Letters

Letters 10-27-2014

Paging Doctor Dan: The doctor’s promise to repeal Obamacare reminds me of the frantic restaurant owner hurrying to install an exhaust fan after the kitchen burns down. He voted 51 times to replace the ACA law; a colossal waste of money and time. It’s here to stay and he has nothing to replace it.

Evolution Is Real Science: Breathtaking inanity. That was the term used by Judge John Jones III in his elegant evisceration of creationist arguments attempting to equate it to evolutionary theory in his landmark Kitzmiller vs. Dover Board of Education decision in 2005.

U.S. No Global Police: Steven Tuttle in the October 13 issue is correct: our military, under the leadership of the President (not the Congress) is charged with protecting the country, its citizens, and its borders. It is not charged with  performing military missions in other places in the world just because they have something we want (oil), or we don’t like their form of government, or we want to force them to live by the UN or our rules.

Graffiti: Art Or Vandalism?: I walk the [Grand Traverse] Commons frequently and sometimes I include the loop up to the cistern just to go and see how the art on the cistern has evolved. Granted there is the occasional gross image or word but generally there is a flurry of color.

NMEAC Snubbed: Northern Michigan Environmental Action Council (NMEAC) is the Grand Traverse region’s oldest grassroots environmental advocacy organization. Preserving the environment through citizen action and education is our mission.

Vote, Everyone: Election Day on November 4 is fast approaching, and now is the time to make a commitment to vote. You may be getting sick of the political ads on TV, but instead, be grateful that you live in a free country with open elections. Take the time to learn about the candidates by contacting your county parties and doing research.

Do Fluoride Research: Hydrofluorosilicic acid, H2SiF6, is a byproduct from the production of fertilizer. This liquid, not environmentally safe, is scrubbed from the chimney of the fertilizer plant, put into containers, and shipped. Now it is a ‘product’ added to the public drinking water.

Meet The Homeless: As someone who volunteers for a Traverse City organization that works with homeless people, I am appalled at what is happening at the meetings regarding the homeless shelter. The people fighting this shelter need to get to know some homeless families. They have the wrong idea about who the homeless are.

Home · Articles · News · Books · Baby Plays Around: A Love Affair,...
. . . .

Baby Plays Around: A Love Affair, With Music

Nancy Sundstrom - March 25th, 2004
For writer Helene Stapinski (“Five Finger Discount“), there are a lot of
parallels between being in a relationship and being in a rock band. Hence
the title of her delightful and sometimes heartbreaking new memoir about
band life and marital problems, “Baby Plays Around: A Love Affair, With
Music.“
Stapinski is a good-hearted Jersey girl who loves music and musicians, warts
and all. In this, her latest, she vividly recounts her somewhat wild years
in 1990s New York City as she tried to juggle a freelance journalism career
with drumming in a rock band and trying to stay married to her Daily News
reporter-lover, Martin. Any one of those endeavors would have been a
considerable challenge all on its own, and our narrator seems fearless as
she places her forays into those ventures - some successful and some not -
on a microscope, and does so with a Jersey accent and a steady backbeat.
In the first chapter, Stapinski introduces us to her world, where music and
marital strife seem on an inevitable collision course:

“We lived in Brooklyn on the sixth floor of a building that looked like
something out of a fairy tale. It had red pointed towers, with a slate
spiral staircase running up the outside, and a balcony--a breezeway, the
super called it -- with an ornate, black, wrought-iron railing. It ran the
length of the building, past everyone‘s front door, like the terrace on each
floor of a motel. Our breezeway looked out at the corniced tops of the
brownstones across the way, out at the Statue of Liberty and down at the
metal garbage cans and fire hydrants on the sidewalk, which was cracked and
cleaving from the deep roots of old maple trees.
I worked in that building most days, writing musician interviews, travel
stories, trend pieces, stories about New York, whatever I could scrounge up.
From my back bedroom office, I looked down at the soft tops of the trees in
the courtyard. The only noise, besides the incredible racket of the Tuesday
morning recycling truck and the occasional car alarm, was the nearby
Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, whose hum was so constant it sounded like a
rushing river. Or so I liked to think.
There were better ways to make a living. But there were worse ways, too. I
could be covered in yellow paint, working in the dip room of a pencil
factory, like my mother had when she was young, or sitting inside the little
emergency booth in the Holland Tunnel, watching the cars go by (which had to
be one of the worst jobs ever), or working in a fluorescent-lit office with
no windows, like my husband did most nights as a reporter at a newspaper.
I imagined the newsroom was especially depressing after nine p.m. So most
afternoons, to cheer him up, I packed Martin his dinner in a plastic
shopping bag. Rice and beans or pasta with homemade sauce. A piece of fruit
and a few cookies. Each night, he returned the Tupperware, one of the small
rituals of marriage no one ever tells you about.
We were still newlyweds. Only two years before, Martin had taken me to the
top of New York, to Rockefeller Center, to the Rainbow Room, on the pretense
we were celebrating the fourth anniversary of our first date, and with the
glow of the city lights like votive candles flickering below us, with the
big band playing “Stardust“ in the background, he had proposed to me. He
offered me a ring that his mother--a goldsmith--had forged. It had two thick
braids of gold and a round ruby that changed from stoplight red to
rose-petal pink as my hand shook that night and I hesitantly answered,
“Yes.“
I fingered the ring now whenever I was nervous, whenever I had trouble with
an interview subject, whenever I had trouble writing a sentence. These days,
I was trying to get my pen in the door of the women‘s magazines--cash cows
with stories that paid double what my rock star interviews paid. One of my
former professors from graduate school encouraged me to write a pitch to one
of her old friends at Cosmopolitan that autumn, just as the leaves in our
courtyard were starting to turn from green to taxicab gold.“

Like most other kids, Stapinski loved rock ‘n roll early on, and learned to
play the drums by sneaking into her brother‘s room to play on his set. When
he discovered what she was doing, he took the kit apart, but she learned how
to reassemble and dismantle it, along with learning to duplicate the classic
drum solos and the bios of any drummer worth his salt.
Years later, she‘s a working writer, and when she goes to interview Julie,
the leader of a local band, she ends up snaring (no pun intended) a gig as
their drummer and another place for her husband, Martin (also a writer, but
on the graveyard shift), as a bassist. What was once a fairly pleasant and
routine marriage becomes infused with, and then dominated by endless hours
of rehearsal, late-night gigs, and all the drama that accompanies being part
of an aspiring rock band that might actually have a chance of reaching some
level success.
All of that proves to much for Martin but is totally addictive for
Stapinski. They drift apart - she into a world of dingy clubs and growing
camaraderie with her bandmates, and he into an affair with a co-worker. By
the time he confesses to straying, their marriage is all but at a
standstill, though Stapinski feeling completely betrayed, retaliates by
engaging him in violent skirmishes that end with visits from the police and
episodes of drumming that are - to say the least - highly descriptive as she
images her husband‘s face and that of his new love as being “mentally
planted on each drum skin.“
One could find a certain amount of cliches to be reckoned with by equating
married and band life, but
Stapinski ties them together so well and with such conviction that the two
institutions somehow seem to backstop each other. She has a true passion for
music (particularly that of Elvis Costello) that other like-minded
aficionados will identify with and embrace, and even if you haven‘t been a
part of a gigging bar band, Stapinski‘s eye for details and unique voice
make things ring true.
Most of us have to admit that the great relationships of our life - past or
present - have a soundtrack to them, and in “Baby Plays Around,“ we have an
anthem that rings with all the conviction and emotion of the cheesiest and
best power ballads.



 
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