“Let ‘Em Eat Lead” may as well be the rallying cry of the Republican party. No longer the party of Lincoln, it’s now the Party of Marie Antoinette.
While it’s legal in Ohio to carry guns openly or concealed, the Cleveland police union urged Ohio’s Governor Kasich to suspend the law during the Republican convention. While Kasich couldn’t quite do that, the RNC banned guns inside the convention center and in a large zone around the building. Think about that for a minute. While the republicans, the political party responsible for enabling the laws that made possible the shooting of ninety two people, 12 fatally, in Cleveland the month of their convention there, they sat safe and free from gun violence inside Quicken Loans Arena.
Why? If the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun, as they love telling us while fattening their bank accounts with NRA blood money, didn’t they want to assure their safety with as many guns as possible inside and outside the arena? Did you know that guns were also banned at the RNC in Tampa in 2012? One hundred and thirty thousand ordinary Americans have been shot in the U.S. since 2012. But the republican elite again sat smug and safe from gun violence inside Tampa’s Amalie Arena. The absolute height of republican hypocrisy is their “Let ’em eat cake” lawmaking. Only nobody ever died from cake. The republicans were safe from guns while in Cleveland. Meanwhile in Cleveland, a two year old girl in her mother’s arms was shot in the head, and an eleven year old girl was shot while watching tv in her living room. Too bad they too couldn’t have been safe inside Quicken Loans Arena.
Dear Bernie Supporters, Undecideds, Swing Voters, Everyone who doesn’t see the difference between the two parties; no party is perfect. Politics is compromise, and it’s painful and often not pretty. Some of you are angry the DNC erected a fence around the convention. With terrorism and gun nuts, of course they did. But they didn’t exclude themselves from living by the laws they passed for us to live by. The DNC has passed laws to benefit the environment, children, the aged, labor, women, minorities, and improve health care. Their convention wasn’t a fracking barbecue over coals with oil lamps. They didn’t dine on endangered species while being waited on by non- union eight year old immigrants without Pre-k or health care, while their leadership burned down a women’s clinic. They’re with us. And #imwithher.
Yes, the DNC put a fence around its convention for safety. But hey, guess what? The RNC took away your guns.
There IS a DIFFERENCE. Let’s vote the Democrats back into our government.
It is inspirational to see so much passion and idealism in politics again. Many of us remember feeling that exhilarating hope and joyous promise when Bill Clinton took office, and Hillary Clinton renewed the standard for how inspiring a role model a First Lady of the United States could be. I remember watching in awe in 1993 as Mrs. Clinton spoke to congress, without notes, for over two hours, outlining the new president’s health care proposal. She was smart, beautiful, classy, involved; the promise of how far women could now aspire to go.
I worked for Bill Clinton’s election, and then Al Gore’s, and I know your pain is as great as what we all felt when in 2000, the Supreme Court, to the great detriment of our constitution, threw the presidential election to George W. Bush.
When Al Gore said it was time to come together and support our new president (Bush), we were outraged, depressed, sick to our stomachs, and having none of it. NEVER! I cried. A lot. I’m sure my head would have exploded if the election had been ongoing, and Al Gore had asked us to actually VOTE FOR George W. Bush. I know I wouldn’t have.
But here is the difference in what we went through then and what is at stake today. George W. Bush was the political opposite of Al Gore. George W. Bush opposed every good policy and plan for America’s future that Al Gore embraced. George W. Bush was unqualified to be the president of the United States; intellectually, temperamentally, and in his lack of experience and vision. George W. Bush’s vice president, Dick Cheney, was/is a war profiteer and an architect of murder and destruction. I will never understand why Al Gore didn’t keep fighting. Today: Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton have voted together ninety three percent of the time. Think about that. Bernie and Hillary have worked together to support the issues and legislation that matter to all of us, ninety three percent of the time. Hillary’s vice presidential pick, Sen. Tim Kaine of Virginia, received a ninety percent positive rating in the liberal Americans for Democratic Action rating of 2014 Senate votes.
I love Bernie Sanders. I am so grateful that the Bernie Revolution forced the Democratic party’s platform even further to the left than it was, and it was already progressive (LGBTQ rights, choice for women, civil rights, minimum wage hikes, fixing the social safety net, education, financial regulation, supporting science and the environment, etc. etc.) You did that. That is what I call a successful revolution, and yes, of course it must continue. I understand the impulse to throw it all away in anger and frustration. I beg you not to. I am respectfully asking you to look at Hillary’s lifetime, true, successful record in fighting for all of us; all the people Bernie fights for. The right has so brainwashed the willing into seeing Hillary Clinton as the devil, it is shameful that we need to point out the incredible work for America this woman has devoted her life to for decades. I am not going to go down the list of what she has been subjected to by a partisan congress and partisan news outlets. Suffice to say, she has shown up every time, publicly put it all on the line, done her best, taken the heat, answered and answered and answered, without rancor or complaint. Donald Trump won’t even release his tax returns. (The first presidential candidate in fifty years, by the way, to hide his tax returns. Where is the press and congress now?)
I know. You are so angry you’d rather see Donald Trump elected, just for spite. I get it. I am the best grudge holder in the history of my family; Jews with 25 Olympic Gold Medals in Grudge Holding and Cutting Off Our Noses to Spite Our Faces. But listen, after you get past that natural instinct of rebellion, you must see what is at stake for the future survival, yes survival, of life as we know it. Donald Trump is the least qualified person to ever run for the highest office in the land. He makes George W. Bush look like Carl Sagan. Make no mistake, Trump is a danger to America, the world, and the future of both. I have nothing against him personally, he simply has zero qualifications for this job. Hillary Clinton is not “the lesser of two evils”. Hillary Clinton is one of the most qualified people to ever run for president of the United States. In forty years of public service, there are going to be some corners cut, some deals made, some less than idealistically perfect votes, some political manipulation. That’s politics, that’s life. That’s how things get done at all in the real world. Joan Rivers would say, “Oh, grow up”. I’m not minimizing actions of Hillary’s that offend you, I’m not dismissing your feelings. But nobody’s perfect. Life isn’t perfect. Politics is the least perfect place of all.
Bernie hasn’t given up. He knows the only way he can continue his revolution and have a powerful voice in our government is in a Clinton administration. You love him, you trust him, you support him. Then trust he is asking you to do the right thing for the right reason when he asks you to vote for Hillary. For our country. For the revolution.
The senate did NOT pass the four hardly- even -not- so- much- but- still- something- better- than- nothing gun “control” bills today. Possible terrorists on the “No Fly” list can still buy guns. They’re not on the “No Airport” list though, so they can still ruin your vacation, if boarding in Group 4 hasn’t already done so. There will still be no background checks at gun shows. So use those three days waiting for an abortion to buy something that lets you murder an already born, no doubt about it actual person. No counseling necessary! Senate Majority Bleeder Mitch Unconscionable said the Democratic measures were “ineffective” and “Democrats were not sincere in their effort”. He could tell they weren’t sincere because they tried to pass a gun control bill. If they were sincere, they would have shot up the senate.
He then squeezed his buttocks and coughed up another hairball: “Republican senators are pursuing real solutions that can help keep Americans safer from the threat of terrorism.” I assume these include:
Background checks for falafel purchases.
No “Muhammad” or “Amir” on Coke cans.
Getting the greeting card industry to make “Happy Hajj!!” cards, then hiding behind display to see who buys them.
Passing a senate resolution to outlaw the word “AiAiAi”. (Includes no more I Love Lucy reruns.)
No radio play for any songs containing words that rhyme with “Ramadan”. (Includes Rama Lama Ding Dong.)
Staring really hard at anyone eating hummus (I see you!)
Banning the sale of rugs under five feet long.
Banning all people in the U.S. with beards from facing East.
Banning the sale of “Korans For Dummies”.
Congress has not passed new gun restrictions since 2007. Ten years, about three hundred thousand people in America dead from guns. If 300,000 people had died from apples since 2007, they would not keep making those Snow White movies. Senators in the pocket of the NRA have enough cash to physically weave it into thick bullet proof vests to keep themselves safe, while the rest of us play Fatal Weekend Roulette.
“If you see something, say something.” Fine. Something. Something‘s rotten in Denmark. Doing something is better than doing nothing. I’d rather attempt to do something great and fail than attempt to do nothing and succeed. To give real service you must add something that cannot be bought or measured with money, and that is sincerity, and integrity. Do something!!!!!!!
Trudy the Bag Lady, from the mind of the great Lily Tomlin says, “When I was young I wanted to be somebody. I should have been more specific”. We need to be more specific. Say something to your senators who voted against these bills. Say it with your vote in November. Say good-bye.
“Congress won’t outlaw automatic weapons because they say it might infringe on some hunting weapons. If you need a hundred rounds to kill a deer, maybe hunting isn’t your sport.”-Elayne Boosler.
I wrote this joke in 1978. 1978! Are we there yet? Support all your senators standing up in today’s “No Fly No Buy” filibuster. Not one American voted Wayne LaPierre into congress. The fact that he makes our public policy is nothing less than a government takeover, ironically done with money, not weapons. The fifty-one senators who voted against the 2015 “No Fly No Buy” law collectively received thirty seven million dollars in blood money from the NRA. They should be arrested as traitors, clearly helping America’s enemies. (You are on the “No Fly” list, but you can buy an assault weapon?) The NRA makes possible the murder by guns of over thirty thousand Americans a year. If ISIS was able to kill that many Americans, on our own soil, every year, we’d know they had won the war on terror. The NRA made/makes possible the murder of hundreds of thousands more Americans than any radical religious group from anywhere. The NRA is a terrorist organization, going against the will of even their own members who agree with reasonable and logical gun laws. Wayne LaPierre has made possible the murder of more Americans than Osama Bin Laden, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Ramzi Yousef, and every terrorist we are spending billions of tax dollars fighting while our shameless representatives take millions from the terrorists on our own soil.
Vote the bums out. Stand up for the senators who are standing up for America today. Let’s start buying teddy bears for children again, and flowers for lovers again, instead of buying them for shooting site memorials. Send Wayne LaPierre to Guantanamo, and force the representatives and senators whose graft greed made the loss of American life so prevalent, to donate all their ill gotten gains to the thousands of the loved ones left behind. Let’s bow our heads and take a moment of silence to remember the names of the senators and congresspeople who sold us out and made wholesale American murder the norm in our cities, schools, movie theaters, nightclubs, and homes. Amen.
It boggles my mind how long this took; a female candidate, Hillary Clinton, for president of the United States. Yes, we made history in America today, but it was only American history.
While we’re deciding if we want to have a beer with the candidate, the rest of the world is waayy ahead of us.
Seventy six years ago in 1940, Khertek Anchimaa-Toka was the Head of State of Tannu Tuva, which then joined the Soviet Union in 1944. She continued in various government positions until 1972. No word on how many people wanted to have a vodka with her.
In 2007, a record 13 countries had elected female Presidents or Prime Ministers; Ireland, New Zealand, Latvia, Finland, The Philippines, Bangladesh, Mozambique, Iberia, Chile, Jamaica, South Korea, Switzerland, and a Chancellor in Germany. None have ever asked neighboring countries if their maps make them look fat. All play some kick-ass soccer.
In 2002, the list was also at a record 13, with Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Panama, Senegal, and Sao Tome and Principe replacing some of the above, with only one of them being flooded by God.
Add to those, these countries, which elected female Presidents as far back as 1980; Iceland, Malta, Nicaragua, and Guyana. American tv shows debuting in 1980 included “Bosom Buddies”, where two men played women, “bosom”, get it? And “It’s a Living”, about spunky waitresses with a surprising amount of cleavage for a non-Hooters hotel dining room.
Countries with female Prime Ministers, some as far back as 1960, included; Sri Lanka, India, Israel, Central African Republic, United Kingdom, Dominica, Norway, Yugoslavia, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Poland, and Turkey. The only power available to American women in the 1960s was Flower Power.
Countries with interim female Presidents as far back as 1953 include; Bolivia, Guinea-Bissau, Haiti, East Germany, Liberia, Ecuador, Georgia, and Mongolia (Chairman). In America in 1953, some of the top movies were; “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes”, “How to Marry a Millionaire”, and “The Farmer Takes a Wife”.
Many of these women were also re-elected, for example in Norway, where the female Prime Minister served from 1981-86, 1989, and 1990-96. For three years running, the United Nations has ranked Norway the number one place in the world to live (based on standard of living, life expectancy, education, democracy, public health). Norway’s economy is based on oil and gas, mining, shipbuilding, fishing, paper products. No men were forced to sell Mary Kay Cosmetics.
In Pakistan, Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto was the first woman to head the government of an Islamic state. She served from 1988-90, and 1993-96. Before being elected, she spent almost six years in prison or under detention for her political activism. She was ousted twice in corruption scandals, which may or may not have been political witch-hunts, but hey, that’s as good as the men. Too bad Muslims don’t drink, I’d have liked to have an Arak with her.
These countries have had acting or interim female Prime Ministers as far back as 1979; Portugal, Lithuania, France, Burundi, Canada, Rwanda, Bulgaria, Guyana, Mongolia, Finland, Peru, Macedonia, and Ukraine. In America in 1979, Bo Derek was elected the country’s number one sex symbol for her role in the movie “Ten”.
As to those polls claiming Hillary Clinton is “unlikable”, I can only marvel. I believe if most of the people who call her “unlikable” had her money and position, they wouldn’t give a damn about your college debt or your health care, or whether you had a job or your kid got a head start in education or a hot breakfast. They’d be living at a resort in the Caribbean, having daiquiris at the swim up bar and most probably under-tipping the over-worked waitstaff. Everything about her is likable to me, from the fact that she can take it, that she doesn’t give up, that she really wants to do good in the world, that she actually cares way beyond personal gain, that she’s so strong, that she isn’t a saint but rather knows how it works and can make it work to the good of all. I like her laugh and her flat no-nonsense midwestern tone. And oh yes, she’s a genius. The absolutely smartest person in the room, with the demeanor to reason, to command respect, and to lead. Did I mention she’s brilliant? We need someone to stand up against the obstructionist, misogynistic, myopic members of congress stuck in the 1950’s and trying to keep the country, women, immigrants, people of color, and anyone not exactly like them, back there. There is no denying George W. Bush was very, very likable, and the death toll in his misguided wake will reach into the millions, with the destruction of entire regions of the world. We need someone who understands the world. I think the world will see her coming and say, “The Americans finally grew up”.
At least twenty years ago, while I was walking along Fifty Seventh St. in Manhattan, stopping at Fifth Avenue to wait for the light so I could cross, I saw the most amazing thing. Across Fifth, a limo pulled to a quick stop. A beautiful man in a gorgeous suit jumped out and stood, looking around him. Within ten seconds, like dropping a huge dollop of honey in the middle of an ant colony, people on the street immediately started crowding Muhammad Ali. I saw paper and pens and pencils go high up in the air (no cell phones then), all shoved in his direction. He was smiling to the shouts of “Ali! Ali! Champ! Champ!”, and just started signing away. No announcement, no bodyguards. Cars stopped, traffic jammed. A police officer made his way to the center of the crowd to shake Ali’s hand. After five minutes he waved, jumped back in his limo, and was gone.
What a great time to be The Greatest. He might have just invented the Flash Mob. He didn’t have to check twitter to see how he was doing. He didn’t have to check Wiki, or IMDB, or Instagram, or Snapchat, or his Facebook fan page, or be isolated by virtual reality. His reality check was to check reality. He went headlong into it, saw he was definitely still trending, and with a big smile, The Greatest went about the rest of his day.
What a gorgeous spring day. Muriel and I had agreed to meet in the park, as usual. I was late, as usual. I had been held up by an hour of phone calls back and forth to lawyers, dealing with a horrible woman who was threatening to sue me, based on nothing. One great thing about America, anybody can sue anybody for anything or nothing, and you have to deal with it. I was pretty worked up by this point, mulling it over and over on my twenty block walk to our spot in the park. By the time I got there, steam was coming off the top of my head.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Argh!! This c**t is driving me crazy!!”
“NO! No no no no no no no. Never never ever say that word. Ever!”
“Muriel, I never use that word. But she really is a c**t.”
“Stop it! Don’t say it again.”
“I know the difference between a bitch and a c**t, and in this case this is the right word.”
“I don’t care what she did to you, there’s no place on earth for that word. Don’t ever say it in my presence again. I’m not kidding.”
“I’m a writer. You don’t think I chose that word carefully?”
“You’re not funny.” She starts to scooter away, angry. I run alongside.
“Okay. I’m sorry. But sometimes it’s the only word that fits.”
“Never. Do you want a tissue?”
“A hard candy?”
“Well, that’s all I have.”
What a gorgeous fall day. I go up to Muriel’s apartment, because she can’t come to the park. Her scooter has been dying in the street for months. She’s been dangerously stranded more than once, definitely relying on the kindness of strangers to get her home. She needs a new scooter. Medicare has been stalling her all summer. She has been a virtual prisoner, under house arrest, missing the most gorgeous weather in New York City history. It’s unconscionable that a system set up to serve the elderly literally leaves them trapped in their apartments months on end for no reason except bureaucracy. Or maybe stupidity. They don’t know or care if she has a support system. For all they know she could be down to eating cat food. Or kale. It’s not right.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Argh! I still can’t get my scooter.”
“This is still going on? I can’t believe it.”
“They’re waiting for me to die. They look at my age, and they keep stalling. They think if they can avoid paying for a new scooter long enough I’ll drop dead.”
“What can you do?”
“I just spent SIX HOURS on the phone with a woman at Medicare. I decided I was not going to hang up until I had a DATE for that SCOOTER to be delivered here. SIX HOURS!!!”
I had never seen her so angry.
“My God. Six hours for real? How? What did she say for six hours?”
“Nothing!! She kept putting me on hold!! I was on hold for four out of the six hours!!!!! But I wouldn’t go away!!!! And she kept STALLING me, and coming up with all kinds of EXCUSES, and leaving me on hold again and again AND AGAIN!!!!!!!…….
(Though animal rescue is the jumping off point here, my Tails of Joy website is for being uplifting and rescue-y, and this post is more put-downing and comed-y).
We received this email on our Tails of Joy contact page today:
To: Tails of Joy
From: (Oh Peeps, I wish I could)
I moved out of CA. I’m in AZ now. I wanted to let you know that I had to remove myself from your Tails of Joy group and also you in general, which deeply broke my heart. I realize you are a public figure but you aligned yourself with Hillary Clinton a few months ago. That’s cool and your choice to do so. But I am a deeply political person and my roots lie elsewhere. I cannot trust you nor your organization or anyone that does this, either side, your organization is supposed to be for the betterment of dogs and I wanted to trust your organization to take care of my babies when I pass and also give money. Since it is so deeply opposing to me in many ways, I do not trust you, nor your organization and therefore felt unsafe leaving my most precious assets, the only thing I have been given to by Jesus here on earth, my dogs, to take care of.
I still think you are a funny comedian but moved on and got out of watching comics. They tend to only support Dems and slam and massacre Republicans or Trump fans and that is so beyond insulting it’s shameless on all of your parts.
Take care and good luck with Hillary and Bernie and all of the other things you hold dear and therefore so does your organization.
I have my babies in trust with organizations that will take care of them and there is no political bullshit.
NAME (If only I could)
And (pets names) – Marley, Abby and Jasper
(I sincerely believe her pets did not give her permission to use their names on that.) Okay, so..
Dear (OH how I wish I could)
We were so happy when you contacted us months ago about including Tails of Joy in your estate planning. To that end we spent lots of time on the phone with you, answering all your questions, educating you about rescue, helping you explore all the different ways you could truly make a difference in the lives of desperate animals about to die. Then today we received your email. This will be my only answer to you, now and in future.
Intelligent grownups learn to work together for the greater good of their callings despite any private ideological or political differences, which never come up in, or affect the life saving work of, the world of animal rescue. Congress can’t do it, but rescuers can. I wouldn’t vote for Sarah Palin, but I’d save her cat.
By example, there are several rescue groups I have spent years working closely with, saving lives, helping each other, and socializing. One night our work went long, so I made some dinner and we started watching the 6 o’ clock news together. My greatest ally and dear friend from one of the rescue groups made a comment during the newscast, which led me to say, “Wait a minute, you’re a born again Christian? Anti-choice and everything?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “What a great tribute to us that in all these years of saving animals it never came up!!” And we fell down laughing. As I am a public figure, she certainly knew my views, but we accepted each other totally as dedicated fellow rescuers, spending our lives and our money doing something much bigger than nurturing a small-minded, selfish world view; thinking only of “me” and “mine” and trying to control others. We continue to work together in a spirit of friendship, love, and charity. THAT is what honest, decent people who are dedicated to a cause do. It’s called walking the walk. Animals about to die in the pound don’t care who you vote for, they just need rescue, medical help, love and kindness, and that’s what we give them, every day. What have you done for Jesus lately?
For twenty years, Tails of Joy has supported and given out “Little Guy Grants” to small rescue organizations across America. That includes Arizona, Texas, Florida, Ohio, Colorado, Georgia, and dozens of cities all throughout the republican strongholds of the south and midwest. I never stopped to ask the rescuers I was giving checks to there who they were voting for, what their religion was, or if they thought poor women who already had six children should be forced to carry a seventh after being raped. It didn’t matter to the sick and desperate dogs and cats about to be killed due to lack of space, or crawling bloody in the road after being shot with pellet guns, or who had their jaws blown off after firecrackers were taped into their mouths and exploded. In Ohio, it’s legal to shoot a dog if he is chasing a sheep or another dog. He doesn’t even have to reach him. If you want to follow him home and kill him, though he did nothing, that is legal too. You are allowed to “pursue a dog for a reasonable time“. I don’t like that law or the state government that made it, or the people who voted that government in. According to you then, I should turn my back on homeless animals in Ohio. But I don’t, because the rescuers there are saving lives, and that is what matters. I have no personal litmus test for helping rescuers rescue. I am a true rescuer, and nothing else about me has any bearing on the amount of lives Tails of Joy has saved for decades. Animals are non-partisan. By law, non-profit organizations are also non-partisan, though somebody ought to tell that to the church.
How ironic that the word “spiritual” is part of your chosen email name. I will chalk that up to your clearly great sense of humor. Yes, I am a public figure. You knew exactly who I was as my views have been open and public for forty three years. If I have suddenly “broken your heart” because you “just noticed” my favoring some political party (a party which also “rescues”; the poor, the under-served, desperate women, ailing seniors, hungry children, newly-arrived-to-America human beings, etc. etc.), I call bullshit.
When someone tells us he/she is considering a bequest to Tails of Joy, we listen. Until you, every donor I spent hours on the phone educating and working with did indeed kindly leave Tails of Joy money to continue our fantastic work. After one conversation with you I said to my treasurer, “There’s nothing here”. But because every rescue organization is always in such great financial need, he convinced me to continue phone calls with you, though I knew better. How many animals died while I listened to you prattle on? The only animals you care about are your own. We have re-homed the orphaned pets of hundreds of people who died having made no arrangements for their future, left no money to care for them, and probably never donated a cent to a rescue group during their lifetimes. We don’t punish the animals for that, even if their previous owners watched Fox News. And I never, ever made any one of those dogs or cats vote for a Democrat. That’s their business. I’ve spent endless hours and dollars trying to help save elephants, despite their links to the GOP. I hope it’s Sheriff Joe Arpaio you have left your dogs to so they can continue living in the bubble to which they have become accustomed.
Tails of Joy does not vote. Tails of Joy does not campaign or endorse. There is not one whiff of politics or partisanship on the scores of pages on Tails of Joy. But here is the difference between rescuers and dilettantes. I won’t be voting for Donald Trump. But if he is elected, I would do everything in my power to help him make his time in office successful for the betterment of our country. You seriously need to make an immediate, sizable donation to Tails of Joy to get right with your maker for wasting so much of our time that would have been spent doing the Lord’s life saving work. It’s what Jesus would want, as you so well know in your generous, intelligent, open heart. You are a miracle.
Anyone who has ever seen me perform knows I love Peeps. In my “Live Nude Girls” special, I pledge my eternal love to the delicious bringers of sweetened smiles. That special aired on various networks for many years, and for years, fans brought Peeps to my shows; in their original form, in hilarious “art” pieces, even in the form of home made Peeps jewelry. And then one amazing day, cruel fate gave me everything I could have ever dreamed of Peeps-wise, and I couldn’t accept.
I was playing a college in snow covered, freezing, okay, kinda dreary, Elmira NY. It was one stop on an extended tour, on which I travelled with only carry-on luggage, as the shows were fly- and -perform -same -day. Waiting for luggage after each flight was not an option. Delayed bags could mean a missed show. Luckily, I have my packing needs down to the point where I could vacation in Europe bringing only a manila envelope. I walked into the college dressing room and Oh Joy of Joys!! I could not believe my eyes. The “Just Born” company, makers of Peeps, headquartered nearby, had filled every square inch of the room with boxes of Peeps for me! Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, inch by inch, step by step, quickly I turned..
What to do? I didn’t have enough time to make them into an edible wardrobe to bring along (believe me I thought about it). But I couldn’t walk out on the mother lode of all Peeps. I had promised to visit a retirement/medical rehab facility the next day on my way to the airport, a cheery visit for the residents. Wait. Wouldn’t it be great to show up with a colorful truckload of their favorite childhood candy to brighten up their snow bound, age bound last rest stop on their highway of life in Elmira? Yes. Yes it would.
I hired a truck and got to the home the next day with plenty of time before my flight. I had the orderlies help me bring in carton after carton of Peeps. The residents’ eyes lit up. Restricted diets don’t often leave much room for days like this. These elderly, frail people looked as happy as little kids, watching this glorious Peeps feast unfold. They couldn’t wait for the boxes to be opened. And open them we did, pink and yellow bunnies and chickies flying in a fireworks of color, sugary powder, thick marshmallow. Box after box being passed to eager elderly people with dry constricted throats. Such anticipation! And then, the choking began.
In late September, 2012, the great Broadway star Audra McDonald sent @QuiltingMuriel a direct twitter message, inviting Muriel and a friend to be her guests at her Carnegie Hall concert on October 22nd, a month away. Muriel was over the moon, but we had a decision to make regarding “@QuiltingMuriel”.
“Audra wants to meet me because she wants to meet the woman who tweets those tweets”, Muriel said. “What do we do?”
I replied, “She wants to meet the 94 year old woman who marched for women’s rights, civil rights, whose mother marched for the vote in 1920. The woman who witnessed history. The woman who is a kind mother, who loves dogs, who has intelligence, compassion and wit, and who actually bakes those cookies she’s always talking about. I don’t think she’ll be disappointed.”
Muriel said, “Well, we’ll insist on paying for the tickets.”
Muriel was so excited. She was twenty years old again. She was all a-twitter (no pun intended, but actually, something to think about) for weeks. I thought of how wonderful twitter was, bringing women together with such vastly different lives, yet having so much in common; their compassionate humanity.
Muriel said, “Audra’s profile page says she likes anything with peanut butter in it. I’m famous for my chocolate chip cookies.”
“Yes”, I replied. “I’ve heard them mentioned in France. Right after they mention Junior’s World Famous Cheesecake. Also in Nepal if I’m not mistaken.”
“Don’t be so smart. Well, I would love to try baking Audra something with peanut butter, but to try a brand new recipe for such an important occasion is too worrisome. I want her to like the cookies.”
So Muriel baked about three million chocolate chip cookies. She wanted to make enough for Audra, her daughter and mother, and if Audra had been married at the time, no doubt she would have baked four million. For that entire month before the concert, Muriel was the happiest I’d ever seen her. The day before the Carnegie Hall show, Audra sent me (Muriel’s “Young Friend”) an email with all the info we’d need upon arrival. She forwarded the logistics from her manager.
Manager: “They’ve put Elayne and Muriel in the Carnegie Hall Corporate box, upstairs on the First Tier. They can take the elevator straight there, and Muriel can drive right up to the door of the private box, park her scooter, and then transfer to a chair in the box. After the concert, a staffer will appear to escort Muriel and Elayne backstage. Carnegie Hall has made a note that they are to treat Muriel like a queen.”
I read Muriel the email. She beamed, “A queen! I can’t believe it. How exciting!”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
Muriel then said, “I have Access-A-Ride coming to pick us up…”
Oh lord no! Access-A-Ride is New York City’s moving chamber of horrors on wheels for the elderly. While the concept is noble, vans you can schedule to transport you around the city if you use a wheelchair or scooter, at only a two dollar and fifty cent charge, it more often than not is a long day in hell. They make lots of stops to pick up lots of seniors, and their routing is planned by a drunken blind monkey with a dart board. I’d heard Muriel tell tales of being taken from her Brooklyn quilting club on what should have been the one hour trip back to Manhattan, via Istanbul with no food, water, or bathroom facilities for five hours. After one of those rides she often looked like she just crawled out of the desert. The drivers were clearly men who hated their mothers, and used this hostage opportunity to introduce the music of Ghostface Killah and Eazy-E, at the highest decibel, to people they refused to let be deaf. It was always a nightmare.
I said, “The show’s at seven thirty. We have to go a mile and a half. Better schedule the pickup for six p.m., just to be sure.”
“I scheduled the pickup for four p.m.”, she said.
“Why?” I asked. “Are we going to the movies first?”
Muriel replied, “Trust me, you never know. Besides, aren’t we having dinner out before the show?”
Me: “You’re crazy.”
Muriel: “We’ll see.”
At nine a.m. the morning of the show, my phone rings. It’s Muriel. “You have to come over and choose my outfit with me! I only have the strength to try everything on once.”
“I see. We’re getting dressed ten hours before the show, and leaving to get there ninety hours early.”
I arrive at Muriel’s. She’s excited. “Look. They just got here from QVC.”
Indeed they have. Three purple velvet Bob Mackie pantsuits. I truly can’t tell them apart.
It’s now three forty-five p.m., and we’re just about to leave Muriel’s apartment to go down to West End Avenue and wait for the Hell Wagon known as Access-A-Ride. We are reflectively resplendent in matching red lipstick, big earrings, Muriel in her purple velvet ensemble (Cher would be proud of Mr. Mackie), I in my gold brocade coat. As we sail toward the elevator, Muriel on her red scooter, bags of cookies and plentiful gifts hanging from the handlebars, the elevator doors open to reveal her son and daughter-in-law, who see us in our evening regalia, jump back (it is still broad daylight) and say,
“Wh… where are you going?!”
Muriel cheerfully shouts behind us as the elevator doors close, “Carnegie Hall!!”
It is now, unbelievably, six p.m. We have been held hostage in this van, having needed to go only a mile and a half, for two solid hours. We have circled around the Columbus Avenue Fountain in front of the Time Warner Center, only three blocks from Carnegie Hall, five times. When we asked to disembark, as we could get ourselves the rest of the way there, the driver said he was not allowed to let anyone off the van until we arrived at our pre-arranged destination point. We almost passed by Carnegie Hall at one point, but the driver didn’t slow down enough for us to make a break for it. By now, after two hours of deafeningly relentless Lil Kim, five ninety year old passengers are unconsciously singing along with the lyrics,
“Take it in the butt..Don’tcha like the way I roll..”
This driver is blasting noise, talking on his phone, picking up people endlessly, dropping them all over the city, and always, always, teasing us NEAR Carnegie Hall, but not TO Carnegie Hall. We are now on Central Park West and 61st street, once again, a mere few blocks from our destination. Time is actually running out, and I am starting to lose it. A man gets in the van, and incredibly, the driver starts to head uptown, in the opposite direction of where Muriel and I need to go. I try to remain calm, and say over the “music”,
“Where are you going now?!”
The driver yells back without looking at me, “I’m taking this guy to the Bronx!”
If we go to the Bronx we’ll get to Carnegie Hall some time in June. Muriel has tears in her eyes. She knows we can’t make it. It’s eye opening to see how the elderly are treated when they are powerless. I’ve been pretty patient. I’m done now.
“You are not taking this guy to the Bronx first. We have been on this bus for two hours to go one mile. You are taking us to Carnegie Hall. NOW.”
He’s almost gleeful, “Nope! That’s the way it’s scheduled. Can’t change the route.”
I slip Muriel’s beautifully patterned silk scarf off her neck. I walk up behind the driver. I am intense. I speak to him in his own language,
“Listen motherfucker, turn this ride around now. If you don’t turn this van around and take us to Carnegie Hall right now, I am going to put this fucking scarf around your motherfucking neck, and kill you. Do you understand me? I am going to fucking break your neck, bitch.”
I am so far gone, I don’t have the presence of mind to think how this will affect Muriel; what she will think, what will happen the next time she calls Access-A-Ride, her only access to transportation in NYC. What if they ban her forever? Arrest her? Worst of all, she’s made it extremely clear she doesn’t tolerate cursing. I’m never to use the “F” word around her. Suddenly, she speaks up,
“She’ll do it! She just got out of jail for killing someone! That’s why we’re celebrating tonight. Turn the van around or she’ll kill you!”
“Okay okay! I just have to call my dispatcher and tell him I’m changing the route!”
I snap the scarf and say: “Then do it! DO IT!!!”
Fifteen minutes later, Muriel sighs, “This is the best lobster roll I’ve ever had.”
“Well eat up. We have to get down the block and pick up our tickets, and it’s a madhouse over there.”
“Where do we pay for the tickets?”
“Audra won’t let us pay. She says the day we pay for tickets to see her is the day she votes for Mitt Romney.”
Carnegie Hall is a mob scene. I tell Muriel to just stay put on her scooter, as I join the long, long Will Call line to pick up our tickets at the box office. I can’t even see her through the throng. Suddenly, a tall handsome gent in a house uniform calls to me from where I left Muriel,
“Ms Boosler? Over here. I have your tickets.”
“How did you know this was Muriel?”
“Oh, Ms McDonald described her. We were all told to treat Muriel like a queen.” She gives me the sweetest Cheshire Cat grin.
We go up in the elevator, park the scooter, and walk into the box to get settled. Muriel is in front, at the rail. I am directly behind her. The box is full of lovely people, the hall is full and electric, it’s all magical. The show begins. Audra is beautiful. The songs, the music, everything is moving, gorgeous, perfect. Knowing Muriel’s hearing is spotty, I lean into her ear,
“Can you hear? Do you hear the show?”
“I hear the music and singing perfectly. I can’t hear Audra’s talking in between songs though. It’s too soft.”
Song after song is a perfectly crafted piece of theater, a full play in itself. The audience is enchanted, in love, rapt. And again, Audra speaks,
“I want to dedicate this next song to a new friend of mine. This song, ‘My Buddy’, is for the great and glorious Quilting Muriel.”
Audra’s arm sweeps up to indicate our box, gesturing right at Muriel. The entire audience looks up, sees Muriel, and begins to applaud. Muriel also turns her head around and applauds, searching for the recipient of the honor. From my seat directly behind her, I gently put my index finger into her left cheek to face her forward again. I put my hand under her right arm and lift it and begin to wave it at the audience. She whispers out of the side of her mouth,
“What’s going on?”
“This song is for you.”
“Ooohhh!!!!!” she gaily says and with that, smiles and waves to the audience as they smile back at her.
The show was magnificent. We had all these gifts for Audra, but it had been a physically taxing day and night for a 94 year old woman, and there were hundreds of people lined up outside of Audra’s dressing room to see her. That, and the fact that we were going to take a New York City bus home, well, who knew how long the wait along Central Park would be at that hour. We asked our escort to kindly give all of our gifts to Audra with our love, as we couldn’t join that line. He laughed and said we weren’t joining any line; he had been instructed to take us right in to see Ms. McDonald, and he did. He parted the sea of New York City’s finest tuxedos and gowns, and a purple velvet Bob Mackie pantsuit and three million World Famous chocolate chip walnut cookies rolled into Ms. Audra McDonald’s dressing room, and the door closed behind.
It was a wonderful visit. While I hung back and took the pictures, Audra, her beautiful daughter and mother, and Muriel, talked about New York, living in the city, baking, working, dogs, family, music, history, travel, everything and anything fun and interesting. There was lots of laughter. I do believe, and hope, that Audra indeed met the woman she was expecting.
Again, our escort parted the sea of Audra’s admirers and true to his word, “like a queen”, we were escorted out the stage door into the street, where hundreds more fans lined up hoping to catch a glimpse of Audra on her way out. Muriel asked,
“Who are all these people?” I replied,
“These are people who don’t bake chocolate chip cookies.”
We were so happy, it took a minute for us to realize the temperature had gone down into the teens. Because I run an animal rescue organization, Muriel was kind enough not to wear her mink coat that night, even though she kept reminding me it had been dead for over seventy years, before it was “wrong” (her quotes) to wear fur. There were things we didn’t agree on of course, but it was truly generous of her to leave that coat home on a night projected to be well below freezing. So she made me give her my coat to double up as we waited for the bus. Fair’s fair. She was 94 years old, and I hadn’t been cold since I hit a hundred and fifty pounds anyway. We waited unshielded from the wind off the park. When we finally reached her stop, we were still five blocks from her apartment, so she floored her scooter as I ran to meet her at home. She was speeding, freezing, and falling asleep all at the same time.
When I got up to Muriel’s apartment, she hadn’t even had the strength to get off her scooter. She was drained. It was two a.m. She couldn’t open her eyes, she couldn’t move. I said,
“Come on. I’ll help you.”
I got her to the bathroom. I sat her down and took off her shoes, her knee highs, her purple velvet. I handed her her nightgown, then went into the bedroom and turned down her quilt. Tiger jumped into bed to wait for his mom. I helped Muriel into the bed. She fell in hard, spent. I put my face down to hers, an inch away. Her eyes were bright, full of life and light. I said,
“Wasn’t tonight awesome?” She replied, smiling, twinkling,
“It was fucking awesome.”
I could still hear her laughing as I turned out her bedroom light, walked down the hall, put on my coat, locked her front door and went out into the night.