RCHaynes's Open Salon Blog

DSK The French Dinosaur

Thu, 19 May 2011 14:05:08 -0400

Here we are in spring 2011 and dinosaurs still roam the Earth. For the time being, however, one of them is now behind bars on Riker's Island where he should be able to do no harm to anyone but himself.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn's particular brand of dinosaur resembles the dreaded Tyrannosaurus Rex, or "Tyrant Lizard King," from the Cretaceous period of more than 60 million years ago.

Though small in stature, this bipedal carnivore was highly effective at hunting, attacking and consuming. It felt no shame, of course, and apologized to no one while satisfying its destructive needs and impulses with impunity. No docile brontosaurus would dare fight back.

I'm one of those people who will not even pretend to give DSK, despite his once lofty position as head of the International Monetary Fund, the benefit of the doubt -- it is up to his attorneys, not I, to defend him against his accuser.

It is hard not to argue that this prehistoric creature with a small brain (he apparently saved his thoughts for solving the world's economic problems or at least pretending to do so) took advantage of a poor and defenseless woman, treating her like a rabbit that happened to hop across his path.

There are many such predators wandering the globe and seeking new prey, their eyes darting in all directions, their nose sniffing out the most vulnerable and tasty.

In the case of women, this usually means the youngest and most disadvantaged, those who would hardly be believed if they should protest. Or, if they tried to speak up, could be paid off or convinced that further pointing a finger would get them nothing but more grief.

I once worked for a much older, richer and more powerful man who spoke to me in a way that was clearly fishing for interest, to see if I might bite. I told him I wasn't interested and we never spoke of it again.

But even with that relatively harmless come-on, I was no longer comfortable during our interactions and eventually left the job. I still feel disgust when I recall the encounter, and can only imagine the feelings of the many women who've experienced far worse.

Men such as Strauss-Kahn, who fly first-class, stay in the best hotels, pay no income tax and enjoy the admiration of an indulgent wife and peers, cannot be counted on to monitor themselves or suppress their desires.

Why bother to keep their pants zipped? In fact, they're encouraged not to. Extramarital sex -- whether consensual or not -- is one of the many perks that come with being accomplished and famous. Just another benefit of winning the game, n'est-ce pas?

Such men see women less as individuals than a collection of body parts to be pawed, stroked, squeezed and penetrated. These men are toddlers (apologies to children everywhere) reaching for every new toy to put in their mouth.

Big kids who never learn self-control because no one along the way told them "No!" loudly and often enough. Or gave them the good spanking Strauss-Kahn recently experienced during the perp walk in New York. Their charm, they come to believe, gives them license while the admiration of others spurs them on.

This is perhaps most especially true in France, where "le séducteur" is admired above all other kinds of men. And ordinary males emulate them whenever possible.

Having spent six years in France, I was able to observe that culture's tolerance for adultery and especially the virile male.

We Americans so admire French women for appearing slim, young and chic long after the rest of us have given up but, truth is, many French women, especially Parisians, are forced to remain as attractive as possible for as long as possible. They have little choice.

If les françaises should relax and let themselves go, their husbands and lovers will waste little time before wandering off. And even if they spend enormous amounts of time and money at the spa, hair salon and dress shop -- while eschewing rice, potatoes, pasta and bread -- their men may still pounce on the next bunny in sight. Which means they must remain seductive enough to find a lover themselves, and so the wheel continues to turn and no one can get off.

In response to past allegations of DSK's infidelity, Anne Sinclair, Strauss-Kahn's attractive and successful wife, said "it's important for a politician to be able to seduce."

Ouch! To my ears, that comment sounds foolish and all-permissive, like a mother defending her cute but bratty child. One can't help but wonder if Sinclair's tolerance and indulgence didn't turn her husband into a bigger monster than he might have been if she had reigned him and imparted some manners.

In any event, last Saturday afternoon, a T. Rex named DSK robbed a young African widow and single mother -- a woman described as "dignified" and a "good Muslim" by her friends -- of so much that is good in this world. She apparently escaped her native Guinea in search of a better life in America; instead, she went to work one morning and found herself on the bathroom floor with a rapacious white guy tearing off her clothes.

While real dinosaurs pose no threat in this 21st century, the human version is still armed, dangerous and on the prowl. May Dominique Strauss-Kahn, whose profession was to help the poor and needy, be prosecuted to the full extent of the law and, when found guilty, made a clear and powerful example for other dirty old dinosaurs, er, men.

Call Me Gigi

Tue, 18 Jan 2011 08:01:05 -0500

One dilemma faced by many Baby Boomers now becoming grandparents is what these new little people should call us when they're old enough to call us. While parents-to-be pour over names for their imminent offspring, there's little help for those of us on the other end of the spectrum -- should we settle for something traditional or reach for a handle more modern, more 21st century, more befitting our reputation as cultural revolutionaries and rule-breakers?

In my own quest to answer that pressing question, I first considered some old stand-bys:

Granny? Nope. Sounds too much like a Clampett. Even if she was feisty.

Nana? I ain't no senior citizen. Yet.

Gram? Ditto. Also sounds a little small.

Nonni? Hey, that doesn't sound right, either.

What to do? What to do?

Now that my daughter has blessed me with a grandson, the pressure is on to pick just the right name; after all, it will be mine for the rest of my life. I grew up calling my mother's mother Grandmother because she was a rather formal woman -- she was still wearing veiled hats and gloves into the 1970s -- and did not want to be reduced to a nickname. My father's mother was Grandma, which seemed to suit her just fine but, given options, I bet she would have gone for something more creative.

Truth is, there weren't a whole lot of choices back then. Middle-class America was especially conformist in the Fifties -- the Baby Boomer generation, of course, had yet to make its presence truly known. Everyone on my New England block had a "Grandma" or a "Nana" or, if they were Jewish, a "Bubbie." In the same way every kid called their parents Mom or Dad, grandparents got stuck with familiar labels.

Being a Boomer who has done little by the book, starting with becoming a Mom myself at the age of 18, it's my nature to avoid the road most traveled. Since Jacob's arrival in August, I've played with a few possible names and in the interest of family harmony decided to test them on his parents to see if any might fit.

First, I proposed "Ya-Ya," which is a grandmotherly name from the Greek, but Alex, who is German, immediately countered with "Nein, nein." I could see his point, especially if, as a result, I became the go-to grandparent who always said Yes when he and Jennifer said No.

For a while, I was big on "Booma," which combines the concept of "boomer," of course, and "ma," so that I wasn't completely rejecting the old for the new.

But Booma, alas, was met with indifference.

When I noticed my daughter was referring to me as "whatever she's going to call herself" to little Jacob, I realized I needed to accelerate the process and come up with a final answer.

That said, a grandparent can assume a certain name or even persona but when the child learns to talk, he or she may hand that Grandma or Grandpa a new one. Take my brother-in-law, for example. At some point, Morgan's grandson decided to call him "Ting." No one knows how that came about -- not least because Morgan himself evokes anything but a slight, metallic-sounding ring -- but the name has stuck and there isn't a word in the English language that will make his face light up more than that one.

Another in-law family member goes by Uppity. Aunt Jinny is a rather distinguished lady of 90-plus whose slew of grand- and great-grandchildren have called her Uppity for decades -- not because they thought she was a snob but because the first grandchild successfully used that name to get her to pick him up. And it has worked with every new member of the family after that.

I don't think men agonize over this dilemma the way today's women so often do. My husband, for example, called one grandfather "Pops" and, having very fond memories of this Pops, figures that name will work just fine.

I'm glad for him.

One day, I found a long list of "trendy" grandmother names. Many varied little from the old warhorses, especially MomMom, which seemed only to compound the problem.

There was also Babe, which was cute but risky -- too closely associated with a pink pig turned film star. And then there was LaLa but I didn't want my home to end up as LaLaLand. YaYo was interesting but if it morphed into YoYo, I'd get no respect -- apologies to Mr. Ma. Hmm.

Pippy conjured up long-stockings, which are so last-last-century -- we're trying to be modern here. G.M. would probably drive me crazy while Foxy was sure to draw some unwanted stares from passersby.

Just when I was about to give up, I noticed two letters on the list -- GG. Being a French speaker, I took to them right away. GiGi, with the Gs pronounced softly, reached deep into my francophile psyche. I may never have been a courtesan-in-training or Leslie Caron, but I've read every book by Colette and have long favored my French ancestors over the Celtic ones.

So there you have it, dear Jacob. Just call me Gigi.

What do/did you call your grandparents and/or how have/will you tackled/tackle this serious issue when/if the time came/comes? (How's that for a convoluted survey question?)

Photo at top right is of my grandson: Jacob Frederick Massmann

I'll Be Up In A Minute

Fri, 9 Jul 2010 15:07:01 -0400

One of the many things to love about Europe is the cemeteries. Not that I don't appreciate the world of its living -- museums, architecture, cuisine, languages, you name it -- but Europeans do, with their eons of history, have a certain knack, a je ne sais quoi, when it comes to remembering previous manifestations of their personal gene pool.

The charming old city of Heidelberg, Germany, which was not bombed during World War II, has a cemetery that, for those of us predisposed to mortality, provides an unexpectedly pleasant home away from home. I sometimes stroll down its shaded pathways on the way from my daughter's apartment into town -- its soaring trees provide a brief respite from the summer heat. The cemetery is called Bergfriedhof, which means Mountain Peace Yard, a perfectly apt name for such a vast and rolling park dedicated to the quick and thousands of their dead.

As with all cemeteries inside a city, one is immediately struck by the contrast of quiet hush within and noisy rush without. Germans tend to be serious by nature and design, and they can be even more pensive when caring for their deceased.

Every day, silent older women, no doubt wives, daughters and sisters of the deceased, tend the begonias, impatiens, hydrangeas and other splashes of color that belie the lifelessness below. They sweep up the rare scrap of man-made litter along with leaves and twigs that might besmirch the otherwise serene order around each resting place.

In the meantime, young people zip by on foot or bicycle, most with earbuds to block the eerie silence with the pounding rhythms of those who still believe themselves immortal.

The black and gray gravestones are carved with names, dates of birth and death and the occasional quote from a melancholy philosopher. A few wealthy families adorn their plots with carved figures whose heads bow in grief at their passing. Understandably sad, of course, but all of this mourning sometimes makes me long for the highly whimsical Pere-LaChaise Cemetery in Paris where tombs are dressed up with soaring nude reliefs (Oscar Wilde), clusters of bright stone roses (Edith Piaf) or burned-out candles (Jim Morrison) and where the dead seem more amused than sorry at their demise.

On a personal note, I have already chosen my epitaph: "I'll Be Up In A Minute." Trying to decide whether to have a stone hand reaching up or out through the monument or urn...

Bergfriedhof caters to the middle and upper-middle class of Heidelberg, some of whom, like the astronomer and urologist, want us to remember them for the good they did in society. There is also the occasional famous person -- the great sociologist and economist Max Weber, for example, who studied at the University of Heidelberg down the road, is buried here, as is the celebrated lyric poet Hilde Domin, who escaped Germany during the 1930s and was later refused asylum in the U.S. Domin spent the war in the Dominican Republican, returning to her homeland in the 1950s with her husband, whose family had been wiped out in the Holocaust. They settled in Heidelberg where she had also been a student.

A portion of the cemetery is dedicated to Heidelberg's past and present Jewish community, whose graves line gentle walkways that wend up and over sloping hills. The stones are often etched with Hebrew letters and the Star of David. Many of the death dates end in the 1920s, a sad reminder that those family lines most likely vanished through escape, forced migration or execution. Other plots, whose family members still live nearby, remember those deported to France, for example, or who perished in Buchenwald or other concentration camps. Their death dates are marked with the year and occasional month, but their remains, of course, lie elsewhere.

Just a few steps away can be found the graves of other German families who remember their fathers and sons who died as soldiers during the same war, their death dates equally vague and their bodies most likely buried on the battleground where they fell. Their names appear with the occasional Iron Cross, the now banned symbol of the Germany Army.

This likely unintended but perhaps inevitable juxtaposition of these two German communities in the horrific mid-20th century sends a message that cannot be ignored -- we all become equal in death.

Still, cemeteries can be about more than sorrow and regret. That's why I spend time in them when I have a chance, especially in Europe. Not every day, mind you, but often enough to shake me out of my complacency and remind me how fortunate I am to be alive right here and right now. Perhaps that's why new Buddhist monks are often made to meditate in cemeteries -- graveyards do keep things real.

Denying death won't make it go away, and acknowledging it won't bring it any sooner. But if we would just let it, this awareness might deepen our breath, lighten our burdens and enliven our step.

Especially on the way to the cemetery exit and the delights of the living -- good food, art, conversation, music, friendship, maybe even the occasional passing balloon, right outside or above its heavy stone walls.

Of Christmas Past and Presents

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 14:12:32 -0500

One of my favorite holiday memories is of skiing the sparkling, snow-packed slopes of the Santa Fe Ski Basin, just a 20-minute drive up Canyon Road from my low-rent apartment in the adobe city below.

I traversed those intermediate trails from morning till night on Christmas Day, nearly the only skier on the mountain, and barely stopped long enough to have a cup of hot chili -- my Christmas meal -- and to tighten my boots.

I've rarely been all that sentimental or even excited about Christmas, except for those few years when my age was in the single digits and there was always a slight possibility that something "wicked cool" -- in the language of the day -- might be under the tree that morning.

That was back when I spent the weeks before Christmas hunting down the presents that my mother had hidden somewhere in our cramped, little house, and nearly always in their cluttered bedroom closet.

As the eldest, I took on that job with a zeal that could overcome all obstacles. Stacking a chair with books, clothing, even shoes, I climbed as high as possible to poke my fingers all around the upper shelves until I felt the distinctive corner of a box. All worthwhile presents, I knew, came in a box.

Next step was to carefully examine each box, which was already wrapped in red or green paper, for a tiny, faint initial -- B, D or A -- that was usually, but not always, penciled in near the tape. I was the B -- for Becky, and those were the only boxes I cared about. The others were for Dicky and Amy.

In my most brazen moments, I tore back a corner of the wrapping paper, bit by bit, trying to see what was inside. It wasn't enough to know something had your name on it, I had to know what it was before it finally became mine -- I am still a failure at waiting patiently or handling the agony of anticipation.

After figuring out, or not figuring out, what the box contained, I would then try to tuck the torn part back in with the rest of the paper, assuming my mother would never in a million years notice that I'd been snooping. She might later give me a hard look, and even ask, but I had developed and honed such fine skills of denial that short of stretching me on the rack, I would never confess.

My younger brother and sister would later beg me for insights into what Santa might have brought them -- they were no better at waiting than I was -- and I would eventually give in, knowingly but menacingly telling them that "yeah, yeah, they got something for you, too. But just don't tell or I'll kill you."

Unlike most kids I knew, who tore open their presents the minute the sun came up on Christmas morning, flinging ribbons and bows and paper and boxes aside to get to the next one, we were forced to eat a bowl of Rice Chex or Cheerios first and then open each gift one at a time.

That meant sitting through my brother getting a stupid cap pistol or cowboy hat and my sister getting a stupid pair of hand-knit mittens or colored pencils and my mother getting a stupid box of chocolates and my father getting a stupid winter hat that looked just like the stupid winter hat he got last year.

I don't remember most of what I got for Christmas as a child -- unlike my husband who has lists of every present he received starting at age two -- except that I know there was an Easy-Bake Oven one year and a Midge doll and a Barbie doll another. With teeny-tiny fashion outfits hand-made by my mother.

I come from a long line of Grinches -- my father rarely picked up our tree until two days or even the day before Christmas, choosing one of the last on the lot, the one that had been left behind. I appreciate this far more now than I did then -- having such a scrawny Christmas tree was painful at the time, especially when comparing it to the big, lush ones that filled the corners of other people's living rooms for weeks before the big day.

Fortunately, though, this humiliation did set me up to love the tear-inducing finale of A Charlie Brown Christmas, when Charlie Brown, depressed from all the commercialism, tries to decorate the drooping branches of a nearly needle-less tree for a school play. He gives up and goes away.

Finally, Linus finds the tree and starts to breathe life into it with ornaments and flashing lights from Snoopy's doghouse -- in the end, the little tree is glorious and all of the characters gather round to sing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."

This year, my husband and I are planning a big Christmas Day brunch for two, then the unwrapping of a few simple presents -- one at a time -- before heading over to the local cinema to catch the black comedy "Up in the Air," which seems to be opening nationwide that day just for empty-nesters like us.

In the meantime, don't tell my husband I've been snooping around in the closet.

Photos:
First: Did you really think that was me? www.abc-of-skiing.com
Second: Christmas card my husband made before we were married.
Third: Knitter's website: www.gettinitpegged.com
Fourth: Christmas card my husband made after we were married.

The Rebranding of Tiger Woods

Fri, 4 Dec 2009 13:12:57 -0500

I'd already been thinking quite a lot about the trend of personal branding, especially among savvy young artists, singers, writers and athletes trying to distinguish themselves in their highly competitive markets, when Tiger Woods drove his Cadillac SUV over a hydrant and into a tree and began the near-overnight unraveling of his own carefully designed image and label.

As a household name, Tiger Woods has been synonymous with superhuman self-control, self-discipline and focus, essential qualities for such success in a game as precise and demanding as professional golf. As a seemingly reluctant celebrity, his rare appearances with the media only added to his stature and dignity in the hearts and minds of his fans.

My husband has been such a devotee of Tiger Woods that we've sometimes had to cancel plans so he could stay home and catch the guy win another tournament. I would often remind him that there were other players on the course who deserved some attention and respect; instead, he would change the channel rather than waste time watching second-rate "chumps" like Phil Mickelson, Steve Stricker or Padraig Harrington address their ball.

Tiger didn't always win, but he prevailed often enough to become the highest-paid and most famous athlete on earth.

Add to his astounding skill with a stick and a ball his reputation as a serious and devoted family man, and you have the perfect one-man show to help peddle big American cars, oil companies, financial consultants, sports drinks, cell phones, running shoes, video games, razor blades and fancy watches, not to mention laser eye surgery and private jets.

So why did he get so sloppy with his personal life? Why did he risk his empire for a few extra rolls in the hay? Why did he allow himself this ignoble fall from grace?

I'll let others speculate on those questions.

Personally, I don't care one way or the other what Tiger Woods has been doing in his free time. I was never caught up in the hero worship, and usually rooted for other players to win -- don't tell my mate! -- because I found Tiger's constant winning a bit of a snore, really. And because sitting around on a beautiful weekend afternoon watching little white balls soar through the air is rarely my idea of a smashing good time.

But many people do care about what he's been doing in his leisure hours, and that's where his brand will suffer greatly. Tiger is now -- for the first time in his life -- an object of ridicule. Did you hear the one about his new name -- Cheetah? Or about how his three alleged mistresses add up to a triple bogey for the world's best golfer? Or have you seen the music video with Tiger's alleged voice mail to a girlfriend playing over women singers softly repeating his words again and again?

The jokes and puns have only just begun. Tiger's new image, alas, is of a sex addict.

One once devoted but now furious fan, who had run his tigerwoodsisgod.com blog since 1997, just shut down the site after posting a series of diatribes against his now fallen deity. Where once he had built this "First Church of Tiger Woods" in homage to the one he believed came closest to a perfect human being, he has now slammed the door on all of those illusions -- pumped up by the PR machine behind Tiger's brand -- and his love has turned to hate.

Like so many others, this groupie discovered that Tiger Woods never really was an icon or a hero or an idol or a god, but that all along he was just your basic run-of-the-mill human being -- as Tiger (sort of) pointed out in his first statement to the press last Friday -- and as susceptible to "transgressions" as the rest of us.

Hard to know if and when he'll hit the links again, but Tiger will never again be viewed as impeccable and flawless, even if his game stays winning and strong.

And that, frankly, could come as a relief to those of us who have never been and never will be anything close to perfect.

And to those of us who might have other plans for a golf-season weekend.