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/ 

Open Door

Oneonta versus Providence: a story told in manned, locked doors.

When I lived in rural upstate New York for school, in a old shared house that was dilapidated way back in the late 80s, the front door was always open. I took off my keys to give to a housemate for duplication in town and never got them back, or maybe I simply misplaced them one evening down at the "Black Oak Tavern", where my boyfriend worked the door. Because I was so young (and looked it), it was the only bar in town for me, which suited me fine. It greatly reduced the number of situations that needed handling with drunk kids, and everyone on campus knew I dated him.

He was proud to be a "strongman" when it suited him, often getting his way by being the biggest, strongest guy in the room; charms that wore off soon after the buzz from college faded. Violence is great for bar brawls; he'd worn an arm cast proudly back then to show that he could fight, but out in the real world (a place where there are tons of ex-football playing star quarterbacks from high school who are 6' tall), it doesn't really solve much. It didn't escape my attention on His Holiness' recent visit that he, too, had manned a door during his youth, as it is a common enough job for the working class man. My college beau did it during the summer, too, as a hatted doorman for rich people on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It suited his chatty nervy personality, but tons of talking has never done much for me that I couldn't learn more efficiently elsewhere.

But, he didn't do his work for the vocation of it; he wanted money (and lots of it), with hints of violence to go with the suggestion that he could throw you out anytime he wanted to. He and I sorted through that early on in our relationship, because we had to. I grew up in a violent household that did not grow more peaceful with alcohol, because fighting and drinking go hand-in-hand. We got into one night after one too many, and he told me firmly that he did not believe in touching women, so I couldn't touch him, even if it was a small quick shove on the shoulder. I immediately agreed. We set ground rules that night for our relationship in our dorms empty staircase (me, at all of 17, and he was just 18), in a way that still eludes the old neighborhood drunks here in town, poorly navigating life every single day on their own; without medication, appropriate health care, or stints in rehab.

It seems so strange to us now, perhaps because we have moved so far from the family as a holy role model, but there was a time when I could walk into a house I shared with my college buddies without ever carrying a house key for that entire year at school, because the front door was always unlocked. Oh, we all had locks on our individual bedroom doors (mostly for privacy with our boyfriends, or for studying and sleeping), but we never once locked the door after that initial key exchange, because we had nothing to be afraid about it. 

We'd occasionally find a drunk friend or two passed out on the large couches in the back living room after a party (all old houses had a front parlor that opened up into the main living room back then), but it stands out in stark contrast to the poor drunks around me now, with all the pain and hurt they cause daily, simply because they won't admit they need help, choosing instead to abuse the normal, happy, healthy people around them, for diseases they inherited from their own family.

Think about it this way: when was the last time you felt safe enough to keep your front door unlocked at night? When was the last time you didn't check all the windows in your home to make sure they were sealed tight? Who was to blame for your discomfort? I'll bet you know exactly who is unsafe around you (write a list of names), and so you have to ask yourself this: why do you protect them? And what from? The knowledge that they hurt? As easy as it seems to enable the problem people around us in the moment, it is always a poor tree that bears rotten fruit. If you know someone who is alcoholic and psychotic, the very best thing you can do for them is get them help today...no matter how violently they respond to your righteousness. Get help.

http://www.informationrockland.com/MatchList.aspx?c;;0;;N;0;0;POPULATION%20GROUPS;People%20with%20Disabilities;424;Psychiatric%20Mobile%20Response%20Teams 

Art Fags

Attention all humans of Planet Earth: this is the official "Art Fag" hairstyle. Please note that it hasn't changed much through the years: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louise_Brooks.

People in genuinely creative industries like mine suffer from all manner of indignities and degradation, not least of which are the groupies and hangers-on that we call "Art Fags". They are: that chick who likes art, dabbled a little bit in oil painting during college, and then went on to the much easier Art History degree to work a vaguely arty job. Or, he's that overly-opinionated gay guy at the cocktail party; you know, the loud drunk one who thinks shopping is design, as he makes his way through his circle of friends, family, acquaintances, and fellow barflies to redecorate rich people apartments all over New York City. 

She's also that rich housewife "decorator" who wrongly assumes that design is searching for "rare" stuff that's sold in catalogs. To justify her time (and billable hours), she spends a lot of time finding old chairs in quaint little towns upstate, which she has reupholstered ridiculously in bright showy patterns, thus making the whole point behind this personality: it's an annoyingly immature "Look at me!" posture towards the world that marks the amateur every single time. Ditto with the "photographer" wife (with the rich husband who buys all of her over-priced camera equipment), who takes inane head-shots for other arty types with dreams of the theater and "trodding the boards" of Broadway, pretentiously wearing a showily bright and a pronouncedly jaunty ascot that may or may not be included in the onstage act. 

Same with the emaciated "Fashionista" who mistakes magazine work and extreme dieting for thousands of hours worth of pinning, sewing, cutting, and fabrication. Instant "art" career? Move to New York City, "pretty" girl! I've seen many an Art Fag go down that way. How do I know? These are all the types I encounter(ed) first-hand out there in the world, where the amateur mixes with the highly-trained professional every day, sometimes even getting away with it, especially if there's Nepotism* involved. How can you speak out against it, when your paycheck dangles in the balance? You can't, which is why the company's owner is such a fucking bitch to you and every other person in the office; she's not talented and she knows it, and it's all your fault because you're in the same room as her twisted ass. 

Luckily for me, the best art and design school on Planet Earth prepares us for mixing it up with the provincial locals by schooling us rigorously in techniques that do not come undone with time, money, or any type of rigged network connections. It just doesn't work that way for a Maestro. We do not come undone under stress or with distractions, nor with any other kinds of abuse that mark the amateurs' envious attempts at sabotage, which must be extremely irritating for all of you who try so hard each and every day to rock my boat.

I saw my very first pair of openly-sported assless chaps (worn by the slightly less leather-clad partner of a young "out" gay couple), at my first (and last) RISD Artist's Ball, so unless you plan on turning your office boardroom into the gayest drag show ever ("No T, no shade!"), with lots of rainbow feathers, weirdo angel wings and garish makeup, set to spinning strobe lights and people with really bad attitudes wearing brilliantly homemade costumes constructed by the fiercest creative minds in the world, drop the fucking act. Now. Because it will never work. It never has, and it never will.  Le Fin.

https://www.tumblr.com/search/risd%20artist%20ball

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

Brown

Every day of my life I'm the target of abuse, because I am not like you. I know! It's weird, right? Weird but true. I'm an actual ethnic minority, which is also really strange, because most welfare offices operate on the flawed premise that people who come from the biggest continent on Planet Earth (also known as "Africa": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/African_diaspora) are rare as human beings, hence the marketing terms "urban demographic" and "minority", which is not actually true in any of the numbers I've ever seen (creative accounting aside), you know, because of the size of it. Nor does your status as a descendant of the formerly vast Spanish Empire entitle you to cash money, gifts, and/or prizes, or anything else that's totally free. Again, see the real numbers here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaniards. You read it right, amigo. That number is 48 MILLION PEOPLE. Stick that on your flag and smoke it!

With that in mind, I use an herbal-based cleansing conditioner that's oddly shelved in the "ethnic" section (read as "black" or "brown"), because apparently the only weirdos with this kind of fucked up hair must be marginalized at each and every opportunity that presents itself to the makers of said products, just in case you somehow wake up one day to realize that you are not alone. In fact, there are BILLIONS of you muthfuckas, a'ight? I know what you're thinking: "Mommy" is trapped in a weirdly fantastical bubble that is suburban America, a place where "white" people think they are normal, and you are the oddball. I know, because every time I go into a commonly overpriced drugstore chain here in New York, some bitch behind the counter pretends not to see me if I may (rarely) need her help because the self-service machine is fucked up, just so she can signal to me anew my lowly position in relation to her, in case I forgot that my status as "Other" did not scrub off my skin during bath time.

It's become such a joke with my peeps around here, that I openly signal my understanding of the situation to any other "minorities" waiting in line who are similarly ignored by retail clerks (read: black folk. Yep, in 21st century New York), by pantomiming a scrubbing motion up and down my arm, mouthing to them: "It didn't wash off me, either!", then pointing to them, "Didn't wash off on you neither? No?", finally throwing up my hands in mock frustration to shrug my shoulders and just walk away. What's a n***a to do, right? The ad copy on a brown-colored bottle of cleanser marketed to "n****s" is so offensive, I had to read it a couple of times just to get it down. I think I counted at least six references to my "unmanageable" "unique" "twisted" "natural" hair, like I am some fucking Aboriginal Pygmy from New Guinea, recently discovered by a jauntily-dressed British explorer on safari.

I am not your particular pygmy dream child to fret over, Weird Marketing Wacko. I am just not entirely "white", like billions of other muthafuckas on the planet. Deal with it, yo. 'Cause we fuckin' do, every damn day. Every day we deal with your inbred isolated pocketed of protected weirdness, ya frightened Hobbit folk. Get wit' it in this century. People MOVE AROUND the globe. Fuck! Alright, now that we got that mess taken care of, let's look to my numbers for the real deal: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis_people_%28Canada%29. Join me here in my land that is without delusional fantasies. It's fun! Ain't no one throwin' a better party than Acadians. Trust! I am your "One Percent", and I am the home you seek in this time of sickness among the rare who remain healthy. Come back to me in this world. 
We are forever, my love.

"To infinity and beyond!"

"I love lamp!"

Jerk-offs have a hard time in society. They already feel "exposed", and so in the quest for attention and popularity, they created their very own special blend called Objectum Sexuality. Sounds exotic, right? In truth, it's masturbation using objects with human attributes assigned to them, through the power of their own fevered imaginings. Have trouble talking to women without stalking them, or fondling them in public spaces like the fuckin' piece of shit that you are? No problem! Dress up your dildo like a mascot and call it "Harry"! No? Oh! You like "boy" objects and "girl" objects, henceforth I must refer to you as a Pansexual Polyamorous Bisexual Objectum Sexual. Seriously. That is exactly what one woman who is a regular on the media show-pony circuit wants you so desperately to believe about her, because she is the "most specialest" kid on the block, helmet not included for outdoor activities: http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/story?id=7283494.

She, like "Diaper Baby Boy" and "Obsessed Car Guy", have full-on public displays of anti-social affection with their objects of choice based on their imagined sexual relationships that take place mostly in their heads, because all of them were sexually molested and/or violently assaulted as young children, which they will tell you about in great detail as to the many reasons why they cannot ever love disgustingly fleshy human people. They've had many productive meetings with their therapists that allow them to talk openly about their intimacies! As funny as it is to poke fun as some chick who thinks the Berlin Wall is a "hot celebrity" (thus making a committed monogamous relationship with "him" difficult. I know! Even objects have commitment-based issues), she actually gets the German government to give her the keys to an old turret for their overnight "honeymoon", so that they can intimately "exchange energy" as husband and wife, thus publicly validating her feelings. Their lack of a true homospaien sexuality is rooted is utter and complete dysfunction: http://www.mirror.co.uk/tv/tv-news/man-who-sex-over-700-4435804

I lost it when she showed everyone in T.V. Land her handmade to:scale version of the Berlin Wall (naturally, she's also an "artist"), sitting upright in her bed at night waiting for her to come home, with a robe and ascot tied jauntily around its "neck". Really? People be desperate to get on t.v., yo. For her, it began as a stress response to media attention while she trained for the Olympics as some special white girl Japanese archer, which was not rare enough to get anyone's attention because Japan ended it's national policy of Isolationism many years ago, hence she rubbed herself with it and named it. Voila! Instant spotlight: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erika_Eiffel

It's not that I don't want her or any other person with Special Needs not to have a sexual identity, nor do I question the integrity of a learned psychologist steering away a possibly psychopathic individual towards masturbation with creativity attached to it, I just have to wonder where it ends for them all. Do they ever get better? Just like the movie-version of Lars and his Real Girl sex toy, it saddens me that the thought of touching another living human being fills them with repugnance, instead of generating the biochemistry necessary for our most intimate relationships. I may really like that lamp I bought from some catalog, but will it ever really love me back? Of course not. You know it won't. 

As much as I may like the charm of your over-indulged story about a new coffee-maker, it's not actually a friendly robot who beeps happily in response to you, like a human might. I know, because I am the type of designer and artist who makes objects: tools are made for humans to use, not love sexually. Just like imbuing "Wall-E" the Mars Rover robot with human characteristics will ultimately fail over time, so we are made to belong to one another. That's what we want for you. Trust me, I know. Keep taking those meds, tho'. We want you to be the best you possible. We want you to be a healthily thriving human.

http://www.objectum-sexuality.org/

In an interesting side note, it occurred to me after I wrote this piece that the English language (unlike modern Romance languages) does not place objects in the same category as humans, by wrongly assigning them as masculine or feminine. We have, simply put, "he", "she", or "it". "It" is assigned to inanimate objects that are made from inorganic material (like rocks), and organic matter that has not developed a consciousness, like plants. Certain objects have great ritual significance (like an old oak tree that has survived for many generations), becoming over time mythological symbols of home and lineage, but without a human to assign a gender to it, there is none present. It with this higher awareness about words, and a greater sense about the world, that we recognize and understand that objects do not have a deeper and/or greater significance than people. 

It should also be noted that the English language is derived from Indo-European traditions (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_language), predating many of the pagan European societies from which Roman Catholicism sprang from, in a brilliant feat of cultural assimilation (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christianity_and_Paganism), with some cultures placing a much bigger emphasis on objects as part of their worship. It may be part of the reason why some humans have retained an over-dramatic ability to wrongly place emphasis and affection on objects that they can control, as a response to life stresses (like children do with toys), as a lurking remnant of our primitive responses to an environment not yet understood, like continued fear-based responses to weather conditions on our planet. 

In fields like "Cultural Anthropology", certain remote and isolated cultures (like those on the island of New Guinea), still have native peoples who use ritualized homosexuality during their childhood, with elaborate sexual rituals and older initiates who teach them to worship "male" phallic symbols, like the trees in their forest. It is only until the tree gods are placated in their masculinity do boys become young men who lay with women. From then on out, it is understood by both genders that their world is divided neatly into "his" and "her" objects, a confused but ancient response to nature. Obviously, there are plants and animals that reproduce sexually and asexually (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reproduction), but this was something that primitive cultures did not yet understand fully. 

You're welcome, human.

Compassionate Farming

Rat's are people, too, albeit without the large primate brain, but whatevs.

You know by now that I spent some time in college as a "Vegetarian", at the request of my well-meaning but somewhat learning-impaired college buddies. It was fine but not for me, and how could it be? 
The Werewolves of my culture eat a modern diet of brown rice, raw meat, and chicken, over a traditional Arctic diet of seal meat and blubber, with maybe a handful of grains thrown into the mix as a binder, for the type of variety that passes for the very short growing season that is the North Land from whence I sprang, but I digress. I tried it, and I lack the cultural dietary biology that is required to be a weepy hippie. I just can't do it, without significant lethargy and weight gain. 

But, I can say that I did try it, however briefly that was, with secret hamburger cheats monthly, per my Werewolf Lunar Phases. It left me with a pronounced awareness about the types of foods I consume. 
Of course, my over-dramatic roommates coped with college stress through the wide pamphleteering of bunny rabbits with sore eyes from cosmetics, but I had already agreed to it through my security deposit, which was essentially signing off on their cause. Uh, point taken, gentle person. No need for more graphic photos. Since then, I've kept a toe in the water of their culture, through periodic meatless fasting (as is my faith's regular practice through our most holiest times), and for my own sense about keeping up balanced good health, one that I've worked really hard to develop, maintain, and sustain.

I call this "Hippie Dreamland" for its suggested psychedelic super-powers.

I also love "freebies", like any other great housewife on a limited budget, which led me to receive in the mail a series of charmingly produced but somewhat irrational comic books, aimed at recruiting children to "The Cause". Like any good cult, there's some well-meaning intent about considering animals compassionately, and then there's stuff so bat-shit insane, no teacher worth her weight in salt would ever ethically distribute such obvious fucking tripe to her kids. The simple fact is, as much as we all love cute furry animals, most other lifeforms on this planet do not live as long as us, notwithstanding certain Joshua trees in remote desert climes, or giant tortoises that live deep in the cold ocean water, but those are stories for other beautiful days, like this gorgeous Fall one of 2015.

Look, we get it. Don't abuse animals. Treat them with compassion, empathy, and great understanding, to make up for the gap in their consciousness that they did not create. If you can love those lives that depend on you, even without their explicit understanding, it shows the world who you are and what you do when no one is watching. Obviously, if you hit your dog, you're a total pile of human dog shit. Don't do that. Don't mercilessly box farm animals in, starving them unnecessarily and depriving them of sunlight and fresh air. Don't poke and prod at them like they're your fucking personal Frankenstein "Lab of Horrors", just because you feel like you can abuse creatures when no one else is watching, because you're some big swinging dick of a man. There are dicks far bigger than yours out there, and they are watching. Got it? Good!

In the meantime, here's a really great list of ethical farms that "Mommy Marie" (that's me) follows on social media. Enjoy the new world order, friends! I feel fine, don't you? There's no more delusional fantasies about make-believe psychedelic chicken super powers, or strangely human farm animals that trip out on butterflies in the sky, anymore; just the plain simple awesome truth about All of Creation. Join me there, in the here and NOW. We love animals, too.

http://www.bpfarm.org/

http://www.sugarhousecreamery.com/

http://windfallfarm.blogspot.com/

http://www.mountainsidefarms.com/

Your homework, hippie: http://journal.frontiersin.org/article/10.3389/fnana.2011.00029/full

See it here: http://www.frontiersin.org/files/Articles/11068/fnana-05-00029-HTML/image_m/fnana-05-00029-g007.jpg

Sea Monkeys

http://seamonkeys.wikia.com/wiki/Sea_Monkeys_Wiki

Except for the really expensive stuff we couldn't afford (the kind of stuff you asked for your birthday and Christmas gifts, combined), most of the ads for kid's toys on the back of comic books sucked, like those crappy stick-on tattoos from a Cracker Jack's box, or the cruddy gum packed in with your baseball cards, and those were the good old days of stuff for kids. People are nastier assholes about children nowadays, because so many people do it so poorly. I briefly dated an acquaintance from my school days here, mostly because he was coming back from L.A. and living with his parents in New City (in, like, his old room from high school and everything. I know, sooo bad), so he gave me a good reason to get out of my Mom's small apartment in Rockland and go hiking outdoors, which is taboo to my mom's dysfunctional clan. 

Nature is something to be feared and contained through allergy medications and climate-controlled thermostats, and weather is something so bad and awful for "hobbitses" to bear, that hearing rain outside or seeing clouds in the sky brings on panic shakes so bad, more mood pills must be taken, while cringing indoors behind closed drapes over tightly sealed windows, waiting for it to just pass. All of that is better than me leaving one of their horrible addicts-only "parties" to hike the trails I grew up hiking most of my life as a kid, which is a big part of the allure and beauty that is unique to this area, so much so that I needed some kid I barely knew from high school to bring his adult weight-training, black-belted self into my mom's place as a male presence that easily frightens latently gay fat creatures away, by deterring them from taking further action against me and my plans. 
In other words, I needed this guy for home visits. 

He was horrible, and I knew that, but it didn't matter. He wanted to use me for my affluence (beautiful Park Slope town-home apartment) and success (infamous Art Director in publishing) for his cat and bad family. It's not new to me. He also blamed his parents (I know!) for everything that went wrong in his life, with the exception of his delusional belief that the magical healing powers of Acupuncture would heal his brain of alcoholism and depression, which was practically see-through as excuses, because he comes from a wealthy, highly educated Filipino family. His uncle is a doctor in Manila and his dad designed the house they live in, because he's an architect. In the face of actual achievements, he caved like a bitch white boy to "pressure" by allowing his dad to steer him into the relatively new major at F.I.T. (that welcomed home of many monied Asians) of "Toy Design", which I thought was really cool. Uh, no, Marie. What are you, like, stupid?! 

He wanted to be a much more lauded and highly vauled CAR DESIGNER, which basically means he punked out of failing at that on his own, to do the dysfunctional Rockland kid trick of driving around aimlessly all day whenever he wanted to escape his parents place. 
He chose to combine his spoiled brat behavior with some daffy Southern Californian shit that he picked up on the road and at the local strip mall dojo (black belt+$$$=5 years), like how his bad "energy" made him drink whiskey in the middle of the day when it dawned on him that proposing to me after three months in the parking lot of a Piermont restaurant was perhaps a tad too far in "Crazy". Of course, I said nothing to him at the time, because I actually wanted him to drive me back home safely to my mom's place, and it was one of the most beautiful nights on the river that I can remember in recent times. Grandview was rebuilding from the never-to-be-spoken-of "Hurricane", a force so powerful that we must sacrifice ourselves to it forever, as the moon shone over the water on our way back to Nyack like rarely seen, right before we hit the Tappan Zee bridge and town.

I didn't need this particular old classmate to tell me he that he was a shiny fool's gold of a stone glinting under the surface of the water ("Don't you remember me? We were like, best friends in school!", which we never were), because this New York girl had it all down pat already to unpack right on top of his head, and don't you know he knew that? Like my brother Bernie used to tell me every time my little kid self wanted to see fantastical sea creatures grow in our small fish aquarium (the glass one that we used every summer for years, to keep those tiny orange goldfish we won at the Chestnut Grove Elementary school fairs that always died), because I still believed the ad copy on Bazooka Joe cartoons and Casper the Ghost comics: "Those aren't real 'Sea Monkeys', Marie. There's no such thing as a 'sea monkey'. They're just these tiny brine shrimp that grow a little bit under water, and you can barely see them. It's a total rip-off." Yeah, I guess you're right, Bernard. You can't fool a real Pirate Queen like me. 

For kids who already know about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, click here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sea-Monkeys

Wanted Child

http://www.plannedparenthood.org/learn/relationships/

For many years, we've been inside of one of the darkest ages known to man, and therein lies the answer, because homocentric societies are not actually the majority for modern homosapiens. In other words, artificial divisions between our two genders (with a very occasional third or fourth thrown into the mix) is not only atypical, it is, in many cases, highly disordered. Of course there are exceptions to this general rule, like some women in military outfits and law enforcement, but most gender-divided labors are jobs that strongly favor males who can undergo the extreme physical requirements needed (again, with a few minor exceptions), because they have the necessary strength and uncommon stamina to lift very heavy weights for long distances, over long time periods. 

Men and women are different. Oh, we'll always have a few people who think life is unfair in this respect, though I'm not sure why. As a woman, I accept those facets of myself that are linked to my sex, because I wouldn't be a biologically genetic woman without them. 
I cannot imagine as an mature adult not having a uterus, or those feminine inclinations towards home and health for loved ones, because these traits so deeply imbedded within me through my DNA, that I know these instincts developed over many, many years of evolution, for us and other closely-related primate species.

And so it has always bothered me that people confuse faith with sex, which is one of the greatest ironies of all, given that a key component to Roman Catholic service is celibacy, a necessary factor for clergy, because sublimation of the sexual self is devoted to the leading of a much bigger flock than having a single family with some children. Our Brothers and Sisters in Christ have some of the most brutally hard work schedules on the planet. They care for all of our families from birth to death, and over several lifetimes, if they are blessed with the gift of longevity. It goes without saying that is it best for clergy to live in sequestered quarters divided by sex. Think not? Imagine me as an acolyte in your faithful religious order, and you're already halfway there.

Over time, many traditional Catholic families funneled intelligent (and homosexual) children into the church, while the secular world grew up about minority sexualities. Would you want your child murdered for something they do not control? Unfortunately, sending a gay man into religious service is a lot like suiting up your really handsome young son for the army, where he will get into the best shape of his life, which is kind of like sending him to an all-hours gay bar without the cover charge, so much so that gay men joke that going to the gym is like going to "Gay Church", so lauded is being "buff" in gay culture. So why would we allow our celibate and sometimes gay men determine our reproductive health? Does it not seem like uncommonly bad logic to advise women about their bodies, when you are a devout (and possibly gay) brother or father of the cloth?

It's seems insane that we asked these young men, many of whom have never had any experience with girls and their bodies, to talk to us about what is holy in our lives, and yet that's exactly what we did. We asked them to give up sex completely to form parishes, build schools, educate our children, ordain us in every rite we have, and then seriously devote their entire intellectual lives to education based on gender. Of course, they did it, but not well. Would you ask a woodworker to weld for you? Naturally, a talented craftsman can learn other disciplines, but this is about ten thousand times harder than that. It's like asking them to attend the hardest school you will never be able to attend, while undergoing the most brutal physical training one's body can do, for people who may never say "thank you" to your face, nor understand the rigors about this act of devotion that you willingly gave up so you could take a vow of poverty with a smile on your face, while you ritualistically "marry" (for the women) a man called "Christ" who died many years ago, a man who also celibate.

And yet, the brilliant abstaining members of our church did the best they could, by advising that we don't do "that", a "that" that we know they may or may not understand. And so we did "it" anyway, then asked them to clean up our messes, which they did through discreetly concealed adoptions, a practice of buying-and-selling the children of girls and women that is still intact today. Even stranger still, it became a "sin" for women to practice responsible reproduction through the use of widely available medications (not that I think birth control pills are healthy for most girls to use long-term, but I'll get into that at some other time), and the occasional use of humane medical procedures like a routine D&C*, often for single young women who would be ostracized and forever impoverished by having children at the wrong time in their tender lives, outside of the holy sacrament of marriage.

Because the hierarchical structure of the Catholic Church has been largely dominated by celibate men for many centuries, it grew odder still: men were not sent to an Eternal Burning Hell for having a medical procedure called a "Vasectomy", while their Catholic females mates often struggled in earnest with basic healthcare and their unasked-for female reproductive organs, bodies that typically produce children whether we want it or not. We asked our many faithful to help us while they remained ignorant about our daily lives, and then blamed them when they cared for us in this regard poorly. 

It became such a weird horror show, that I was personally beset here at the public library by a demented man sitting next to me who thought that women willingly killed their own babies by crushing their skulls and/or slitting their throats as they gave birth, eagerly assisted in these supposedly satanic acts by doctors who took delight and glee in torturing women with strange medical instruments of their own secret devising, like a delusional haunted house diorama staged in an empty insane asylum for thrills and chills during the Halloween season. 

How could the outcome of our church be any different? It wasn't, for Dark Age after Dark Age to Darker Ages, still; stuck in this perpetual cycle of ignorance, fear, and hatred, when in reality, the very gifted, learned, and most assuredly brilliant-minded people of my faith knew that most people's lives are the exact opposite of some twisted fairy tale wrought by feverish minds for sport and amusement, because what we really want(ed) is a loving, holy family of wanted children, so much so, that today I want ask you to consider this: isn't it actually a most sacred and divine hope that each and every human child is born to a loving family? In truth, my most impassioned and fervent desire is that each and every child born to man and woman is a wanted child.

Welcome to the end of oppression, my good and faithful friends. Today is a brand new day! I offer you forgiveness, absolution, and a freedom from shame about your bodies that were given to you through G-d's Unending Wisdom; a beautiful human body for you and your loving partner to enjoy forever and ever, amen. His Grace, Mercy, and Kindness are yours for the taking. Take it! I offer it to you though Him, as an end to your fears, your sometimes intense loneliness, perhaps your long-suffering guilt, and what was once a never-ending shame. Start to live. Start to live today! Join us in this century. We want you on-board with us; seek and find resolution to your woes. We're waiting for you on the other side. I promise you that. 

 Every child a wanted child.

http://bit.ly/1L0S4c8

  

Your homework for today, dumb-ass: http://users.rcn.com/jkimball.ma.ultranet/BiologyPages/S/SexHormones.html

* https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=What+is+a+D%26C+%3F

Express Yourself

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Edward_Hopper_Summer_Interior.jpg

Given the surplus of most advertising budgets in this country (which speaks highly about Capitalism's importance within this society, and what our true priorities really are), it's no surprise that the average American thinks "shopping" equals "fun holiday vacation". It is, in fact, what my disordered aunt tried to sell to me as damaged goods for my entire young life, in her constant bid to have a co-dependent partner with her during her disillusioned mall-based fantasies; a meeting of a certain key demographic with one's core audience, if ever there was. 

Her late best friend filled up her mother's Bronx town-home with her hoarding disorder to live in a tiny rental, choosing instead to die from a bad surgery done cheaply, and one we all warned her about, so much so, that it was actually a form of assisted suicide. All she had to do was go through the contents of her own home to find the money for the top cancer hospital in the country, which is in New York and a subway ride away. Their hobby that began as a conduit to creative expression over any real discernible talents hardened with time, effort, and near-constant practice into a brain disorder so bad, it has become synonymous with heroin usage and alcoholism, with one of the lowest cure rates in all of psychotherapy.

Shopping has become so prevalent within our society that even our supposed higher institutions of learning devote entire curricula to it. You can degree in "Shopping 101", which is thinly disguised behind marketing and sales, but not by much. Asian/Asian-American preferences for goods and shiny objects are so well-known, that Manhattan's F.I.T. actively recruits makers of widgets and experts in object lure, touted as "Toy Design", a weird variant of Industrial Design marketing solely for children, and "Merchandising", which is typically a female who seeks to buy for stores. Oh, you can dress it up in holiday wrapping, but that's essentially the gig: score with a major supplier like Macy's, and that's the ticket into your shopper's paradise. In reality, it is a hellhole of a Christmas experience, like sweating with thousands of fat middle Americans who seek the ubiquitous brown paper bag, rubbing elbows with Mid-westerners who are too lazy to go uptown for Tiffany's better blue one.

And those are the high achievers in this particular sport: majoring in the big city retailers, minoring in the outer circles while awaiting your call-up to New York City, as a symbol of your advanced pocketbook pride. How glamorous! Shopping in "The City"! It's a rather sad and provincial characteristic naive out-of-towners have, wide-eyed with their recent fix, but "Shopaholics" (cutesy marketing term, don't you think?) are not new to me, as evidenced by my own family and their crippling dysfunctional patterns. Feel sad? Buy food! Instant fix. Feeling bored? Graze at the mall, until your identity reaches out to you in the form of some useless tchotchke with no real value, except the one the purchaser breathes into it, instead of loving the human they're with. "What's love got to do with it?" Exactly.

I worked with a typical Eurasian model at the city outpost for a rich German family, and within a week, she let me know we all had big targets on our backs (because she "made it" by working here at some company I'd never heard of before, until I interviewed for the job), and that she was "too cool for school"; meaning she was so inept, she actually failed out of a SUNY school known for "Fashionistas" who loooove to spend their rich Japanese daddy's money. Très chic, n'est-ce pas? It touts "worldly" in a bottle, like the trendy Eau de Parfum du jour, but unlike their skinny frames hidden underneath overly (but artfully) designed clothing, carefully nipped and ticked to disguise their boyish frames, talent wasn't something my viciously bitchy co-worker knew how to shop for. Not well, at least.

Oh, she positioned herself as the "Queen of Greeting Cards", based on her brief tenure at Boston's art museum gift shop, and it was enough to get her the cheap gig in the city, which (on the surface, if you squinted hard enough) passed for a somewhat respectable firm, if you overlooked it's inception as the NYC outpost designed to amuse the short handsome rich German playboy who is the second son to a family that crowned the older brother as the sober C.E.O., because they like the nobility that money can by. That, and the strength of the German Mark before Europe's unification process. Unfortunately for her and the rather pedestrian German-American guy (Hi, Harald) who managed the U.S. product line, I knew all about Deutsch Bank's tactics from my ferociously financial brother, who did his apprenticeship on their sweatshop trading floors, no veal pen divisions included. I know, because I visited my brother at the company when he worked there, to see it for myself. A little short on trust with American financiers and infamous Wall Street trade, I suppose.

Ditto with their group manager as it was with his head shopper. He shorted out when I presented him with numbers on purchasing a reconditioned color printer (why not squeeze the locals when you're an overseas firm, right?), asking me to flow the numbers into columns based on his type of accounting software, because he lacked the ability to comprehend numbers if they were presented outside of the casing he was used to. That's a serious kind of dyslexia, so I asked him again via em-mail. He responded dreadfully. Yes, please. For me? Oh. I guess when you have all the German money in the world backing you, you don't need to master reading and writing early on like I did (for publishing in New York, in English). When I told my brother about his peculiar behavior at a family holiday, he huffed derisively and said, "Yeah. That's classic for a typical 'Deutsch Bank' accountant". Indeed it was, because that's exactly where this manager began his career.

I guess that's why I sit here typing to you on a public library's company for pennies a week (for your great success), and why my brother lives in a very large (and rather well-appointed, or so I'm told) home in one of the rich, hilly, horse country towns of New Jersey; because me and my brother do a heck of a lot more in business than shopping and bean-counting (Hello again, Harald. Still living in New Jersey? How's work?) Everything I needed to know in business, I already knew, and do you know what, my dear followers? Because I wasn't a programmed, brain-washed tool like they were (and still are), in the exact same illiterate ways, they never saw me coming. Herr, Fuhrer! 

That, and the fact that the Edward Hopper Foundation (a famous Hudson River Valley painter with his home museum right here in Rockland County, within the town of Nyack's borders), does not sell the licensing rights to most of his work, as was mandated by his will. We are (and will remain) staunchly: by the people, and for the people. Always. Because there's nothing to buy-and-sell here, ami.  Snap! I'll bet you didn't see that one coming at you, did you?

 http://www.edwardhopperhouse.org/

 

"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