10-18 and "The steak at Barney's is rather nice"

Oct. 18 is one of the toughest days of the year. June 21st is the worst. That's the day my dad died, in 2002, of cancer. Oct. 18, or 10-18, is his birthday. I try to make it a day of celebration, but the joy is not without a profound sadness, both over his suffering and my loss, but now more so because my son, Michael Alexander, will never know his namesake grandfather, dedushka (DED-oosh-kah)or dziadzia (JAH jah). Michael William Gural was best known as Brother Mike. He wasn't a monk, though he spent much of his life living like one. Brother refers largely to his true humanist belief in democratic socialism. My dad was the consummate scholar-athlete-worker-artist-humanist-teacher-philosopher-storyteller. He would love his grandson unconditionally and make him his most important student, since his daughters.

(Look, Mike, paragraph breaks! Apologies. Inside joke.)

On this day, as I attempt to smile more than I cry, I offer a few quick quotes from the many tomes my father read and re-read until his dying day. Even as his once strong, athletic body crumbled and the cancer spread to his brain, my father was able to do what he loved best, "commune with the Great Minds through reading books." I am blessed with a wonderful, brilliant husband who will be as committed to his son and my father was to me, to ensure that Michael Alexander engages with the Great Minds through the great books. I often go to these Great Minds for inspiration, for solace, for support, for guidance.

Today, I'm turning to some of the simplest ideas my father shared with me when I was a young child. While my son is a genius, he's still just a 6-month-old genius.

Good habits formed at youth make all the difference.
Aristotle

Life must be lived as play.
Plato

I am not a Marxist.
Karl Marx
OK, That one's not so simple without explanation, but I'll save that for when I get a gig teaching Marxian Philosophy 101.

Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.
Fyodor Dostoevsky

I agree with no one's opinion. I have some of my own.
Ivan Turgenev

Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes.
Kahlil Gibran

I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.
Joseph Campbell

To be is to do.
Immanuel Kant

I could go on and on, but I'll stop at one more. This last one is not like the others. It's not likely to come up in any Intro to Great Minds class.

The steak at Barney's is rather nice.
Paul Edwards

Of course the Barney's quote is absurd out of context. Edwards is an Austrian-American moral philosopher, who lived from 1923 to 2004. It's quite likely that Brother Mike and Edwards met at some point in their academic careers. I don't ever recall my father mentioning Paul Edwards, but Brother Mike was such a prolific re-reader, a true scholar, he communed with many, many Great Minds. It seems that Edwards was a similar type of scholar. While writing his doctoral thesis he contacted Bertrand Russell to discuss scepticism about religious belief.

I digress. The Paul Edwards quote comes up today because it is from a hardcover textbook, "The Logic of Moral Discourse," published in 1955 with an introduction by Marxist philosopher Sidney Hook. That book comes from a very small section in our home library. My father left behind a scholarly library carefully compiled over seven decades and meticulously organized. My mother sold the entire collection when he died. I was angry for awhile, but I understand how keeping thousands of books was too much for my mother to bear, especially on an emotional level. She'd already taken care of him, like she did her own father and mother, who also were bedridden and very ill for many years. My father died at home, with his books. When I told Mike about the books, he immediately began investigating, contacting rare and used book dealers throughout Massachusetts where my mother lives. Mike found one dealer who had a couple dozen books he chose from the collection my mother gave away. Mike didn't tell me until the books arrived. It was early in our relationship, and I was living in the Village, on MacDougal between Bleecker and Houston, just blocks from Forbes magazine's offices, where Mike worked at the time. We used a handcart to haul the re-found treasures back to my modest walkup. That night, Mike and I communed with those books. My father and my husband never met. That is unfair. They share so much passion for the Great Minds and would have had epic debates and discussions. Back to the books. My father often made notes in perfect cursive using the very light touch of a No. 2 pencil. He'd never deface a book other than to imprint his name, MICHAEL W. GURAL, in block letters on the inside front cover. My father made very detailed notes in Chapter V, "The Steak at Barney's is Rather Nice," in which Edwards examines the philosophical meanings of the word nice.

The Barney's at 660 Madison serves a Certified Angus Sliced Steak at lunch for $34 (meh, at best), and a Dried Aged Grilled New York Strip Steak at dinner for $42 (I'd still prefer a steak at Strip House, or a natural beef or buffalo steak that Mike dry aged at home. Yeah, you can do that. Alton Brown taught us how.) Again, I digress. Eating at Barney's wasn't the same in my father's (and Paul Edwards') days in New York. And I doubt they would have have met at Barney's, if they met at all. In any case, I'm sure the steak at Barney's in the 1950s was "rather nice." But that whole business has changed a lot over the years. In 1977, Barney's in-store restaurant was renamed The Cafe and started selling salads, soup, and sandwiches to cater to tourists. I'm sure there are at least a few Park Avenue ladies-who-lunch who are even older than my dad, would be 84 today, with perfect coiffes and vintage furs, who could recite the menu from 55 years ago. For the record, my dad would have ordered the Fish of the Day, even though he'd prefer the Grilled Veal Chop.

AT+Teed Off and Dreading the Wal-Apocalypse

Tuesday's woe was waiting for the cops to respond in the wake of my iPhone theft and the anger, frustration, dismay and disgust that followed. I didn't sleep Tuesday night, and my beautiful son was the only thing that kept a smile on my face until Mike came home from work. But Tuesday's petty crime was eclipsed by the corporate crime committed by AT+T (and by association, Apple.) I wasted a solid 7.5 hours (no exaggeration) yesterday trying to replace my stolen phone without being ripped off again. Turns out that AT+T is a far greater thief than the thug who made off with my phone. Michael Alexander and I spent well over two hours in the Apple retail store only to be dropped four times while on the line with an AT&T representative, entering and speaking the same information each time. The Apple representative went twice to look for a "floating" mobile phone, as the iPhones attached to the displays at the store kept dropping calls. Welcome to AT+T! The self-professed "leader in telecommunication services" can't provide basic service! Welcome to the third (world) generation of telecoms! I had better success making calls in remote eastern Africa. And, of course, there were no "floater" phones in the store, the rep said, as they had all been stolen. I finally managed to get through a full call with an AT+T rep, all the while hunched over as the phones are attached by short cords to curb theft. I was left with information contradicting what Mike was told when he called to suspend my account. As I spent up to 45 minutes a try squatting and squirming to use the display phone, I was holding and engaging Michael Alexander and clutching my purse, as I've become paranoid since Tuesday's theft. No wonder my back was especially sore, preventing me from sleeping. (I go for a nerve test tomorrow. The pain is worse than ever.) I left the Apple store without a new phone and headed to an AT+T store, as that's what the Apple reps suggested. All I wanted was to buy a new phone and not renew my contract, which has a full year of commitment left. AT+T informed me that I cannot buy a new phone without a new, two-year contract. That is criminal! If I cancel my contract halfway through, I pay a penalty, but the corporate "leader" can bully me into signing on for another two years of dis-service? And the retail cost to replace my stolen phone is $599! To make a very long and trying tale shorter, I was again (mis)informed by the Apple rep and an AT+T rep who said I could buy a refurbed iPhone online or at an authorized AT+T dealer and reactive my current contract. I then visited an AT+T dealer who reiterated that I could get a refurb and continue my contract. Skipping errands, Michael Alexander and I headed home some four hours after we set out on what I had hoped would be a simple task. He's no worse for the wear, mind you, smiling and giggling and babbling and rejoicing as I carried him for dozens of blocks so he could see the sights and faces. I then spent nearly four more hours online chatting with or calling AT+T reps only to be dropped from four chat sessions and three more calls. That's AT+T's "commitment to service excellence!" Meanwhile, my darling husband was also making calls, well past 7:30 p.m. while I was at the gym, my only break from this customer dis-service nightmare. His calls kept dropping, too. For AT+T to claim it has any customer "service" at all is a brazen lie. It has any army of ill- or mis-informed salesdrones competing with each other and ratting out their colleagues (note: sarcastic use of colleague), and blaming them for the last lie. The passive-aggressive blame game started at the Apple store, where the blue T-shirts dismissed AT+T's reps as "knowing nothing" about the "service" they claim to provide. Then each subsequent AT+T rep (from the retail store to the phone bank to the chatroom) said her/his counterpart was "wrong" to tell me something different and that s/he was telling me the "reality." OK, only one said "reality", another said "honest truth." Ha! Just as I thought it would be impossible to loathe any corporate criminal incompetent more than AT+T, I read about Wal-Mart's plan to spread its evil empire into my beloved city. Part of what distinguishes us from the red state ingrates is that we are Wal-free. There already are so many wretched chains in Manhattan, but I like to believe that most patrons of these retail wretches are the tourists who come here to be exploited by the same big boxes that infest their hometowns, only with a higher price tag. (And of course, they complain about the prices! I have a great way to avoid the added costs: Stay home!) I like to believe that the majority of my fellow city dwellers choose News Cafe over Starsucks. I like to believe. (Clicking the heels of my ruby slippers, I repeat three times: "There's no place like home.") Fellow New Yorkers, please help keep our home one with independent businesses that survive by offering a superior product and real customer service! Please stay out of these menacing big boxes when possible. (I acknowledge I do shop at Babies 'R' Us, but that's a different story and a debate I'm happy to take on, just not right now.) Please do all you can to keep the Walmartians out of New York! Please help preserve humanity, community and democracy! Shopping at a Wal-Mart is a great crime against democracy. As destor23 commented on Gawker's "What Would Wal-Mart Mean for New York?" post: "Only one thing can stop this: New Yorkers have to not shop at these mini-monstrosities. Frankly, the city has become so chainified already that I think it will be tough to actually get people to not go there but just remember... first the Walmartians land and then New York's streets wind up clogged with fatties on Medicare-subsidized scooters. From there it's all Tea Party all the time. You have been warned." Don't worry, destor23, I promise our son will never, ever enter a Wal-Mart as long as he's living under our roof! And trust that we will do everything in our power to instill in him the ethics to make the right decision and fight the Wal.

Steve Maddening Day

Today started out great. I woke feeling well rested. My left lumbar pain wasn't debilitating. My son was giggling and smiling and eating organic apples and bananas. A day free of conference calls, doctors appointments and deadlines, I was looking forward to a morning and afternoon and evening of great accomplishments, including cleaning out my closet. I made great strides with the closet this morning and then decided to take a break to go shopping for Mike's costume for his Friday performance and for a new pair of boots. I stopped by the Steve Madden store in Union Square yesterday while running errands and saw a pair of high boots that were actually high enough. Most boots and pants are designed for short women, or those who are 5'5" and shorter, but this pair would reach the knees, even on an amazon. Perfect, except they didn't have them in my size. Size 10 shoes sell out quickly, especially boots designed with tall girls in mind. The sales associate called the SoHo store and said they would hold them for me. While searching for Daddy's costume, I figured Michael Alexander and I could make a quick stop at the SoHo store. I lived in the central Village, on the cusp of SoHo, for more than a decade before moving to Union Square and always loved wandering Broadway, whether I was shopping or just window shopping. Things have changed. SoHo, or at least Broadway, has always attracted tourists along with the beautiful people, or natives, but it's never been this ugly, I'm sure. It used to be mostly fashionable European tourists, who were obvious only because of their maps and guide books. But these days the corn-fed middle Americans who rarely stray from Times Square are clogging the sidewalks. I should have run away immediately when I saw every Abercrombie teen, tween and her sister with their uptight mothers trying on pair after pair of boots and hooker heels. But I thought I could quickly get the pair saved for me, try them on and buy them if they fit. Ha! After 20 minutes, a sales associate informed me the boots weren't on hold, so I showed her the pair. 15 minutes later, I got the pair. As I turned away (for a few seconds at best) from the stroller, which was secured with the break and my foot under the front tire so I'd know if anyone tried to touch it, someone snagged my iPhone and ran off. I didn't see him, but a lovely young Russian woman did and agreed to stay and give the cops a description. She and her friend were an exception to the typical crowd at a Steve Madden store on weekdays, these days. Needless to say, I didn't get the boots, which had a broken zipper. When I asked to use the phone to call the cops, the store manager said to me, "I don't know why you're mad at me. It's not my fault," and handed me a photocopy of an NYPD-issued statement about how the store isn't responsible for stolen stuff. I was so shaken, I didn't even respond. He's bitter from dealing with droves of obnoxious tourists who will never return, and treats everyone as if they shop at Wal-Mart, the ultimate sin against democracy. (More on that another time.) It took another 40 minutes for the cop to come. The Russian woman and her friend waited the whole time. For every thief, there are two human beings. That was about the only thing that kept me from weeping and losing all faith in humanity. I know it's just an iPhone. I know I am lucky he didn't take my Michael Kors wallet with my credit cards, or my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, or my most-precious Marc Jacobs bag. And I am very thankful he didn't harm my son, who was oblivious to the incident, smiling as I held him tight, rattled by the manager's callous indifference and offended that he treated me like one of those people. But still, I am shaken and stirred and sad. What made me sad was my reaction, what I felt, but didn't articulate. This petty crime brought out my worse-than-petty elitist attitude. "Well, what can you can you expect from a low-end store like Steve Madden where all these tourists and tweens shop?" I blamed myself a little for even being there, for making myself a potential target just by shopping with so many victims-to-be. I am savvy. I am a city person. I am strong. This guy stole more than my phone. He robbed me of a day's ambitions (I should have had the closet immaculate, the laundry in the dryers and dinner prepped by now); he disrupted my whole week's schedule (a work-from-home mom only has so many hours a day to get things done); and he made me feel ... ugh ... so.hard.to.say.it ... helpless. I couldn't run out after him. I have a son to watch and care for. That is my priority. Period. He knew that. The short (shorter than me), awkward and dumpy thief (based on the 5'9" witness' description), was no adversary for me. I could take him. He couldn't outrun me. He couldn't escape from my headlock, withstand my pounding. He couldn't look me in the eye and not shudder with fear. But he got away. And it's because I am a mom, and he knows I would never look away from my son long enough to let anything happen to him. Just long enough for some wimpy thief to snatch my phone. Replacing the phone is a costly hassle that's going to set me back even further this week. That sucks. But what really sucks is how I feel about society right now. How I feel about stores that cater to tourists and allow such thieves to lurk and blend in with the low-rent crowd. "If were shopping at Prada across the street," I thought to myself, "this wouldn't happen because the store associates and managers would notice this guy and I wouldn't be lost in a sea of Walmartians." I'll never go back to a Steve Madden store. The shoes are crappy anyway. And I'll be watching my belongings like a hawk, suspecting every suspicious-looking (whatever that means, another judgment) person when I do return to Broadway. The back pain's back and I am headed back to conquer the closet, with a lot less enthusiasm. Guess I won't be tossing my old boots. They have a broken zipper, just like the new ones at Steve Madden.

Getting on my nerves

I was diagnosed with scoliosis and a degenerated spine six years ago when I went in for a patella tendon overuse injury while marathon training. I've long had pain in my left lumbar spine, but like with my other chronic pain (mostly in my neck and shoulders), I ignored it for years assuming everyone deals with some constant discomfort. The 2006 knee injury was caused by the scoliosis. The scoliosis diagnosis itself isn't a big deal, it's the degenerated spine part that's cause for concern and ceasing certain activities, like running for fear of far greater injury. Under a doctor's care, I trained for and ran the 2006 marathon, but then quit running for the most part. It's been a major frustration, especially battling post-preggo weight, to not run daily. I spin nearly every day and stair climb and use the boring elliptical on occasion, but no amount of cardio, no matter how intense, can burn enough calories to do more than maintain my metabolically-challenged body's weight. Surprisingly, my back pain didn't get worse while I was pregnant. I did a lot of core strengthening, holding planks and bridges for what seemed like hours a day, and did extra exercises targeting the lower back. While I worked out, even spun, until two days before I went into labor, I did pare down the intensity of cardio and cut back on heavy lifting. That may be why I made it through 9 months without more severe pain. My left lumbar pain has become unbearable lately. There's a constant dull pain which I long ago accepted as the norm for my body, but the periodic sharp pains that intensify the chronic, dull pain recently became too much too ignore. I saw a new doctor today. Based on a physical exam, she believes I either have nerve damage or a slipped disk. I go for a nerve exam a week from tomorrow and start my latest round of physical therapy on Monday. If there's no sign of nerve damage, I go for an MRI. I hope this can be treated without surgery. The best part about this office is the doctor, who is mom to a 6 1/2-month-old son, welcomes my bringing Michael Alexander to PT as well as office visits. A native of Ukraine, she spoke to my little зайчик zaitchick (bunny) in Russian. I'm optimistic about the PT, as the doctor promised the clinic treats athletes. I had one positive PT experience at a clinic run by a former (American) football player who didn't waste my time with exercises for sissies. Every other physical therapist I tried taught simple exercises assuming the patient is a weak, lazy sloth. Needless to say, those experiences got on my nerves. Backing away from the computer for now. Michael Alexander wants more organic apples.

Morning Shorts

Mike is meeting a former colleague after work, so he got up extra early, before 5 a.m., allowing us both to work out before he left for the office. I had expected a painful, bitter chill when I headed to the gym for 6:30 spin, but experienced a refreshing, crisp, clear morning air that perked me right up. I've always felt there was something especially gratifying about working out before the sun comes up, which has been Mike's ritual since Michael Alexander was born. I go the gym when he gets home from work. On weekdays, it's my only time away from my beautiful son, so I'm dressed and ready to go when Mike comes home. I have to rush to sign up for a 6:45 spin class, bang out my ab work and then come home to finish making dinner. (Mike loves to make dinner, too, but it's easier for me to do it most weekdays. He was a saint when I was sick last week, making me homemade organic chicken soup loaded with veggies.) Going to the gym in the morning allows you to luxuriate. This morning was pure bliss. Larry led us through a solid 55 minutes of heavy climbs and sprints through resistance. Often morning classes aren't as challenging as evening ones, but this is a definite exception. When Mike and I first started taking Larry's classes; we aimed for two workouts a day before and during my pregnancy, but the early morning routine gave us a pass if something came up after work. I didn't like Larry at first. He's very intense, frenetic and strange. Now that I understand, and relate to, his passionate approach, I consider him one of the best. He's hilarious and totally dedicated. He talks through class, which he starts a good 7 minutes ahead of schedule, even as he pushes as hard as the participants. He works downtown, at the court, district, I think, and gets up in the middle of the night to make it to Union Square from faraway New Jersey. "15 more seconds of intensity. 15 more seconds of insanity," are among his mantras as he leads us through the "last 80 seconds" of a sprint through heavy resistance. What really made my day was when Larry recalled a class he took at another gym, somewhere in Jersey. "There was this bench outside the room, and people would get there 20 minutes early and drink coffee!" he wailed. "They sat there drinking coffee when they could be working out! It made me crazy." Aaah! That's my Larry! That is exactly the kind of slothful behavior that pisses me off, and Larry's (over)sharing was what me realize why today was a super great morning. Nobody comes to spin class, or the gym for that matter, when it opens at 5 a.m., or even for a 6:30 spin class, unless they are hardcore. In the evenings, there are kickass classes, but a majority of the attendees (as many aren't there in spirit) give about 20% at best. When the instructor says "Give me about a 5-6 (in resistance). A flat row." On most bikes at the downtown Crunches, a 5 or 6 is generally 17 turns. After that, you're starting to climb. While I respect the naturally lean people who come to the gym at all, I loathe all the lazies and wish they'd stay away from my coveted classes and avoid insulting with beloved instructors with their lack of effort or enthusiasm. Aaah, thank you Larry, and, of course, thank you, Mike, for a lovely morning! I am tired, but as zen as I get. Babies crying. Must run. I love writing without paragraph breaks or self-editing. Thanks, Michael Alexander, for demanding my attention.

Gold's Standards and Train Wrecks

Michael Alexander and I were in Massachusetts for a few days last week, visiting with his Babushka, Auntie Shurinka and Uncle Johnny, and attending a memorial service for a dear friend's mother who died of cancer. My Mom suggested we take Amtrak to Springfield instead of Metro-North for a more luxurious ride. True the soft bucket seats are nicer than the commuter rail's communal rows, but that's if you can get one. The Vermonter was about half full when it arrived in Penn Station from Washington, and there was one empty seat in each row. The Vermonter is clearly the Loner Express. Lugging Little Mikey is his car seat along with a heavy suitcase, diaper bag and purse, I made my way to end of the last car, finding a single empty seat in each row. Not a single person offered to share a seat with another passenger so we could have a row. Placing Little Mikey on the ground, I asked the woman sitting alone in the last row if she'd mind sharing a seat with another passenger so I could secure his car seat, as safely as possible, in a seat next to mine. Clad in high-waisted, stone-washed, baggy jeans and a white acrylic turtleneck, the Walmartian looked up and said, "No, my book is here," pointing to a tattered 'Intro to French' paperback. Dismayed, I said, "You won't give up a seat for my infant son so you can place your book there?" "I have a friend coming," she quipped. Little surprise this woman traveled the whole way sans friend, sprawling out across both seats, napping and kicking the seats we finally acquired in front of her when she wasn't gabbing on her relic of a cell phone with her brother in Bellows Falls (population 3,000), clearly her only companion on her sad life voyage. At about 45, this bumpkin who, according to a chat with bro, was born, bred and will croak in this vile village, was among the youngest travelers on this train to nowhere _ slow. One of the only other passengers who was clearly not headed to Vermont, agreed to share a seat with someone else so I could care for my baby. At least the train was on time, a major feat for Amtrak, which over the last eight years has abandoned any commitment to customer service. Michael Alexander and I were both battling colds when we arrived in Springfield, and have since passed the illness on to my immune-challenged Mom. The best remedy for near-pneumonia, along with a powerful Z-pack and codeine for sleeping, is working out to exhaustion. On Friday I headed to the Gold's Gym in West Springfield, a sort of anti-Crunch where sexuality is repressed at all costs. Great facility for lifting heavy (my favorite) and cardio (since so few use the machines). There are four standard patrons at this Gold's. The high school and higher-ed jocks, who shun steroids in favor of a lean physique, command the weight machines, speaking quietly and keeping to themselves. As I warmed up with 45 minutes on the stair climber and elliptical, two guys plunked on ab machines like they were Barcaloungers kept looking over without burning a calorie. "I don't do cardio," the older one said. "It's not good for you." "I'm with you," the younger one agreed. "Yeah," the older one added, "My cousin and another guy I know died from doing cardio." This pair represents the Guns and Guts contingent at Gold's, the men of all demographics who build up bi's and tri's and chest and shoulders, but couldn't hold plank for 10 seconds or run a mile. The third, and most interesting or quintessentially Gold's group, are the roid-raging power lifters. Awesomeness to the nth degree. The fourth standard, of course, are the women; all four of us including me. I believe the one 89-pound bluehair walking a 22-minute mile on a treadmill was straight. And for the record, even with a cold, I lifted about three times as heavy as the woman with the closest crop. Aaah, Gold's, I will be back when I return to Massachusetts, a far, far way from Lafayette Crunch.