Murder, Inc.

The business of murder is one of the biggest operations in the entire world, hiding not so discreetly behind the facades of so-called "legitimate"companies. Doubt me? Take a look at some of the rapper Jay-Z's lyrics that infamously brag about funneling his street drug money into, say, white music companies that exist safely overseas in Norway. Recently, a salacious story broke here that the film "Wolf of Wall Street" was actually financed by a criminal's capital (http://www.wsj.com/articles/malaysias-1mdb-the-secret-money-behind-the-wolf-of-wall-street-1459531987), which surprises business-savvy New Yorkers, like, not at all. Where do you think movies get millions of dollars to create big splashy films? The American Red Cross? Uh, hell, no. Not enough of a return on one's investment for curing cancer.

And so, when American actor Sean Penn found himself unwittingly caught in the middle of an international drug bust for the notorious drug cartel leader "El Chapo" (https://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2016/01/13/the-drug-cartel-that-protected-sean-penn-also-terrorizes-mexican-journalists/), we were also rather nonplussed about the connection. I mean, actors are people famous for doing eyelash thickening ads for pharmaceutical companies in between precious t.v. and film gigs, like the movie "Lost in Translation" deftly explores (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lost_in_Translation_%28film%29). Overseas, we're all just so much American capital to foreign investors, ya dig?

On this Friday, I want us all to think about changing the conversation and the way we think about business forever. My father always used to tell me about "the banality of evil" that was run by so many average white guys in rumpled business suits commuting to-and-from their Midtown offices every single day of the week. We like to pretend that the business behind killing is something glamorous and fun like the movies would have us believe, but when was the last time a murderous criminal fronting the money for such skewed films told you the truth? They may have their conduits to the public's imagination, but so do we. I have all of you.

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2010/feb/18/worlds-top-firms-environmental-damage 

http://www.fastcodesign.com/1662817/infographic-of-the-day-the-worlds-most-environmentally-damaging-industries 

Espresso

My friend Elvis had a lot more problems than his over-priced "caffeine delivery system" cleverly marketed to addicts. He hoarded beyond control when circumstances in his life caused him stress, like helping out friends in need, or waking up in the morning without a hangover, or not having a stash of coke hidden somewhere in his rat's nest of a room. So, it wasn't like I took it personally when he "kicked me out" of his place during my bout with homelessness, because I knew it freaked him out that he couldn't abusively control me, like he does with the sicker people in his life around him, so he can feel like he's the "king of the hill".

Quite a tipsy structure to maintain isn't it? His life was never built on totally solid ground, besides his ethnic parents who had emigrated to New York from Puerto Rico. I could tell he missed it there, too, with his morning mango/guava Entenmann's danishes out on the kitchen counter for his work crew of illegal immigrants. You can tell when a person is homesick, you know? He had adored his mother, who was ailing and under his brother's full-time care (he's also disabled) when we first became more acquainted. After we knew each for awhile, he told me that her death had rocked him to his core. She had bed sores his brother had to dress every day, and neither of them were mentally stable enough to handle such a mature scene. 

He told me more than a few times that she had sores on her vagina that caused her pain, which I could have surmised from the medical term "bed sores" (which regularly occur in elderly people who are hospitalized long-term), so I knew he had sexual identity issues to go along with his obsessive-compulsive, manic-depressive, schizoid-affective, addictive personality disorder. When I was forced to couch surf with him for awhile, after I lost my rent-stabilized apartment in a rigged scheme designed to do so, I knew he would think I was his captive to pore over and possibly romance, though in an interim period of our friendship, I found out that he had repeated his psychotic pattern of severe relationship dysfunction without any help from me at all.

He'd done work in a building for a family made homeless by a strong hurricane we had in the city years ago that had greatly affected the lowest-laying, poorest neighbors of Brooklyn. During that process, he'd made friends with a disturbed young woman who was fragile, vulnerable, and needy. Perfect! He could swoop in as her "rescuer" to give her items that she and her dependent family needed. She had her parents and brother living with her in the cheap basement apartment, too, when it flooded out completely. I met her briefly after I left my apartment, when Elvis gave me a lift to a nearby hotel in Park Slope that was, ironically, housing hurricane victims through a city agency, as the residents there wrestled with complex legal paperwork that was out of their depths, given their socio-economic strata.

She was twitchy and weird, pulling on her hair repeatedly and answering Elvis' questions abruptly, leaning over to play with her smartphone so her hair would cover her face. If she was the "stable" one in her family, it was small wonder that Elvis saw an opportunity he could manipulate to his advantage. While they dated (or whatever the fuck two head-cases like them do), I cleaned up a tenement room on Ninth Street and went back to work. After that situation went bust (or "Cotto Crazy"), he offered to help me out, per his typical pattern. I was originally going to live with his brother temporarily, but that deal went bust because they can't do business properly, so I couch-surfed on a sofa made-up for his brother, while Elvis stashed his slightly sicker brother in the apartment of their chain-smoking Nuyorican friend.

His brother complained incessantly that I had deprived him of his "home" while I slept on a couch, which is a crazy thing to think about some guy's sofa, but that's family for you. While I stayed there, his cardboard boxes remained in the hallway, as if in limbo, and Elvis quickly lost his mind over a woman too beautiful, brilliant, and healthy to be in his company for any real length of time, but that's my life. I don't have any reliable help in my family. I am the help! And so, Elvis started going downhill almost as soon as he realized I wasn't going to be his fellow shut-in/nursemaid, like his cousin living in an illegal apartment in his basement (he'd bought a Park Slope townhome with his parents money), and his nervous brother who stopped working years ago, so he could use their mother and her age as an excuse to live with her for free, as her makeshift caregiver.

They pretended he was starting an "Internet business", which was laughable to me, because they were also embroiled in a crazy lawsuit over the apartment deal that went bust after Elvis did work there, leaving his brother effectively homeless, too. Elvis also told me he had "put his hands" on his last girlfriend (also while homeless), who had moved in with him shortly after he bought her and her family used clothes, so she felt like she owed him, hence the speedy courtship. They "broke up" after he probably tried to choke her to death one drunken evening together, but with me, he played it wayyy cooler. He knew about me and my martial arts background because his brother had a black belt, and he kept a samurai sword (a rather cheap display one, not the real kind) behind the sofa where I slept, which I effectively displayed one night after he tried to get "touchy feely" with me.

He had tried to get me to touch his stomach because he stopped eating while I lived there, hiding it behind some diet-and-training routine along with his snake oil pill cabinet. I freaked, which put him on notice for the remainder of my stay. He grew paranoid, rifling through my stuff while I worked days at an insane office in Manhattan, saying it was the price he charged for my non-payment of rent, even stealing a street sign from me that I had found cleaning up the other place I lived in for a short while. He tried to play it off like I had problems with touching and intimacy, which I blew up like the phony case it was. He grabbed me and forced me to touch his body while he lifted up his shirt, in a move that gave him a taste of my body and muscle that must have stayed with him long after that night, because he almost immediately dropped my hand after grabbing it. I don't feel like his soft crazy women.

And so I came to understand that his make-believe coffee machine was deeply anchored to his delusional fantasy life, and that he desperately wanted me to be in it with him, as a savior to his rotten life. He'd made a fake picture in his head of me in his garden during the summertime as his maid/cook/lover, beautifully dressed and expertly serving him and his friends wonderful iced drinks. Huh. I then told him how many weeks I was out from getting my own place due to my calculations, now that I'd secured a gig as the design lead for a small publishing company headed by some trust-funder looking to go bust in a financial scheme with his publisher dad. I made (and spent) a lot of money working at professional houses around the city, but only enough to support me and my expenses in a place as expensive as New York, where most natives are only one paycheck away from homelessness and bankruptcy.

He immediately grew anxious after I shattered his artificial construct, as so often happens with the very sickest among us. He could earn a living if he was enabled by the sometimes sicker people around him, but on his own? Elvis merely drowned, clutching at people madly to help him out of yet another mess. He also told me he was guilty over a murder he and his friends committed many years ago; he and his friends had killed a bum sleeping in the park, in an end-of-the-world vibe that sat over the entire city during its last down-spiral in the crack-fueled 70s and 80s. My college boyfriend had also tortured a bum sleeping on a park bench with his best friend in a similar scenario as a teenager, too, as the city veered out of control into anarchy.

As soon as he realized I'd be moving on quickly without him, he began planning his attack, packing my stuff into garbage bags while I worked hard, padding himself with his fucked up brother, his dependent cousin, and an old girlfriend of one of them, who gave me a fake look of sympathy (really, it was fear), because those poor muthafuckin' Nuyoricans finally realized that they had actually met one of the kind of people who had originally inhabited a land they can't live on peaceably. 

They had actually done battle with their first real ethnic minority: me. And guess who won? As he and his brother shook my hand (after putting my stuff in the trunk of Elvis' car), I could see that they learned from my lesson well enough. No more. No more abuse. And just like that, I was back on my way to a nice hotel with cable t.v. and a free Continental breakfast, like the rest of my homeless Brooklyn people. Thanks for that.

https://www.mentalhealth.gov/get-help/health-insurance/

Palette Knife

 

Judging by the amount of press "celebrities" receive for their illegal exploits, it's no surprise that they've co-opted t.v. for their publicity purposes, by using their prison mugshots as their latest head shot, and their crimes as the press that nabs producers looking for a "hot" star, as long as they can get insurance for a project that'll cover an abusive alcoholic who sometimes sets random fires. (Thanks for that, Bart). What's the point in reigning it in? They get as much attention for their misdeeds as they do for their phony charities, set up as tax shelters to funnel their money into. What does it matter if it's "good" or "bad"? That's entertainment! It's a twisted kind of logic.

And those are just the psychopaths who know how to channel their inner demons into violent emotions onscreen, as if on cue. You don't want to meet Special Ed/Needs without a drama queen attached to it. Much. Less. Fun. My younger cousin with autism (and a few other serious brain disorders) learned early to fake emotions by spewing crocodile tears that seemed to clear up as soon as your head turned away from him. That was even scarier, because his face fell into a dead mask with nothing behind the eyes, the heart of mental illness itself.

Because he hid his mental disorders behind closed doors (and his family refused to talk about his problems), life itself was acting to him. It was all fake, because he lives in a disassociated state of surreal unreality and, kids, if you think that sounds like some sort of fun party trick, let me assure you, it is not a good ride. Schizophrenic sufferers randomly hallucinate screaming, streaking black shadows right in the middle of a typical day, or because they were stressed out when you asked them a direct question made with appropriate eye contact.

He simply didn't know what to feel, or when to feel it, or why it was happening, and what he should do about it. It was either freak-show fireworks or nothing; temper tantrums or dead numbness. With brain disorders, patients don't understand what's happening, let alone how to process the strong feelings that are a normal part of  life. It's the range of experiences that completely throw them into illness. Imagine this: you think about a rather stressful but common event (like paying bills or going to the dentist), and just thinking about it causes you to have excruciating pains throughout your body, starting with your head. Can't imagine it? Neither can I, but that's what a mental illness does. Thinking = pain.

For addictive disorders, it's a deadly combination of personality defects, character flaws, mental instability, physical handicap, learning impairments, and emotional misfiring. I've seen psychosis in people who vacillate between a depressive blankness to a caffeinated, motor-mouthed mania, up close and personal, because we all have. Every single person on this planet knows someone in their family sickened with these illnesses, because we're the healthy ones who take care of them. Or avoid them. Or they avoid us, the next time they "fall off the wagon" (again) because it rained yesterday, and you weren't "nice" to them, or "sensitive" enough to meet their needs that always take precedence over yours, because you're healthy and they're not.

As with the most adept family member, the burden falls onto the healthiest person, who then becomes the crux upon which the balance of the entire family rests, or not, as the case may be, as it is with me. If mama ain't doin' well, ain't nobody doin' well, get it? It's a message that I have to constantly reinforce with my sick family (and there's a lot of them), by reminding them accurately of my timeline and theirs, which seems like a magical parlor trick to the insane, when it's really called "memory", and it's a normal thing to have. On most days, the  emotional range I will get back from my sickest family members will be like a game of "Spin The Wheel in Hell!", because they find mature subject matter <spin the wheel> "bad", or "sad", or is it "mad"?

And that's it. That's sometimes all I will get from the people I raised/grew up with (besides avoidance and communication blackouts), which is my direct cue that they have become sick in my absence again, and then it's time for me to perform Anne Sullivan to their Helen Keller (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sullivan), except instead of an inner super-genius, I have to get them to react to basic skills like caring and sharing, so I don't starve to death. Weird, right? You should try it sober. Like most heads-of-household, it's only by the grace of G-d and my own hard-working excellence that I avoided their diseases and addictions, because it turns out that you can't actually beat the life out of someone who's healthy. I'm living proof of that.

Yesterday, I watched a chilling episode of an old t.v. show called "American Justice" that highlighted a psychotic man who decided the only way out of his "problems" was to kill his entire family. He calmly ate breakfast, shot his wife, dragged her body to their empty ballroom (he felt "pressure" to provide for his family), then talked to his elderly mother who inquired after the noise. That's when he shot her in the head, too, but he had to leave her where she was, because she was too heavy for him to carry, and that stressed him out more. He also shot his children as they arrived home from school one-by-one, though the soccer-playing boy didn't drop right away like the other two, so he HAD TO shoot him ten times instead.

We know all of this detail about his hideous crimes because he sat down after dinner (killing is tiring, but he was feeling relaxed now that his "problems" were gone), and wrote a five page letter to his pastor, full of bullshit, half-truths, lies, excuses, finger-pointing, and blame. He left his dead family on plastic tarps in the ballroom that he felt "pressured" to buy for them, because his mother supposedly nagged him into becoming successful, then he withdrew thousands of dollars from the family's bank account (he said he was bankrupt and that was the last straw, after being fired again for aberrant behavior at work), and then he disappeared for fifteen years. He was finally free!

After his time on the road, he even married again, happily changing his name to avoid capture, working as an accountant (he blamed his OCD personality disorder for the killing spree, after finally being correctly diagnosed by a court-appointed psychiatrist, because in his arrogant delusion he never thought, "Gee, I should go talk to someone like my doctor"), and then appearing on the show to give his point of view. In between monotone recounts of a story he's told a million times (he loved the show "America's Most Wanted" and bragged to his co-workers about it, which led to his capture, like every other common criminal before him), he finally broke out into the gleeful laughter that played around his mouth the entire time he told his side of the story.

You see, he enjoyed it. He loved the fact that he excellently executed his demented plan, so much so, that he was disappointed by the lack of attention. He loved the artist rendition of him as an old man shown on "his" episode of A.M.W.; he couldn't believe how accurate it was. It looked just like him! He didn't know they had aging technology like that, told with a cagey look to his watery eyes. He knew he couldn't cop an insanity plea because of the calmly meticulous planning behind his sick crimes, but he tried it in court anyway. Worth a shot, right? I mean, as long as the cameras were rolling, why not give it a "go"? Maybe someone in "T.V. Land" would feel bad for him. Heck, he might even get married again!  He had the rest of his life to live.

 http://nypost.com/2015/02/08/charles-mansons-fiancee-wanted-to-marry-him-for-his-corpse-source/

 

Minority Report

"Minorities" tend to change with the times, depending on who you ask, and the amount of money involved. Sometimes it's also dependent on the size of your notoriously murderous, squaw-stealing tribe (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohegan_people), so you can cash in on the white man's excesses involving his drinking and gambling by manipulating those weaknesses (just like they did to you, right?), using the prized tribal lands that your ancestors fought for, to feed your own greed. Its sort of like a dog biting its own tail, don't you think? Neither party goes very far in sickly co-dependence, preferring to stay trapped in their own pattern rather than risking a cure to good health.

It's insanely cowardly, but that's how human nature can be sometimes. It's up to us, as "publicans" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Publican), to keep the records regarding our histories straight, for the sake of our children's children.  So, today, it is with great pleasure (and perhaps a touch of sadness for your lately-ruptured innocence) that I present you with this true life story about murder by numbers. If I were you, I'd think carefully before your next racist diatribe, friend. You're probably on the majority list, along with the other so-called European elite. All I ask is that you let your computer do the math for you, by adding them up. Everything else has already been done.

Read 'em and weep, and then, I want you to disband your favorite federal "colored folks" organization, made for getting money through some trumped up case of "white guilt" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_guilt). Every type of human on this planet has suffered through some kind of holocaust or massacre involving direct family. It's over.

Africans around the world: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/African_diaspora
Hispanics, and other Latins: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hispanic_and_Latino_Americans
Holocaust victims, in total: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Holocaust 
Armenian Genocide: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armenian_Genocide 
Russian deaths during Stain's rule: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Stalin 
Chinese starvation and state-sanctioned murder: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_Revolution 
Communism: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mass_killings_under_Communist_regimes
Great Potato Famine: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Famine_%28Ireland%29
And, finally: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_wars_by_death_toll 

Now, here are my relevant numbers: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis_people_%28Canada%29. I expect no further questions need to be asked regarding repatriation, resettlement, and reclamation, on behalf of my people? Yes...?! Good! I hear nothing but crickets! I like that sound. Reminds me of the country.

Better Safe Than Sorry

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uber_%28company%29

In another highly coincidental sense of "timing" that's my life (we're calling it that today, right?), I planned to write this piece about common sense and excellent grandfatherly advice many weeks ago, one that dovetails nicely with current crimes in your tabloid media, but more on that a bit further in. Suffice to say, my original notes contained references to timeless classics like not having your head up your own ass, which works in any century. Much like the adage "don't take rides from strangers", it fits neatly into any time and any type of human life.

And so it was. I kept my bearings crossing city streets without developing weird tics like saying the street name three times before attempting to do so, which was also nicely contained within the phrase "always watch your back" and I did, so it worked. When our airspace was violated during 9/11, my then-boyfriend and I were already deeply invested in his flight training, which was part of our moving back to New York City. He and I spoke at length about American naïveté regarding travel and airplanes that was echoed around the world. A Yankee ballplayer had infamously flown a small light plane over the gusty East River and right into the side of a building years before the debate about our precious urban air-spaces entered into your mainstream lexicon.

My English-born boyfriend was aghast that a city as famous as New York would even allow anyone like a private pilot within range. It was a huge gap in our collective awareness that wasn't in step with the rest of the world. People from Israel are so accustomed to a strong military presence at airports (like other "hot zones" around the world continually rife with conflict) that they've long considered it an enormous problem for us that had to change. Ditto with England's airspace. In fact, many European-Americans feel comforted by military personnel on duty at popular public spaces, and so do I. 

I fucking love seeing buff dudes in tight outfits with big guns at the Port Authority (sorry, my hetero is showing), especially with their awesome K9 units. Yay! Big "papas" and their highly-trained, bomb-sniffing dogs!! I bet we'd have a lot in common, like dog training and special ops certification programs in the woods! I was immediately cheered on by the gearing up of a big TSA-based presence at our international airports, because it sends a message around the world that we care about our people and their transportation, because we do. It's an accurate reflection of our passion for life that was missing before.

That was the tone of my message before some pyscho-killer chose this week to be an evil fucking scumbag. We had a big, open, media conversation this past summer about Uber in New York City that I thought would quickly trickle down to this rest of the country, but I guess fucking not, so let's go over it again. Don't get into cars with strangers. Period. There's a reason why people need certification, licenses, DOT numbers, and photo ID's to drive people around the city, and this is it. Back in the day, we called sketchy-looking foreign dudes who drive around looking for fares "Gypsy cabs", which meant you had as much luck getting to your destination safely as you had getting advice from shaking a Magic 8 ball. It was "buyer beware" all the way there and back, because once you get into someone's car, they can pretty much take you wherever the fuck they want to, without benefit of a professionally-installed GPS like modern taxis have that marks the 21st century, you dumb fuck.

It is not at all like booking a room on a website that's certified to provide professional B&B service, because a room is not like a car (for obvious reasons), just like an unmarked car is not the same as a professional cab driver, you dick. For the record, AirBnB was created by two RISD-trained intellectuals who care about their business, so that's a big fucking difference right there. Mayor de Blasio said pretty much the same thing: it's not that we want to deprive any individuals the right to earn a living in a very competitive city, it's just that your lack of training is what made some Michigan nut into a killer, see? Do you now see how that works?! Good! Your nutcase is not the same as my kind Grandpapa from Queens with his Medallion-owned yellow cab. Get it? No?

OK, here's more: your ignorant, fucking welfare kook with a borrowed, uninsured car IS NOT THE SAME as a professional limo driver looking to pick up a few fares on his way back to the garage, by picking up a few tourists around Times Square in the middle of our hottest summertime days, with his plush-air-conditioned ride. Do you get it now? Of course you do, you insane fuck. Remember those shitty Chinatown buses from way back that took transplants from the city to Boston "on the cheap" until people died, which is exactly like those crazily over-stacked MegaBuses that advertise "holla for a dolla" rides around Chi-Town will do...until some cheap-ass muthafucka dies from what should be a standard commuter bus route. Pay the fuckin' full fare for a real bus or stay home, you broke-ass idiot. Fuck! I don't want to have this conversation again, feel me? Yes, you do. Now you do.

https://www.everipedia.com/jason-brian-dalton-1732170173668679/

Buses: 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinatown_bus_lines
https://twitter.com/megabuscrashes

Cabs:
http://www.whosdrivingyou.org/rideshare-incidents 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illegal_taxicab_operation 

Planes:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2006_New_York_City_plane_crash 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prohibited_airspace 

The Winchester House

The doors to the bathrooms were solid wood; they were replaced with glass so that tourists would not mistake them for functioning bathrooms, which they are not. The only functioning bathroom was outside Sarah Winchester's bedroom, which had a small window for a nurse to check in on her, later in her life: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_Mystery_House

I loved ghost stories as a kid. Whenever a new catalog from a particular children's book club came around the classroom, I always circled a few key titles for my perusal: ghost stories, vampire tales, paperbacks from the horror genre, and the "Guinness Book of World Records". Anything about the supernatural or fantastical immediately captured my imagination, like faked spirit photographs from the early 19th century, or those infamously blurry and deliberately ambiguous images of the Loch Ness monster. How could anyone prove or disprove such vague claims?

It was in this quest for the truth that my first tentative paranormal investigations began, heightened by my natural curiosity about the big, unanswered questions behind common cultural mysteries. I never really believed in space aliens or crop circles, but I was fascinated by the gullible people who did, usually fringe characters who never really fit into the world, seeking phantom societies they felt more comfortable with. 

Eventually, every huge hoax has been exposed to reveal the more interesting truths behind them, like: why would a group of British artists spend their evenings developing mathematically-accurate concentric circles in flattened fields of wheat? Well, because they're beautiful, and because mass hysteria is a prevalent human phenomenon, so much so, that for many years, major universities in England devoted departmental funds to their art, mislabeled as surreal, nocturnal alien encounters (http://www.circlemakers.org/). The art is actually much better than some invisible ghouls that go "bump" in the night, but the stories and untruths inspired by creative acts are part of the culture that surrounds each myth-making legend attached to them.

I was reminded by such a cultural creation walking uphill from town with one of my friends from the "basic yoga for disabled seniors" class that's held every Monday at our community center. She told me a great story about an older man who owned several trade magazines (they published journals for electricians, boat builders, etc), who disappeared on a yachting trip. She didn't think much of it at the time, because the younger son immediately took up his vacant post to evade lingering questions among the staff and authorities working the case. She attached her memory of the event not to his untimely death, but to the area called "The Bermuda Triangle". She cited all the typically kooky stories we've all read in the same pulp fiction outlets, like those Big Foot photos that never seem to be in clear focus. Isn't that odd?

Much like ruining a younger sibling's belief in the tooth fairy, I felt bad for letting her know that there are no unknown, uncharted giant invisible whirlpools that suck in boats from the ocean, much like there aren't invisible air-shafts over Bermuda that pull down planes into the sea without mechanical or pilot error. Stories like that are great cover-ups for nefarious deeds, though, which is the more likely part of the scenario behind the disappearance of her publisher way back then: that he didn't know how to captain his own ship, thus was lost to the rough currents and sudden squalls that any good sailor knows how to combat effectively (and here in the conversation I cited Robert Redford's movie "All is Lost", as a recent example of one man's battle against the sea), or that he absconded with company funds and staged a fake death so that he could make off with all the money. 

Even worse (and this I didn't share with her because she has a fragile psyche), may be that his own son murdered him so he could take over the family business, which happens a lot more than we think. My friend said she looked up the old company online, and they are no longer in business, which didn't surprise me at all. Well-constructed edifices do not topple easily. The name of the building she worked in has changed, too, but she didn't want to hear the truth. She wanted to believe in comfortable fairy tales that remain mysteries forever, because she disassociates from reality. I asked her a few quick, sharp questions designed to assess her ability to observe her surroundings while in yoga class, and she failed every assessment test I gave her, not that I'm trying to ruin my friend's peace of mind.

Far from it. I want to build her up so that she tells me her really good stories, like the one she mentioned about the mysteriously absent pater familias, because I told her the truth: those are the stories publishers actually want. She walked away from me full of new information that she will almost certainly struggle to assimilate effectively, which is also point of the point. If she can learn to build her stories around real structures that hold, then she won't be tempted to lapse into unproductive patterns of thought that go nowhere, like her mythical Bermuda Triangle, the worst kind of cultural deception there is, because it's not real. In fact, there's nothing magical there at all.

It reminded me of the old story about Sarah Winchester, the wacky eccentric heir to the Winchester family fortune (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_Repeating_Arms_Company), who said she built staircases to nowhere to accommodate the dead people murdered by the rifles her family's company made, a story told to me in grainy black-and-white photos from an old paperback I ordered many years ago, through my elementary school's book-buying program. I felt sorry for Sarah, even as I understood the power of her penance. She lived through the profit from a culture of death we are still living in now (http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/money/industries/manufacturing/2010-10-20-remington-700-trigger-cnbc_N.htm), as evil a stain as any human could ever hope to bear, and no wonder she couldn't stand the weight of it.

Would you be able to live in a fancy mansion, knowing that your family murdered millions of average people, just like you? If you can't (and you know you can't), then how can you ask your peers to bear up under the sin of killing that's behind every mass murder? We can't go on like this. Let's tackle gun reform laws revised for mandatory licensing, certification, and permits for legal gun ownership, with psychological background checks cleared before we issue permits to the ill and infirm. It's why you're seeing more frequently open manifestations of extremely violent events. We're shining a light on the darkness that hides within. We're winning.

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

http://www.winchesterguns.com/library/articles/detail.asp?id=746

Columbine

Around the world and on my shelf: people in books and photographs.

I lived in Littleton, Colorado during the Columbine Massacres, and even worse than the media orgy that followed, was the timing of my very New York mothers' visit out west. Uh oh... she and I were eating at a local restaurant, when she noticed in horror that she was wearing a dark raincoat eerily similar to the teenage killers "Trenchcoat Mafia" look (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Harris_and_Dylan_Klebold). 

It was an unfortunate synergy to the events of the day, not least of which was the almost ecstatic release of pent-up psychological energy loosened upon the area, a public hysteria that stood out sharply to the mostly sullen reticence of the prairie people I met native to the land, and therein lies the problem: affluent white people are often really fucked up. Rich white kids terrified me in the Ivy Leagues and Ivory Towers of school and work, a feeling that did not abate with exposure to more of them existing in isolated pockets around America. Needless, my mom told me I should leave Colorado and move back home, which she reminded me about almost every time we talked on the phone, and we both agreed: "There's something wrong with the people out there." She was right. We saw it in the people around us.

 In Colorado, there are two types of humans: whites and Mexicans. Some adopted Asian orphans are thrown in for diversity''s sake, but when I lived there, being from New York was considered so exotic, my fellow New Yorkers traded in their actual personas for an easier "Seinfeld" version of themselves to show locals over their truer colors, because native Coloradans just didn't understand them. There wasn't enough inside of them for us talk to, which is horrible if you are indeed the parent of a fucked up white kid. Who talks? Exactly. No one does. 

As the story unfolded, supposed new "details" emerged, none of which were particularly new or interesting to me: the killers had schemed and plotted their violent psychotic episodes right underneath their parent's noses, because the mom and dad were too busy with their petty careers to learn more about them. Teenage years are the prime check-out time for the dysfunctional parents who spawned their little messes, because high school age adolescents need less time and care, which is exactly what they got from their parents: nothing. Sure, both boys had enough money from their parents to stockpile a lot of weapons (same as the fucked up rich kid in Cali, with a plush movie-producing dad to go along with his intimate knowledge of video and youtube), and they lived in houses so big, there were plenty of spots to hide anything they wanted to, which is exactly what they did. Expertly.

Not teach, not learn, not grow, not function, and ultimately, not live. Just die. It was the same "here we go again" feeling I had early this morning on a rare coffee run to the corner because I was out of milk. The t.v. was on in the convenient store, showcasing fat white lady after fat white lady, crying about the cycles of dementia and abuse they remain trapped in (redundant to me already at this age), because their bodies tell me everything I know to be true about them with one quick glance, without me ever having to hear it from someone like them again: they're sick, and so are their kids. Again. 

What's next? First: drop the gun, asshole. Speak up about that sick kid in your class, or at your job, or sitting next to you pretending to work at a public library's computer so he can stalk you while smelling badly, openly and without censure from people who see me daily, in my own community. Tell someone, tell anyone, and keep on telling the truth about that sick motherfucker sitting next to you every single day, until someone around you does something about it. Speak up!

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2014/10/mass-shootings-increasing-harvard-research

You're almost home, human. Join me: http://bit.ly/1j5tc6Y

Rock you like a hurricane

http://www.himandus.net/hofh/chauvin/richard/richard_00_acadian_history.html

I planned on writing a piece today about minority culture, when a casual conversation with my neighbor directed me towards another key issue affecting impoverished Americans that's a tie-in with today's "Hurricane Joachim" conditions, and that is this: flooding. It's no secret to my Acadian, Cajun, and Creole peoples that oppressed minorities who threaten the status quo were (are) pushed into marshlands and swamps (what up, Zydeco fans?), conveniently "resettled" during occupational wars with not-so-hidden agendas. Richly fertile island nations with beautifully exotic women were suspiciously targeted the most often. 

To this day, "white" Canada disparagingly refers to any native person as an "Aboriginal", in a clear attempt to marginalize their First Nation status by wrongly placing them in the same category as the people of Australia, who are seen as less than attractive by the European Penal Colonists sent there without choice. Obviously, each human tribe on Planet Earth has a range of beauty from the ugly to the more comely, but it is no secret (see me in pics) that the Métis figured something out: French (or Scotch/Irish) guy mates with squaw = an "OMIGOD, how do I get my hands on that?!" level of attractiveness that my sweet Norman Barese grandmother from the Abruzzi region of Italy called "Oo la la!" in a loud voice whenever she thought it was wise to remind her family about me and my key "factor", and she was never wrong about anything. Like, ever.

The Canadian government recently officially recognized that the enforced separation, murder, and ethnic cleansing of Acadian Métis was "unfortunate", which is kind of like saying that the Serbian Croatian War was "bad". Yeah, you think? Ripping families apart based on eye color has become such a taboo subject in my culture, that deeply ingrained prejudices about it remain in place to this day. My Québécois/Irish-American college boyfriend from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn told me a few times that he had qualms about my "marriageability" because I have brown eyes (strikingly coal-black eyes are a trademark Métis feature) and he has blue eyes, and, ahem, you know, well, maybe he wanted blue-eyed children. Me, looking like what you know to be true, and he is no supermodel. It was a petty little head game he played with me to parlay my supposed insecurities about my looks into his hands, which...well, you see where I'm at with him today. Nowheresville.

Race continues to define the descendants of a culture that took American ideals at face value when it came to openly assimilating different cultures. French with Africaine? No problem: you Creole now. European with a Native? Okay, we are Métis. Ditto with your Irish, Scottish, British, and Dutch ancestors with us. Now you tribe, too. Twenty-five percent is all you typically need to get in, barring any serious medical conditions like violently anti-social paranoid schizophrenia (which is kind of a "no-no" in any human community), and we just might let you in for life. All we ask is that you accept my brother and my sister, who may or may not share eye color or the exact same skin tone, but we have a wide range. You follow me here? 

The Acadian Deportation (Le Grand Dérangement) is exactly what got you stranded in an area below sea level, ami. Homeboy, you sinkin' in Red Hook right now ("Hoek" in Dutch, New Amsterdam) because they don't like you and your kind, especially if you get along well with your neighbor, who may or may not be the same color as you. Ya dig? You're the "problem" they want gone. "But, who exactly is 'they'"? "Who", indeed. Now you're asking the right questions. See you on the other side, friends. And take swimmin' lessons in the hood, mes Cajuns et Creoles. Hurricane season is officially here.


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

http://portsidetanker.blogspot.com/2013/02/red-hook-sandy-surge-map.html 

https://umaine.edu/canam/publications/st-croix/acadian-deportation-migration-resettlement/ 

Exodus (Movement of the People)

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

Year after year after year, we see the same dysfunctional pattern: corrupt government goes bad in yet another bloody coup, blundering rich white people attached to relief agencies swarm the area to witness first-hand the same type of atrocities (again), equipped with an effete cameraman as their only protection. 

These are desperate people seeking fame, fortune, glory, and the spoils of war (with maybe an award or two for extra boasting power); the area becomes flooded with conflicting tribes, petty warlords, and other opportunists there to catch the gold drippings hanging off of each and every well-meaning (and oh so charitable) drop from the American Red Cross by, that's right, those infidel American pigs!! Praise G-d!

As much as I love the idea of an unchanging homeland that continues on forever and ever, I know that the ground moves beneath our feet, as does the air above our heads, and the water in the oceans we cross. So do we as humans. You are not a plant rooted to only one type soil. You do not need any more oppression from people who do not love you. You can change. You can move. And so you must.*

I'll be here waiting, and I always keep my word to my people. Come here; live freely like we do. Amen to you during these days of upheaval, great stress, and extreme worry. May your journey to other lands see you arrive safely upon those shores, to a peaceful, law-abiding people who wait for you with open arms. Amen to you today, my many faithful who are free.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

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

To my Syrian (and former cab driver) friend from New York, now the proud owner of his own air conditioning business, a big success if ever there was: thanks for helping out a neighbor in need with A/C when yet another corrupt landlord failed to do so, knowing that she is disabled and cannot move about freely. You came to her in her time of need, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your service. Also, your knowledge of Aramaic** is most encouraging to me. 

To my new Syrian-American/Syrian- friends: Mike might not say it to you, but he wanted a big warm hug from Mommy, and he got one with a smile:) This one's for you, homeboy.

*   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_of_Exodus
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aramaic_language

 

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

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