"We want the airwaves, baby!"

A bunch of loud-mouth, no-talent "nobodies" from Queens, N.Y.

 
Part of any genuine rebel movement is acquiring attention, sometimes by any means necessary, although the intention is to always have a firmly authoritative foothold on your audience's consciousness, which falls outside of a teenager's general parvenu. It's the main reason that my first outsider culture, punk, had to grow up. Heat, energy, and movement is fast fun, but after awhile, noise just makes your head hurt. Musicians with long legs in the game learned to play their instruments properly, and after my wild excesses of high school and college, I was sick of the stupid drunk parties. Raping frat boys and vomiting girls are not people one aspires to be around as an adult.

And so I moved on from my infamous New York State party school because I had enough, and I was bored with easy classes. It was a mature decision, and it cost me a lot to make it: studio credits well-earned but not accepted in the Ivy League, friends not confident enough to make it on their own without my constant steadying support, plus a boyfriend or two. I considered it (and still do) and great bargain to become educated, because the kids who couldn't follow along with me would be hangers-on, anyway. They'd hate my new life, studies, and interests. 

It opened up parts of my personality they didn't know (or like). My person changed, grew, and adapted, while my old friends peaked, stopped growing, and then just stopped, sometimes living. It made them extremely nervous around me, and they sought to sabotage my new life violently; a new life that was shifting in front of their eyes. 

One friend accused me of having a totally new signature as proof of my extreme changes, though in reality, it was brought on by being constantly busy as an apprentice in publishing (which she then mocked by prank-calling me at work to say that my new house was for nobodies, a sure sign of threatened youth) and my easy adaption to adulthood. My hand continues to develop into a busy-person's scrawl, not unlike the handwriting of a doctor who writes all day long.

Another friend wanted to sabotage my new group of friends by sleeping with a guy who used to date this girl I set him up with at school, then flirting with my boyfriend while he hung about my aunt's place, looking for a life in the city. In any case, I evolved past all of them, which was their great fear: not being able to ride on my coattails any more for the free fun ride.

One of the worst let-downs (though not totally unexpected) was my best friend from high school and SUNY, who decried me as a "sell-out" for my beginning salary of $17,500 a year at St. Martins' Press; a place I could only afford to work and compete with trust fund English Lit majors by using my aunt's place as a crash-pad. She tried to position it as someone who was looking out for my best interest as a children's book artist, though in reality, she wanted an object to show her students in class, to boost her rep as a new teacher.

The RISD girl was even worse. After giving her a place to stay that was huge and practically rent-free, she also chafed about my new learnin' and a-changin' and a-growin', by ripping out some ad from The New Yorker about a therapist specializing in "creative" people who stopped producing, because she couldn't torpedo the new production and design skills I was learning in the city if she didn't have layouts and drawings to look at.

It didn't stop at work or at home, either. Once I reached the coveted Art Department as a Manager who could do business and book design, the claws came out of the bitchy SVA show-pony crowd, which told me (yet again) how threatening I was to them and their system. 
A well-known Creative Director (then, an Art Director on the rise) has never stopped gunning after me. He bragged about setting balls in motion to harness, control, then humiliate, demean, and fire me at work by trying to position me with a lower skill set than the other one trick ponies at the stable. He told me dismissively in front of a group of designers that my name really meant "Secretary", after reading some pop culture book on name meanings (and repeating it often), because I was behind the slick city crowd in desktop publishing skills, but way ahead in life, and art. It was unnerving.

But all the madness I went through was purposeful and driven, though not always clearly defined enough for my competitors. How do I know it worked? You're reading it right now, because I AM THE MEDIA, and I have made it all the way to the top. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, suckas. Shout that from the mountaintops, baby.

"Generation X" by Doug Copeland for St. Martin's Press (© 1990's): produced by Twisne Fan, Marie Doucette, and Curt Alliaume in several consecutive, co-running, differently-colored versions. 

"We Want The Airwaves" 

Nine to five, and five to nine
Ain't gonna take it, it's our time
We want the world, and we want it now
We're gonna take it anyhow

We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves, baby
If rock is gonna stay alive

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

Where's your guts and will to survive
And don't you wanna keep rock 'n' roll music alive
Mr. Programmer, I got my hammer
And I'm gonna smash my, smash my brain!

We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves, baby
If rock is gonna stay alive

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves, baby 

I am America, and so are you!

For many, many lonnnng years now, New Yorkers, fellow East Coasters, and anyone else with an ounce of real intellectualism in their brains have suffered through election time with excruciating patience. I'm not talking about our crucial and highly developed system of "checks and balances"* either, although you should definitely know about the concept, in case you skipped that class in school.

No, we are talking about a surreal horror/freak-show that has produced candidates who are afraid of seeing the Russian landmass from their doorstep in America, or losing her freedom to shoot down endangered wolves running in fear from the safety of her rich white helicopter, while preaching about teenage abstinence ("See the 'Virginity' bracelet on my wrist, here?"). 

Wait, there's more! Her then-teenage daughter gets knocked up out of wedlock (which is up to two times and counting, in 2015), then said-candidate goes on national television to openly oppose birth control for women, so she can give a late-in-life birth to her beloved Down Syndrome baby, who we, the taxpayers, will almost surely support all of his extremely-challenged life.

Makes sense, right? NO?! Well, fuck you, it doesn't to me either! 
That is why the great city, state, and people of New York have tacitly applauded Donald Trump's bid in the race, with all of his "FUCK YOU!" money: as a payback to y'all, for all the weirdo shit we've had to endure for so long. I promise you, each media soundbite from him and overly graphic stage-set design will be stranger than the last, until someone stops him in his own party.

But, I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you. And why is that? So great of you to ask! He's the number one candidate in the recent polls. Enjoy, America! I AM NEW YORK, AND NOW SO ARE ALL OF YOU.

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Separation_of_powers

Trail of Tears

http://bit.ly/1OtyMcW

I heard about a lot of holocausts growing up in the New York area: the killings during World War II (naturally), which led to my schoolmate's telling of her family's Armenian genocide, but the only story of mine I knew was in a book, albeit infamous epic form*. The grandeur and longing for home and love is something that never leaves you, even when my family left it out of family gatherings, the way my parents hinted at darker histories by naming our cousins "Dark Irish"; an apt way to describe the twin horrors of deliberate starvation through The Potato Famine** in Ireland, and the marking of Métis children by the darker color of their eyes, which must have sank a pit the size of the Atlantic Ocean in both of my parents' stomachs. Who would see it? Would they know the story? Who can they tell the knowing of it all? What would happen to us, in any time period, given the collected badness of centuries past?

And so they sank it way down deep below, like a hidden headdress fitted for a beautiful little girl, or a pair of handmade Baptismal moccasins that may be tucked away forever; two sharp shooting pains forever felt by burying it within, like a treasure chest to be discovered by someone strong enough to survive its' telling. And so I leave it to you to gather up all of our fallen tears, on a trail that leads the way back home, through a river journey I can feel like the wetness shed by the cries of so many parents who felt their beloved ripped out of their arms, in an act of murder so painful***, I can't really wrap my entire consciousness around it, let alone take on the pain of a mother and father who did nothing wrong in G-d's eyes but love each other willingly and with open hearts (http://historynewsnetwork.org/article/11204).

Today I give thanks to the loving qualities we have present in our free society, ones that many people have fought and died for. May we love each other always, with gladness in our hearts.

For My Beloved

 *     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evangeline
**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Famine_%28Ireland%29
***  http://bit.ly/1QmerFQ

Detox

So-called "celebrities" burn through $30,000 in cash for this, yo.

Just like Californian wildfires and desert droughts, every year summer's are extremely hot across America, and every year New Yorkers short out the power grids by turning on their air conditioners full blast at the very first sense of heat and/or discomfort (http://bit.ly/1D96Ny1). You may not know it, but your ridiculous "lifestyle" makes us easy targets for developing Third World countries around the globe, who mistake our waste for future affluence. 

Trust me, you don't want this. Shiny cars and blonde bimbos with fake tits and spray tans look good for awhile, but just like any high maintenance object, they require an almost constant stream of money to stay that way, and after awhile, "Father Time" gets us all in the end. It's Fool's Gold*; not a genuine gold rush like the Old Hollywood movies and t.v. shows of the past portrayed it. Most of those fantasy movies were made by East Coast Jews and low class Micks who didn't fit into their own pictures "look" anyway. 

No amount of money could erase that fact, written across their faces for the world to see, obscured only by costumes, makeup, and fake "movie magic". It was recently reported that Mariah Carey needs $50,000 an appearance** to maintain the illusion of beauty (which would certainly explain the less attractive Billionaire Euro she's now dating), and you really don't want to know what those Kardashians spend. If I saw that on t.v., and my child was starving to death in my arms in some refugee camp, I'd hate us, too. Bombs away!

This "celeb" is also AFRICAN-AMERICAN! http://bit.ly/1MwnaYH

I can only tell you that me (and many others like me) are not the wasteful ugly Americans you see on t.v., because almost every day for years, I have written about our collective truths and showed you our landscapes here, so you would know that I am not lying to you about how I live, who my people are, and how we got here.

We have to detox from: sugar, processed foods, plastic surgeries, countless harmful cosmetic procedures, alcohol and drug addiction, ignorance about treatments for mental illness and psychosis, wanton consumer consumption, fossil fuels, bullshit vacations to escape hateful (and wasteful) office jobs, over-commuting to stressful city jobs to maintain an illusion of success (when you are, in reality, one paycheck away from losing it all: the houses, the cars, the "family" toxic cruises), the old factory model of business management, the medieval concept of "landlording" and serfdom, and a billion other hateful systems that Old Money Europe set up in America. 

You don't need all that stuff, hoarder, so just let your useless, worthless junk go. We've been bankrupted by rotten debt, from a system I certainly didn't create or support, nor ever willingly participate in. Did you? Then turn down that friggin' A/C*** with your dumb, sweaty ass in that twenty floor office building. Asshat.

*     http://bit.ly/1DMfqcN
**   http://bit.ly/1SL9Oqj
*** http://nbcnews.to/1LfaLX2


Oh, I ain't done, yet, kids. I'm about to ruin your day completely with this joint right here: http://bit.ly/1IGN6QL. Enjoy!

Blood for Oil (Fuel-Mad Americans)

http://bzfd.it/1GUWZmk

The one weapon worldwide that warring people always reliably count on against "evil" America is our supposed lust for oil and petroleum products. Speaking as someone who walks downhill daily as part of her commute, I can assure you that there is no such person, at least not how it's portrayed overseas as an excuse for violence and murder.

Americans use transportation regularly because one of our states, that land called "Texas", may be the size of your entire country and then some, which is difficult to envision if you've never been. When I lived and worked briefly in Germany, Arnold Schwarzenegger was a newly-elected Californian governor. The next day, my studio-mates in the atelier tried to use it against me, which was baffling, because I lived in New York City. I tried explaining it to them, but without an illustration like the one you see below, it's almost incomprehensible to a Euro.

The distance from Berkeley to New York City is 2,900 miles—driving time of 42.5-48 hours.

It felt like my time in Denver, when I tried (in vain) to explain to the designers and editors around me how many people we watched die, live on t.v. during the 9/11 attacks, because they also tried to dismiss it immediately. America is so vast, it is a state of mind that's much bigger than other countries on the globe, which makes it unknowable to anyone who hasn't seen it or tried to travel across it. Freedom, like being American, isn't a state or ethnic group; it's a choice.

When I explained to my German co-workers that I would have to fly on a plane (or two, or three, depending on fares and airline hubs) for SIX HOURS just to reach California from New York, I could see an "Aha" moment spreading through the group, which was solidified later on in  my trip when an editor and I blithely mentioned we were driving to Amsterdam for the weekend. They were shocked and scared beyond belief by such a journey as ours (and by beautiful women, too!), until we once again mentioned that we could drive for hours in New York and still remain in our home state. 

To us, driving a mere 2-3 hours to be in another country is so easy and ridiculous a hurdle to accomplish, we cannot imagine NOT doing that regularly. Same thing with the English language: if you had to fly for 10 hours just to get to another country, you'd probably use less languages, too, Euro. Trust me on that. Anyway, English has become the lingua franca for world business and trade, which makes sense to me, because New York City is the capital of the world. 

Writing that is still no excuse for gluttony, just because you may like shiny new things. I love good design and classic American cars as much as the next person, but to pull ourselves out of this mess, we have to buckle down and conserve. This means you! I really liked the German system of limiting car usage and petrol to orderly days of the week divided by neighborhood, like so: on Mon-Weds., these streets conserve fuel and cannot drive, so my co-workers biked as part of their daily commute instead, to a train equipped with bike racks. 

"Petrol" is considered a very expensive luxury in Europe overall, which is the right idea to have, because the cost of using too much gas is a price we can't afford to pay anymore. Think about the melting of the polar ice caps, and you're already there. Same with your air conditioning running at full speed whenever you feel like it, because you're overweight and always overheated. Fuck that! Staten Island has already experienced crippling power outages and it's not even August (the hottest month here), yet.This world needs to go on a diet, and not a Texas-sized one either. We need to change the world.

Indian Giver

Mi'kmaq warrior and dancer, Danny Boy Stephens, takes a moment to reflect on the shores of the Great Slave Lake, Northwest Territories, Canada.

For years I lived in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the world; 
a very affluent section of Brooklyn called "Park Slope", famous for its' artsy writing crowd, media types, ubiquitous designers, and lesbians, which suited me just fine. Except for the occasional coffee-house misunderstanding (volunteer firefighter "dude" with a preference for Great Danes and Christmas lights, I know you knew I was straight, girl, but thanks for being a weirdo to me when I was sitting alone), I was pretty much left to my own devices, which also suited me fine. 

I didn't have a lot of time for bullshit anymore. I was a full-time Art Director in publishing, and after I quit smoking, a part-time martial artist in training, which meant I had weekday evenings after 9pm and Saturday mornings to sleep in, which was exactly what I did, and I did it every week for years. I'd also tack on church and Sunday school classes when I worked from home, but it was pretty much the same deal, because no one around me was suitable for my company.

Sometimes I dated men I knew I could trust from my past, from places like old jobs or school, but that eventually went away, too, because they weren't suitable for me either. Mostly, I worked and walked and kept healthy, which kept me going. When the boom was lowered on me financially, I did double-time creatively by cutting out everything but food as an expense, but just like my training provided, I set up a new routine in which I could flourish and work, albeit more sporadically and with much less frills for decorating. 

It's the same productivity I have in place today: free Internet access at the library, while trying to keep the freaks off of me. But in Brooklyn, it was harder. People are savvier, and they know how to work you over. 
I met a man there that I knew was troubled, but because I grew up with it, I managed to stay safe by my own wits. He knew that, too, along with many other facts that were mixed in with his psychosis.

What my Nuyorican friend from Brownsville did not know, and had never known, was an Acadian Métis warrior. He thought his "street smarts" about welfare scams and rent cheats were powerful weapons that he had in his arsenal, along with an almost total lack of a moral compass, really bad acting skills, and one very serious mental illness. Over time, I put him through all the paces, but to no avail, which certainly didn't surprise me one bit.

If my friend said he needed a clock, I gave him the old one I'd had for more than 15 years hanging in my kitchen, because I had another one in my living room. If he said he was "learning" design at a broke-ass school on Staten Island, I gave him my old small spare portfolio to use, with deadlines in place for him to keep to, and he did absolutely nothing with the gifts I gave him, just like any other asshole white boy I've ever tried to trade with.

When I asked him to show me his portfolio pieces one day, as I was checking out his tiny room in a typical Brooklyn tenement in the Spanish-flavored part of the Slope that turns into Sunset Park, he shamefacedly opened it to reveal that he turned into a place to keep his checkbook and receipts for storage. Oh. OK. You've done nothing. Give it back to me, asshat. NO! I mean hand it over to me now.

He sputtered in shock. But, but...he's a welfare-case. Pretty white ladies usually give him stuff for being sick and broke! Yeah, bitch, meet the real deal ethnic minority. He tried to quibble with me about my genetic past, saying I just wanted to paint myself "exotic", like the mass murder in our Nova Scotian past was something I chose to brandish about town, like he did with his check from the government for school. You know, because he needed a "hand up", not a hand out.

Same thing with my room clock: you don't help me move my stuff after I run out of money "homeboy", you give me back my clock (which I eventually ditched at a Park Slope storage place when I ran out of money for that, too). By this point, I had him trained: he just sighed, took down the clock from the painted-over graffiti ghetto wall, and handed it back to me.

You see, esse, in my world, if you don't have something of equal value to trade, we don't trade with you at all, so give it back. All of it. It's okay, though. I've got a special lil' internal clock running, just to keep track of all the borrowed time you're on. Take your time with it.

 

from Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_giver

The New Black

Way before Orange is the New Black, my punk rock cousin Susan had already "been there and done that" while wearing the standard prison-issue jumpsuit. She was a model in the city during the CBGB music scene of the 70s, and DeeDee Ramone's girlfriend. She was beautiful, glamorous, and a drug addict. After her fling with the “sex, drugs, and rock n' roll” lifestyle, she rallied back from the hard bite it took out of her to work as an office girl in the city, while dating the "nice" safe Italian boy from her neighborhood. 

Unfortunately for Susie, the damage was done. No amount of shiny polyester shirts, tight pants, and Travolta-style pompadours could help her stay out of Studio 54, with all that free coke. What could compete with her troubled working class roots, with its' generic Queens row house, and her excruciatingly boring 9-5 job? Not much, and the allure of the forbidden was too much for her to resist. 

When I lived in Brooklyn, she used to call me loaded to chew my ear off, chain-smoking and enjoying the high. I asked her to write down some of her experiences from those days, but like everything else with my family, I'd have to do all the work, and there was no way I could take her on with all of her diseases. But, she told me enough of it for me to recreate a timeline in my head that's reliable.

After her Queens boyfriend broke up with her because she couldn't buckle down into their engagement and a normal, family-based routine, she went back to using hard again. When she was a model, another girl on the circuit taught her how to shoot up without leaving behind any visible track marks, because this was way before Photoshop could airbrush out any sins you may have committed. When I asked her how she did it, she spread her toes apart to show me how she injected heroin in between her big toe and second toe.

And that was the beginning of the end of the road for her. She was caught in a raid on a crack house that had become the center of a huge drug trafficking ring, and like most addicts, she sold to get high. From what I heard back then, it was a typical dirty-bare-mattresses-on-a-floor-with-scary-graffiti-covered-walls kind of joint. Old school New Yorkers will get it. It's the kind of place brokers try to sell as condos in Bushwick nowadays to stupid rich white kids who are priced out of Williamsburg, by selling it as an "up-and-coming" neighborhood, but I always knew better.

From there, she was shipped off to Rikers to do a stretch of hard time. It was unbelievable. Me and my brothers were working "The American Dream" hardcore in the country 'burbs of early 80s Rockland by studying and working part-time jobs. After she was raped in Rikers, they sent her to a prison in Pennsylvania to do the rest of her time. She told me about her affairs with other female inmates, the crescendo of her time rounded out by an affair with a male prison guard.

When she got pregnant by him in the joint, my father flew out there to give her away in a shotgun wedding after her release. I saw the pictures of her with a flower garland askew on her head during the ceremony, bleary-eyed and out of it. And that's how years before you all cashed in on a gang of girls gone mad, my cousin Suzy gave birth to a low-weight baby boy she named after Bob Dylan, her one and only child, not long after her Corrections Officer died of a heart attack.


(From Wikipedia) The writing and structure are both somewhat more sophisticated than the songs on their previous record. Guitarist Johnny Ramone relates: "We recorded them in the order they were written; we wanted to show a slight progression in song structure."^[3] Most of the songs were written in the band member's homes, rather than at a studio; "Suzy Is a Headbanger" was written in drummer Tommy Ramone's loft apartment.^[4]

"I wrote most of the stuff I contributed at my apartment in Forest Hills, before I left and moved back to a place in the city. I had no amp at home, just an electric guitar. I recorded it onto a cassette and played that back at rehearsal. We had better production, we were playing a little faster, and we had a lot of songs accumulated. We were in really good shape for that album."

Confederacy of Dunces

http://nyti.ms/1skVMyf

You've seen it on all the news programs lately: why all this fuss over some old flag? Because, (and this will be the last time I will address this issue with any amount of serious consideration, because it's that fucking stupid to me), our ancestors fought and died in our nations' bloodiest war: a civil war that divided families and pitted brother against brother, in the name of righteousness. 

Southerners created their own stupid dip-shit flag and useless Monopoly money so they could pretend to live in a delusional fucking world where it's okay to murder, torture, rape, and continually victimize people like they're worse than the cattle most of us eat every day. 

You see, if a cow didn't make the brutal trip across the sea and over a very long distance, like, say, the ones West African people were forced to endure under inhuman conditions, those poor people of the South wouldn't have food, ergo cows are better than people from another country. See? That's logic! No?! Well, my stars. 

http://theurbanchica.com/poetry-and-still-i-rise-by-maya-angelou/

Take down that fucking flag hundreds of years after we won the war, because it is a symbol of your continually deliberate and very calculated system of ignorance, hatred, and oppression, you inbred fuck. I mean it. You lost. There. Get over it. 

You will not "rise" again. There is no "confederacy", and they never will be. We are one united nation, shitheads. Oh, and your boringly repetitive music sucks, too. Ahhh...now, I feel better. Thanks, guys!

Here's your homework, fuck-up:
http://www.ushistory.org/us/27f.asp
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p2956.html 
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/slavery
http://www.civilwar.org/education/history/civil-war-overview/overview.html 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War
http://www.history.com/topics/american-civil-war

For Kara

http://www.learnnc.org/lp/editions/nchist-colonial/1904

Queen of Denial (A River in Egypt)

Life in tha 'hood can be fun, challenging, scary, tense, and totally inaccurate, all at once. In a quest for self-determination and a carefully calculated cutting of ties with the past (to create a false new one), folks often made up versions of their selves, in lieu of access to any real information. Enter into downtown Brooklyn me and my friend from school daze, an actual African-born woman from Ghana, which created a weird dynamic around her wherever she went, fueled by Spike Lee's wildly exaggerated and often misguided tales of Brooklyn, designed to shock and amaze his exotic-seeking (and rich) white audiences.

L.I.U.'s downtown campus was exactly what Fulton Street was at the time: an almost totally black neighborhood, with a few Hispanic girls thrown into the mix for "diversity". I was given a free ride to Howard University back in the day, because black campuses struggled to right a segregation not of our generation's creation, but it was a hard way to go. Many of the kids we met in the late 80s had never spoken to a "white" girl before, so me and my suburban friend felt as adrift and lost at sea as my ancestors were in their boat rides over.

It made for some comic times that were colored darkly, like a group of earnest but completely unrealistic young men who sought freedom of expression through their public exposition on their collective hatred of "the white man", but not literally, of course (just in case I was the "PoPo" undercover and at work in their college dorm room environment, at the tender age of 18). They mocked my friend's "white" accent, which is actually a fairly standard New York one, as she ripped into them for their phony Ebonics (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ebonics).

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cleopatra

In the glow of Junior's cheesecake and fried chicken joint, we were forced to improvise identities for the sake of our protection while we walked the streets, and with my ethnicities, it was pretty easy for me to do. I slicked back my hair into a "fly" ponytail and painted my lips bright red, swinging my head 'round with big ghetto-sized silver hoops. It gave me room to breathe and "pass", but I still looked at Dr. Zizmor's* ads for ripped earlobe surgery with trepidation. It was the violent girl gang thang to do back in the day; sneak up on a 'ho, and rip the earring right the fuck off her ear. 
Don't even think about wearing gold or fancy sneaks on the train, which I didn't. I couldn't have afforded the gear anyway. *(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Zizmor)

And so I was privy to conversations most average white people have never heard, like how "The Man" keeps us down: "Right, sista?" said one Latino girl (no, not the ancient Latin kind of Holy Roman) to me, as she turned to me listening in, on the edge of a group in front of campus, for support. It was a shock, and I hitched in a tiny breath no one noticed without skipping a brief beat: "Yeah, girl!", and I was in.

Little did we know the depths of American ignorance about the lands they'd been ripped out of, because most of them did not know that my girl from school was actually Ghanaian from the real west coast of Africa. They'd flown over on a plane though, and had an above-ground swimming pool that I certainly didn't have. None of them could really know us, because the truth would put our lives in real danger, but we laughed about it in private and behind closed doors. Oh, shit! That girl really believes she's descended from some Egyptian Pharaoh? Is that where she think she from, girl?! Fuuuuck!

Because, you see, me and my friend from school knew one very pretty and very real first generation Egyptian-American girl named Dahlia growing up: a perfectly lovely name for a ringleted girl of olive complexion from a Christian family in Egypt, and someone who is most definitely NOT Kush or Nubian, but that's a story for another day. 

For now, let's look to the blood for our real genetic history, because the blood doesn't lie. The truth will out! See you 'round the way, some day or another, mes amis. 

Your homework for today, 'hood rats:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kingdom_of_Kush

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nubia
http://bit.ly/1Lr7oOm 

Dark and Light

 

You might not know it, but advertisers fucking hate you. So do their useless product generators, and their insane marketing people. They hate you, too. I mean, really hate you. Your hair is bad, your skin is bad, your weight is bad....everything about you is bad, Bad, BAD!, in ever increasingly hysteric tones. I am (of course) the greatest evil in their Bizarro* world, because I am immune to programming, which sucks for them (or you, if you read this and recognize yourself in it).

Gen X'ers, like hep cats, jazz aficionados, flappers, and every other original generation before them, are particularly offensive to the "sell-at-all" costs crowd, because we are not a marketing trend. How do you reach a demo with no pigeon-holed stereotype? You can't, thus the hatred hardily mixed with fear and loathing (thanks, Hunter S. Thompson). No one can get inside your head if you know who you are, the essence that is YOU, because you can't be commoditized.

The chains that bind us to oppression are often of our own choosing. My father used to tell me that the greatest prisons are the ones people create in their own minds, and that is true. How can you be a wage slave unless you sign on the dotted line to the contract that binds you to someone else, most likely a stranger without your best interest at heart? When you do react against it, there's a steady stream of vindictive slurs tailor-made just for you, like "Darkie" or "Pasty".

Don't believe me? OK, check this piece of weirdness out. "Your skin is too dark! Buy this": (insert brand name here). "Oh, yeah? Well, I think your skin is too light. Buy this": (insert competing brand from same company here). Freaked out, yet? Welcome to my world. 

You can have all the lotions you want, if you'd only buy into it.

http://bit.ly/1jgA2FF

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bizarro_World

All That Jazz!

America, meet the Jennings: http://r29.co/1I8ZU1Q

I've been fascinated with the recent heightened awareness about the transgender community for awhile now, because I see them as cultural "outsiders" like me, but not for something of our particular creation. How can this be true? A gay man does not choose to have a brain shape that more closely resembles the brain of a heterosexual woman, a change that occurs during the earliest phases of fetal gestation, which makes it almost impossible for a mother to have any control over it, although photographic imaging technology improves our ability to see almost daily. 

It's given us the necessary scientific evidence we need to help treat our populations who have long suffered from false accusations of choice. How the heck does a small embryo "choose" his or her brain shape? Through sheer willpower?! It sounds absurd to us now that we know better, and yet during the Salem witch hunt days, Puritans wrongly believed women with moles were witches and burned them to death by tying them to a stake, albeit with the "holiest" of motives. Where was the compassion for a common skin feature then? 

What has always been taboo to the typically European "white man" has, in fact, always been accepted (not perfectly, but much better) by native First Nations of America** as a human part of tribal life. In fact, many societies accept the third gender as a natural part of life, the way a mother accepts her child's Albinism; it's a rare but beautiful thing.

Enter into the scene my favorite kiddie New Yorker, beautiful baby Jazz, a wunderkind dynamo if ever there was. From the age of two or three, Jazz told her parents she was a girl, because she is a girl. Not in all facets, yet (because she's still a teenager), but internally, deep in her brain, where we've yet to go where with our still-limited technical abilities, although I feel more confident than ever that we will get the correct results, because this mama ain't ever wrong about what she knows to be true. And so were Jazz's really "New Yawk" parents sure, too; two very normal Longyland people from totally normal backgrounds, who had no idea what "trans" was, let alone suggest it to their baby in utero. 

But what they did have (and still do) was the love, compassion, intelligence, and faith to understand that they did not raise a liar, or a cheat, or a sneak, certainly not as a cute lil' toddler. They choose to love, accept, support, and take care of their special little girl; not because you like it, but because they have G-d's absolute empathy and understanding, just like do you.

Oh, I know all about the wackos who can easily throw up Bible scripture like they wrote it yesterday and understand it perfectly, but as someone who has seen firsthand many people with learning disorders and mentally disabilities struggle to read one perfect, easy book (think of "Bible Study" as Special Ed for the spiritually inept), you know what I'm up against here. All I ask is that you let me tend to my own kind while I get you the information you need, in a way that you can understand. That's it. You don't have to do a thing. I got this one.

Special "shout-outs" to the wonderfully smart Dr. Marci*** for leading the way by honoring her Hippocratic Oath, and actively using her experienced background as a transgender healer to make a difference by saving lives one person at a time, and my man Chaz Bono for staying strong and true. It ain't easy being real in a world that can seem so fake at times, but that's exactly where all the gloriously good stuff is. Thanks for leading the way.


*      http://www.thestar.com/life/health_wellness/2008/06/17/gayness_linked_to_brain.html

**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two-Spirit

***  http://marcibowers.com/

Seagrass

Kimberly is a sixth-generation weaver. And Lynette's granddaughter, Allisse -- they hope -- will be a seventh.

We've seen it countless times in the media: why all the fuss over this white rapper, or that jazz violinist from Harvard who paid for the privilege of playing at Carnegie Hall? What gives? This is equality! Or is it? 

I think you know it isn't, but if you want to feign ignorance, you'll know for sure after I finish this piece, because we all know cultural misappropriation* when we see it, hear it, or sell it. That cultural artifact IS NOT yours to have by birthright, and you know it isn't. 

When you borrow from someone's past without asking them for permission, or give them written consent, or at least do them the courtesy of paying what is often a small fee for their people's story, 
you rip them off again, which is why almost every ethnic minority on the planet still suffers from the ravages of poverty....because that's exactly the intended effect. Played the white man's game to win? Cool! 

Just don't look back, or lift up those who came first through recognition of their collective gifts, because that would make you honest in a very sneaky, nasty, dishonest, loathsome game. White girl from South Africa (and other empire-building African-Americans), you know who the fuck I mean. Kid, you keep rockin' to it, because that's all you, your background, and your life. You can't quit legit, can you? No, you can't. We have more than seven generations of strength. 

Welcome to today's assignment, class:

http://cbsn.ws/1CG7PSl

http://bit.ly/1TFnt4r

 

 

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_appropriation

Jimmy O.D.

Years ago, I worked for a small Jewish family business in trouble. The two kids hated the business of publishing, which they tried to use for their "creative" endeavors, like screenwriting and music. It didn't work for them, because publishing is about books. And so, I was left with two spoiled "Manhattanites" who'd been told all their lives that they were gifted from their parents. Into this mess, I was charged with righting the ship of one of their Barnes and Noble imprints. It had been ditched into the gutter for being "crass" in comparison to the other Classic series of copyright-free works, which was a total joke. 

The bargain books were face-out on the shelf in every store in the nation, a fact that had become a traveling game for me. In each town, I'd look for my name on the jackets of titles I worked on, and wherever I went in America, there I was in book form, too. Because I broke my ass for two years to put it back into shape, I had a lot of pull in the company (and the industry), which gave me the power to make some tricky decisions, especially uncomfortable ones that included their family who drew income but produced no revenue. Their single daughter would sweep in from London to treat me like a Kinko's kid making copies for her, because she wanted to brag about her designer apartment that just got a write-up. Did I want to see it? They had tons of people in their lives like that, but such was the era of housewife decorators and artsy stay-at-home moms. You know the type.

When I finally conflicted artfully well with their small son over IT support (it'd been a handy weapon from Day 1 of my time), I knew I carried the whole history of desktop publishing and Mac computers with me. My enemy camp kept making petty remarks about Apple's business tactics and the inherent snobbery designers had about their corporate-sponsored trophy computers, neither of which I disputed. I pointed that out in several meetings with the enemy camp; a row of rich white men on one side, with me and my cowardly deaf mute designer on the other. She always backed out of speaking up in meetings by citing her deafness, which usually worked at stalling the machine, but not for me, because I have a deaf father. And so, when they finally realized that shutting out design and technology had dearly cost them their business edge, the son surprisingly decided it was time to finally pursue that music career full time, by touring and cutting a self-made CD, another type of business he knew I had under my belt, too.

Enter the scene one dramatic and showy character named Jimmy. The company admin gave him "advice" within my earshot about how to work me over as a client, by giving him "tips" like appealing to my Irish side and being charming, Yeah, Mick. Fooking do that. I liked Jimmy, as I typically do with my kind. He was smart, gifted, quick, and good with the older crowd who feared computers like they were boxes sent form Hell to deliberately torture them. Because he was older than me, he knew how to mock and demonize technology so that the older rich guy would cough up the dough. After all, Jimmy was a trained actor, as well as an IT guy, professional musician, lapsed Catholic, martial artist, and newly graduated fine artist.

He showed me pictures he took of his beautiful wife and classically Celtic sons: a striking "Black Irish" clan with bright blue eyes, fair skin, red lips, and dark dark hair. Yeah, I know. The boys were into Mohawk hair designs and boxing poses, which slayed me, but I wanted him to play me like a fiddle to get us what we needed, and he knew I knew the game cold. On one warm St. Pat's evening, I took the publisher's intern nephew on a long walk with me that spanned from the East 30's all the way down to Stone Street, to hear him play. It was loud brash standards (which embarrassed him a bit), but I could tell he was good. I wanted to show him support in lieu of his recent divorce, a shock that rocked him to the core.

I didn't know how bad it was until he showed up at the job with a bagel and hysteric tears, which frightened me. I told him about my own brief brush up with a marriage I'd been suckered into, but I realized it was much worse for him. His wife had done herself up buff at the gym while he worked and played around, which couldn't have meant he spent much time at home, and the kind he did was questionable at best. You don't cry onto your client's keyboard without a really bad heartache, because I paid him every penny he was worth. 

When he broke down in front of me, I knew I could either save him or lose him in that very moment. And so I did what anyone like me would do: when he bitched about his weight gain, I caught his darting red eyes, locked in on him, and told him the truth flat-out. He was in danger of something a lot more serious than a brief spat with gluttony, and he knew what I meant, because he bowed his head down for a moment. I left to get coffee in the company kitchen, and let him collect himself. By the time I came back, he'd put on a brave front with a sheepish grin. He knew I'd never fire him, but he'd embarrassed himself at work, and that was a lapse I knew he didn't do often, because I worked under the same threats as he.

After St. Patrick's Day, I only saw him once. The struggling family outfit finally let me go to "clean house", after they'd tried to use every political card they had against me. He'd done me a right turn by getting me an interview at his day job. I wasn't suited for it as a lowbrow market and I knew it, but it was good PR for me, because it let the industry know I was shopping around. I heard him gossip to the art director of a splashy photo mag there that she'd seen my portfolio with CD's. He asked her quietly: "How did it look?". She said she caught one minor error about a tiny line of 5 point copyright info placed too close to the donut whole on one disc layout (I did all my own layouts and production), but that my music creds were solid and true. I did have a famous musician or two in my book, complete with logos, booklets, cases, and all. "Shit", he said under his breath. I could see them out of the corner of my eye in his office from my vantage point in the conference room, him at his desk with her standing over him. 

The interview was over, and the next time I heard anything about Jimmy was on Facebook, because he committed suicide that winter by taking a handful of sleeping pills while home alone in Woodstock, packing up his stuff during his first Christmas alone and without his family. He'd been gracious enough to post us a good-bye photo on Facebook, with a caption below his last self-portrait that read about how tired he was, and that was the last of it. Forever.

For Jimmy 

 http://www.silive.com/obituaries/index.ssf/2011/01/james_odonnell_55.html

"Smokey"

Years ago I smoked cigarettes, which is hard for many people (including me) to fathom. Why?! Truth be told, I was a horrible smoker, which was why I began in the first place: I'm not a binge drinker like many of the kids I grew up with. "Smokey" was actually another one of the nicknames created by my "bestie", like "Uker". I'd puke if I drank too much, you know, because too much alcohol makes you sick. 

And so I compensated for not having an alcohol addiction by using cigarettes to calm my stomach from an excess of beer drinking, something college kids ruthlessly monitored me over (like my normal sleep patterns and continued persistent refusals to party overmuch), to keep their own massive consumptions obscured. I knew it, just like I knew my Dad smoked, as did a few of my grandparents, in response to life stress and their own addictive patterns. 

Like many Gen X'ers, I found myself wrecked by the consequences of other peoples' blatant disregard for my health, well-being, and safety. After years of being bored and sickened by someone else's stupid habit, I finally broke the cycle of abuse for me by quitting smoking cold turkey, because I had several bouts of DVT, related to knee surgery. 

I knew I was never an addict by the time I tried to use the lowest dose of nicotine patches available, because I had to leave my art director's job mid-day from a sick stomach; the severe nausea healthy people have in response to the harsh chemical cocktail designed to addict that's in cigarettes. For me, the cycle has forever been broken by my iron will, though the mentally ill receptionist at that former job, who compulsively gossiped as a political weapon (which I successfully used against her), merely changed the tone of her attack from noting my smoking habit to any other thing she felt she could get away with. 

Today I ask you to break the bad habits imposed upon you by others (those that were created in response to repeated personal attacks), by getting clean and healthy, like our fabulous health official Dr. Mary Bassett; herself an educated healer and fellow New Yorker, also caught in the twin traps of getting by on nothing, while fighting a corruptly biased system. Today we declare our collective good health, for all the peoples of the world still fighting oppression. I got your back, girl. 

May G-d bless you and keep you safe, 

in these final days of hope and light.

Quitting Smoking:
http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/about/commish-bio.shtml

https://a816-nycquits.nyc.gov/pages/homepage.aspx

The Tobacco Industry:

http://www.thestreet.com/topic/25884/top-rated-equity-tobacco.html 
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3490543/ 

A series of black and white self-portraits I made for (and sent to) my old college boyfriend, who needed support during his time at McGill University while I worked three jobs at RISD, which he blamed me for. He retaliated by transferring out of Oneonta before me during my last semester there, supposedly because I "insisted" on "wasting my time" at art school. Amen to you who are my similarly afflicted.

1-866-NYC-QUITS (1-866-697-8487) 

http://www.nysmokefree.com/ 

Cloud Factory

 Welcome to the dog days of summer*, without air conditioning.

(Pearl River, New York - July 2015)

 

 

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_days