Laid Bare: Essays and Observations, Judson, Tom [best self help books to read .TXT] 📗

all, offer the kind of sardonic comment one might expect from a group touring such a monument to kitsch: “It’s so beautiful. I wish Emma could see this. You know she has one of the largest collections in the country.” “The colors are so bright.” “See, George, I told you you’d like art.” “I… I… I’m sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry and here I am like a faucet.”

Huh?!

___________________

To paraphrase P.T. Barnum, no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public. Both Fallingwater and The Precious Moments Chapel, are, in their unique ways, masterpieces. Both are products of men with driven minds and ideas set in cement. Oddly, the buildings share the same exterior color. But, beyond that, the two could not be more dissimilar. At both places I was momentarily filled with rage: in Pennsylvania while listening to the insipid comments and, in Missouri, witnessing the almost sensual outpourings of devotion lavished on such an affront to good taste.

But I do not despair. One can only hope that some future visitor to Fallingwater, dragged there by his/her spouse will look around and think, “Wow, this is pretty cool.” And I envision a fine golden day when one of the pilgrim ladies at the Chapel begins to giggle uncontrollably until, gasping for breath, she turns to her friend and says, “When we get back to Minneapolis, Emma, you and I are finally going to that art museum in the park. No, the modern one! With the big spoon. Lord, could I use a frank. C’mon!”

AN EMPTY BOWL

There is a water bowl that has been sitting on the front porch of my cabin in the Catskill Mountains for the past year. It’s beige earthenware and has D-O-G crudely stenciled on its side. I bought it last year at a Mom and Pop store in Hell’s Kitchen after returning from the National Tour of the show “42nd Street.” No dog drinks from this bowl, even though it was meant for one: Dan, a cute little terrier mutt I adopted from an actress friend of mine.

Dan had a pretty sketchy history by the time he came to live with me. He appears to be a mix of (mostly) Chihuahua and Border terrier. Picture Toto if he had fallen in with the Bowery Boys and you’ve got Dan. As a puppy, he was discovered in a prison yard in Hartford, Connecticut by a work-release prisoner named Dan. Dan (the prisoner, not the dog) knew of a woman in town who rescued abandoned animals and then placed them with new owners.

This woman put an ad in the local paper to find Dan (the dog, not the prisoner) a home. The accompanying picture showed a dog with a face and body language that said, “Adopt me… don’t adopt me… makes no difference,” while his eyes pleaded, “Please, please, please take me home!”

My friend Cass succumbed and kept him for 6 of his 7 years. When she gave him to me--because she was traveling too much--she reminded me that Dan “has issues”. Don’t wear boots around him or he’ll turn into the Tasmanian Devil. Don’t try to pick him up the wrong way or he’ll turn into the Tasmanian Devil. Don’t try to scratch his back or… Well, you get the idea.

But, bring out his rope toy and he’s as playful as a pup. Scratch his tummy when he runs into the room and rolls over on his back and he’s sweet as taffy. And, first thing in the morning, whisper in his ear that it’s time to get up and he’ll let out a sigh and stretch just as far as he can, sometimes letting out a little squeak as he reaches across the bed to touch your nose with his paw.

Dan and I lived like country squires in my cabin in the woods. He’d lie contentedly in the sun on the front porch, or show his utter disdain for squirrels with a condescending bark. I was going to miss this little fellow being away for a year with the show. But, I knew he’d be okay. I was leaving him in the city with my boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong?

Three months into the tour my boyfriend broke up with me. Let’s say I carried 50% of the blame and leave it at that.

For the remainder of my time on the road I maintained a mostly one-sided correspondence with the boys back home. Dan and The Ex received Christmas presents and Easter goodies at the fifth-floor walkup on 10th Avenue. I sent money to pay for a year’s worth of dog food and always reiterated my intention to have Dan back with me at the cabin when the tour was finished.

Toward the end of the year I got an e-mail from Cass that said, “I don’t want to sound paranoid, but ____ wrote me asking about the idea of implanting an I.D. chip under Dan’s skin.” She talked him out of it, but I had to assume my address was not intended to be on that chip.

It was starting to feel like a Hitchcock thriller starring My Dog.

I refused to believe it. It wasn’t a thriller; it was a romantic comedy. Boy meets dog, boy loses dog... Returning home from the tour at the end of summer would be the part where boy gets dog back again. Dan and I would walk up the hill to the cabin, stealing affectionate glances at one another, as the sun set and the credits rolled.

But things didn’t play out like they do in the movies. I attempted, without success, to get in touch with _____ through e-mail and phone messages. After several weeks of no response I began losing sleep; at the end of a month I was having recurring nightmares. As the leaves on