Ismael Maldonado: May, 31, 1959 – April 12, 2009

A moment of (stunned) silence for my friend Mima who died of lung cancer yesterday at the age of 49.

Mima and I had so much in common it was amazing. We were in synch in so many areas that people thought (when we were all together in social situations) that his partner Paul was just our best friend. Mima and I had two areas of dispute; one minor and one exceptionally major. The minor one mostly resulted in a final “whatever” on his part when I questioned the level of his literacy because, unlike other areas in his busy life, he was lazy about his writing, which drove me up the wall because I have, admittedly, an aversion to typographical errors. Mima was so precise in so many areas of his life and interests that I never understood why he didn’t share this concern of mine. Sometimes I think he would deliberately misuse the words brake/break just to get my goat (it worked).

Our major battle was centered on his smoking habit. From the day I met him a hundred years ago (it does seem like he was always in my life) I was on his case. But, sadly, he couldn’t do it. Quit I mean. The only thing I was able to accomplish was that he ceased to smoke around me. I guess that was a small triumph but it did not accomplish the goal of complete and forever cessation.

I feel a diatribe coming on:

In 1995 executives from all of the tobacco companies, large and small, testified before the Justice Dept. of the United States that they were not aware of any proof that smoking was a health hazard in general or caused cancer in particular. It has now been determined that these same tobacco bigwigs knew the results from several studies undertaken in Europe (paid for by their own industry) that the reverse was indeed true. The tobacco companies subsequently suppressed the results of their own studies. We now know that nicotine is as addictive as the worst main-stream drugs and that it is the direct cause of a variety of cancers along with many other debilitating diseases.

Some of the smartest and most sensible people we all know are unable to overcome the habit, and this included my friend Mima. My heart is breaking right now and I sincerely mourn my friend and hope that his afterlife (if any) will be serene. (Unlike a large number of tobacco industry nabobs who are no doubt destined to burn in hell.)

Oh, God, I hope there are no typos herein because I know Mima is looking over my shoulder and laughing.

Bunny blasphemy aborted

I am invited to an Easter dinner next Sunday afternoon at 3:00. Last week, whilst wandering the shady side of the West Village, I happened upon this interesting piece of edible tomfoolery. The family with whom I’m dining is fairly religious and they are kind enough to invite me to their holiday celebrations (the food is always spectacular) so I deliberately and without qualm put aside my distaste for organized religion in favor of slaking my own pagan taste for the fruits and meats of religious holiday feasts. In other words I hypocritically partake of the manna while the gettin’ is good.

I’m having second thoughts now and I will probably forego the joke of a marshmallow crucified bunny this year and arrive with two bottles of nice chardonnay; which is a favorite in that household even though I view it as an oxymoron. The nice chardonnay I mean; not the household.

Truman; Whomever; Obama

When I was but a wee tad (yes, one of those stories) we were let out of our grammar school class to go see some exotic creature named Harry S. Truman come through my home town on the caboose of a train. Frankly I was more interested in the caboose than this president-to-be but, shucks; we got out of school because of him so he must have been something special. The fact he was just a man-in-the-distance didn’t matter; it was pretty exciting stuff but, of course, I had no idea I was touched by a bit of political history; a tow-headed child (maybe he even picked me out of the crowd hair-wise) getting to see what became the famous “Whistle Stop Tour” in 1948 that probably blew him into office, derailing New York’s John Dewey in the process.

I remember being mighty impressed at the time and thought it hysterical that he mispronounced the name of my home town. But I was of that age when a lot of stuff struck me in the funny bone and it was a bright sunny day, too hot for politics probably, and even then I liked word play. I deliberately mispronounced the name myself for at least the next five years.

However, politics was never a focus again until I somehow slipped into voting age and wanted it to count so I started paying attention. From that time on I usually voted for the man who lost the election, Adlai Stephenson being my first (no, I never liked Ike). After the charismatic John F. Kennedy and his meteoric 1,000 days it seemed like outrageous mediocrity ruled the country and, therefore, the world and I didn’t like that so I pretty much just let things happen around me, I never “fought-the-man,” and my political savvy and accountability is mostly a blur for decades. Let me count the ways: Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton and, then…I came out of my selfish doldrums to actively hate the man in office, that being Mr. George W Bush of course. Hated. Actively hated. I dreaded catching a glimpse of his smirk on television and stuck vegetables in my ears when his voice grated across my exposed nerves. It got pretty bad and I turned to wild living to assuage my unease. Well, actually not but I would have liked to give wild living a try if I had had the guts and the money.

My turn-around is now almost total. I really can’t believe my luck at this advanced age to be able to again take seriously the office of President of the United States. I know, I know, time will tell but the first 70 (or whatever) days have made me perk up like chocolate covered bacon. From the day Barack Obama took office I haven’t missed one of his speeches or his press conferences and I loved his schmooze with Letterman. He is a pleasure to watch and he gives me hope. Even just today, on the world stage in London after the historic “Group of 20” meeting, he floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee and I was enthralled. He’s the man for me and I hope he can see my tow-head bobbing in the crowd from the caboose of the juggernaut he’s riding. My home town is now Brooklyn. I’ll get hysterical, yet again, if he mispronounces it…and love him for it.