two unrelated cuisines (think Japanese-Mexican) is meant to be superior to either individually, yet often results in gustatory discord.
Cost: $0 (like all good clubs, one pays with a membership number, to avoid the vulgarity of cash or credit cards)
I know I was supposed to hate this lunch and feel stifled by this club, yet, with great shame, I admit that I was relieved to spend 90 minutes in a strangely familiar atmosphere where I did not need to explain anything about my background or why I enjoyed squash—you’d think I told people I beat disabled Mexican children with polo mallets when I see the reaction to this “confession.”
I am as big a fan of diversity as the next person. I’ve visited Little Italy, Little India, and Little Brazil, none of which would have been created were it not for some Italians, Indians and Brazilians wanting to create a cultural enclave within a bigger culture. I’ve indulged in so much diversity that I may have forgotten what really feels like home to me and forgotten that there is no shame in feeling at home.
So, as I lift my gin and tonic this evening and reflect on my lunch, I would like to toast all of the cultural enclaves of NYC, including Little WASP Town at Beekman Place.*
Cheers,
Penelope
_______________________________________________
*”Mackerel Snapper,” which refers to the pre-Vatican II custom of Friday abstinence from meat, is a derogatory term for Roman Catholics which became popular in the 1800s as a means of distinguishing Catholics from Protestants in America.
*The club’s members included, most famously, Charles Lindbergh, long accused of Nazi anti-Semitism and Nazi sympathies.
*Let’s not forget that prior to Hank’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon and his subsequent separation from the Church of Rome in 1533, Catholics were very much establishment creatures.
*Fisher’s Island (named Visher’s in 1614), has been a popular summer destination for well established and old money families since the turn of the 20th century. Situated approximately 7 miles southeast of New London, CT and 11 miles north of Long Island, Fisher’s is part of Suffolk County, New York.
*Ironically, Beekman Place passed through a slum phase after the wealthy Beekman family left the area in 1854 and before its revival by the Morgan banking family in the early 1920s.
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