Nancy Rommelmann

No New York: Adventures in the Town of Empty

Go pledge. Adele's the bomb.

 

No New York: Adventures in the Town of Empty

Go pledge. Adele's the bomb.

 

Remembering Cathy Seipp Redux

Our brilliant and generous and irascible friend Cathy Seipp died five years ago today. We still miss her, for the small kindnesses and the big voice, the brunches and the opinions, and for her inimitable skill at bringing together what Matt Welch called, "the unlike-minded weirdos." Thank you, Cathy.

A group of us are tweeting #MissSeipp and Facebooking and blogging today, March 21, about Cathy. Join in, will you?

Below is a remembrance of Our MissSeipp, published in 2008 at LA Observed.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the death of our friend Cathy Seipp. I say "our" because she so impacted her core group of friends, of which Matt Welch wrote on this date last year, "[Cathy] deserves all the credit in the world for creating this community of unlike-minded weirdoes around her." Indeed, Cathy had put me in touch with Matt and his wife Emmanuelle Richard three years earlier, when I had some questions about health insurance. Cathy radically disagreed with Matt and Emmanuelle's semi-positive position on socialized medicine (Emmanuelle is from France), a view I shared, and I think she threw us together with the idea that we might talk some sense into each other; that, or give her the opportunity to sit us down as a group and scold us, something we all would have thoroughly enjoyed. Cathy also was my initial liaison to Jackie Danicki; they'd met through blogging; had some face-time in London, face-time I admired and wanted to emulate, and did.

I'd actually met Cathy many years earlier, when I was still reading scripts for a living. I desperately wanted to be a journalist, and so, would type out articles at home, and fax them cold to publications around LA. No one ever answered me, but one.

"This is Catherine Seipp," the woman on the phone said. "I got your article. It's good. Now, what do you want me to do with it?"

Cathy was at Buzz at the time, and I told her, I wanted her to publish it, whereupon she gently but pointedly told me, that's not the way it worked; you sell the idea, and then write it. "This way, you get paid -- or at least get a kill fee."

I didn't know what a kill fee was, but she'd given me a strategy.

Within the year, I was a columnist at Buzz, where Cathy was both a columnist and a contributing writer. She also scared the hell out of me. She had an opinion about everything: the LA Times (which she notoriously skewered each month, under the byline Margo Magee); writing for Hustler (yay); same-sex marriage (nay); the texture of the chicken at our monthly contributers' lunches at Maple Drive. I remember mentioning at one such lunch in 1995 that the magazine was sending Hillary Johnson and me and our two small children to Las Vegas, to write about how the city was becoming kid-friendly.

"That's a sin," Cathy said from across the table. I thought she was kidding. When she repeated it, I knew she was not.

During the next five years, Cathy and I became friends, then good friends. We met for monthly breakfasts at Kokomo at the Farmers Market, a group that included Hillary, Cathy, Amy Alkon, Jill Stewart, Sandra Tsing Loh, Denise Hamilton, Monica Corcoran, Kerry Madden, Emmanuelle, other writers in town for a reading or a story. We called it the Writer Girls breakfast, though I don't think there was any edict about men coming or not coming; I do recall seeing Ross Johnson there once; also, David Rensin and Luke Ford. Though perhaps there was an edict, as I can't imagine Cathy not having one.

To say Cathy was the center of this group is to state the obvious; she was the one who sent the email invites, to which she expected an RSVP. I remember more than once someone showing up who had not, and Cathy disapprovingly raising her eyebrows, and then gently if pointedly remarking that it really is better if you RSVP, so that we know how many tables we need. Really, it's out of courtesy for the servers.

Cathy and I knew each other as colleagues, as friends; as mothers. We both had daughters born in 1989, and before I met my husband in 1997, had for the most part raised them ourselves, on what we earned as freelancers. We didn't need to beat this point, but a point it was. I don't know if it contributed to my being one of the handful of writer girls whom Amy called, in June of 2002, to say Cathy had lung cancer.

"She only wants a few people to know," Amy told me, and that the surgery would be at Cedars. I called Cathy. She told me, she'd found out really as a fluke: she had asthma, and had not been able to shake a cough, and the doctor had decided to do a chest x-ray, which he looked at and then, promptly walked her down the hall to oncology. I do recall Cathy telling me, "The doctor said, if the surgery takes 30 minutes, it means he couldn't get it. If it takes an hour, he could."

Cathy said that when she came out of the anesthesia, she'd asked the nurse, "How long did it take?"

"Forty-five minutes," the nurse told her.

"Which you can imagine, was very frustrating." This was Cathy, the day after surgery, in her hospital bed, surrounded by her family. I'd walked into the room holding a poundcake, whereupon Cathy said, "That's so kind of you, and Nancy, do you remember my mother?"

Picture this scene: a room full of shellshocked people who know the surgeon could not get the cancer; that the prognosis is bad. And Cathy, making introductions, making sure the older folks have seats, sending someone down the hall for ice. Her composure was surreal. I think of it often, especially when I am being a weakling. I think of Hillary walking in with the gift of a peignoir, so that Cathy might look beautiful as she convelesced, and Cathy -- still covered in mecurichrome or whatever that yellow stuff is they paint on you during surgery -- holding it up to her chest, commenting on how pretty it was, and how thoughtful. I think of Jill Stewart, with Cathy when she was wheeled to her room post-surgery, telling the nurse, "You need to get her some painkillers," and when the nurses dillydallied, Jill charging after them down the hall, saying, "YOU NEED TO GET HER PAINKILLERS, NOW!"

And how do I know this story? Because Cathy told it to me; she told all the cancer stories; the funny ones, the terrible ones. Cancer was now part of the narrative, and we were not going to be namby-pamby about it; we were not going to wear pink ribbons and tiptoe around. As she famously announced at a party, "I just want to let everyone know having cancer hasn't made me a better person."

I have written previously about this woman's courage.

I think of her rather as a dance mistress in this. Her friends who knew about the cancer reacted with varying degrees of emotional spasticity: to ask or not to ask about the new chemo? Is bringing over more food annoying or nice? Oh my god, Maia? How much crying is not okay? But whether in person or psychically, one sensed Cathy clapping her hands, and saying, "None of this. We are not going to freak out; we are not going to lie on the floor and throw a tantrum. We are going to do this dance this way."

And we did. We nearly always did what Cathy wanted us to do.

This became a difficult toward the end of her life. She was very sick; some of us questioned the rationality of continuing treatment -- she was on her third round of chemo, plus radiation to shrink the tumors simply so she would not be in such unbearable pain. Maybe we should look into a visiting nurse? Hospice? But Cathy did not want that, and as Sandra so wisely said, who were we to question Cathy on decisions concerning Cathy? And so Amy took her to chemo, as did Emmanuelle, who also created a Google schedule called Team Cathy, so that people could drive, bring food, pick up Maia from the train. If you die in your 40s, and if you were, as Cathy was, the centerpiece of your group, you are surrounded by robust, capable people who are going to do everything they can to save your life, though we all knew, there would be no saving. There would only be attempts at comfort. I flew in from Portland for a week last Feburary to be with Cathy, to basically drink milkshakes with her and dish the dirt and take naps. Jackie came from London the following week and did the same.

In the weeks leading to Cathy's death, it was as though we -- the weirdoes, the writer girls, Cathy's myriad other friends, and the masses teeming over at Cathy's World, a veritable clusterfuck of folks posting 200, 300, 968 comments on whatever Mistress Cathy wrote -- became a buzzing hive. Thouands of phone calls and emails and blog posts passed in the days leading up to her death. Maybe this is the way it always is, but I -- and many of Cathy's friends, most of us in our 30s and 40s -- had not experienced the protracted death of a friend; we did not know how to sit on our hands; we had to keep trying, just as Cathy was.

On March 21 2007, just after 2 pm, I was at the public library when my cell phone rang. It was Emmanuelle, the third time we'd spoken that day, this time to tell me, Cathy had died. I sank down in a nook between the wall and a bookcase; asked Emmanuelle if she were okay; she said yes, but there were still things that needed to be done. Of course.

These things included to continue talking about Cathy, a conversation that reached such a din by the next day, Technorati listed "Cathy Seipp" as its #1 search, a fact we cheered and which certainly Cathy would have loved, though I also imagine her saying, "Well, yes."

Sandra was recently in Portland, and we spent time together, including a few hours at Ristretto talking about work, kids, and of course, Cathy. Sandra was at the hospital during the days preceding Cathy's death, a time that was -- no surprise -- attended, with various degrees of decorum, by the unlike-minded weirdoes and others. There are few people in the world who can tell a story like Sandra; the grand accents; the sweeping mannerisms; the spot-on caricatures were all there, and as I sat there listening, I realized, I had cried, but I was also laughing. And you might think, what a terrible thing, laughing at the narrative of your friend's death. And maybe it is a terrible thing, but it didn't feel terrible; it felt like a continuation of Cathy, and in truth I think she would only want; would most certainly demand that we continue the narration of her life, which includes her death.

I spoke yesterday to Amy, who said, "I find myself mentioning her as often as I can. I just want her here, and for people to know about her." Me, too.

 

Marriage Equality - It's Time

My daughter sent this to me, with a ": )" I agree.

 

Tafv in Screen Shot from Movie Her Roommate Seb is Making

Tafv, 1991

Taken by my good friend Condee Russo, but unearthed only earlier this year!

 
 
 

Back to the Future

Another must-see photo project: Back to the Future, by Irina Werning. We are glad you became a little obsessed! So good, SO good. The power of art.

 

Drowning Beautiful

Go look at this. I promise you, you are going to be wowed.

 

Mary Adams, "The Party Dress Book" - Ristretto Reading Series this Thursday

Come meet Mary Adams, author of "The Party Dress Book," this Thursday, January 20 at 7 PM. We are talking seriously gorgeous dresses here, dresses qua dresses, dresses that make you feel like the prettiest person in the room, because you are.

Paper Magazine said, of Adams' work:

Never one to hotfoot it after the latest trendsetters, Mary Adams happily refuses to step into the 20th century, preferring instead to hand-sew lavishly detailed party dresses from fine silk organzas. From barely there slips to princess gowns that require their own mini storage units, Adams delivers only the best.

I often tell my husband, "I want to wear a gown!" Shall we make some?

Thursday, January 21, 7 PM

Ristretto Roasters

3808 N. Williams, Portland

This event, as are all Ristretto Reading events, is free and open to everyone.

Give a Little, Get a Lot

 
 

The Lives They Lived: David Levine, 1926-2009

The last issue of the year of the Sunday New York Times Magazine is always, The Lives They Lived, short profiles of notable people who have passed away in the past year. My stepfather, David Levine, died December 29, 2009, a little after four in the morning. His son and I were with him. Today, David is the Times' last profile in the magazine, a place of prominence, which he undoubtedly would have made a silly joke about. He was a great artist, as the opening by Walter Bernard tells us:

“Hands down, he’s the greatest modern-day caricaturist and one of the great artists of the last half-century,” wrote Michael Kimmelman in The Times after David Levine died almost a year ago. And it’s true: he was." 

Dave, love and miss you xx

 

Jim Carroll and "The Petting Zoo", with Video

My review of Jim Carroll's posthumously published novel, "The Petting Zoo," from the Sunday Oregonian. Instead of a snip (you can just go read it), I give you what's below, a piece I referenced in the review.

 

 

Love This Photo - The Diplomats

Yo yo yo

 

Season of Sharing

 
This is Harper Bates, his wife Amie and one-year old daughter, Nari. Two years ago at this time, Harper, Din and I had recently celebrated the opening of Ristretto Roasters Williams, which Harper, an architect with Holst, designed. The entire process had been a blast, Harper coming up with concepts and then having us into the offices, where we would talk and tweak and where Harper, a ball of energy, would say things like, "Fantastic idea. I'm going incorporate that and we'll have another meeting when I get back." Back from one of his many hiking trips, including a gargantuanly long one, I don't remember where, only that Din and I were like, three weeks hiking and camping out? Better you than me, buddy.

It was following this hike that Harper took a tumble down a flight of stairs, he would later tell us, and that he figured, it was just exhaustion. He went to the doctor and, a week before his daughter was born, was told: not exhaustion, ALS. He was 37 years old.

I am crying as I type this because, it makes no sense. There's no reason, there's no fairness. When I was younger, it did not occur to me that these sorts of things would happen to anyone we know, because we were all made of Kyptonite. But we are not.

Harper and Amie are one of the families profiled in the 2010 Season of Sharing. If you can, donate, won't you? It's easy and it's the right thing to do.

 

Five Cool Things

Sunday morning, one of the best times of the week. Have my coffee, the New York Times... but lately, before either of these, I find myself scrolling through Five Cool Things, put together each week by Richard Pelletier at Lucid Content, which lands in my email around 7. Reading what Richard has gathered each week is like sitting at the breakfast table with a friend, a friend who doesn't care if your hair is rumpled and you're still in your jammies, who with humor and enthusiasm has to tell you about the cool art and architecture and music and letterpresss and food he's found this week, and created links to, so that even before eight o'clock in the morning, you are checking out photos of Mamikia the Superhero and listening to Donny Hathaway sing A Song for You, and thinking  about what this song means, in relation to everyone's life as well as your own, and especially in regard to your husband, who has just brought you coffee in bed because your foot is in a cast, but you're cruising the world anyway.

You can get Five Cool Things, too xx

Alone Forever, Together: Minh Tran and Portland Nightlife

Wonder what Portland's pretty, [p]arty people do late at night? Fashion/nightlife photographer and filmmaker (and good friend of my daughter's) Minh Tran shows us, in his latest series. Tavie well represented, including in this shot, doing one of her very favorite things. I once scrolled through the several hundred text messages we've exchanged, and 70% of them involved Tavie saying "yum!" about something.

Which Size Do You Prefer?

Let us overlook that any dimples have been photoshopped; also, that it appears doubtful the heads of the girl on the left and the right have ever before or since appeared on the respective bodies. I am going to keep my mouth shut for now, except to say, according to one survey, the girl on the right wins. 

 
h/t, Hillary Johnson

Ristretto Girls Float Trip Down the Clackamas River

Pretty nice. Never have seen water sparkle like that. Looked like a sea of boiling mercury.

Why I Will Shop at Whole Foods (Fremont) Forever, and Ever...

Me, setting my groceries on conveyor belt; notice young checkout gal smiling madly at me

Checkout Gal: I hoped you would come to my register, because I had to tell you: you look exactly like that actress.

Me: Yay! Which actress?

CG: The one in... agh, I just saw the movie. The one with...

Me (saying this perhaps because I have seen only one movie in the past two months): Leonardo DiCaprio?

CG: Yes! Did you see it?

Me: Yes. Which actress?

CG: The one who plays his wife. You look exactly like her!

Me: Are you kidding? She's gorgeous.

CG: Yeah!

Me (swelling with happiness): Well, thanks. I am about 20 years older than she is.

CG: Yes, but you don't look it!

Happiness, explosion

Look Where Tafv Is!

Working a pre-production photo shoot atop the Pierre Hotel  xx