Below is the remembrance I wrote for grams that I tearfully delivered at her church service.

Martin Luther King I was not but I can only hope my little choked-up homily gave her the justice and limelight she deserves. I think of her frequently now as I fly across the globe and give a big smile whenever it crosses my mind that she and I are together again if only briefly in the skies above: she in heaven and me in my noisy US Airways jet in the clouds. Love you grams!

As I was contemplating what I would say here today about my very best friend, I was presented with quite a challenge: how to tell the story of the ultimate storyteller. How to convey the life and light that was the ball of energy, tour-de-force Mary Alice Gerber. To do this fully, we’d need a feature length film of her life but since we don’t have three hours, I’ll do my best to do her justice in 5 minutes.

As many of you may know, my Grandma had a life-threatening heart attack when I was five years old. I have thought often throughout my life how lucky I am, how lucky we all are, that she survived and we had so many years with her. Grandma became such a strong and persistent influence in my life. Second mom, loving friend, grams, she had an indelible impact in forming who I have become and through the toughest times in my life, her love and belief in me kept me afloat and heading forward in a positive direction. She was the rare person who was never too busy to listen to someone, celebrate their triumphs and with them, laugh away their sorrows. She was a rock, always there for me and for so many other people. Many summer nights upon arrival at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, I would leap out of the car, lie down on the driveway and scream “I’m home!” I meant it. Both Prospect Street and Grandma were emotional homes for me. I will live every day remembering her unconditional love and protection.

I always wanted to spend my spare moments with Grandma whenever time allowed. I remember how she would respond in shock when I said every year in college that I wanted to spend spring break with her and Grandpa in Florida and that oh by the way, I was bringing my friends along too. The truth was there was no one I’d rather be with because she was full of fun, wit and positivity with an unending capacity to love. She listened to my crazy 80’s dance music and kept up on the many characters that came in and out of my life throughout the years. She was so present and engaged and always knew what I needed and gave it to me, even if I didn’t say a word. I felt and I’m sure you felt, special being in a relationship with her. Many people as they age, drift away from their family members but with grandma, we were closer with each passing year and I know as a grandchild of hers, my situation was not unique. I talked to her twice a week for an hour even in her sickest days, recounting hilarious life stories and getting her wise advice. We all know that she wasn’t shy about her opinion (a trait many of us have inherited) She didn’t always tell you what you wanted to hear, but instead what you needed to hear. And I for one, appreciated her bluntness and honesty.

Some of my fondest moments with grandma, were as a little girl when I would lay in bed with her and she would scratch my back while we’d watch TV and talk about life. I missed those times as I grew older. I got a special gift last Christmas when in an energetic burst, we talked for hours and stayed up until 1:30 in the morning in her bedroom, laying together, reliving memories and going through some of her life’s most treasured possessions, complete with narratives from her. As we rifled through grandpa’s old war pictures, the love letters he sent her, the treasured kimono and shoes brought back from Japan and her many book and bibles, it suddenly hit me what an incredibly rich life Grandma had experienced while almost never leaving home. Everything she needed and loved was always right here: family, faith, the man that she loved so deeply, the town she adored and the house that was so perfect for her, she insisted upon dwelling in it until her dying breath. She recognized the simple things that were important in life.

One of my favorite and more poignant stories that Grandma used tell was the special method Grandpa had for wiping her worry away. I think it’s a help for all us here today who are grappling with how to fill the huge void left by her passing and somehow know that it will be OK. As she told the story, many times when Grandma was overcome by grief or stressful thoughts, Grandpa would lovingly lead her out to the backyard and show her the night-time sky. He took her hands and said, “Mary Alice, do you see all these stars in the sky? God made all of them and if he can create all of those and take care of them, he will take care of you and your worries too.”

That’s what we all have to believe right now. That a great and amazing God will watch over us and take care of our worries too. For those who want a simpler and more light-hearted solution to deal with the sadness of her passing, you know what Grandma would say to you…one of her favorite phrases….”Just suck it up and move on!”

The only solace I have in losing Grandma is that Grandpa has gained her once again and I picture them in heaven, walking together hand-in-hand on a beautiful beach, searching for seashells and planning for the swing dance later. I know they are so happy to be reunited and to be sleeping on cushy clouds above instead of those stiff “I Love Lucy” pushed-together twin beds they had for their whole marriage. I am also comforted by knowing now that someday when I get to heaven, Grandma will be there welcoming me lovingly with a hug, the little yolky eggs she always made for me and her beloved “homemade” cinnamon rolls bought from the IGA .

I had the unexpected privilege of speaking to grandma on the phone one final time a few weeks ago. As she closed our very last conversation, she exclaimed, “I love you Tishy. Always have, always will.” Me too Grandma. I love you. Always have, always will.

I’d like to end with the words to a song I would sing to Grandma that always reminded me of her whenever I heard it. As the lyrics go, “Did you ever know that you’re my hero? You’re everything I would like to be. I could fly higher than an eagle. Because you are the wind beneath my wings.” Thank you grandma for everything that you were and everything that you did. Rest in peace.

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Back to Oprah’s interracial segment…it brought back the pain of being under society’s microscope with my childhood romance, faced by a sea of people who didn’t know us but nevertheless passed judgement and were concerned about my lilly white social standing.  I loved Lance, a hilarious, warm-hearted national honors student; well as much as a 14-year old can who is in marching band, wears leg warmers and passes notes in study hall.  But the experience of having our relationship revealed by cold-war worthy spies, running into opposition we couldn’t overcome despite his articulate pleas and having to give up him (a first love I so cherished) changed me and my heart forever.  It ripped the shiny, happy veneer off the whole world, taught me that elders aren’t always wise and put me square in the path of pain and inequity.

I lived life my sophomore year of high-school through his eyes and that of his forefathers and mothers. It wasn’t pretty and I’m not sure it’s ever left the depths of my soul. It did however give me a lasting appreciation and deep-gut fire to fight for the equal rights of society’s less equal. I’ve often wondered what would have come of us if we would have been permitted to date like normal footballers and cheerleaders (OK geeky debaters and first-chair saxophone players)  Remarkably, we were pretty darned compatible and chemistry-laden. An answer was not to be, which is probably better given our combined nappy hair quotient.

The good news? Lance and I have survived over twenty years of tumult to be fabulous friends and joke that we will still be trading sarcastic barbs and stories of youth (if our memories hold) in the nursing home. Perhaps fate will have the last laugh. I thank and celebrate him for sticking by me and us through thick, thin, my pain-soaked attempts to shut him out and the driveway screaming and dissapproval imposed by others.  For those in the know, two words- Depeche Mode. We are bound forever by love found, love lost and lasting friendship – our own little interracial tragi-comic E! True Hollywood Story. And I feel positive we both smile as we look at the 50-year old ebony and ivory couple in the Belden Village Friendlys “Loving”ly sharing the sundae spoon, knowing that in time, everyone comes around to the right way of thinking. 

I have a dream and it is no longer a nightmare. 

TLRG

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BEST

Movie: Sweeny Todd, A Life Apart: Hasidism in America

Book: Mao, The Untold Story – Jung Chang and John Halliday

Music: Lilly Allen, Celine Dion Live at Caesars and the Music and Lyrics Soundtrack (Hugh Grant singing like George Michael, need I say more?) 

Old friends familiar with my once oh so American’s Next Top Model lithe physique will be happy to know that last year was one of whittling… down. I jazzercised and ran my little but off until I was once again within a 10 pound shot of what I said I really weighed on my driver’s license.  I did this through strict math genius adherence to Weight Watchers points and keeping my New Year’s resolution of running at least one road race a month. I was thrilled by October to be keeping up with the cute pony-tailed blond cross country stars 20 years my junior.  I also switched jobs in 2007 with an extended summer recess in between during which I delighted in doing nothing but watching the Style Network, vintage clothes shopping and taking care of my man with whom I’m still ever so besotten.  The switch in occupation took years off of my haggard face and drained psyche and I’m happy to report my cheeks are once again rosy and business is booming!   

Domo Arigato Japan!  I got the once in a lifetime opportunity to tour for three weeks in Japan to places both modern and ancient.  From Mijajima to Mitsokoshi, the land and people proved magical… that is save a rainy day mountain hike complete with the wrong shoes and attack monkeys.  A karmic trip to Hiroshima, the coordinates where my grandfather had accompanied the bomb sixty years earlier, was an incredible, gut-wrenching and all-together essential experience.  Check out our pics of Nikko and Nippon at http://www.nosilver.org. Like Godzilla, Tokyo is my favorite place on the planet, although the bite I took out of it was a bit smaller and less filled with concrete. 

2007 was also the year I got some religious mojo back. Faith is a funny thing and has waned in years past as life disappointments and emotional debris piled up. I made a concerted effort to open my heart a bit last year and let some positive kernels of knowledge and hope flood in.  I have to credit technology and America’s super-pastor Joel Osteen in part for this, as Joel’s weekly Podcasts really touched my heart and laid the groundwork to rethink religion.  Can he be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize?  Experiencing the karmic connection and every day miracles with my Charlie Brown didn’t hurt either.  What I learned was that God is always watching over you and he’ll inject as many miracles into your life as you can handle. I can’t wait to see what 2008 holds. 

And speaking of miracles, I was blessed this year by a baby… no silly, not my own of course but my cousin’s.  It was incredible to experience pregnancy and the gift of life with someone to whom you are so close. As far as I’m concerned, baby boy Jonah should be the star of all Pampers and baby food commercials because he is the cutest little thing in the universe. His mom and dad are pretty amazing as well. 

WORST

Movie: The War, Ken Burns (I love Burns and thought his Civil War documentary was rapturous but the War was too overhyped, uneven and PC)

Book: The Yiddish Men’s Policemen’sUnion by Michael Chabon (I thought I would read anything Chabon wrote until this snoozer with forced narrative)

Music: Blackout, Britney Spears (Yes, Gimme More is on my playlist but the other tracks are wasted with her vocals barely a hushed, tired whisper) 

Those of you who read TLRG know it’s not my nature to accentuate the negative but the ground of one 2008 tragedy must be covered: the train wreck otherwise known as my ravaged knee. High on the race-against-the-clock victory  I had just experienced at the Kansas City Waddel and Reed 5K, I traveled to Philadelphia in October and summarily hurt myself in a train station mishap during which my knee became much too intimate with the marble floor. Many weeks of pain and a diagnosis of a torn meniscus later, I faced the knife no not a mini-face lift but for my knee.  I have been rehabbing on crutches and going without many things (walks, nookie, showers, you name it) for almost a month. It is challenging but I can’t wait to run (or heck walk or scamper) again soon. All the aches and inconvenience does however have an upside, time to nest and make a home with my honey in Kansas City.  This Christmas, unlike the normal traveling mayhem, I have memories of cozying down on the couch with my kitty and man watching marathons of Food Network favorites.  If I never had tragedy befall me, how would I know how to build a replica of the New York skyline with only breakfast cereal and a blow torch? I’m quite sure I’ll be able to apply that knowledge… sometime. 

As I close, I look ahead to 2008 with eager thoughts of once again running like the wind and traveling to Europe’s most beautiful hideaways and to Jerusalem’s Old City. I’ll have more tales to tell than Anthony Bourdain. I promise to blog it all.  My wishes for a fabu new year for all!

Love,TLRG

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If you’re interested in the play-by-play, my efforts to kill this menacing, full-bodied creature with the lethal crush of a paper towel ball were in vain as it slunk off into the dank dark recesses under my antique wardrobe.  All day I heard the tick-tock of my office clock and thought, is it poisonous?  Like Ahmadinejad, will it bite me unprovoked? Thank God for the Internet. Not only can you peruse stupid human tricks on YouTube but also all varieties of house spiders, venomous and non.  Does it matter that they don’t have teeth? Are eight legs really more potent than six? And what exactly is the type marking of a toxic brown recluse? While I couldn’t determine precisely what spider I was dealing with, I surmised that it was lethal but not aggressive, no consolation to a woman who sleeps in her boxer shorts at night, limbs exposed. After the frighty-spidey incident, about all I know for sure is this: until further notice and until Gabrielle Aubry comes by, I’m putting on my battle armor of sweat pants, long-sleeved tees and socks every night, Indian summer be damned. Better safe and sweaty than sorry.

Caught in Charlotte’s Web,

TLRG

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In addition to finding that I am unable to tell time properly here in the Stan, I have also discovered that the Army speaks in a foreign tongue. Even though I have years of post graduate education, bear a degree with the work doctor on it (although my attempts to get people to call me Dr. K— have so far been unsuccessful, Juris-istic as I may be) I still have difficulty comprehending people in ordinary conversation. I wondered why this was, until I realized that the Army has, after noting that it has the power to crush small South American dictators with ease, proceeded to ignore all grammatical conventions and make up its own language. As an example of this observation, I offer a few common Army phrases and their translations:
We will SP at the RP with all SM that are OPCON’d = Hey ya’ll, come over to my house and meet the new neighbors!
The daily Fragmentary Order (FRAGO) has been published = Sweetie, I put the honey-do list on the fridge!
I have three PAX for immediate TA-CON to your CP = The kids are ready to be picked up from day-care
I have to do a Class One Download = Goina’ to read Army Times
Thank you for your support = F*** you!
Air BORNE! = Thought silently to oneself “I really think you’re an idiot but I am going to sound like I am enthusiastically agreeing with you by responding as loudly as possible without actually giving a coherent answer.”
Translation has become a regular part of my day. I work in a large operational control center, divided into individual offices. Our legal den of iniquity is tucked far in the back, behind some crates and under some rocks. Not really under some rocks, but it’s a good metaphor for all the unfinished legal actions I have been finding lying around the office after moving in and turning over all those rocks. Unsure of where to go when I first walked into the building, I turned to one of the soldiers guarding the entrance and asked him where I should go. He replied, I’m not sure ma’am, but people seem to be matriculating over there. He was trying so hard, I just smiled and kept walking. Apparently I am reaping the benefits of the word of the day toilet paper the Army has been purchasing.
Last week, for the second time in my Army career, I have gotten into a 30 minute argument as to whether irregardless is a word. As in, irregardless of whether its beef or chicken, the chow hall will make the meat taste exactly the same as last night, over cooked and smothered in barbeque sauce. I take the position , rightly so, as proved by its presence in the tome of Webster, that irregardless is a word and should, nay, must, be used in conversation. Others take the less enlightened, albeit more letteroelogically efficient, that you must use the word regardless. While this disagreement is not particularly funny, neither are most of the jokes that fly between me and the other two fiscal law attorneys (e.g. Have you seen this acquisition request? Can you believe that they miprd for a contract extension without an option year?) While the three of us thought this was extremely shocking and hilarious, the operational attorneys across the aisle merely groaned and threw wads of paper to make us be quiet.) In order to settle the argument sans fisticuffs, my colleague and I turned to Webster, who had the most witty, Postcard-worthy comment on the debate and the absolute last word. I quote;
Irregardless originated in dialectical American speech in the early 20th century. Its fairly widespread use in speech called it to the attention of usage commentators as early as 1927. The most frequently repeated remark about it is that there is no such word. There is such a word, however. It is still used primarily in speech, although it can be found from time to time in edited prose. Its reputation has not risen over the years, and it is still a long way from general acceptance.
Oh the burn, the ignominy of being bested!!! So, having proven my point that it is indeed a word, Mr. Webster proceeded to embarrass me into grammatical shame! Apparently, irregardless of how sage I think I am.
Perhaps my misplaced hubris stemmed from an incident last week when my Trivial Pursuit/Jeopardy Brain Cells tripped into overdrive. I was loitering in the waiting area of the medical clinic, having escorted one of my co-workers in for some medication, when one of the medics charged out from the treatment area asking for help from the other medics on a crossword.
Medic One What was that thing that the Greek Emperor said that had all the Vs?
At this point my sense of self-importance puffed up like a blow fish facing a Japanese sushi master and I smiled smugly while congratulating myself for knowing that not only was Caesar was Roman, but that the saying was veni, vidi, vici, or I came, I saw, I conquered.
Medic Two Wasn’t it something like Vente, Grande, Mocha?
Medic One Yeah, but no.
Medic Two Why don’t I Google it?
At this point, I should say to all of our national leaders, that if you want to stop our enemies from Veni, Vidi, Vici all over suburban America, take down the Google website. It has become the one-stop research tool for the military. If the Taliban could Google, they would know pretty much everything our intel guys know.
Medic Two Here it is Veni, Vidi, Vici

Google point proven.

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Greetings again, gentle readers. For those of you who have followed my little musings last year, (all four of you, well, really just my mom and dad because they have to) and for those of your new to my unique brand of humor, it seems that the Army has seen fit to send me to yet another desolate location to practice the second oldest profession in the history of mankind. In order to survive in this rockiest of remote locations, I find it helps to write humorous antidotes to lighten the dreary load and to keep in touch with friends and family. Again, I make no claim to being truthful or factually correct, but rather the goal is to poke the most fun possible at the strange life led by an Army officer.
I must say, the trip to the Stan was much better than the trip to my prior dirt pile. After several stops, starts, stops and more stops, (nine days worth) we finally landed with a hurk and a jerk in a big military jet airplane high in the altitudes of the Stan. After getting settled into my little room, embarking on a grand tour of the camp (all ten minutes of it) and finding my desk in the big operational control center, I began work. As you all know, even though I have been in the Army for some time, in my particular job, I don’t shoot a lot of bullets for the Army. (In fact, they really didn’t give us lawyers more than a handful when we landed, in all honesty, I got a sandwich baggie full. Yep, a whole baloney sandwich’s worth of ammo. Not exactly the most confidence inspiring, but there you go.)
While I still am an Army lawyer, I have taken on a new Sisyphean work assignment for this deployment. While I used to prosecute military criminal offenses in the Sandy Place, I now have the dubious honor of opining on the most obscure of administrative and regulatory matters. Most of what I do involves sitting at a computer and going to lots of meetings and rendering my opinion, all ten cents worth, on matters of such earth shattering national importance such as the ethical legality of the rug given the third ranking General at the camp. As compensation for my often mind numbingly boring job, I have been awarded the title of Chief of my little section. Of course, in reality I am merely Chief of Myself, since I am the only person working in my area and am not yet senior enough to merit minions.
On my first day, I was summoned to a meeting at 0700. But, as I soon learned, 0700 doesn’t really mean what you and I would take to mean 0700. Oh no. The Stan runs on several different clocks, the main clock is called Zulu time. While it sounds the stuff of cheesy dime store thrillers with military heroes called Jock and Striker, the Army really still uses this marker to standardize time. While it is the absolute world wide standard, it bears no reality to the actual time of day. The actual time of day is called Local time. In order to determine what time it is in Zulu time, you must engage in incredibly complicated math, using a formula the may be lost even on some of MIT’s finest. Now folks, I have never claimed to be the smartest of pups, in fact I will proudly proclaim that went to law school expressly so that I didn’t have to do math. So the conversation that follows is what happened when they asked a bunch of numerically challenged lawyers to show up at a meeting scheduled in Zulu time.
Are you going to be in the office at 0700 Zulu for the meeting?
I don’t know, what time is it now?
Its 0530.
Is that 0530 Zulu or 0530 Local?
Its 0530 Local.
So what time is the meeting in local time?
Not sure, but I know its four hours from now.
Four hours from now Local or four hours from now Zulu?
What?
When?
Oh Geez, just be in the Conference Room in four hours!
Fortunately, I did make it to the meeting on time. Unfortunately, it lasted two looooooonnnnggg hours, hours which didn’t go by any quicker in Zulu time.

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I’ve been digging for couture diamonds in the rough at a penny’s price since a teen-age I know what you did last summer stint at the Salvation Army thrift store. Sifting through bags of donated goodies – some flawed, some fabulous- brought unexpected thrills and led to many, many more shopping sprees in the retail dumping grounds for Grandma’s Eisenhower-era duds. Wherever I trod in this world, a retro clothes safari is sure to follow. My goal? To one day have enough stops and stamps on my vintage store passport to put them on the back of a shirt, like that old Rush concert tee you wanted to rip off your boyfriend and wear yourself in 1987. I have traversed in an inestimatable number of store doors on the way to my goal, criss-crossing the globe to establishments in Tromso, Rome and Tokyo. I’ve found many a memorable outfit. One of my favy-faves is the aqua and gold-beaded 1970’s inaugural gown I was proudly given by its original owner, a well-known speechwriter on Richard Nixon’s staff. Not one to let my dresses sit idly by, I wore it to the opera in Minneapolis, taking more than a tad bit of attention away from the mezzo-Soprano soloist during a red carpet walk. My beaver fur coat, genuine flapper confection, WWII wood-block bathshoes and cadre of polyester-blend shirt-skirt combos that could pass in the dim light of winter as Prada ready-to-wear, are also cherished holdings. I confess my closet looks more Nicole Richie and Mary Kate Olsen than Pamela Harrington cum Clinton/Pelosi.

I wear my found treasures everywhere, from the Dairy Treat to the office. And why not? While one time out of ten I look like a Project Runway fashion challenge gone freakishly wrong, I’m usually the chicest girl on the K Street catwalk, about 3-6 months ahead of the Phoebe Couture, Tracy Reese and Marc Jacobs trends. Andre D’Natale would be so proud! Buyers beware though: donning blasts-from-the-past is truly for the brave as you must be prepared for the circus-freak stares, whiplash headturns and shocked second looks. Is a fox head stole or 60’s velvet robe worn as an overcoat really so wrong? People ask me at least one a week what drives my passion for recycled fashion. (Note: Save an apocolyptic mushroom shift dress, my loving, bearded Mr. Kotter man has grown to accept it, happily dropping me off at the thrift shoppe while he shops at the computer superstore. Mr. Kotter, have I told you today how very grateful I am you have the patience of a saint and can spend 60 precious minutes weekly looking at motherboards?)

I’ve thought about my synthetic fabric addiction long and hard and here’s the rub: just like my DVF wrap-dress original, vintage treasure hunting fits me like a glove. I have a taste for the unexpected, constant surprise, unique stand-outs and luxe on a Happy Meal budget. Retro pursuing gives me all of this, and the intoxicating mystery of the frocks’ storied history. Peasant or baroness, debutante or showgirl, it’s often hard to tell who owned it. If only genealogical charts could be done on cheongsams. While the general public may not understand the sprint to Porta Portese at sunrise, it seems uber-designer Vivienne Tam does. She waxes in China Chic, her insightful new tome of Pac Rim culture,

I was curious about ways of dressing and fascinated with second-hand clothing. I bought bags and bags. Each dress has its own story. I can imagine the woman who wore it and the details of her life. When I looked at the dress to study its construction, I could almost see her skin inside. It made me aware of the past.

While not quite as academically pure as studying the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, vintage fashion is anything but vapid. It enables us to uniquely express the essence not only of who we are, but who were by slipping on a little bit of old magic. It’s also 75% cheaper than a shopping spree at Anthropolgie.

For those wanting to try vintage treasure-troving on for size, I offer the following learned hints culled from my very own glorious triumphs and tragic mistakes: always seek out a fall church sale and absolutely be there when the doors open for the very best selection; if it’s in an Episcopal house of worship, all the better. Those Anglicans not only possess the quaint Book of Common Prayer and the most authentic communion wine, but older female parishioners with the most fabulous gowns, shoes and capes on the planet. Next, don’t be afraid to brave the line and try garments on in the store. Dust and discarded clothes on the fitting room floor shouldn’t scare you, urine should. Sizing and fit for a dress from decades past is wildly unpredictable. If you have a waist bigger than 27″ or a broad swimmers back, breathe in very deeply and look in the large section. Many golden-oldie outfits are made for freakishly thin June Cleaverites and a size small would only fit Kirsten Dunst. Lastly and most importantly, get a marvelous seamstress and have original vision for your purchase. Imagination is your only limit. I chop up my frocks like Edwina Scissorhands and have my Cinderella sewer stand at the ready to revamp the zippers and put it all back together again. Good luck. I wish you good times and thrilling finds, like the Louis Vuitton purse I snapped up for less than a sushi dinner at Nobu or a pie at Waldo’s Pizza. Please write me and tell me of your adventures and favorite found merch stories. I’m thinking of writing a book on the topic. As for me, I’ll be walking the floors of my local vintage warehouse with visions of Dita Von Teese and Shirley MacLaine – sparkling as she did in the original Ocean’s Eleven – dancing in my head.

Signed,
TLRG
(Otherwise known as Duchess of the Throwback Frock)

P.S. I can’t compose a column mentioning couture without giving a shout-out to my good friend and beloved fellow fashionista who writes our Postcards from A Sandy Place Column. She’s back in the sandbox and we are holding her close in our thoughts. While donning her camoflauge, I know she’s dreaming of Prada and BCBG’s best. Can’t wait to be back in the Saks shoe department with you soon! I’m holding a pair of Marc Jacobs peep-toe shoes for your return to our shores. SWAK!

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In the two years TLRG has been serving enquiring minds on-line, I’ve been careful not to discuss my politics much with you. No regailing of my college summers spent at the Republican National Committee, no tales of my politico pavement pounding. Truth be told, I live and work in the swamp of the DC Beltway, a career for which I’ve received much ribbing from my family who rank “those lawyers in Washington” just above toxic sludge. I’d have to disagree. I’ve worked on both sides of the partisan aisle for more than a decade and can tell you that there are some remarkable legislators out there who spend the time that they could be collecting enormous fees on the speaking circuit or being private consultants decked out in the best Brooks Brothers money can buy to instead work on issues of real consequence to the citizens of our country. And they won’t stop until their vision of improvement is achieved. Is it naive of me to want these stories told? To instead turn on the boob-toob and hear about how the local candidate I elect can make a positive impact on my environment, school or specialty hospital? No more images of slain soldiers, immigrants hustling over the borders or our unspeakable inner cities. We know how we got here but who is going to get us out and how? These are the issues of our times. This is why I go to the polls. I wish Bobby Kennedy were still alive to deliver great oratory and unite us as a nation but unfortunately all we’ll have is the new Emilio Estevez biopic with quasi-moving cameos from every A-List starlet shopping at Kitson.

Bobby when alive emphasized that “few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total; of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.” What will you do?

Signed,
TLRG

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Thankfully, niceties outdated in the States rule here as do beautiful wrappings and neatnik pleasantries. Where else would Subway wrap your Diet Coke in a taped paper bag and stores happily cover the smallest purchase in the prettiest of bags and laminate to protect against the rain? Brilliant. Each neighborhood has a unique feel: buttoned up Mitsukoshiomae, tony Omote-sando, neon-soaked Roppongi with discount powerhouse Don Quiote and the trendy girls after my own heart in Harajuku. But regardless of your landing pad, one feels valued here, honored, special, a member of an ordered and respected society: something that no amount of encounters with disinterested gum-popping salesgirls or agitated commuters in America can conjure up. Long live Tokyo. In the land of the Emperor lies hope for civilized society AND civilization.

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Where to start? Let’s dig in at the Tameike-sanno beginning. My journey to the island began with a bang as they say, or more specifically, an ouch! During a grueling flight, I consumed my weight in therapeutic cranapple juice and obtained a personal best in lavoratory passes that is 25 trips to the littlest girl room this side of the date line in a mere 14 hours. UTIs it would seem, know no geographic boundaries and provide for great anxious hand-wringing when one needs uber-drugs upon disembarkment and can’t speak a lick of Samurai. Luckily, just as a blobby pink figure in a dress is the ubiquitous woman’s potty symbol, so to, is pointing to your pelvic bits and frowning, the sign for girlie plumbing distress. To wit, the lucky nurse speaking one word of English ‘Pain’ was a willing audience for the symptomatic pantomime show I put on upon my arrival.

Treating my condition was a real case study for the unheralded efficiency and hospitality of the Orient. Immediately after my steps off the plane in Narita, a full-service health clinic and six airport volunteers offering me directions quickly came into view. Who says service with a smile is dead? Important note: in Japan, it just comes with a paper sick mask. I was so shocked at all this Miss Manners civility and pre-occupied with my ailment that I nearly missed my friend Tetsuo (Ted) dutifully waiting for me as I passed through customs. Ted is a true cultural hybrid, growing up in Western Japan, and spending stints in Tokyo, Palo Alto and DC. In keeping with Japanese tradition, he showed me one heck of a Shogun good time. This included a trip to the hailed Edo Museum and a 14-course vegetarian traditional Buddist monk feast.

I can not extend high enough praise to the restaurant Bon. If I were Japanese, I’d give it twenty bows. Featuring individual rooms for each supping group with bamboo and native woods aplenty, this is a culinary zen paradise complete with wheat, soba and tofu in every imaginable genre, including almond flavored, gelatinized treats. As an added bonus of seasonable bounty, I consumed cherry blossoms in at least four distinct forms: leaf wraps, tea base, tempura temptation and in the Japanese equivalent of the veggie burrito. Good thing these tasty delights bring luck. Otherwise, I’d have a bright pink-tinged tongue for nothing. I’ve learned something about eating yummy nuggets across the ocean. There is seemingly no limit to the fortune that can come from consuming it. Food really is worth its weight in gold..flecks that is, which grace virtually every dessert. Precious metals it seems and sucking, instead of biting your sugar candies pleases the Gods. Did I mention that our din-din included two other special guests, an IT guru and a professorial transgenderism expert? This along with the explanation of all of our consumables led to one savory time at Bon. I’ll leave you to chew on our menu of 17th century soup and Sen Cha while heralding my chomp-chomp bravery. Meantime, stay tuned for our next installment when TLRG takes on the Tokyo transit system!

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