"Buttahface"

US Navy American professional iron man athlete Karl Gillingham spots Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class Ardinis Strickland. As an added bonus, try picking out the least attractive white guy in the photo as part of the game. You will win no prize, whatsoever. Nothing at all. Maybe some backlash.

I had kind of a great weekend. The weather was cooler at night, which makes for good sleeping, and boxing was on during daylight savings time, also very good for humans without that pesky circadian rhythm disorder known as "Manic Depression". In other words, this mommy watched boxing for free on a local t.v. station she gets with her digital antenna without using drugs to stay awake. Yay! I know, right? Girls, I know you feel me on this one. What planet do they live on? Baffling...

Anyway, back to the show. The boxing matches were a highly competitive weight class, and the talent was fierce. One handsome young man was sharp right out of the gate. I could tell by the condition he was in that he would win, and win he did, within the first minute of the first round, which is rare for boxing (not so much for MMA, but they are different professional sports). On a side note, they were televised from Foxwoods*, which helps to line the pockets of my Connecticut natives, who definitely owe me a cut of the profits for babysitting one very particular and highly disordered Mohegan/Cayugan/European disaster that my tribe did not create, because white man's "Fire Water" still does him and his kind wrong in this century, and they choose not to adapt or die. But, you know, also for solidarity's sake and stuff.

So, it was with great delight that I watched some experienced talent make their way through the day's fights. Another strong standout young man fighting out of Brooklyn was the favored fighter, for all the right reasons. His technique is excellent. He fought an Australian "Aboriginal"-type youngster of less experience, who had to be carried out of the ring, which sucks for the fighters and fans alike. It's not the kind of outcome anyone wants. But, the fight's doc assured the announcer that he was responsive on the way out, which is a great sign for his recovery. He'll go back to Australia with a much better idea about American sports, which is critical for a 23 year old.

This also handsome Brooklyn fighter had some flair, like you'd expect to tune into as representing freshness from the 'hood. Him and his crew sported wild python-like outfits in various colors (flashy, yo!), and after his show was over, he threw out swag to the audience, which is always the right thing to do in business, kids. Free stuff wins over the crowd every single time, and I LOVED his presence of mind about his chosen profession. But then, something very strange happened. The camera panned to the thin attendance in the seats (daylight hours being horrible to illicit cretins and all), and this really funny-looking Pimp Daddy with a big hat and polyester suit (I shouted out "HuggyBear!" to the t.v. in true ghetto-style...yeah, it was that much fun), with his banged-up looking white bitches....or so I thought.

Turns out, the back-story about this boxing gentleman was about his recent hiatus from the sport (they always spout shit about "cage rust" to fill up the time: it's an urban myth), due to the birth of his child. In most modern circles, this is also known as Maternity Leave. Ah, so what? Papa needs a brand new bag for baby. Good on him for doin' the right thing for his girl. Most guys ain't stand-up about an unplanned pregnancy, IMHO (and a big "Fuck you!" to "Scooter" for tossing me that bullshit acronym in a supposed "business" email. I know you read me, bitch). Life happens. And then, the camera scrolled back to my suited-up ole gansta with what I thought was his crew, but, OMIGOD was I wrong, because underneath this average white girl's pic was her MARRIED NAME to this handsome, successful Africa-American boxer.

Alright, let's work this out together. Yo, part of keeping your team together is letting your homeboy know that banged-up broad is an international flavor that transcends skin tone, and that my man now his HER GENETICS on his baby's face. Part of being a good teammate is keeping the ugly groupies away while your man trains. I mean, WTF Brooklyn? He found that in Brooklyn? You could walk half a block and find ten honeys betta than Miss Coyote Ugly 2015, which leads me to the next fabulous piece of ghetto-truth: beauty only mates with ugly when crazy is involved, and a strong one at that. Doubt me? OK, follow this link to see which famous actress** is married to what the sea done drug up and washed onto the beach from Down Under, because girlfriend needs funding for her vanity projects, hotel rooms, award show gowns, and most importantly, pricey uninsured meds.

Booyah backatcha. Don't mess with mami, boys. I know all them tricks. Y'all been schooled, so don't let yer boy roll with that banged-up bisexual cheerleader just cuz you won the trophy, and homeboy deserves a good time, even if it's with that thing (um, cheerleader) lookin' for a paycheck with the Mrs. Degree she wants to graduate with. Being head quarterback ain't all that. It's hard work carryin' your ass on any given Sunday, so don't get yo' boy drunk and pair him with ugly just as payback for "da game". I am so onto you. You gotta create the total package, coach. That's training for life.

See it here: http://bit.ly/1W5BSIi

For more tips about how to be a good friend, please follow along with these choice, highly-styled lyrics from back in the day:

Take It Off 
De La Soul 

(It's hurting.)
(Smell your breath!)
(You smell like Jabba.)
(Your nose is what's doing it.)
(You're talking into the recording... YO!)
(Okay Lucky, start it off.)

Take take take take take it off...
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off, take take take take it off
Take it off
Take it OFF!
(Take that suede front off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those contacts off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that horsemeat off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those shell-toes off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those track fleas off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that doo-rag off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that moth neck off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those fat laces off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that bomber off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that BVD off)
Take it OFF!
(Take those Converse off)
Take it OFF!
(And those Gazelles too)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Kangol off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Jordache off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Afro off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that jhericurl off)
Take it OFF!
(Take that Le Tigre off)

Take those acid-washed jeans, bell-bottomed, designed by your mama...Off? Please? Please..

*   http://www.foxwoods.com/aboutus.aspx
** http://likesuccess.com/428884   

Counterfeit

My attempts at creating a home out of the remnants of my aunt's apartment in Kensington were often met with sneers from the 30-something crowd who competed with us as teenagers at RISD (taking the one available scholarship for Illustration from us as well!). She dropped snippy remarks about my poverty, like: "Oh, this is such a claaasic 'starter' apartment", the very same privileged bitch who took college money from us by working professionally as a graphic designer for many years, and was taught illustration by her illustrator dad before going to school with us for Illustration (hence "winning" that Hallmark prize money, the one and only prize awarded to students for Illustration), living off the comfort that her IT husband provided for her. She then set at sabotaging our lives and work when she realized NYC was out of her reach (even after she ripped us off), to finally retreat to that northern place where all rich hippies go: Woodstock, NY.*

But enough about her. I was left with whatever my aunt didn't want to pack and move with her, like she was on the run from a serious crime, instead of the easy living my father's sponsored support provided her, present at each and every level of her life, which included (totally free of charge): apartments (in New York City), houses (in West Texas), jobs (in his company), healthcare (from out of his pocket as her employer), furniture, movers, cars, insurance, food...everything was always included. The only way I could do my apprenticeship in the city and stay alive was living in her cast-off apartment that had some furnishings, leaving me to pay off her monthly maintenance fee (it was a co-op), and all of the other bills that came with living in Brooklyn.

Anything else that I needed to survive, I had to either find, make do with, or do without. It was with this barely-able-to-eat budget that a basic answering machine came to mind because I had none, and I needed one for potential employers to contact me while I interviewed for work. I had nothing except my clothes, my artwork, a drafting table, and a few lamps, moving out of my mother's house at 17 for school, and not looking back. I have always been almost completely and totally on my own, for most of my life so far. I told my cousins from Sheepshead Bay (they liked to drink at the old man's bar on the corner, down the block from my aunt's place, because it's a cheap dive with a great jukebox), that I needed an answering machine, and they told me not to shop on Canal Street for home goods, but what could I do? I was flat broke with just my work savings from college jobs and a credit card, before I began living paycheck-to-paycheck.

I'd known about Canal Street since my student days, because there's a really well-known art supply store there, packed with several floors of stuff. It's the one place in the city where you can find everything you need to make art, and that's a rare thing. Back in the frontier days of Brooklyn, I had to do most of my shopping in Manhattan, and lug it home on the train or (if I just got paid) in a taxi, but that was extremely rare. Every penny counts. I screw up my budget, I starve. End of story.

So, I knew when I picked up a shrink-wrapped machine down on Canal Street (which cost me two subway fares to get to, for the ride there and back from way-out Brooklyn, taking me hours to do, with transfers and construction re-routing on the weekend) that I was entering into a shifty no-man's land of goods and services, a shady place to shop where there are no guarantees, but when was my life any different? If I didn't do something (anything) to help myself, nothing happened. Absolutely nothing changed, because no one did anything about it, just like it is today. It looked "hot" and slightly used when I picked it up in front of a street stall, but it was either this or nothing, so I bought it from some chain-smoking Chinese guy for $15.

My dad's cousin laughed drunkenly in my face the next time I saw him, because within a month, the two mechanical arms that sprang up when you needed to change the tape broke off. They completely popped out of their tracks, never to be put back into proper working order again. "I told you so", he slurred at me, and then he bought another round. Thanks. Within a week, I made the painful decision to invest in a $25-35 machine, knowing I'd feel the squeeze at the supermarket that weekend; no after-work drinks or take-out slices for me. When I turned to look around the joint, I simply saw myself reflected in the mirror behind the bar, because there was no one else to turn to. Ain't never been any different for me than that.

* https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/trustafarian

Garanimals

In case you haven't figured it out, yet (because I publish to whoever happens to be reading, or not, as the case may be), my mom has a lot of really serious issues with her brain. Some are silly, but many are not. She did not adjust well to young motherhood, but given her brain, there would be no reason to expect otherwise, so it wasn't. It was pretty much exactly how I describe it, which is hard for her, because she suffers from severe limitations in her brain's ability to remember stuff, sometimes really easy basic stuff, too, which is very embarrassing for her as a self-described "feminist" with "advanced degrees in science". She simply doesn't understand how she went to school with a brain disorder and yet, people do it all the time.

Enter onto this groovy 70s scene a woman who was never very feminine, even on a good day, coupled with the unnerving task of dressing children appropriately for school and life. It's excruciating to watch now, but as a child, it was horribly abusive. She missed certain key dates and appointments, and she was excessively tardy, which she covered under a nasty princess-like attitude that allowed her to sweep into a room like she was going to some swinging cocktail party, except it was my ballet class, and she left me sitting on the curb for almost 2 hours when she was a five minute drive away, because she babbles compulsively on the phone with her similarly disordered sisters for stress relief, none of them actually healthy enough to retain the repetitive inane gossip they share.

I was privy to such revealing truths overheard by one of them as thus: "So. How ya doin'. Oh, yeah? How was _______ (insert name of local suburban chain store here). Oh, yeah? How much? Blah blah blah blah blah..." Then, at some point, someone would get up to use the bathroom, or simply run out of tiring gossip, and at that point it was understood in their OCD world that this brief pause or interruption ("NO! Go ahead! You talk now!"), was a signal among them that they could emit throat sounds and other vocalizations amounting to nothing. 
For some reason, my mom and her delusional sisters thought this placed them far above our safety and security as kids, because such is the power of untreated patterns coupled with crippling delusions. And so it went, still, to this day, as I sit here writing to you.

Fortunately for us, most of our dads worked the city as "Mad Men", which gave them the ability to sell to their desperately bored and firmly ensconced housewives. There was a bevy of products available in the 70s and 80s for every type of disorder three times over, in brightly covered and very hoard-able plastic, which gave them the same type of shopping high as if they fondled them directly in stores for hours, so as to check out from reality. "Stuff" became this way out of your domestic iron chains, when in actuality, it was another outward manifestation of a common compulsive/addictive disorder that needs firm addressing in these modern times, lest we generate more "reality" t.v. contestants and their weirdo objects, an ironic term if ever there was.

Because my mom was so challenged in such an obviously similar way to other dysfunctional females, she used t.v. to create an artificial world that she could drone out to and disappear within, and that was exactly the point advertisers wanted to make. Unhappy? Here: buy this! It was instant and immediate relief, but not the kind that ever solved their problem. Do you have to feed kids? How awful! Throw this on the table, girls. Then you can have FUN FUN FUN again! Do your growing children need clothes for school....again?! Omigosh I can't believe children grow so fast. They're like weeds! All of Madison Avenue in the city catered to their flawed senses of self (mostly lacking), and their immaturity about caring for others, by solidifying their points of view through commercials, which gave them the wrong idea that they were getting it right.

Ever year my mom used a thick Sears catalog to handle the enormity of clothing for small people by asking us to go through it, flag what we wanted, and then she would order it over the phone and pick it up in Nanuet, a task you can still perform in Rockland County today, though most "bubbies" have migrated to the internet to hide their gnawing addictions. My mom floundered even under that simple system, and like-minded disabled salespeople responded in kind, by designing a foolproof way to clothe children with as little thought as possible, you know, because the fate of the world is in your hands, SuperWoman!

It was nuts, but so were our parents. Even more pathetic than hating a rather banal and easy task was the fact that my mom mismatched the turtle icon with the giraffe pants. It may have been cruelly on purpose, so that we would be mocked in school, in retaliation for not liking her horrible dashed-together food, or simply because "Dr. Diane" didn't want to be bothered attending to the needs of others, which is the same type of patterned self-centered selfishness that each and every kid I grew up with had to contend with: the mindset of a bully, whether small or large. It didn't matter if it was clothed in a child's sized shirt, or a grown-ups tailored suit jacket back then, and it still doesn't. Gen X'ers see past advertising gimmicks easily today because we had to back then, just to get through any school day. YAY! Fashion!*

So bring it on, world. We're more than ready for any type of insanity you got. I got ten kinds of crazy flavors in my peeps, some of which you ain't never heard of before kid, ya feel me? Yeah, you do. That's 'cause it's a round-the-way type of life from NYC, babay. Everybody crazy in the hood. It's our way here, yo. Project people be snappin' out all day every day, just 'cause you there, right? Word. Your crazy-ass Brooklyn grandma is now my mom's next door neighbor, and my mom's from the Bronx, okay? Let's work through this together, people. We ain't got nobody else to solve problems for us.


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

Paragraph President

A deleatur symbol, from Martin Vogel's freeware TrueType font, MarVoSym.ttf, available at http://www.marvosym.com

People have strange ideas about the arts, sometimes based solely on the flawed premise that Hollywood cares about getting it "right" over making movie sales. Witness on any given day the striking differences between the book version and the movie, or the actual way historical people look like over, say, the "sexy" movie-version of Stephen Hawking. Yeah, that vast. The same goes for me in my artistic life with art, design, publishing, and just about anything else, which are dependent on one solitary truth: I work at it until I get it right. The idea of hard work is something that's usually glossed over in a movies' musical montage, spanning over the soul-crushing hours of repetitive monotonous labor, but the truth is, once I learn the basics, I move through the rather pedestrian qualities behind my work onto the more difficult and infinitely harder intellectual questions that are at the center of each business, person, place, or thing that I meet with.

Take, for instance, my graduation from the world's best art school into the "real world" of work: I expected it to be a bumpy ride between student life and my apprenticeship, and so it was. I'd never used a fax machine with any sort of regularity before, or worked in an office environment, nor measured out a mechanical for its' adherence to printer's specs (which changes with country of origin and measurement systems), nor did I have any idea about how to price out a book for manufacturing purposes (with equations for paper weight, spine width, trim sizes, and their individual bulk), but soon I did know all that and more. I moved quickly through production to the art department, because as a RISD grad, I could breach the gap that existed between different departments with relative ease, unlike the rather rote qualities that mark the average "designer": typically a skilled craftsman who is highly dependent on the work of others, along with a strict sense of hierarchy that is guided by the Maestro sitting at the top of the pile, someone who supposedly also worked their way up the same corporate ladder very slowly.

But, I was different than the other people around me....very different. 
If designers couldn't guess the font used in a previous edition (which was supposed to be their "expertise"), they came to see me in the production department working as an assistant, so that I could give them my best guess, and I have never taken a type class in my life. One "designer" told me she went through art school and couldn't draw. Yep. She went to (and was accepted, and then, this is even weirder, graduated from) a noted New York art school knowing that she would never draw a single decent picture on any day of her professional life to come. Can you imagine that? I couldn't then, and I still can't now.

I did, however, quickly pick and choose which work qualities I liked, and what tasks I would farm out to that rather scary dull Asian girl from design, the one who always seems chronically tired and depressed. These were necessary assessments that I began right away in my career, so as to avoid boring tasks that were better suited to lower minds, like taking wild guesses with fonts. Gifted people suffer from other people's boredom rather quickly, and the effects can be markedly excruciatingly for us. I could never be a book designer in the last century. They ruled up boards, made sheets of black type on white photo paper, and then pasted them into lines, day after day after day after day. Always the same thing, over and over and over again.

If we didn't have desktop publishing now, I wouldn't be a book designer at all. I'd have been a children's book artist, or a greeting card painter, or a nature photographer. But I soon learned the key components of graphic design, text, and books during my apprenticeship by combining them into the rather unknown and new art-form that has become the rock star genre it is today, and the leading creative intellectual at any house: that of Lead Book Cover Designer. It was precisely because I could draw, and photograph, and then set the type, while mastering manufacturing materials, with an understanding of computer programming (for your innately disordered brain), that allowed me to rise above it so easily, carefully avoiding those currents that trap minor artists and craftsman into eddies they can't get out of, without spending a lot of money on other people for help.

I'm glad I don't have a compulsive disorder, or a lack of will, or any other sense of entitlement about myself, because if I did, do you know what I'd be today? I'd be the "President of a Paragraph", like the bitchy admin who uses the stockroom supplies to yank yer chain on any given Monday: a rather small unpleasant little pissant who hates their life, but does absolutely nothing to get out of it. That's why I made coffee before anyone else was in the office because I got there first, then I changed the water tank on the cooler by myself, put new toner in the color copier and ordered more cartridges, opened up the design department by turning on all the equipment, put on some tunes, and began working the keyboard through your lunch break and after you left at 5 p.m., to sit here today at a public library to absolutely no applause whatsoever, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Like any high-minded human, I wanted more from life. I still do. Don't you?

A Thousand Points of Light

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

Like a lot of native New Yorkers living outside of the country (or smack dab in the middle of it like I was), news of home and murder struck us deep at our core, and like many of my friends, we took it as a beacon of light in the fight against the dark that spreads through the human condition where we cannot see it, deep within our souls. I came home as soon as could, with a full grown Mal and man in tow, in a crazy road trip adventure that was fraught with many perils, but make it I did. 
Of course, that man soon realized all those t.v. shows and movies depicted a reality about my home that he was not prepared to accept, but I accepted the return to the homeland of my birth as a necessary burning up upon re-entry. Ain't nobody gonna move me from this.

And so I set out to reconnect with my old network of former classmates, college pals, and work acquaintances, trying to pick up the thread of life in our big city once again. It was overwhelming: I was flat broke (typical for single women), had one of the highest rents in the country to make every month (alone), on a paycheck that did not include food, or clothing, or electricity, because no one in the city gives a fuck about you or your comfort. It's sad in a way, I suppose, but everybody is just trying to keep their heads above water, in the most vicious waters urban man has ever created. Population and competition do that to people, like Rhesus monkeys fighting for peanuts at the local zoo: people zone out, stepping over homeless humans like they're a discarded pizza box, but what can you do? That bum is schizo and he might knife you. Besides, you'll get fired from the job that keeps your head just above the poverty line, and you'll soon be homeless, too, if you don't hurry into work.

That's life in "The Big Apple". It's a near-constant Round Robin* game of crisis care, like an Emergency Room on any given night throughout Gotham: who lives, and who dies? We call it "The Rat Race" here for good reason, because sometimes the vermin outnumber the amount of humans who give a rat's ass about you, and that's on a relatively peaceful day. Know what I mean? It changes you: how you think, look, and behave. Yeah, it makes you stronger, faster, smarter, and tougher, but you learn to let those little things go over the catastrophes, losing sight of the details that pile up in the face of neglect.

I certainly wasn't alone. As part of my "Reconnect" campaign, I briefly became a "joiner" of clubs and associations, at least temporarily, while I made crucial connections. With my safety, security, and money in mind, I forced myself out into the nightlife of Manhattan, typically after rushing home to Brooklyn from work to walk my dog, change my clothes, and take the train back into town, usually because people become snobbish about boroughs at the slightest suggestion from an out-of-towner. Yeah, I know. Women lead brutally hard lives. On one such night, I sat alone at the bar that some local actor bought with t.v. series money about life in the city. But not for long. Within minutes, I chatted with an attractive lady sitting next to me to learn that, yes, she too did design work. Well, yeah. Most of us do that at some point.

We quickly became friends, and branched out from our two bar stools to include other RISD alumni within our conversations. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy speed past me like a blur, and then I thought I heard my name. "Hey! Beau!" Turned out to be a guy I had gone out on a date or two with, made out with one time without sex, and then never dated him again. He avoided me in classes after that, and I never really knew why, although hardcore dysfunction was definitely part of my short list of reasons. He fit the criteria: well-to-do, infamous dad, artsy Jewish family with lots of creative connections, etc. You know the type. Handsome but distant, like he's got a million exciting things going on, but honestly, it's creative procrastination.

Anyway, we reconnected as friends, in the same dithering slightly romantic way we had made contact at school with. He was still attractive and young, and so was I. He was entering a Japanese firm through Marketing, that standby for artists when the art and design department thing doesn't work out for you. We were all trying to make our way in Post-911 New York. He'd come back from teaching English in Japan after the attacks to enlist in the NYPD. The force didn't work out for him, for obvious reasons, but I admired his response to a call-to-action. I felt the same way about my people, too. This is our home. 
We fight to defend it. Makes sense.

We became reacquainted and spent some time together, mostly drinking his food of choice, like Sake and Sushi, so he could show off his knowledge of Japanese to me, but we occasionally connected on a deeper level. One 9/11 night was one of those times, when we broke through the petty show-off competition of visual genius to throw some light on what it means to really belong to a culture, like he and I do. He was trying to work on series of paintings about his brief time on the force, like his Jewish Upper East Side gallery agent suggested he do, because his pretty but lackluster Japanese landscapes kind of fell flat. I didn't mind. His rich kid edge was the same energy I met with at school. Why would his life here be any different for him? It wasn't really, as I watched him muddle through his intense feelings about seeing murder and the worst of humanity firsthand, for hours at a time.

I didn't think it would go far due to his emotional constipation, hence the whole codependent thing he's got going on with his folk in their Village apartment, because processing wasn't high on his family's list of accomplishments. His sister still slept on his parent's couch at the time, supposedly because she was the victim of a sexual assault that left her traumatized, but after my brush-ups with the insane, I knew it could be untrue. Besides, his parents covered for her constantly in her infirmity, and I knew all about that, too. I covered up for my family more times than I could count, being an abuse survivor all my life. I knew the consequences for speaking up against mental illness in the home.

It was in that context that he invited me to see his cool art studio housed in a trendy brick building that was formerly a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, on the very night we mourn our dead. After touring the facilities, we made our way to the roof with a bottle of wine. It was cold out, as September nights that edge towards Fall are. Besides the uncomfortable fumbling around that passes for flirting with the disordered, I could see the twin lights of the former Trade Center site from atop the building, and I still can't really explain what I saw accurately. It was like there were a thousand little lights twirling, dipping, and swooping independently within the two upward beams, of their individual volition. It was eerie, fantastical, and utterly miraculous.

I asked him if he saw what I saw, and we spoke briefly about it. 
He dismissed it as dust motes, but what kind of matter moves like that?! I tried watching the evening news for days afterward, as well as intermittently searching the web for other witnesses to the events of that night, but I still don't know what happened. I don't know what I saw, except that it looked like the dearly departed souls had become a thousand points of light** in the night, a cluster of brilliant fairy lights brushing up against one another as they surfed the warm updraft of the hot spotlight currents. It was joyful and free, and I have the same chill goosebumps writing about it in this library's air conditioning as I did on that windy night in September, when I wasn't a human warrior on a mission to save the world with my friends, but an artist who could really see what life was about: the beauty of it, the pathos of it, the sometimes tragic and hopelessly beautiful quality to our unique lives that makes the world go 'round. Do you know what I mean? 

I hope you do, because that feeling was more real to me than any of the words spoken to me that night by a New York kid who would never make it out of his head to achieve great success, despite every advantage that was rigged for him through a Capitalist system designed for his particular benefit. He was a victim of circumstances beyond his control, like the synapses in his brain that constantly misfire, as mysterious to me as the cosmic forces that drive stardust across the night sky, but such is the mystery and marvel of our faith. Amen to you today who have suffered at the hands of others who do not love you like I do. I understand you, and I can feel your pain. I can help. We'll be here for you, when you're ready. I am the light at the end of the tunnel. Come home to me.

*    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Round-robin
**  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thousand_points_of_light
 

STARING IS RUDE

http://www.myvoicetshirts.com/

Children are really weird. They need to be taught how to live well or they won't, because people have some of the largest brains within the animal community. For that level of complexity, learning is the key to our understanding, and knowledge solves almost every problem we have as human beings. It is with this in mind that I've observed that the subject of appropriate eye contact needs to be addressed once again, because humans have forgotten what it means as a form of communication for our species.

Think I'm exaggerating for effect? Just ask my older brother about his kids and their fancy rich white kid school in poncy Connecticut: the problem with greeting adults correctly became so bad, that his kid's school had to put it back on the curriculum, just like in the days of old, when your kid came home from school with a note pinned to his shirt about his behavioral abnormalities. Could be worse; we were told horror tales about physical abuse and public shaming, like raps on the knuckles with a ruler, or sitting in a corner on a stool while wearing a big ole dunce cap. Want us to bring that back? No? Okay, great.

Then let's go over it again. When, say, a new human moves into your neighborhood, it is customary to signal that you understand an event has occurred by looking at said human straight in their eyes, smiling, and introducing oneself, handshake or no. Same thing with students at school: when your child enters a classroom, it is customary for them to show respect to their teacher (who is a very powerful and well-educated authority figure in our communities) by smiling and saying "Hello, Ms.______." Oh, and that underline I typed in the previous sentence means that you fill in the blank with the name of your kid's teacher, dumb-ass.

Yeah, that's what my brother told me: the dysfunctional rich kids in his kid's school were so unaccustomed to greeting humans through eye contact and name recognition (because nannies change often, and their parents care more about their stupid fucking corporate jobs than noticing their kids, because they have that all-important flight to catch for yet another dull business trip), they stopped knowing how to enter a room with people in it. That's right, fellow Americans: our children have forgotten how to greet, speak, talk, and make eye contact with other humans. Where do you think they'll go from there? Nowhere.

Same thing with me walking down a street I've walked for years, in a county I went to school in, also for many years: people seem to not understand that gawking at beauty makes them look like the dumbest, craziest piece of shit I will never ever want to meet. You fucked up by gawking at me, ass-hats, like I'm a fucking piece of furniture, or a brightly-colored painting that's your special shiny object to peruse. 

Today, for instance, the fucking douche-bag guys of Rockland County who like to stalk decided that they would only drive by me in cars and SUV's with tinted windows, because their fucking retarded behavior is so bad, I make fun of them obviously rubbernecking at me when they drive past, by imitating their slack-jawed yokel faces. You fucking dick! So original..stalk the beautiful girl. It's like getting a date by harassing women walking by a construction site, which I like to turn around by catcalling beer-bellied, hard-hatted losers in response. It's awesome! They're so scared of me.

So, to re-cap, let's go over the list once again, for the Special Needs and Special Ed sections, who may or may not need a helmet to participate in daily life. You failed: eye contact, greeting other humans properly, introductions as a customary way of greeting other people, smiling and/or nodding to indicate that you are aware of other life forms in your immediate environs, as well as many other basic forms of human communication. Your child has no shot at life because of your obvious failures at becoming a decent human being. Oh, and by the way: staring is still considered rude in this century, fuck ups. Learn something today, you dumb fuck! I friggin' hate rude people.

 https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=staring+is+rude

Half-Assed: A Homer Simpson Story

At my first "real" job after college (working for a publishing company), me and my art department friends quite quickly and easily noted a disturbing trend among office staff, a term forever "re-branded" for me by an ex-boyfriend as those low-paid women who are our "Office Cows": mostly useless ladies who wander around grazing on break room tidbits so they can gripe about their weight to anyone who will listen, gossip, backbite, email petty plots and schemes around using the company IM (not the smartest crowd, as me and my IT friends noted), talk on the phone, surf for shoes on the web, hate their friends on Facebook, and make bitchy comments under their breath each and every time you walk past them to use the bathroom, in case you ever forgot that you got your job through grueling years of hard work and a three-tier interview process that's harder than most exams the President takes on any given day, you know, because design is up there with a nuclear attack on the scale of importance for humanity. 

Oh, it isn't? Huh...well, that certainly isn't what that fat bitch behind the desk is projecting at me. She's telling me with her "death stare" that I rule the world, and so I must. I mean, it happens to me everywhere I go, so it has to be true. Kidding aside (I really do use my intelligent design to help save the world, as is the gist behind my intellectual and academic movement), gifted people are used to being the center of attention wherever we go, dull offices included. You saw "Whiplash", right? It's kinda like that, except instead of an overpaid actor starring in a hammy ripoff of every artist's actual life, it's the real thing that you cannot buy. We go into rigorous rounds of critiques with the biggest power brokers in business, while they sit there gleefully taking potshots at us, under cover of a "meeting". We're ready for it. We've been trained to do this exactly. But...you haven't had you? I imagine that must be really hard for you to withstand psychologically.

So, you do catch my drift, then? OK. That's what I thought. We can resume our regularly scheduled programming (one that doesn't include you) to return to the task at hand: the hard job done under an impossibly tight deadline (rigged for failure on purpose), with as many human douche-bag obstacles as middle management thinks they can safely get away with, to deliver you the best information available on Planet Earth, in each and every century, regardless of country or language. I'm sorry. I don't understand "Office Cow" when your mouth is full of donuts from the break room. "Gosh, she looks sooooo fat in those jeans!" (Whisper it loudly in a blatant showy stage-whisper for the best effect). Heh heh. Maybe you should go on a diet? Or, you could passively-aggressively suck at each and every task that we ask you to do for us, because you're a complete bitch who thinks we don't see your blind hate and envy coming right at us. Because we do.

You see, that's the "Homer Simpson Way": do each and every job task really half-assed, until someone better than you notices that you suck, and then re-does your shitty work on the company's dime with absolutely no support whatsoever. Yeah, just like that! Do everything really half-assed. That's why they pay me the big bucks. And hey, you're welcome for saving the company again, on an underpaid teacher's salary. Ah yes...there's the almost silent "fuck you" mouthed behind my back that I was waiting for. Thanks! It was the opening I needed to get you fired. Buh bye!

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

 

Long Island Ice Tea

A street in Beach Haven on Long Beach Island.

Like most people from around the way, families either went to the Jersey Shore for the summer or out to Long Island, which I knew nothing about. I never really met anyone from Long Island until freshman year at my SUNY school, and it was rough. I had no idea where people that horrible came from, except maybe the town of New City here in Rockland, infamous for nasty, vicious, desperate housewives with their scary long-clawed manicures and overly coiffed hair. My best friend was my first roommate ever, and she did no better with them, even with her family summers at Montauk fishing. We were adrift in a sea of some of the worst human behavior we'd ever seen, but I'll tell that story on another day.

Me and my family made the long drive to LBI* almost every summer, with the occasional stop in Cape May to see family, but mostly we went to a rental house in the town of Shipbottom, and we loved it. Long Beach Island doesn't have a boardwalk, or cheesy strip malls or (back in the early 80s and late 70s) much of anything besides mini golf, surf shops, seafood joints, bike rentals stalls, saltwater taffy/ice cream/fudge stores that also sold seashell magnets, and a few depressing old man Irish bars thrown into the mix.

But we didn't care. We weren't there for the human ambiance. We were there to soak up some sun, play in the sand, and body-surf, because the ocean side of the island is one big beach that seems to never end. When we were kids, we tried walking the length of the island when we got bored, but we never actually made it, because it's 18 miles long, which was way too far for us to go. It was magical, and it was family-oriented, for at least for my childhood and preteen years, until my family broke apart through divorce; a sudden stop with a horrible soap opera ending that included one very short, skinny, thick-glassed, and bucktoothed barely-legal secretary, which was excruciating to tell people, so I mostly didn't unless I was talking to a schoolmate.

My family tried to stumble along with our summer traditions, like the times when my grandparents or my aunt (who had money from her late husband) rented a house, but it wasn't the same. They weren't ocean people or active swimmers, so some of the fun was lost. In any case, in the summer of '87, it all blew up anyway. I already finished high school with Regents college credits by my junior year at age 16, while my mom held me hostage in her house by denying me most of the obvious suburban teenage supports, like rides to work or a cheap used car, so that her and her ugly Italian boyfriend from the house next door could find time be alone (which was so creepy because I grew up with their household as neighbors), after his wife died of cancer. 

They made my mom's house unbearable for me on purpose to have some privacy from their kids, secure that they had the upper hand over me while my older brothers were away at school. One night when my bro was on break, he pulled me quietly onto the staircase so we could hear them downstairs gossiping about money. The old boyfriend from next door actually suggested to her that I could be a hooker ("Maybe she's 'whoring'!"), or selling drugs, and that she should check my purse regularly for items related to those work pursuits. Meanwhile, his daughter had barely made it through high school, and not one of his kids ever went to college. She told me one time at the top of our lane, while waiting for the morning bus to school, that she thought she had a miscarriage. She was just 15 at the time, and I was a late bloomer who'd barely been kissed, and someone who'd also been taught to pinch every damn penny like it was my last, from my thrifty Acadian father and all of my Depression-Era grandparents; which was totally unlike my pampered, white-gloved, private-school mom, with her tea parties and petty, vicious sisters used to getting their way. I made $20 last a long long time, just like I do now.

But everything I did, wore, or said was open to suspicion and scrutiny in my mother's house. I became accustomed to their unfounded fears and wild paranoia about me, and like any good teenager, I eventually caved into their hated suggestions to become the wild rebel they wanted me to be deliberately (so they could tear me apart), and not without a certain amount of style. I couldn't wait to leave home. Senior year was a wash for me and my mom knew it, but letting me stretch my wings towards serious academia would break her "College at 16" family record, and like any evil mother from a fairy tale gone wrong, she couldn't let me get away with beating her, which is as far from parenting as you could get, but both of my highly insecure and very disordered parents were always more childish than mature.

Under this hateful cloud, I took an invite to join my mom and her younger sister at the shore for the 4th of July weekend, but this time I was more experienced. I'd been accepted into every SUNY school I applied to, and my "bestie" would be bunking down with me at Oneonta, so I thought I was set. What could my mom and her vile family do to me? I was naive about powers of destruction, and foolishly optimistic. It was the let-down in my guard that my teenage spirit needed to run free. After a giggly night on the beach with wine and fireworks, I put my mom and her sister "to bed" back at the house (they can't handle adult drinks), and then I went in search of a good time. I didn't have to walk far. I had found my confidence with men (which would lead to a late summer downfall later on, but I didn't know that, yet), learned by watching a pushy Jewish frenemy with lots of time, absolutely no parental supervision, a free car, no after-school jobs, and lots of money. She does PR for fashion in the city today. Yeah.

So, leaving my mom and her sister at the shore shack eating chips at the kitchen counter, I put on a white half-shirt with shorts and a funky hat from a thrift store in Nyack, in true 80s style, and I walked into a house party that was a block away uninvited. I just walked into the house, quickly scanned the place, picked out the best looking guy there, walked up to him at the keg in the kitchen talking to a group of girls who surrounded him as they laughed at his story, blew through the ring of them, and then picked him up over a beer that he poured for me. I left the party with his name and phone number in my pocket. It was the house phone number to his swank downtown Nyack pad with a wrought-iron spiral staircase and exposed brick walls, with a cool city job as an sound guy at MSG. Nice...but I was just getting started.

The next night, my mom was feeling good for once, a little tipsy because she actually convinced her pukey little sister to drink one of her dumb little kid drinks, like Coke and Root Beer Schapps; disgustingly sweet drinks to match her sugar tooth, with its' raging soda and caffeine addiction, one that continues unabated to this day. She was feeling loose, so my mom let me order Long Island Iced Teas at our table, the strongest drink known to man. She didn't know that, which was rare for her, so I took advantage of this opening to order with impunity. I'd been warned that they snuck up on you silently, but by the third one, it was already too late. I was knock-out, pass-out drunk.

We were at one of the few nightclubs in town, because my mom's latently gay sister had decided to showcase her rarely seen heterosexuality by openly gawking at male strippers, boldly proclaiming her lame status as a "cougar" (a term sadly not yet in existence in 1987) by hanging a Chippendale's air freshener in her car, when her and her gay friend went to a club in Manhattan on one of their rare hetero-themed larks. It didn't last long (thank G-d), but she was in the middle of her 30s, and this was the last gasp her immature sexuality had before it died forever, helped along by junk food and Valium. She and my mom were also getting along, which was rare, too, because they don't have much in common besides family.

I don't remember much about the show at the time, except that I made eye contact with the cutest guy on stage, while my mom and her stupid sister encouraged me to put money in his pocket so he would come over to our spot where they could look at him. He wasn't my type at all; he had a cheesy pencil-thin and very gay mustache, with tightly-coiled curls that were shaped into the mini mullet of the day, with a tan that was classic guinea at the seaside. Anyway, I really hadn't wanted to see anymore of him than I already did, but I got bored with my mom and her dumb kid sister, so I turned my attention to the dance floor.

"Macho Man" was now in his street clothes, dancing with some girls and waiting for me to make eye contact, which I then did, and WHAM! that was it. He came over to talk to us, asked me to dance, and then we did. My mom went back to her sister, barely noticing me until later on, when the dancing got tighter and closer, and the lights blinked on and off. Uh oh. This was a highly public display for me, something I didn't often do in front of family, because the bitchy repercussions weren't worth the few minutes of attention I got. My mom had sobered up a bit for the drive home, and then she was on us like a harpy, eyes flashing with anger, her nails dragging along my arm and digging in, because she loved scratching me as warning signs to more aggression.

"Do you now how old she is?!!" My mom spat out the words into his face while she pulled me away him. "Uh, no. She told me she was 19!" He looked really young then, too, and startled at this New York mom outburst, which was probably a lot like the spiteful guinea mutha he had at home, waiting for his tip money to put into the family till. "Well she's only 17 years old!!" She screamed it out, and by then, we had made a scene. With the house lights on, he and I looked very young, like the teenagers at the beach that we were, caught red-handed at having a good time. It was all for the best; he wanted to go further with me, and that I couldn't do. I probably would have thrown up in the sand, just like "The Uker" rep I had earned at that summer's first trip to the beach with my friends in lieu of senior prom, and I was just getting started. It was the summer of 1987. Anything was possible.


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

Vacation (Only If You Want To)

Me and my Grandma kickin' back at my goddaughter's Baptismal luncheon, after a LBI beach vacay with other family. I lived in Denver at the time.

My grandparents famously told all of their children and heirs apparent that they would get no money from them after they died, because they were going to spend it all, and I (for one) laughed the loudest at that. Shit, man, they gave their childhoods to work in the city, so that their dependent immigrant families wouldn't starve during The Great Depression, forestalling their own dreams about education and travel to send their four children to college. Of course, I had serious doubts about the logic behind funding four spoiled kids who were (and still are) almost completely inept at times, but I admired their effort.

My Grandpa humped underground for ConEd for more friggin' years than he cared to count, so when he and my Grandma told everyone at family get-togethers they inherited a condo out in Cali that they wanted to sell to spend on trips, I loved the idea behind it. I can't think of two more self-sacrificing people in the world who deserved a really good party away from the crazy kids and grandkids than my two maternal grandparents. They were the glue that kept their dysfunctional brood together, having almost no respite from birth to elder status, except for their senior escapes with the local Senior Citizens Club that my Grandpa was so avid about.

So they sold some condo that they'd never seen to go on some real trips. It was fun getting swept up in their excitement. They got awesome AARP discounts that my Grandpa liked to brag about, which was well-earned several times over, for their more than 60+ years of paying into the system. And they want everywhere: Morocco, Alaska, Hawaii, South America...if they could cruise to it or fly to it, they'd go. They both had iron seaworthy constitutions, never getting seasick even under threat of capsizing in the middle of some great ocean. 

Then, they'd come back to show us their fun photos, like dining at the Captain's table, or ballroom dancing the night away, and the huge buffet that was there whenever they wanted. I loved it all; the excitement in my grandmother's eyes when she shopped for her glamorous evening dress, so deserved for a woman who had worked at a factory as a very young woman so that her family could eat. I couldn't think of a better reward for all their years of loyal familial service than dancing the night away and eating whatever they wanted to, whenever they wanted, without having hungry mouths to feed, or someone whining about that evening's meal.

Compared to all the hard times and heartache they had had in their long lives together, the right to live out loud and without prejudice seemed like justice had finally come into my grandparent's lives for the first time in their lives, and at just the right time, when they had the time, health, and money to do it. They taught me how to not be some typical ugly American tourist, but to learn something about the country I was visiting beforehand, like those cultures shown in the bright glossy brochures we would pour over happily with them, along with the audio tape or language book my Grandpa bought, so he could at least order dinner at the table for them both in the lingua franca, and do native people the courtesy of saying "hello", "goodbye" and "thank you" to them in their own language.

They taught me how to live, and how to live well. I'm so grateful that I saw them make themselves happy for once, instead of it always being the other way around. We so rarely had those times together on our own. Happy travels this summer, and don't just "go away" someplace to spend time and money because of your own personal boredom, but have a ball. I know my grandparent's did. Live well.

Summer Storm (2015)

 

Walking home in the rain, on a Sunday afternoon.

Cocoon

All of my life I've had healing powers, so much so that my mom (who likes to play skeptic) was forced to tell me so directly to my face. It's a huge "win" for me, but a severe loss in her magically passive-aggressive "Wonderland of Rightness", with rules according to "Dr. Diane". She pretty much had to, because I've nursed her through such severe injuries, breaks, falls, and surgeries, that there were times when, even in her delusion fantasies, she didn't think she'd make it back, going so far as to say to me a few times "I'd be dead without you". Fear not, New Yorkers; she'd lapse right back into snarky self-righteousness, right after I picked her up off the floor. Again. 

In this century, we have companies with paid personnel who exist to help old ladies from their apartment floors and cloudy senses of reality, with such great hits from my mom like: "I was very athletic when I was young. You don't know!" Really? What did you do? "I walked bridges! I used to walk all the time." Yeah, I know. It's called "New York", not "Oz", and you were sixteen years old at the time, which means you should be able to walk a few miles, and you did it one time exactly. What else?

"No, no, no. I used to ski. I'm an excellent skier!" When? Once, on your honeymoon in the Poconos, so you could make fun of Dad comin' from broke-ass Bed Stuy because you knew he wouldn't be able to do a rich white man sport the very first time he put on downhill skis. Or, was it the time you tripped playing tennis and broke your back, which we nursed you back from? "OK. Let's change the subject. You're getting on my nerves." That's what I thought. Win all over it.

It's right up there with her superior sense of martial arts skills above me and my very-belted bro, because years ago I introduced her to Tai Chi while I was taking classes. I showed her a video I had on hand, and then I either gave it to her or bought her one of her own for Christmas, but, basically, my deal. She went home, found a "Bubbies-only" Tai Chi class in Westchester that's sit-down in a chair, then bragged to everyone for years about how "good" she was. "See? Look at me punch. Look, Marie! I'm really good at it! My teacher said so." Good at simulating punching...yeah, I know you like to hit.

Anyway, back to reality. Everyone in my family who's had direct contact with me gets healed. My cousin Susan beat Stage 4 lymphatic cancer, and she was the only one in her control group to do so. She chain-smoked cigarettes the whole time, too, much to my dad's embarrassment when he picked her up after her doses of chemo curbside, as a small bald child with a headscarf was wheeled into the facility. Wave "hi!" to them! She also beat the secondary cancers afterward, knowing the aggressive treatment she had was the cause. 

Of course, it isn't magic. She had the right attitude, and she did everything her doctors told her to do (rare for her personality type), plus she was motivated to heal for her son, who would be orphaned if she died. Then, my dad had cancer. He beat it, too. Ditto with my mom and her sisters. Of course, they all used traditional Western medicine, as well as some homeopathic kinds, too.

It's become such an open thing with me that I don't even really try to stop people from making the connection any more, mystical guru powers aside. I made friends with an odd but friendly Korean lady who was taking martial arts at the same dojo. She really sucked at it, but she wanted to make herself feel better from both physical and mental symptoms, so she continued with it, despite an utter lack of focus, continuity, muscle mass, and talent. After she figured out that a few cheap kickboxing classes do not cure you from being a lonely orphan in a new country or painful sciatica, she decided to add into her already ridiculously over-packed life Acupuncture classes, at a professional school in Manhattan.

Over brunch one morning, she played with light conversational sparring techniques that are much more effective in Asia than New York City, where we knew all the flava's here, honey. By now, she knew I was some "big-time" Art Director in publishing, which meant her prior career as a commercial print-making designer for a Chinatown textile firm that fronted her the money to relocate here meant squat to me, though I was delighted to learn that she was artistic at one time. She then worked in massage (got that down, too) and her new studies at the traditional school of medicine that's part voodoo folklore mixed with some basic common sense.

After she cleaned her plate way faster than me, a sophisticated salad of greens perfectly dressed for summer, remarking on the deliciousness of the food in every restaurant I took her to during our brief friendship, she said to me that I should seriously consider becoming an herbalist at her school for Asian folk and their wanna-be's. After a few more outings with her, when I casually body-surfed expertly in an ocean she was afraid of and then schooled her in my 'hood, I noticed that she gradually distanced herself from me, in that way that I've come to know as the typically passive-aggressive Asian lady brush-off. 

I could see that she didn't have much to come back with, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that my mom was one of the first female botanists at the Bronx Botanical Gardens, or that the devoted people of my faith have made real discoveries in medicine that are now worldwide cures, from the traditional abbey herbal gardens that span thousands of years. She wasn't listening to me, anyway.


Yes, my Asian peoples of the world: it's time to get over your "foreigner" fears. School is now in session! Please to enjoy the following links:
http://www.scienceinschool.org/2013/issue27/monastic
http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/medny/herbgdn1.html
http://bit.ly/1KpoTz4