Jew Eat Yet?

Crazy Uncle Thomas

There are people in our lives who are so eccentric, so outrageously unique, and so beloved that they almost seem like characters in fiction. Kendall’s Uncle Thomas was one of those people, and living in a house full of writers, he often made appearances in the plays, books, and screenplays of various family members. But the fictional Thomas Hailey never surpassed the real Thomas Hailey as a character worthy of attention. Uncle Thomas died yesterday in his bed at the Hailey homestead. It was only the second death I’ve witnessed firsthand (the first being my mother’s in 1999), and while I can’t bring myself to use words like “beautiful” or “peaceful” to describe it, I will say that his death was as it should be— at home, surrounded by loved ones, and not tethered to a network of unnecessary tubes or machines.

I feel so grateful that my first entrée into the Hailey family was at a time when the entire cast of characters still dominated their Laurel Canyon home. I fell in love with the Haileys before I ever met them thanks to Kendall’s wonderful memoir, “The Day I Became an Autodidact.” I was happy to discover that the lot of them, parents Oliver and Betsy, grandmother Hallie May (known as Nanny), sister Brooke, and crazy Uncle Thomas were every bit as break-the-mold unique as Kendall had described. They were a closed-knit family unit full of idiosyncrasies, creativity, dysfunction, and a fierce family loyalty that made Don Corleone look like a lightweight.

Kendall’s indomitable father, author and playwright Oliver Hailey, was the first to depart in 1993, his early death leaving a wide gash in the family structure. Oliver and Thomas’s mother, Hallie May, was a true Texas character whose idea of a health food salad involved a banana covered in peanut butter and gobs of mayonnaise. Nanny helped foster Kendall’s love of old movies and the stars who inhabited them. In her book, Kendall noted that Nanny was an encyclopedia of scandal about the stars’ personal lives but always remained devoted to her favorites. As Kendall wrote, “This woman lived through a son crippled by polio at age ten, horrible poverty, a terribly painful marriage, yet says the saddest day in her life was when she found out Robert Taylor and Barbara Stanwyck were getting divorced.” Nanny died in her sleep well into her 90s just before Christmas 1997. Brooke and her husband Scott named their first baby after her. And now, with Brooke about to deliver her second child any second, Thomas is gone. One life ended, another beginning, and yet I’d like to take that damn Circle of Life and tie it into a clove-hitch knot if it would bring Thomas back.

Walking into Thomas’s room was like entering a museum of American Folk Art, with separate wings for political memorabilia, posters of classic cowboy films, and a history of American Theatre as seen through the plays of his family members. I always told Thomas that the contents of his room needed to be cataloged by the Smithsonian. Yellowing photographs covering the wall by Thomas’s bed revealed scenes from Oliver’s many plays and featured some of the best actors who ever graced a stage, actors who invariably loved Thomas and would make pilgrimages to his lair whenever they were visiting the Haileys. Included in this cache are scenes from “I Won’t Dance,” the black comedy Oliver wrote in the early 1980s. The main character in this play was, like Thomas, a man confined to a wheelchair as a result of childhood polio. As the play opens, this man’s brother, a Hollywood celebrity, and the brother’s wife, an acclaimed novelist (like Kendall’s mom) have been murdered. Is the wheelchair-bound character guilty of the murder? Family friend David Selby (of “Dark Shadows” and “Falcon Crest” fame) played the Thomas character on Broadway, but the play was savaged by the New York critics. During a 1983 production in Los Angeles starring Greg Mullavey, the headline of the L.A. Times review was “Handicapped Comedy About a Cripple.” Damn those critics, the play was a worthy tribute to a great real-life character.

I’m so glad that Thomas and all of the Haileys are captured so well in Kendall’s book, published just before I met her. Here’s how she introduced her clan:

We are an odd bunch. A father, a mother (not too odd yet), a younger sister (getting odder), a grandmother (approaching the bend), and an uncle (and round it).

It was my uncle who sparked my first battle with formal education. He had infantile paralysis when he was ten years old, and one day when I was in kindergarten I decided to paint a picture of his wheelchair. My teacher looked at it and said it was the most depressing picture she’d ever seen because it was all gray. And wouldn’t it be nice to put some yellow in it? At the age of five, I did my best to explain that the painting was a true rendering of my uncle’s wheelchair, not a comment on my life.

And that was the only trouble my uncle Thomas’s being in a wheelchair ever caused me. When we went to Europe as a break from kindergarten, I rode in his lap across the continent. There is little better in life than a moveable lap.

In addition to providing handy transportation for Kendall and Brooke, Thomas was also the family typist (typing all of Oliver’s plays and scripts), stockbroker, telephone operator, and human VCR (they never needed to learn how to program their early Beta recorder since Thomas would make sure to tape every show they wanted to see).

Thomas and Nanny accompanied the family on all of their far-flung excursions. While on one of their European jaunts, this one with family friend Leona Van Scoyck and her son Matthew Tyrnauer, Kendall described the process of getting Thomas on a train:

As I think we all now know, boarding and deboarding trains are rather traumatic experiences for our group. When Uncle Thomas is involved in the endeavor, it becomes as difficult physically as it is emotionally.

The process of getting a man in a wheelchair onto a train usually comes down to throwing the man in the wheelchair onto the train and then throwing his wheelchair in after him. And next, a prayer that our compartment is not too far away, since it is not easy to drag Uncle Thomas, who manages to maintain his dignity in the damnedest of situations.

We had just thrown in Uncle Thomas and were pitching in the suitcases (trying our best not to hit him) when we looked in to see if Uncle was still conscious (Nanny had been aiming rather carelessly) and saw Leona singlehandedly dragging him down the train aisle. She was doing such a fine job, we thought it better not to throw her off by offering assistance, and have referred to her as Mother Courage ever since.

We were still admiring her when we began to notice that everyone who passed by our compartment was staring in very curiously. We know we are a strange group, but we didn’t see how everyone on the train could have figured it out so fast.

Dad stepped out to investigate and saw that the word Mutilés had been stamped on our compartment. Because of Thomas’s wheelchair. But Mutilés seemed a word full of so many more possibilities than one man in a wheelchair could offer. So as the next group of passengers paused and stared in, we all assumed the most grotesque positions we could think up. I do believe we gave them their word’s worth.

Kendall, who enjoyed reading about the intricacies of Ancient Rome but had little knowledge of current affairs, turned to Uncle Thomas as her primary news source:

I was planning to call Matthew up, but decided it would be wise first to talk to Uncle Thomas about just what is happening in this country politically since, of course, I haven’t got the faintest idea (in the political struggle I care about, Pompey is the man to watch), and I have just escaped from the talkative Uncle’s room after what seemed years of political anecdotes.

In a way, the use of Thomas’ voice has taken the place of the use of his body. He can’t run to the door of his room and throw himself in front of it to prevent exiting while there are still political anecdotes to be told. But he can say, “What was I going to tell you?” and “I’ve got a story for you” till he has forced his listener to the brink of madness. Did I say madness? I didn’t mean it.

I love my mad uncle. It is quite a gift to know someone who has gone my whole childhood without running out of conversation. And it is because of him that I know about the baby Brooke and me, Sherlock Holmes, Roy Rogers, all the adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and Becky Thatcher that Mark Twain forgot to record, and of course, along the way, a little more about Watergate and Bobby Fischer than I ever really wanted to know.

I can so relate to this idea of “escaping” Thomas’s room during one of his diatribes about current events. Thomas was not one who excelled at “reading the room” and he paid scant attention to cues that most people would interpret as a desire to end a conversation. He’d get so involved in talking about some political event or scandal that he could go on for hours, finally forcing his listeners to resort to plain rudeness as an exit strategy. Of course I’d give anything to have more of these conversations with Thomas who was one of the most informed people I’ve ever met about politics. When I say “informed,” I don’t necessarily mean “sane” or “well balanced,” some of his ideas were pretty out there.

Though a die-hard liberal, you’d be hard pressed to determine his political leanings from a quick scan of the political posters and buttons covering every inch of his wallspace. Thomas was an equal-opportunity political critic, and he also appreciated a good slogan even if he didn’t support the candidate. The other day, we were nervous about one of the visiting hospice workers. She came in the room with a huge smile plastered across her face and we were worried she was going to start lecturing us about the need to let Thomas Step Into the Light. We all breathed a sigh of relief when she glanced at a large button next to Thomas’s bed from the 1972 presidential campaign and burst into laughter. The button, created by a rare Nixon supporter with a sense of humor, read “McGovern Can’t Lick Our Dick.”

My last political conversation with Thomas occurred three weeks ago tonight, just a few days before he came down with pneumonia and went into the hospital. He was torturing me with tales of Ann Coulter’s latest ravings, pretending to agree with her just to get my goat. For the past few years, Thomas would present me with Coulter’s latest book at Christmas time, just to watch the pained look on my face as I read passages aloud and then told him I’d return the book rather than put a cent into her unwholesome coffers.

In addition to JFK campaign posters, laminated copies of newspapers heralding Clinton’s impeachment and acquittal, and life-sized cutouts of Bill and Hillary, Thomas also had a huge collection of latex head masks in every corner of the room depicting a range of characters from Walter Mondale and Gerald Ford to Dick Cheney and Condoleeza Rice. During the holidays he’d put Santa hats on every single one of these heads, creating the most powerful group of Kris Kringles ever gathered in one place.

In 1983, while on a rare family trip to Hawaii without Nanny and Thomas, the Haileys found out that Thomas had suffered a life-threatening cerebral hemorrhage.

When Dad told us what had happened to Thomas, Brooke let out a piercing scream and ran to the balcony of our hotel room. I saw her throw something out toward the ocean, then I realized it was the piece of rock she picked up touring a dormant volcano yesterday. Ancient superstition said that bad luck would follow whoever took a rock from the volcano. But Brooke had picked one up and dared the gods to get her.

As Thomas lay in a coma, the Haileys had a difficult time getting back to the mainland. Several planes were called back to the gate because of equipment problems causing Brooke to let out with more piercing screams. “I’ve got to see my uncle!” she yelled to the hapless airline employees.

They finally made it back to Los Angeles and found Thomas in a precarious state.

We have just come out of intensive care and something is going terribly wrong. Thomas didn’t understand what we were saying. He didn’t want to talk at all, he just kept falling asleep.

Nanny was holding his hand and talking to him, and I glanced over and saw she was crying. I never thought Nanny would be any good at brave fronts, but I was wrong.

What do the Fates have against Thomas?

It is like some awful game and they will not be satisfied until they’ve crushed him. But he has not been crushed yet. During every football game I’ve ever watched with him, whenever there is a brutal tackle, he always shouts, “Cripple him for life!” And then, of course, we both begin to giggle.

Thomas continued to slip away. The doctor told the family that a blood clot had formed and that Thomas needed emergency brain surgery. They sat through the long procedure, knowing at any time the doctor could walk into the waiting room and tell them that Thomas had died. Against all odds, he survived the surgery and made a full recovery. Well, almost full.

When Thomas was in the midst of his cerebral hemorrhage, I was so terrified he wouldn’t know me anymore. Now, he is practically recovered, but I feel I no longer know him. His is so angry. When I asked him today if he was ever going to stop being mean, he said he was through being “milk-toast” Thomas.

He is being unfair to the man he was to label him that. Thomas has never been anything but strong. He survived the effects of a childhood disease without bitterness, and I mean without any bitterness. Dad used to wish that he had been the one who had gotten polio, since he never had any love of sport as Thomas always did. But after he got Parkinson’s, he said he now knew he never could have dealt with being in a wheelchair the way Thomas has all these years.

And God knows a man who has been through polio and a cerebral hemorrhage has a right to be angry. He has a right to be furious. But living with what people have a right to is no fun.

Luckily, Thomas’s post-surgical surliness was short-lived.

Just came from seeing Thomas, who said he had been crying over what a good brother Dad is to him. I am happy to say that Thomas is back to being wonderful “milk-toast” Thomas again. His emotions, which were dammed up by anger for so long, are now overflowing.

The reality that Uncle Thomas will no longer be welcoming visitors to his room at the Hailey house hasn’t fully hit yet. It was agony watching all of his loving family gathered around him as he lay dying. Thomas defied all predictions and lived days longer than the doctors thought humanly possible. His kidneys had stopped functioning completely, he had very few breaths per minute, and his pulse could barely be found, yet his huge, strong heart kept on going.

Sometimes the only access I have to my own emotions is when I witness the heartfelt feelings of others. I remember being numb at my grandmother’s funeral in 1990. The only thing that opened the floodgates was when I saw a close friend of my mother’s embrace her and burst into tears. The love expressed by Kendall, Brooke, and Betsy in Thomas’s room this past week constantly brought tears to my eyes, as did the actions of Thomas’s long-time caregiver Jun and his family who had adopted Thomas as one of their own. Jun’s sons, Kane and Romy, sat by Thomas’s bedside for hours on end, and I could see that the loss of Thomas in their lives was going to be huge. One image I will never forget is Kane, a high-school sophomore, doing his homework next to Thomas during one of the many long nights of the past few days. Though Thomas was on mega-doses of morphine and not conscious, Kane held Thomas’s hand as he worked, frequently reading him excerpts from his English assignment.

When things looked really bad just after his hemorrhage in 1983, Kendall wrote:

I won’t lose Thomas. I won’t lose one of us. I’ll get him back. I’ll make him know me. I’ll call him every silly name I’ve ever called him and I’ll call myself every silly name he’s ever called me. I’ll say, “Jack Toma, it’s your Jalapeño Palomino Pal.” And he’ll know me.

Thomas managed to cheat death 24 years ago, but now life and death have cheated those of us left down here. I’ve no doubt Thomas has joined Oliver and Nanny and is talking their ears off about what his last days were like—as well as what’s going on with the current presidential candidates. Minutes after he died, Jun grabbed a book from one the cases in Thomas’s room and thrust it into my hands. He said that Thomas told him he wanted me to have this after he died. It was a copy of “Godless: The Church of Liberalism” by Ann Coulter. I laughed for the first time in days.

Spring Awakening

Just have a moment to say that I’m moving to Brooklyn and becoming a Chasid so, bye everyone.

Okay…I guess I’m not really ready to make that lifestyle change—the first time the rebbe told me that I couldn’t blog on Shabbos, I’d be out of there. But it was amazing wandering around the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn yesterday where our friends Ellen and Greg live and seeing the huge Chasidic community in action. I think they are Satmars although I believe the Lubavitchers are also headquartered there. In all my trips to New York, I had never stepped foot in Brooklyn and it’s my new favorite place. It’s got everything I could ever want: great food, amazing old architecture, close proximity to Manhattan, and Jews-a-plenty. Amazing to see the Yiddish language and culture flourishing every bit as much as it was in pre-war Poland. And watching the hordes of children (if a Chasidic couple has six kids, it’s probably considered a small family) wandering the streets, I am struck again by how much I’m attracted to their insulated lives that are so family and community-based. Whenever I’m around such groups, I always have the wistful feeling that their lives have so much more order and meaning than mine does, but I guess it’s that familiar dichotomy I’m always struggling with: I desperately want to belong to a group but the minute I feel part of one I want to rebel and break away.

What am I even doing in New York, contemplating my conversion to Chasidism? It was a completely unplanned trip. I had to drop everything and fly to New York on a moment’s notice Thursday morning because Leah was finishing her east coast school trip and then was flying out to Paris (alone) from JFK that night to meet her mom who is already there. The woman who was going to be in New York and take care of Leah got a severe bronchial infection and couldn’t fly so I jumped on the next JetBlue flight and headed east. Not that I’m complaining. It was a blast surprising Leah and all her classmates by suddenly appearing at the Broadway play they were about to see (“Tarzan”—oy, don’t ask, the worst score I ever heard but some excellent gymnastics, the cast had to sing a lot of songs bouncing upside down on bungee cords). Then Leah and I got to spend a day together in Manhattan before her plane left. Great fun and I could suddenly imagine us as real New Yorkers with Leah taking the subway to some artsy school every day and me attending weekly lectures at the 92nd Street Y and finding all sorts of activities for Kendall, Leah, and me to do when we weren’t busy stuffing our faces with New York delicacies. Oy, in the 24 hours I was with Leah we gorged on the best pastrami I’ve ever had, Payard pastries, pretzels from the street, Yonah Schimmel knishes, and Serendipity frozen hot chocolate. Then I went to Brooklyn straight from the airport and began my pilgrimage with my Chasidic brethren.

Despite my near-conversion to ultra-orthodoxy, I still managed to squeeze in two plays yesterday (on the Jewish Sabbath—oops!). I saw a refreshingly unique and beautifully done new musical called “Spring Awakening” that is about a group of adolescents in a repressive community in 19th century Germany who are exploring their burgeoning sexuality and the barriers placed on their intellectual freedom. Based on the 1891 play by Frank Wedekind, this version had an excellent rock score sung by talented young actors and it didn't bother me a bit when the performers pulled hand mikes out of their period costumes. The show would have been such a richer experience for Leah’s sixth grade class than the puerile Disney fare, but perhaps the simulated teen sex on stage would have sent the teachers, if not the students, over the edge. And if the kids went back home and started singing some of the catchy songs to their parents, with titles such as “The Bitch of Living” and “Totally Fucked,” I'm not sure the school could have weathered the outrage.

Last night I finally saw “Grey Gardens,” the play I’ve been obsessed with for months. Christine Ebersole was absolutely brilliant in the double role of “Big Edie” Beale (in the first act’s extended 1941 flashback) and her daughter “Little Edie” (in the second act, taking place in 1973). It’s fascinating to me that most people prefer the second act when we see the down-on-their-luck older Beales similar to how they appear in the famous documentary about them that was made in the mid-1970s. Am I the only one who vastly prefers the first act of the play? I wanted to stay in that world where everyone was still young, rich, and pretty, and where they could still pretend that severe mental illness and family dysfunction were not destroying their lives. Is it wrong that I sometimes prefer living in the fantasy of the past instead of the harsh reality of the present?

Our current reality seems pretty harsh—Kendall’s beloved Uncle Thomas is extremely ill and was just moved back to her mom’s house. He’s on hospice care now and is not doing well at all. I’ve been thinking of all the stories, many in Kendall’s book, of her family traipsing around New York as her parents’ various plays were being mounted, with crazy wheelchair-bound Uncle Thomas leading the pack. I hate being stuck here in Act 2 where we learn how everything turns out. Can’t we go back to Act 1 for just a little while?

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Don’t Upset Your Voter Base

Have you heard all the political hooey resulting from comments made last week by the Pentagon’s top general about gays in the military? Responding to a question about “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” General Peter Pace, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, said that he thought the policy should stay in place and added, “I believe that homosexual acts between individuals are immoral and that we should not condone immoral acts. I do not believe that the armed forces of the United States are well served by saying through our policies that it's OK to be immoral in any way.” Oy. I think Pace is so insulated from the culture that he didn’t even realize what troubled waters he was wading into. The military’s historic justification for its anti-gay policy has been that gays in the military would hurt morale and negatively effect the “cohesion” of the troops. There was none of that in Pace’s remarks, it was just bigotry, pure and simple.

I couldn’t agree less with the general’s views about homosexuality but I was glad he didn’t bow to pressure to “apologize” for his comments. Why should he? That’s obviously what he believes so to apologize for having espoused those views would, in my opinion, be the height of hypocrisy. On the other hand, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi was correct when she said about the military, “we need patriotic Americans who exist across the board in our population. We don’t need moral judgment from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.” Pace issued a statement the following day that concurred. “I should have focused more on my support of the policy and less on my personal moral views.”

The real feeding frenzy came not from Pace’s revealing remarks but from how the politicos reacted, especially the current roster of Presidential hopefuls. Little of the discussion was focused on what these individuals really think about the issue, it was all about how their reactions would affect their loyal base of voters.

President Lame Duck didn’t bother kowtowing to his religious right-wingers for once but still managed to strike an irritating tone with his doubletalk. In response to Pace’s comments, spokesman Tony Snow claimed that President Bush “has always said that the most important thing is that we ought not to prejudge one another. But when it comes to government policy, it's been in place for a long time and we will continue to execute it according to the letter of the law.” How’s that for a political non-response?

Remember how gay marriage was such a galvanizing factor in the 2004 elections? Some Republican Presidential candidates seemed thrilled with a new opportunity to curry favor with the fundamentalists. Senator Sam Brownback, looking to stand apart from the more moderate Republican hopefuls, announced that he was writing President Bush a letter in support of General Pace and his comments. “We should not expect someone as qualified, accomplished and articulate as General Pace to lack personal views on important moral issues," Brownback said. "In fact, we should expect that anyone entrusted with such great responsibility will have strong moral views.” Brownback did a classic reverse flip when asked if he agreed with Pace’s views. “I do not believe being a homosexual is immoral, but I do believe homosexual acts are. I'm a Catholic and the church has clear teachings on this.” Nice volley, Sam. I think I get it—why don’t we just change the name of the policy to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Fuck.”

Senator John McCain said that General Pace should be given a chance to explain himself. Huh? Asked about his own views of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” he said it has been successful and should be maintained. Um, exactly how are you defining success, John?

This policy is one of the biggest stains on the Clinton administration and the worst example of Clinton’s buckling on a campaign promise. It’s unbelievable to me how such a discriminatory statute has survived for almost 15 years. Polls show that the vast majority of Americans favor allowing gays to serve openly in the military—and of course they ARE currently serving, in no small numbers. But let’s just pretend otherwise, shall we? Several attempts have been made to repeal the policy but it’s still considered too much of a political hot potato. While many men and women have been discharged since the policy was enacted when they admitted or were accused of being gay, the numbers have been going down for the past several years. Good news? No. With more fodder needed for the war in Iraq, a regulation was passed that allowed for the deployment of Reservists or National Guard troops who say they are gay, the sole purpose being to prevent such people from escaping combat. Excellent, let’s openly discriminate against gays when it’s politically expedient to do so, but then quietly send them into harm’s way when we need more bodies.

Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama were roundly criticized for initially sidestepping the controversy. When asked the next day whether she believed homosexuality was immoral, Clinton said “I am going to leave that to others to conclude.” Oh come on, Hillary. Obama simply refused to comment on the issue at first but following loud complaints by many folks whose support both candidates desperately need, they have since condemned the general’s statements.

“Well, I've heard from a number of my friends and I've certainly clarified with them any misunderstanding that anyone had, because I disagree with General Pace completely,” Clinton said the day after her dodge. “I do not think homosexuality is immoral. But the point I was trying to make is that this policy of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is not working. I have been against it for many years because I think it does a grave injustice to patriotic Americans who want to serve their country.” Missed opportunity to mention that it was her hubby who put the damn policy in place. She could have talked openly about the pressures faced by politicians in 1994 and now regarding this issue.

Obama, clearly afraid of alienating those among his supporters who are squeamish about gays, finally offered this comment on Wednesday when asked if he thought same-sex relationships were immoral. “I think traditionally the Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman has restricted his public comments to military matters. That's probably a good tradition to follow.”

John Edwards addressed Pace’s remarks a little more explicitly. When asked by Wolf Blitzer whether he considered homosexuality immoral, Edwards replied, “I don’t. I don’t share that view. And I would go further than that, Wolf. I think Don't Ask, Don't Tell is not working. And as President of the United States I would change that policy…I think what it’s done, effectively, is kept us from having some of the most talented people we could have in our military. It’s caused more problems than it’s solved. And it ought to be changed.”

Ironically, the most sincere-sounding response to Pace was from Republican Senator John Warner, himself a military expert and former Navy secretary. “I respectfully but strongly disagree with the chairman’s view that homosexuality is immoral.” Good for him. Maybe it was all those years with former wife Elizabeth Taylor that gave him a different view of gay people.

There has been much in the news this year that proves that homophobia is alive and well in this country despite a strong desire to think it’s behind us. Still, it’s interesting to look back at our government’s earlier attitudes for some perspective on how far we’ve come. The other day I was doing some research in the trusty Los Angeles Times archives when a small article from June 1950 caught my eye. Called “Delicate Touch,” the article detailed the progress of a Senate subcommittee chaired by Senator Clyde Hoey (D-NC) that was set up to root out homosexuals in government (with nods to Senator McCarthy’s simultaneous attempts at finding those pesky Commies). The language in this piece of journalism is shocking to our modern ears:

The subcommittee will not try to establish any relationship between perversion and subversion, but will simply take it for granted. The effort will be to get the names of homosexuals from local police records, from hospitals and psychiatrists, from the intelligence services of the Army, Navy and Air Force and from other “informants.”

Horrifying, but my eyes widened the most at the attempts to get psychiatrists to inform on their patients. Was there no doctor-patient privilege in 1950?

The article talks about the 561 resignations that occurred in late 1947 after President Truman announced that all Federal workers had to be fingerprinted for the loyalty program. Much larger numbers were anticipated as a result of Hoey’s hearings.

Any substantial exodus of suspected perverts will cut down the subcommittee’s work. More than 3500 persons are expected to leave the government service because of the probe, voluntarily or otherwise.

The journalist, Holmes Alexander, expresses frustration that up to now, it’s been hard to deal with this problem.

For many years now the FBI has been giving the names of moral delinquents to the Civil Service Commission. The CSC has been passing these names down the line to the department or agency where the delinquent works. But what happens? According to a good source in the CSC:

If the person who gets reported happens to be an office boy or file clerk, he’s fired. But if he’s one of the ranking officials, he stays on. There is no way to force the dismissal of the homosexualist, alcoholic, dope fiend or petty gambler. His case is entirely up to the head of the department or agency.

Yikes, even with Pace comparing homosexual acts to the sins of adultery, he still sounds like a gay rights activist compared to these guys.

Everyone’s favorite witch hunter, Senator Joseph McCarthy, was originally part of Hoey’s subcommittee but ultimately “felt obliged to withdraw.” Why? Because he was too hard on gays! Can you imagine how bad he must have been to scare these 1950 homophobes? As the article states:

McCarthy on at least two public occasions has used some earthy language when referring to perverts. This sort of plain speaking, while not out of character for an ex-marine, does not fit into the high seriousness of the investigation.

Sen. Hoey, a party Democrat and a gentleman of the Old South, can be expected to accomplish his present mission without fear or favor. This is one investigation which can be counted upon to clean up an unpleasant subject and then write finis.

Well, it’s 57 years later and no one has written “finis” yet about this “unpleasant subject.” But it has been written for Clyde Hoey. On May 12, 1954, Hoey, the son of a Confederate Army captain, keeled over at his desk and dropped dead of a massive stroke. His sudden demise was announced by Senate leader Lyndon Johnson of Texas and the Senate promptly adjourned out of respect.

In a situation evoking recent news, Hoey’s death left 47 Democrats, 47 Republicans, and 1 Independent in the Senate. So who was appointed to replace Senator Hoey in 1954 and tip the balance back to one party? None other than Sam J. Ervin, seen in this photo being sworn in by Vice President Richard Nixon, of all people. 20 years later, Sam Ervin became the chairman of the Watergate Hearings which resulted in Nixon being the only President to resign from office.

As I wrote in here the week that the identity of “Deep Throat” was revealed, I so admired Sam Ervin when I was a kid that I joined his official fan club! I have no idea what Sam Ervin’s feelings were about homosexuality, but, unlike many of our politicians today, he sure as hell didn’t hesitate to speak his mind. Just before his death at the age of 88, he wrote a letter to President Reagan that began, “Dear Mr. President: The Constitution is the wisest instrument of government the earth has ever known. If America is to endure as a free Republic as ordained by it, Presidents, Supreme Court justices and other public officers must do what they have sworn to do, that is, support it. Despite my admiration for you, I am constrained by my duty to our country to assert that what you say and advocate, in respect for religion, shows that you do not understand the religious clauses of the First Amendment, and how obedience to them is essential to the preservation of religious freedom they are designed to secure to all Americans of all faiths.”

Could not the same letter be sent to General Pace? Newsweek reported today that during a 2005 speech, Pace offered this pearl about gays in the military: “The U.S. military mission fundamentally rests on the trust, confidence and cooperation amongst its members. And the homosexual lifestyle does not comport with that kind of trust and confidence.” Hideous. And yet, if I had to bestow the 2007 Sam Ervin Award to the one individual in this fracas who had the gumption to say what he or she really believed and not restrict pubic comments to what was politically wise, I’d have to bypass Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama and give that honor to General Peter Pace.

Spin the Bottle

My 12-year-old daughter is now attending boy-girl parties. This started last year in 5th grade and it was a much-discussed Big Deal but now in sixth grade it’s expected that all her classmates’ parties will be coed. No more pink-drenched affairs at Build-a-Bear, Color Me Mine, or the local skating rink. Most of these new boy-girl gatherings are dance parties. I believe that what goes on at these parties is completely innocent (there’s not even any slow dancing), but I also acknowledge the selective amnesia that overtakes me and many other parents of pre-adolescent children. Either we’ve forgotten the pain and angst we experienced at that age, or if we do remember, we believe that it’s different for OUR kids. They are still the same angelic creatures without a care in the world (as if) who know nothing about love, loss, or lust (ha!), and who have yet to experience the agonies of mercurial friendships (keep dreaming), the cruelty of their peers (we wish), or the desperate need to fit in (yeah, right).

When I was a kid, most depictions of children in popular culture were idealized fantasies created by adults who couldn’t bear to look at the harsh realities of childhood. I knew full well that the experiences of the Bradys, the Waltons, and even the Huxtables were out-and-out lies, but I embraced this deception with relief. A world in which difficult issues and agonizing emotions were resolved within minutes with the help of caring, involved adults was a world I desperately wanted to live in. Yet part of me resented the phoniness of it all and wished there was at least a nod to how difficult it was to be a kid. I think that’s why Roald Dahl was my favorite author back then. He offered a rare glimpse of the dark, ugly side of childhood, ramped up to nightmarish proportions and full of abuse by hideous adults and the constant threat of injury or death. The terrifying adventures that Dahl’s protagonists faced in over-the-top books such as “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” and “James and the Giant Peach” seemed far more authentic than the travails of most other fictional kids I encountered.

Yesterday Leah and I went to see the movie “Bridge to Terabithia,” an excellent new adaptation of Katherine Paterson’s thirty-year-old Newbery Medal classic. The story is about two unpopular kids who invent a magical world to cope with their pain and loneliness. It’s one of the best children’s films I’ve seen about the power of friendship and, though a Disney film, is blessed with the most talented group of kids I’ve seen in a long time. Nothing can ruin a kids’ movie faster than a smarmy “child actor” but these kids rang true in every frame, especially the two leads played by Josh Hutcherson and the always good AnnaSophia Robb (who played Violet Beauregarde in the remake of Roald Dahl’s “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”). Here’s something I so appreciated about the film: the kids are a mess. They are dressed the way real kids who are picking out their own clothes would dress, they are frequently unkempt with their hair all over the place, they are covered with stains of one sort or another, and you get the distinct impression that they don’t exactly smell like freshly cut flowers. If you’ve ever been in a room with a bunch of 12-year-olds, you know how rank they can get, I don’t know how sixth grade teachers can stand it.

There’s a wonderful scene in the film which shows the exact moment when Jesse Aarons falls in love with his pal Leslie Burke. It’s done without words, but it feels utterly real and exciting and scary and uncomfortable, as first loves usually are. But Jesse also has a deep crush on the young music teacher Ms. Edmonds, played by Zooey Deschanel. He’s confused by these feelings which ultimately lead him to do something that he will deeply regret. I won’t spoil the story for those of you who may not be familiar with it, but suffice it to say that by the end of the film Leah and I were both sobbing audibly.

Afterwards, we talked about how difficult it is to be a kid—the cliques, the meanness, the bullying, the terror of young love. I tried to see it from Leah’s perspective for a change, instead of reverting to the patronizing adult attitude as I so often do. “Oh, kid, you don’t know what real problems are. You’re so lucky to have no responsibilities yet. Enjoy your carefree life!”

Leah has several more boy-girl parties coming up in April. Despite my belief that “nothing is going on” at these parties, I’m quite aware that I was in sixth grade when I went to my first “kissing party.” Maybe it was the emotions brought up from watching “Bridge to Terabithia,” but I could suddenly remember exactly what it was like to walk into Scott Whitcup’s basement and see that line of bewitching sixth grade girls sitting on his plaid couch. I was wearing my new white bell bottom pants with a powder-blue wide-collared Qiana shirt and my palms were sweating so bad I kept rubbing them on the shirt, leaving palm prints in the synthetic faux-silk.

I was petrified but excited by the heady scent of hormones filling that dank room. I think we played several rounds of Spin the Bottle and I can remember how flushed I got as I kissed my pretty classmates. After each kiss, we’d hurriedly take our seats, not daring to meet the person’s eyes for at least several minutes. I wish I could remember my first kiss. Who was it? Randee Soroka? Mindy Nussbaum? Debbie Shub? Alina Garcia?

A few months later, somewhere between the killings at Kent State and the Apollo 13 near-disaster, things got more brazen in my own basement. We graduated from Spin the Bottle to Truth or Dare, Post Office, and Seven Minutes in Heaven, the first game we played in which couples would go off on their own for extended makeout sessions. Oh boy. I remember two of my partners from that party. Rhonda Hellstrom was a popular member of the stunning Swedish contingent at my school (thanks to Chicago immigration patterns, we were primarily Jews, Swedes, and Greeks, with most of the Jewish boys lusting after the supremely goyishe Swedish girls). Kissing Rhonda that night (and I doubt it approached anywhere near seven minutes) was the most thrilling sexual experience I’d had to date and I was instantly in love. Isn’t that what kissing someone meant? Of course I was SO in love that I couldn’t speak to her for the next several months and I’d quickly look away if I ever saw her glance in my direction in class. Sigh.

My other partner in “heaven” that night was Sandy Siegel, another popular girl who, like Rhonda, was way out of my league. Gotta love those kissing parties and the level playing field they created with their forced pairings. It was during that session that my older sister Sue, a white lipstick-wearing woman of the world (even though she was only in 7th grade) came down to the basement and decided to teach us kids how to make out properly. She stood over me and Sandy and expressed disgust at the way our mouths were plastered against each other. “You’ve got to move your lips the whole time,” my sister explained, in what might have been an embarrassing intervention had Sue not been one of the cool girls everyone looked up to at Mary Gage Peterson Public Elementary School. The crowd followed her kissing instructions with rapt attention. “Pretend you’re making figure eights with your mouth, and keep doing it over and over.” It worked. In seconds, Sandy and I were transformed from clueless novices to Brigitte Bardot and Alain Delon writhing on a beach on the French Riviera.
Oh-la-la. Where was Rhonda Hellstrom, I needed a re-do!

As fond as those memories are, I admit I’m horrified at the thought of Leah slobbering with some sweaty pre-pubescent boy in her sixth grade class. I wonder what kissing parties are like today and when they start. Leah swears that there’s been no “activity” at any of her gatherings. In late 2003, parents of pre-adolescents reacted in group horror to the newly exposed epidemic of “rainbow parties” that was supposedly sweeping the country involving children as young as sixth graders. These were oral sex parties at which fellatio was performed on boys by girls wearing different colors of lipstick. The girls were challenged to go as “deep” as they could, thus leaving a “rainbow” of colors on each boy’s penis. Yuck! This phenomenon was first mentioned on the Oprah Winfrey Show but now many child experts say that such parties are either entirely an urban myth or else were extremely isolated occurrences, not the “epidemic” that was claimed.

I think it’s only natural that we want to keep our kids as “innocent” as possible for as long as we can. Still, I have to admit that I enjoyed the tame kissing parties of my youth, probably because I never would have gotten any “action” without the structured set-up. Kissing parties were only cool for a few short years. By high school, no one would be caught dead playing those games. Once the forced pairings had ended and we were on our own, it was all over for me. For years.

Sixth grade is such a transition year. Puberty is barreling in at breakneck speed despite our misguided attempts to keep it at bay, and it’s bringing all sorts of novelties such as menstruation and breasts and the first flushes of romantic longing that seem oh-so-important and difficult. Parents are often caught off guard. Where did our kids go? Who are those smelly adolescents and why are they acting so weird? I hope I can be there for my daughter, letting her have her normal experiences without getting too involved or worried and yet providing input or support when appropriate. Oy. Who said being a kid (or parent) was easy?

Here Comes the Sun

I’m so used to bracing myself for the worst every time George W. Bush makes a move that I was caught off guard when I heard about the new Energy Policy Act he signed that changed the start of Daylight Saving Time. As you know, we moved the clocks forward an hour this morning, a full three weeks ahead of schedule. Another hour of light at the end of the day, that has to be good news for lowering energy consumption, no? And despite the dark, dreary mornings I’d still rather have it stay light out an hour later. Has Bush finally made a decision that is helping the planet?

Possibly not, according to experts. More daylight in the evening often means people will stay out longer, using their cars and more oil. The jury’s still out, but in the end it may be a wash. Even so, it seems like one of the first acts in George Bush’s presidency that doesn’t have the stink of an impeachable offense. Or does it?

Although the Daylight Saving Time switch only took effect today, it's part of the Energy Policy Act of 2005 that Bush signed over two years ago. Thanks to the Act, we’ll also gain a week of Daylight Saving Time in November. What else is in that Act beyond screwing with the clocks?

Hmmm, “provides incentives to companies drilling for oil in the Gulf of Mexico” is one item that stands out, as well as “exempts oil and gas producers from certain requirements of the Safe Drinking Water Act.” Lovely. Included in the original bill but not in the final legislation were provisions requiring increased vehicle efficiency standards and increased reliance on non-greenhouse gas-emitting energy sources. I wonder if those bit the dust in exchange for eliminating the provision that would have allowed drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Oy, politics.

It gets worse. It looks like a bunch of companies in Texas benefit the most from the bill. Paging Bush, Cheney, and DeLay, please pick up to the white courtesy phone. The Washington Post claims that the Energy Act is simply a broad collection of subsidies for energy companies, especially the nuclear and oil industries. Senator Ron Wyden (D-Oregon), a member of the Senate Energy Committee, stated that “our dependence on foreign oil will not be reduced. As a result, we have not reduced the prospect of going to war once again in the Persian Gulf in the next decade.” Hillary Clinton (D-New York) changed her vote from Yes on the first vote to No on the final vote. “I see a major missed opportunity. By the President's own admission, this bill won't do anything to reduce gasoline prices, but we know for a fact that it will give billions in tax breaks to companies like Exxon Mobil. It doesn't do nearly enough to push the development and commercialization of clean, next-generation energy technologies, but it gives huge tax breaks to nuclear power, a technology that has been with us for 50 years. And given what we now know about the looming threat of climate change, it makes no sense to make energy policy without integrating a cost-effective strategy to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. But that is exactly what this bill does.”

Yikes, business as usual. But at least it will be light out as we wait in line for our $4.00 a gallon gas. I remember the last time the government changed the clocks. Following the 1973 Arab Oil Embargo, Congress extended Daylight Saving Time for two whole years. I was in high school at the time and the extended daylight meant it was pitch black in the mornings when we walked to school. As if wasn’t hard enough getting out of bed and trudging out into the subzero temperatures to walk to Von Steuben High School, doing it under cover of darkness made it seem like we were forced laborers in the Gulag. I’d pick up my friends Shari and Helena on the way to school and for two years we’d look like coal miners with our flashlights as we marched past the insanely long lines of cars waiting for their chance at the gas pumps.

Some people are worried that this time change could cause massive computer problems, the kind that people feared would strike in 2000. I’m happy to report that my computer automatically made the switch this morning, as did our cable box and TiVo recorder. Thank God, because if TiVo went down, there would be massive rioting in the streets. Now I just have to go around the house and manually reset all the other clocks. Insurance companies sent out ominous warnings a few days ago that the early switch could affect certain medical devices such as implanted pacemakers or glucose monitors. I haven’t heard about any health problems yet, except for the general crankiness caused by losing an hour of sleep.

I was reading recently about winter depression, a condition also known as seasonal affective disorder (SAD). People who suffer from this form of depression are particularly sensitive to the lack of light in the morning when they wake up. Scientists think the disorder is due to a “phase shift” of your body’s circadian rhythm. The clock says to wake up but your internal clock says you should stay in bed.

So for all of you who are suffering this morning, feeling sad, listless, and depressed, and for those of you who are experiencing irregular heartbeats or the dangerous effects of glucose withdrawal, I have just one bit of helpful advice.

Blame Bush.

For $3400 I’ll Even Do Your Laundry

I’m hardly in a position to judge other people for paying attention to celebrity. If I had to guess, I’d say that well over 50 percent of the posts I’ve written in this blog have something to do with celebrities I admire or famous people who intrigue me for one reason or another. But every once in a while, some event involving a celebrity will occur that makes me understand why Islamic fundamentalists think we’re hopeless infidels who are beyond salvation. The round-the-clock coverage of poor Anna Nicole Smith’s death was one. With absolutely nothing to report, major news networks devoted untold hours to this non-story for several weeks, showing the same clips of the drug-addled former model over and over again. Wouldn’t five minutes a day have been enough?

Today’s “Fan Appreciation Party” that Michael Jackson held for himself in Tokyo set a new low for scary celebrity worship. At the event, 400 people paid for the opportunity to spend 30 seconds with the self-described King of Pop. They could take a photo with their idol, shake his hand, and chat for a few moments. He wouldn’t perform or stick around and schmooze but he’d acknowledge their existence for a few precious moments. The price tag for this honor? Only $3400 per person. Such a deal! Do you think I should take out a second mortgage and shell out enough for a whole minute?

Jackson arrived over an hour late to this bash, leaving his 400 fans waiting in the cold. He was wearing a black suit covered with tiny gold lions and sat away from the crowd during a performance by several Japanese Michael Jackson impersonators. A 36-year-old office worker did not think the price tag was excessive. “He looked really cool seeing him up this close,” she said. “It was worth 400,000 yen.” Jackson, who lived in exile for several years after his trial but recently settled in Las Vegas, has proclaimed Japan one of his favorite places in the whole world. “My fans in Japan helped me achieve historic milestones in the music industry.” Like shelling out $3400 for a handshake and an autograph?

Look, it’s tempting but too easy to pile on to Michael Jackson these days. Whether or not you believe he engaged in inappropriate behavior with children, he clearly suffers from a range of disorders that prevents him from living anything close to a normal life. Okay, I’m not there, what do I know? Maybe he’s providing a perfect childhood for his motherless children? He’s definitely looking a tad less scary in recent photographs but that may just be good lighting, makeup, and sunglasses. I’m not sure his face could ever be restored at this point to remotely resemble the boy I remember from my childhood.

The Jackson 5 were superstars when I was growing up. Who didn’t know the lyrics of hits such as “I Want You Back,” “ABC,” or “I’ll Be There?” Michael was clearly the most talented member of the group. He was a year older than me and seemed to have it all. But there was always something a little too rehearsed, a little too staged about his reactions. He looked like someone who was trying to look happy. I remember watching Michael on countless TV shows back then singing the following prescient lyrics:

When we played tag in grade school
You wanted to be it.
But chasing boys was just a fad
You crossed your heart you’d quit.

Stop! The love you save may be your own.
Darling, take it slow
Or some day you’ll be all alone.
You’d better stop, the love you save may be your own.
Darling, look both ways before you cross me
You’re headed for the danger zone!

When “Thriller” came out, it was All Michael Jackson, All the Time. But it hadn’t yet turned into a freak show. Despite his slowly lightening complexion and a constantly changing nose, he still looked like the attractive African-American man that he was. His performance on the Motown 25th Anniversary show in 1984 was nothing short of electrifying. At the time, I assumed it marked the beginning of an incredible adult career for Michael Jackson but in retrospect, it was more like an ending.

I don’t need to go into the insanity that followed—the endless plastic surgeries, the increasing eccentricities, the multiple allegations of sexual misconduct, the strange marriages. As I said, it’s just too easy. Besides, despite my obvious interest in celebrities, I could not be less interested in Michael Jackson. So why am I discussing him at all and the cool million he earned at his little meet n’greet tonight? I guess because I find that story tragic on so many levels. What has happened in our society to make us revere people like Anna Nicole Smith, Michael Jackson, and so many others to such a dangerously unhealthy degree? What does this say about our times? What a colossal waste of money for those sad people in Tokyo. What a distasteful way for a former superstar to solicit funds. But hey, if everyone involved had a great old time, more power to ‘em, I guess. As for me, I wouldn’t pay $3400 if I could get Meryl Streep to read aloud to me every night before bed.

Well, $2400 maybe…

Pine Valley Confidential

Today is Neil “Citizen of the Month” Kramer’s birthday. In honor of that event, which is being celebrated across the blogosphere in a “carnival” hosted by Communicatrix, I’m going to come clean on a dirty little secret about myself that I’ve been hiding for the two plus years I’ve been writing in this blog. It’s embarrassing and may permanently alter your opinion of me. Are you ready?

I watch “All My Children.”

As the only other straight male I know who admits to watching this soap opera, Neil has written several posts on the subject, most recently when beloved character Dixie Martin was murdered by the serial killer that’s currently trolling through Pine Valley getting rid of all of the actresses who are giving the producers a hard time. Dixie had already “died” five years ago but the actress was lured back to the show last year, only to find herself arguing with the producers over some questionable storylines. Solution? Have Dixie eat the poisoned peanut butter pancakes (!) intended for her daughter-in-law. Neil wrote another post when the identity of the murderer (called the “Satin Slayer” because of the trademark satin ribbons he wraps around his victims) was revealed last week and Neil realized it was the very actor who helped his wife Sophia get tickets for the Jewish High Holidays last fall when she was in New York working as a Russian interpreter on a film.

I always comment on Neil’s “All My Children” posts, and considering his massive readership, I guess I’m not totally in the closet with my secret. But to openly discuss it here? Yikes, how can I? My “blog character” doesn’t watch soaps, he’s far too busy with his Important Writing Projects. Any free time he has is spent in quality moments with his adoring wife and daughter, watching obscure foreign films, or doing historical research in dusty, dimly lit newspaper archives.

Oh well, now that the soap is out of the bag, I’d like to officially blame my sister for my Pine Valley addiction. Just after college, when I was looking for a job, my sister and I found ourselves living back at my dad’s house in Chicago. We’d often eat lunch together, with her glued to “All My Children” and me shrieking about how unbelievably stupid I thought the show was. I told her she was crazy to waste her time with that trash. The next thing I knew, I was foregoing calls to potential employers so I could find out if Erica Kane would be cleared of murder charges and could stop posing as a nun; whether beautiful Nina Cortlandt, who had no idea that her housekeeper was really her grandmother and that her best friend Monique was her long-lost mother, would find out that she wasn’t going blind but was being lied to by her father Palmer so that she would end her relationship with Dr. Cliff Warner; if bad girl Liza Colby would learn that her boyfriend Tad the Cad Martin was also having a tempestuous affair with her nymphomaniac mother, Marian; or whether blue-blooded matriarch Phoebe Tyler Wallingford would discover that her respectable husband Langley, supposedly a college professor, was actually a con-man and purse-snatcher named Lenny Wlasuk from the carny circuit.

Oh, there’s more, so much more. Women falling in love with their rapists, people becoming full-fledged doctors weeks after graduating from high school, sweet middle-aged ladies turning out to be the ruthless leaders of international drug cartels, kidnappings, babyswaps, epidemics of amnesia and multiple personality disorder, miraculous recoveries of wheelchair-bound invalids, the entire community drinking tainted punch and falling victim to Libidizone, a drug that removes all sexual inhibitions, and a multitude of characters coming back from the dead on the very day that their spouse is walking down the aisle to marry their rival. And that’s just one week in Pine Valley!

The reigning queen of “All My Children” is Erica Kane, played by Susan Lucci, one of two remaining original residents of Pine Valley (the other being respectable Dr. Joe Martin). Erica appeared on the very first episode of the show in 1970 as a high school senior and is still going strong almost four decades later. When I started watching the show Erica was the most famous supermodel in the world, despite the fact that she was 38 at the time and about 5-foot two-inches tall in heels. One of my favorite lines occurred when Erica was being seduced by newcomer Mark Dalton. After weeks of flirtation, Erica suddenly announced, “I can’t make love to you. You’re my father’s bastard son!” Indeed, Erica had just found out that Mark was the product of an affair that her father, famed director Eric Kane, had in Hollywood. Who knew? Another Eric Kane affair produced her half-sister, Silver Kane, an All About Eve-like mouse of a girl Erica took under wing, only to find Silver having an affair with her boyfriend and framing Erica for his murder. But oops, that wasn’t Silver at all, it was an imposter named Connie Wilkes. The real Silver came to town the following year and was promptly murdered. Erica’s brother Mark became a heroin addict and left town.

When she wasn’t busy hunting down terrorists in Bosnia, protecting herself from violent prison mate Kathy Bates, or facing off with grizzly bears (I kid you not), Erica has spent a lot of time planning her lavish weddings. She’s been married 10 times, making her official name Erica Kane Martin Brent Cudahy Chandler Montgomery Montgomery Chandler Marick Marick Montgomery. She has three children, but only remembers giving birth to one of them.

Her daughter Bianca was born in 1988 and is now (at the age of 19?) the head of a multi-national corporation with its headquarters in Pine Valley, Pennsylvania. Why not? The tiny hamlet of Pine Valley is also the location of billion-dollar rival conglomerates Cortlandt Electronics and Chandler Enterprises. Not to mention Tempo, the nation’s most respected news magazine, and two internationally renowned makeup companies, Enchantment and Fusion. Erica’s other daughter is Kendall Hart, the product of a rape her father sanctioned between his daughter and his sleazy director friend Richard Fields on Erica’s 14th birthday. Erica was so traumatized by this event that she forgot she had given birth to Kendall until the teenaged girl (originally played by Sarah Michelle Gellar) appeared on Erica’s doorstep. Erica only learned about the existence of her third child last year. In 1973, a few months after Roe v. Wade, “All My Children” made television history when Erica Kane had a controversial abortion. Of course she developed an infection following the procedure and nearly died, which helped her husband Jeff Martin (and viewers) forgive her. Imagine how surprised Erica was last year when she found out that the doctor who had performed her abortion 33 years earlier had actually taken the embryo and implanted it in his infertile wife and then raised the child as his own. In one of the creepiest and scientifically ridiculous plot developments in the history of the show, Josh Madden, now a major character, is TV’s first living abortion. Oy.

Despite all the outrageous storylines, “All My Children” was also known for tackling serious social issues. In addition to Erica’s retroactively reversed abortion, the show was the first daytime soap to deal with post-traumatic stress syndrome in Vietnam vets, the burgeoning women’s movement, interracial romances, eating disorders, spousal abuse, and homosexuality. Donna Pescow arrived in Pine Valley in 1983 playing openly gay doctor Lynn Carson. Another character, recently divorced Devon McFadden, convinced herself that a love affair with Pescow was the answer to her problems but the good doctor explained that people don’t become lesbians just because a relationship with a man didn't work out. Years later, in 2000, Erica’s own daughter Bianca came out of the closet as a lesbian. Erica flipped out, fell off the wagon (despite the character’s previous stint at the Betty Ford Clinic), escaped to Las Vegas under an assumed name, and became Sin City’s most celebrated showgirl (in her late 50s!). Erica eventually came to her senses and accepted Bianca’s homosexuality. “All My Children” is attempting to break new ground these days with the introduction of Zarf, an internationally famous rock star who descends upon Pine Valley and announces that he is really the transgendered Zoe, a lesbian, who is in love with Bianca. Erica is thrilled that her daughter’s newest love interest has a penis, even if he IS planning to have it cut off. Help.

One of the oddest things about soap operas is something known in the industry as SORAS—Soap Opera Rapid Aging Syndrome. Don’t get too attached to any of the young actors playing toddlers on the show, because they may go upstairs at the end of one episode to get a toy and come downstairs the next day as a teenager. This has happened to nearly every child on “All My Children,” most recently to bratty Colby Chandler who went off with mother Liza as a five-year-old and returned a year later for her Sweet 16 party. And since her party, she is aging rapidly, I expect her to assume a major role at Chandler Enterprises any day now. Only Erica Kane seems to be going in reverse. Soon she will be younger than her TV daughters.

Oh my God, I think I’ve just proven that I’m a bigger “All My Children” freak than Neil Kramer could ever hope to be. What do you think Ann Coulter would say? In my defense, the show has gotten so bad lately that I can usually fast forward through an entire episode in less than 10 minutes. My poor wife is forced to sit through them and has, against her will, become interested in some of the characters, especially her namesake Kendall and little Miranda Montgomery, Bianca’s daughter and Erica Kane’s first grandchild. Miranda is the product of Bianca’s rape by Michael Cambias, a horrific occurrence that seems to be one of the most popular ways women get pregnant on soap operas. Following Miranda’s difficult birth in a rainstorm, Bianca thought her daughter was dead for a year after her best friend Babe Chandler passed her off as her own child named Kate. Don’t ask. Just expect the little girl to hit her teenage years before the next presidential election.

In 2005, “All My Children” lost one of its foremost citizens, Phoebe Tyler Wallingford, when actress Ruth Warrick died at the age of 90. Like Susan Lucci, Warrick had been on the show since Day 1. Warrick was once a distinguished member of Orson Welles’ rep company. Her first film was Welles’ 1941 classic “Citizen Kane” in which she played his first wife, Emily Norton Kane, the niece of the President. The montage of their marital problems as shown through the ever-lengthening distance between Orson Welles and Ruth Warrick at the breakfast table, is one of the most iconic sequences in the history of the movies.

In the early 1980s, Ruth Warrick published a book, “The Confessions of Phoebe Tyler” and also recorded an LP as her feisty character. Somehow she got booked into a rock club in Chicago that was owned by my sister’s boyfriend at the time. Of course we jumped at the chance to see Phoebe Tyler in Concert. I don’t remember that much about the evening except the moment that Warrick, looking for a male volunteer, singled me out in the audience and brought me up on the stage. To the crowd’s delight, she sang a love song to me as Phoebe. I’m sure I turned as red as Erica’s Enchantment lipstick as Warrick caressed me while singing these lyrics: “I love you, yes I do, I love you. If you break my heart I'll die. So be sure that it's true, when you say ‘I love you,’ It’s a sin to tell a lie!” When it was over, she planted a lingering kiss firmly on my lips. Okay, I’ll admit it. Ruth Warrick was in her late 60s and I was in my early 20s, but it was HOT. Unlike her snobby character Phoebe who only had three husbands (very conservative for a soap opera), Warrick had gone through five husbands in real life and had acknowledged several affairs with her leading men, including a torrid romance with Anthony Quinn during the filming of “China Sky” in 1945. Hey, maybe I could become Phoebe’s fourth husband! Believe me, there were greater age differences between many of the couples in Pine Valley.

Watching soap operas can really mess with your head. If you follow the basic tenets of “All My Children,” you can try to have your husband or wife killed and then expect them to come back to you because, after all, you LOVE them. Any crime can be forgiven with the swell of music and a commercial break. Have you lost a loved one recently? Don’t worry—even though you saw them in their casket, they might actually be alive and well and working on a top-secret project in Eastern Europe for an extended period. They will come back into your life at some point—probably at the very moment you profess your love for someone else. But even If they’re really dead, have no fear. They probably have a twin brother or sister they forgot to tell you about. Tired of your job? You can switch from TV producer to renowned doctor to makeup company executive in a matter of months, as Erica’s abortion-boy Josh has recently done. Do you like to travel? You’re in luck! You can be on a beach in the Bahamas at the beginning of the show and then march into a Pine Valley courtroom 15 minutes later to testify in your mother's murder trial. Beam me up, Erica!

Birthday boy Neil is currently on a long road trip with his wife Sophia. They’re traveling to Portland, Oregon, to TequilaCon, an annual debauchery for bloggers. Did I mention that Neil and Sophia have been separated for several years but still live together? He writes about Sophia quite often on his blog but some of his readers still think she’s a fictional character. One of the other main characters on Neil’s blog is his talking penis, who always has something interesting to say. Neil recently participated in a charity auction for single women to win a date with a blogging bachelor. Neil received more bids than any other contestant. The winner of the auction was none other than my friend and former author, Tamar Jacobson of “Mining Nuggets,” even though she’s not single and Neil isn’t a bachelor. I’m starting to think that Neil has been influenced by all those hours he’s clocked in Pine Valley. Watch it, Sophia. Neil’s career as a supermodel or international drug smuggler can’t be far behind.

Haman and Ann Coulter: Two Peas in a Pod

Today is Purim, the Jewish holiday that commemorates the foiling of Haman’s plot to annihilate  the Jews of Ancient Persia. It is a joyful, boisterous holiday, with people dressing up in costume and lots of eating and revelry. As with all Jewish holidays, the festivities begin at sundown the night before. Last night Kendall, Leah, and I attended the Purim celebration at our synagogue, BCC, which happens to be the oldest gay and lesbian temple in the world. Our rabbi, Lisa Edwards, was dressed up as a dead-on Edward Scissorhands, and her costume was so realistic that some of the younger children in the congregation burst into tears at the sight of her. Leah went as a gypsy girl and reminded me of red-haired Maureen O’Hara’s character in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” As she ran around the shul with the other kids, she kept peeling off layers of her colorful scarves until she resembled Salome doing her Dance of the Seven Veils. I came as a Rastafarian, complete with long dreadlocks but minus the ganja.

The main activity at a Purim service is the reading of the Megillah which tells the story of the holiday as recounted in the Book of Esther. The Megillah reveals how King Ahashveros of Persia (also known as Xerxes I), after dumping his uppity wife Vashti, chose a beautiful new queen named Esther, unaware that she was Jewish. His evil prime minister, a wealthy and corrupt man named Haman, was insulted when Esther’s cousin Mordecai would not bow down to him. He convinced the king to kill all of the Jews in Persia but Esther and Mordecai manage to reverse their people's fortunes and send Haman to the gallows instead.  At BCC, each chapter of the Megillah is read by a congregant in a different language. We had everything from Arabic, French, Italian, and German to Mandarin, Ugandan, American Sign Language, Pig Latin, and even Klingon! A fun time was had by all and, following tradition, each time the name Haman was uttered, everyone in the synagogue would shout “Boo!” and use their noisemakers to curse his soul.

I’ve felt a similar compulsion this weekend every time I’ve heard Ann Coulter’s name mentioned. On Friday, at the Conservative Political Action Conference in Washington, Coulter was introduced by Republican Milt Romney, former Governor of Massachusetts, who has recently thrown his hat into the presidential ring. Coulter reviewed the current candidates, pronounced Romney the best choice for president, and then concluded with this pearl:

“I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate, John Edwards, but it turns out you have to go into rehab if you use the word ‘faggot,’ so I’m kind of at an impasse, I can’t really talk about Edwards.”

You can watch it for yourself if you can stomach it:

Did you catch that smirk? Ann Coulter reminds me of those privileged but mean sorority girls who take pleasure in tormenting pledges who come from different backgrounds or aren’t pretty or popular or blond enough. Coulter hides behind a “hey, I’m just kidding!” façade but she is neither witty nor funny, just a bully in the playground whose main philosophy in life seems to be “the squeaky wheel gets the grease.” Her reference to rehab is about actor Isaiah Washington’s recent stint after news broke of him using the new “F-word” on the set of “Grey’s Anatomy” to refer to another actor on the show who subsequently came out as gay. Yet compared to Coulter, Washington seems about as homophobic as Harvey Fierstein.

Now Romney is trying to distance himself from the mini-dress wearing commentator. I don’t buy any of the conservative pundits’ shock over Coulter’s latest episode. Minutes before her remark, Governor Romney was praising Ann Coulter to the skies. It’s not like this is Coulter’s first foray into the gutter. She caused a national furor last year when she criticized the families who lost loved ones on 9/11. In her book “Godless: The Church of Liberalism,” published in June 2006, she spewed:

“These broads are millionaires, lionized on TV and in articles about them, reveling in their status as celebrities and stalked by grief-arazzis... These self-obsessed women seemed genuinely unaware that 9/11 was an attack on our nation and acted as if the terrorist attacks happened only to them... I’ve never seen people enjoying their husbands’ deaths so much.”

Hideous. Coulter clearly loves her gig as national provocateuse and seems to get off on saying the most vile things she can think of. Many of her defenders say that they admire her because she says what “everybody else is thinking but afraid to say.” Really? It actually never occurred to me to cruelly taunt the widows of 9/11 or, as she did during a question-and-answer session following a speech at Indiana University last year, to call a student who disagreed with her “gay boy.”

Coulter seems to especially delight in demonstrating her gift of gaydar. In the past she has declared that  Bill Clinton probably had latent homosexual tendencies but that Al Gore was “a total fag.” And now Edwards is a “faggot.” I admit that I am shocked to hear these words come out of anyone’s mouth today, especially when speaking in front of an allegedly serious political forum. Ann Coulter is consistently paid big bucks to speak at these events even though many conservatives claim she is an embarrassment and not taken seriously. But Friday’s outburst at CPAC was nothing new. I hate to repeat her invective but here is a small sampling of Coulter’s greatest hits on other subjects:

On Democrats:
“The Democrats are giving aid and comfort to the enemy for no purpose other than giving aid and comfort to the enemy. There is no plausible explanation for the Democrats’ behavior other than that they long to see U.S. troops shot, humiliated, and driven from the field of battle. They fill the airwaves with treason, but when called to vote on withdrawing troops, disavow their own public statements. These people are not only traitors, they are gutless traitors.” (column by Ann Coulter, November 23, 2005)

On Environmentalism:
“God gave us the earth. We have dominion over the plants, the animals, the trees. God said, ‘Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It's yours.’” (appearance on Fox News, June 20, 2001)

On Islam:
“We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity.” (speech by Ann Coulter, September 12, 2001)

On Liberals:
Fox TV News Host: “You say you’d rather not talk to liberals?”
Ann Coulter:  “I think a baseball bat is the most effective way these days.”

On The New York Times:
“My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is that he did not go to the New York Times Building.” (August 26, 2002)
When asked the following year whether she regretted making that remark,  she said:
“Of course I regret it. I should have added ‘after everyone had left the building except the editors and the reporters.’”

On Women:
“I think women should be armed but should not vote...women have no capacity to understand how money is earned. They have a lot of ideas on how to spend it...it's always more money on education, more money on child care, more money on day care.” (on Comedy Central’s “Politically Incorrect,” February 26, 2001)

Ugh, I can’t take any more, can you? I love how whenever Coulter’s statements are criticized, her admirers  start screaming about her First Amendment rights. Um, excuse me, but no one is suggesting that Ann Coulter be placed in a concentration camp for her idiotic views. She has every right to espouse them but the First Amendment works both ways. She can sling her hateful rhetoric, and people who take issue with it can openly condemn her comments. Oh, and by the way, here’s what Coulter said on the subject during a speech at the University of Florida in 2005:

“They’re [Democrats] always accusing us of repressing their speech. I say let’s do it. Let’s repress them. Frankly, I’m not a big fan of the First Amendment.”

She regularly calls Muslims “ragheads,” advocates for violence against people with whom she disagrees, and foams at the mouth any time Bill Clinton’s name is brought up. A former lawyer, Coulter was on Paula Jones’ legal team, her springboard to national prominence and a series of best-selling books.

If Coulter were transported back to Ancient Persia, I’ve no doubt she’d call Queen Esther a traitor to her king and country, imply that Mordecai was just a purple-robe wearing fag, and proclaim Haman to be a hero and patriot. I’m not accusing Coulter of masterminding any murderous plots, but she certainly has antagonized American Jews on more than one occasion by saying how gullible and stupid they are to accept the pandering of Democratic politicians who  trump up fake Jewish ancestors to nail the Jew vote.

And what’s with the Edwards comment, anyway? Is she actually saying that she thinks John Edwards is a homosexual? Apparently, if that were the case (and it sure doesn’t seem to be), Coulter believes that a gay presidential candidate would  be a horrific thing. Or is she just making some kind of statement about what she perceives as Edwards’ effeminate traits? Oh, that will never do, we’ve got to have a “real man” in that office, right, Ann? Let’s see, who can we ask? Is Genghis Kahn available by any chance?  Oh wait, that wouldn’t work, he’s just a stupid gook. Maybe  former Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet has the goods? Oh, sorry, Ann, that spic wouldn’t do either, it’s got to be a real American he-man like your draft-dodging hero, George W. Bush.

I feel sick to my stomach  but I can’t tell if it’s because of Ann Coulter or the two poppyseed hamantaschen I just wolfed down.

Coulter claims to be a devout Christian and believes that she is a crusader defending the Christian values she holds so dear. Yes, and I believe that I am the lovely Esther, Queen of Persia.

An Evening with the Rossellinis

I know I just wrote about Ingrid Bergman and the Grand Scandale that erupted when she left her Swedish husband for Italian director Roberto Rossellini and had an out-of-wedlock child with him. Who knew that a few days later I’d be sitting in a room with Bergman and Rossellini’s daughter Isabella hearing her talk about her parents’ relationship.

This is why I love living in L.A. As luck would have it, I was at a Starbucks in Westwood on Wednesday (a neighborhood I rarely visit) working on my computer when I saw the name Rossellini out of the corner of my eye on somebody else’s newspaper. It was a notice for “An Evening with Isabella Rossellini,” an event that the UCLA Film Archive  was putting on as part of their retrospective of Rossellini’s work to honor the director’s 100th birthday. I looked up the event and discovered to my surprise that it was minutes away from beginning and would take place at the brand new Billy Wilder Theatre at the Hammer Museum, about five minutes from where I was. I called Kendall, ordered her to head west immediately, and we were soon sitting in the first row of the theatre gazing at beautiful Isabella.

Is my celebrity worship on this blog getting a little hard to digest?  Are you losing respect for me because of my frequent fawning about certain people in the public eye? Oy, don't answer that, but please forgive me, because I feel compelled to reflect on the transcendent aura of Isabella Rossellini. It’s not just her incredible beauty, the face that evokes both the graceful features of her iconic mother as well as the fiery elements of her Italian heritage. Beauty alone does not do the trick—I’ve seen plenty of gorgeous movie stars that have left me as cold as a codfish. No, there’s something else that Isabella Rossellini projects: a self-awareness, a risky creativity, and a sincerity and kindness that literally swoops down from the stage and envelops the people within her gaze.

Enough fawning? But wait, I didn’t tell you what she was wearing. Her short dark hair was plastered down on her head and she wore a man’s suit or more accurately, what looked like a boy’s Bar Mitzvah get-up, complete with white shirt and bright red tie. Odd, perhaps, but it worked. Who else can look just as stunning in haute couture, jeans and t-shirts, or boys’ suits?

Isabella showed us the excellent and unusual short film she made to honor her father’s centennial last year. (Why wasn’t this film nominated for an Oscar?) It was directed by Canadian director Guy Maddin. One of my very first posts on this blog two years ago was a rave about Maddin and Rossellini’s first collaboration, the strange black-and-white film, “The Saddest Music in the World,” in which Isabella played a double amputee beer baroness who uttered one of my favorite lines in movie history: “If you’re sad…and you like beer….then I’m your lady.”

In Isabella’s tribute film, “My Father Is 100 Years Old,” she plays all of the roles—real-life characters interacting with her father (who is played by a giant belly since that’s how she likes to remember him). Isabella transforms herself into a range of people who knew her dad including  Charlie Chaplin, Hitchcock, David O’Selznick, Fellini, and her mother. The scene of Isabella interacting with Isabella playing Ingrid Bergman is fascinating. Isabella asks Bergman about the great actress Anna Magnani, who was Rossellini’s lover and leading lady at the time he met the Swedish actress. Bergman tells her daughter how great Magnani was, and how she was called “La Lupa,” the wolf.

ISABELLA: Was Anna hurt when Father left her for you?
INGRID BERGMAN: Ja, very. (pause) Too bad.
(We hear a wolf howling and see its shadow.)
ISABELLA: Some say Father destroyed your career.
INGRID BERGMAN: No, he did not destroy my career. I destroyed his.
ISABELLA: Why did you fall in love with Dad?
INGRID BERGMAN: Because Roberto was so rare. No one was like him. Free, generous…even with money he didn’t have, and strong. He gave me courage—something I never had.
ISABELLA: Why did you divorce?
INGRID BERGMAN: Roberto was always in turmoil. He needed a hurricane. Life was a battle…films were a battle…If there weren’t battles to fight, he was bored. After a while I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed some calm.
(The wolf devours Ingrid. Screen goes black.)

A DVD of this film is included in Isabella’s new book, “In the Name of the Father, the Daughter and the Holy Spirits: Remembering Roberto Rossellini” which includes a lot of great material including the original telegrams and letters that led to the explosive relationship between Bergman and Rossellini. It all started with Ingrid Bergman’s famous out-of-the-blue telegram to the director in 1948, when she was at the height of her worldwide fame:

Dear Mr. Rossellini, I saw your films “Open City” and “Paisan,” and I enjoyed them very much. If you need a Swedish actress who speaks English very well, who has not forgotten her German, who is not very understandable in French, and who in Italian knows only ‘ti amo,’ I am ready to come and make a film with you.
                                                            —Ingrid Bergman

Isabella said that the “ti amo” bit has often been misinterpreted as her mother coming on to Rossellini but she said this couldn’t be further from the truth—at the time it was simply the only Italian phrase Bergman knew because she had said it in a film. Ingrid was trying to help Rossellini get his films to a wider audience and was offering up her fame and connections. With Ingrid’s influence, Rossellini was offered a contract with Selznick Studios in Hollywood. 

He refused but offered Bergman a part in his next neo-realist film, “Stromboli.” Not just any part—Anna Magnani’s part! Magnani doesn't strike me as the kind of person you'd want to cross. In her book, Isabella talks about visiting the actress with her father after her parents' divorce. She was always too afraid to look her in the face so she only remembers Anna Magnani's shoes. She recounts the famous story of the night Magnani first found out about Rossellini's interest in Ingrid Bergman. They were at a restaurant in Amalfi.

Sitting at the table, they ordered pasta. Pleasantly, she asked, “Roberto do you want more sauce? A bit more olive oil? Some parmigiano?” She tossed the spaghetti, and when it was all ready to be eaten, she poured the contents over Father’s head.

Rossellini then introduced a screening of “Stromboli” which I had never seen. I loved it. The film tells the story of Karin (Bergman), a young Lithuanian refugee in a Displaced Persons camp after the war, who marries Antonio, an Italian fisherman, as a last resort after her visa to Argentina has been rejected. But Karin finds Antonio’s barren island dominated by a volcano just as claustrophobic and maddening as the DP camp.  She longs to get away, even after she finds herself pregnant. She flirts with another fisherman to the scorn of the island women, and even tries to seduce the priest if he'll help her get off the island. Eventually, during her “escape,” Karin collapses near the active volcano, calls out to God, and has a transforming experience. The film ends without us knowing what she’ll do next, but we clearly see that she has reached a new crossroad in her life. As had Bergman.

To get funding for the film, Ingrid appealed to Howard Hughes (who had a longstanding crush on the actress) and he agreed to bankroll it and release the film through his RKO Studios. He also made Rossellini sign over the rights to the final edit, something that the director would bitterly regret later. Following the tenets of Rossellini’s neo-realism, most of the characters in the film were played by actual residents of Stromboli, non-actors who had no experience in front of a camera. After starring opposite the most famous leading men in Hollywood, Ingrid Bergman’s husband in “Stromboli” was played by Mario Vitale, a fisherman that Rossellini spotted off the Amalfi coast. Isabella told us that her mother, used to memorizing her scripts and making movies the structured Hollywood way, was at first at a loss with this new style. Sometimes the non-actors could not remember lines or even repeat words that Rossellini would feed them so, knowing their voices could be dubbed later on, the director would just tell them to say “One, two, three, four.” Bergman then had to respond to this with her actual lines.

News of the actress’s affair with the Italian director leaked out during the making of “Stromboli” and headlines blared around the world decrying the star whose Swedish husband Peter Lindstrom and their 11-year-old daughter Pia were waiting for her return back home in Beverly Hills.

Howard Hughes despised Rossellini’s cut of “Stromboli” and re-edited it on his own, taking out 25 minutes, deleting several religious elements, and adding a sappy narration that gave the film a “happily ever after” ending. This butchered version, complete with a lurid ad campaign designed by Hughes to take advantage of public interest in the Bergman-Rossellini scandal, was a critical bomb in the United States. The film was banned in Memphis, and the Roman Catholic church urged people not to see it. Senator Edwin C. Johnson, the jackass who had denounced Ingrid Bergman on the floor of the U.S. Congress, railed against the film: “The degenerate Rossellini has deceived the American people with an idiotic story of a volcano and a pregnant woman. We must protect ourselves against such scourges.”

Happily, it was Rossellini’s original version that we saw Wednesday night, and it gave me a new appreciation for his brand of neo-realism. As a result of his first experience with the vagaries of Hollywood, Rossellini refused to let his family or friends fly the Hughes-owned TWA, Isabella told us, and she said he forbade her mother from taking the children to America. Isabella didn't set foot in this country until she was an adult.

Isabella talked about her plans to honor her mother’s 100th birthday in 2015. Although it’s been 25 years since Ingrid Bergman’s death, she said her mother is still very present to her. In a recent interview, she mentioned that “if the door rings, then I still think, ‘It is Mama!’ It is absurd, but it is like that. If I see old photos, I often think, ‘Is it Mama, or is it me?’ We look so much alike, but our characters are very different. She was a very passionate woman. She was a wonderful lady but it was either black or white. The word ‘compromise’ was for her a foreign word.”

Isabella Rossellini knows that people have their own fantasies of her parents, that Ingrid Bergman and Robert Rossellini have now achieved a mythical status.

What I say about them can be different from that fantasy, and people don’t like that. Of course, I can say what everyone else says, just repeat what people want to hear, which I’ve done, don’t worry…I have indeed, and gained a lot of sympathy and approval from it. and I enjoyed that. I do like to be liked. But truly, it is hard for me to understand the collective unconscious about Mom and Dad. In school I would always ask my classmates, “Is my mom as famous as Joan Crawford? How about compared to Greta Garbo? Is my dad as famous as Chaplin? How about compared to Hitchcock?” I needed a kind of barometer.

Both my parents are in just about every encyclopedia. I check, you know. When my father’s entry emphasizes his marriage to my mother, I know it’s an American edition. When the emphasis is on his revolutionary and innovative work as a filmmaker, I know it’s a European edition. In Chinese encyclopedias my mother isn’t mentioned at all and my father’s work is described as “nonbourgeois telling true stories about the proletariat.” There are many ways to love my parents. Then there is my way, which is mine only.

My parents are not famous, but hearing Isabella discuss the scandal that hit her parents “with the force of a tsunami,” I couldn’t help but think of my family’s own Big Scandal when my mother left my father in the early 1970s and moved out of our house. She hadn’t found the love of her life, but she did temporarily go off with a man from a different world and culture that perhaps provided the escape she needed at that point in her life. My mother was not condemned by Congress or forced into exile but we do have a letter from famed psychiatrist Karl Menninger declaring my mother to be unfit and she went through her own self-imposed emotional exile for a long time as a result of her choices.  It was hard enough for me as a kid to deal with the occasional tongue-wagging about my mother from friends or neighbors, I can’t imagine what it must be like for the children of celebrities to encounter strong, negative opinions about their parents from the pubic at large.

In the Q&A after the film, Isabella answered every question with an honesty that was shocking in this era of controlled sound bites. When asked how her siblings liked her film, she admitted that her twin sister Ingrid has publicly denounced  it. A literature professor at NYU, Ingrid sees the film as an insult to Rossellini's memory, especially the depiction of their father as a giant belly. As she told an interviewer, “It’s a ridiculous thing, this naked belly. I think Father would be very upset to be represented like that.” Ingrid said she and Isabella spent much less time with their parents when they were young than the film implies. Bergman and Rossellini were frequently away for long periods making movies. If anything, knowing that some aspects of Isabella’s film may be based on her fantasy of her dad rather than her actual experience makes the tribute even more moving to me. I, for one, have no interest in burdening my memories with the truth.