Wall of Confusion

With the decline of mental healthcare that marks this century and the last, we've all been forced to become doctors of the human condition, with or without the surgeon's paycheck. I've become accustomed to the twitches of other people that mark their significant discomfort out in the world (not that I like it at all), while also being robbed of the proper mechanisms in place that prevent real healing from occurring. It's like I wrote about certain therapy/rehabilitative business models: they succeed by deliberately not solving the problem for you, which is a rather big way to lie to sick people who are already vulnerable in the extreme. Comedian/actor Andy Dick was recently on t.v. to talk about his battle with addiction and his addictive disorder that's put him back in rehab FOR THE 20TH TIME. Is that real healing for anyone?!  

Corruption does that to people, even those working in the healthcare industry, by slowly seeping into your soul bit-by-bit without you knowing it, because evil hides behind easy comforts when you're prone. In the vacuum that came with the American de-institutionalization of psychosis (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deinstitutionalisation), people were left to fend for themselves, which is about as far from our ideals about happiness and the pursuit of it as you can get. Doctors were left to treat violently sick people with prescriptions sold to them at a huge mark-up—through the creation of huge pharmaceutical giants—instead of receiving real care, because true healing takes a lot longer than many employers, shareholders, and investors like for their returns, aided and assisted in their delusional jobs by the sense that time is much quicker than it is, like the time montages they see on t.v. Why can't we all be quicker? Drink more coffee! Stay up longer with this pill! There's always a product that's a quick fix over the slower tending that really solves a problem.

My physician in Brooklyn told me that she didn't over-prescribe antibiotics because they lose their effectiveness with time, making us much more vulnerable to greater illnesses, but people with mental problems who already struggle with less than accurate timelines want it now now now! They don't know how to incorporate a longer wait, suffering as they already are. Add more time, and they worry about keeping the health plan they get through their routine office job, because their boss is kind of a fucked-up asshole already, and any absences encourage managers to fire people too quickly, in behavioral patterns that were developed during "The Industrial Age" that treated people like they were the machinery they worked on, even though the exact opposite is true of our daily lives and strongest skill sets as human beings. We are far from being disposable as unique individuals. With my doctor's guidance, I weaned myself from the over-the-counter cold and flu products that caused my heart to race like I just pounded coke in the bathroom stall of a Wall Street trading firm.

It was always the same "Get back to work!" message that was shouted at me, so that someone else could get rich from my work, while I struggled to stay awake. I began waiting out seasonal colds, and then instructing the people around me about my process, which involves a longer timeline. My doctor told me (and it's true) that any suppressing drug will only leave you open to repeated bouts of illness, if only we could simply wait for our body's natural self-defenses to fight the illness during that first cold of the year. Instead of hopping around in a couple of days (work work work! busy busy busy!), I began to wait for 10 days or more, which immediately freaked my mom out when I lived with her, even though I repeated my good science to a supposed scientist like her over and over again, which she promptly forgot during my prolonged colds, growing more and more agitated by the day, until she exploded in a violent psychosis that she blamed on my repose.

The sickest among us continue to struggle, trying in vain to adopt to a work world that already passed them by many years ago, leaving them bereft of healthcare and support. My mom is one of those people who always feels she needs "more support" or more education, when in truth, her brain is incapable of working in our world. As a result, she learned to cover up her diseases expertly, letting them show only around other diseased peer groups—like her laboratory co-workers—at work in a place where she could use her "friend's" illnesses against them for leverage to keep herself employed, in the event that they sabotaged her efforts at work as a handicapped single mother.

She has a distinct pattern that she refuses to acknowledge to me, because I am not a part of her sick world, and as a social group rife with varying degrees of markedly anti-social tics and paranoid responses to ordinary stimuli, they break down quickly in the face of good health that surpasses them, so they seek to tear down the one person in their sick group who can lead them out of it, trapped in a co-dependent pattern that never brings them the healing they so desperately need. Like the character "Sheldon" from the popular sitcom "Big Bang Theory", she found a group of over-educated people who told each other as a tribe that they were smarter than other people around them because they were in science as technicians, rather than the grant-wining superstar researchers who truly excelled at work.

Most of them went on to work other compulsively repetitive jobs, like her friend who went from cleaning Petri dishes every day to a tax accountant, where she could basically do the same job every day, with some variations. They weren't all that smart under careful scrutiny, which is exactly what they seek to avoid the most, like the medicine that will ease the obvious symptoms of their public manifestations of anxiety, like Sheldon Cooper's abstract physicist character—and they are certainly not him, fictional as he is—though they certainly pretend to be. In retaliation for their inequities and insecurities, we have an enormously anti-social peer group in our world with deeply ingrained traits that were never socially acceptable, and it's time that changed.

Instead of nursing along people who pretend ignorance to compensate for their brain disorders, why not try telling them upfront that you know they have a disease? After all, I can't "cover up" my deafness in certain kinds of settings, so I began educating the people around me, to prevent a lot of weird gaming from going on. It's not our job to make sick people feel better about their annoying tics that were developed in lieu of appropriate healthcare. We are not the problem in this world. You are. So, change. Change it. It's time to stop using your psychosis as a weapon. We're not fooled by it. It's not a real weapon for you, anyway. It never really was. It's over. Really and truly.

http://csgv.org/issues/guns-and-mental-health/

http://www.politico.com/story/2016/01/obama-gun-control-rule-mental-illness-217340

http://www.ibtimes.com/guns-mental-illness-white-house-releases-new-reporting-guidelines-background-check-2248724

http://www.cnn.com/2014/06/24/opinion/robbins-mental-health/

Shock to the Heart

Back in the day, we used to say lines from the old show "Sanford and Son" to each other that we had memorized by heart (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanford_and_Son), having heard the same lines over and over again, like our parents compulsive "jokes" that were often told in times of stress and/or drunkenness, when they didn't know how to fill in conversational spaces with other humans correctly. 

"Old Man Sanford" would clutch his heart in mock anguish to deliver the well-honed line to his son that he was "on his way home" to see "Ouisie", his wife who'd passed on already, because he was "havin' the big one" that was so often threatened on the show but never actually came about. Oh...so, it's just a lie, then. We kinda felt gypped by the lack of "sudden death" action on t.v., like the nonsense our hysterical parents would blab out loud that was even less funnier than the sitcom stuff repeated for years on t.v. Yeah, sure. I know this line.

It became symptomatic of the psychological distress we'd see in the world that was the response of someone who uses their medical condition(s) as a manipulative tool(s) to get out of work, or human discourse, church on Sunday, or family visits. For a people who felt bereft of power, my parents and their friends employed a handy toolkit for the insane that included veiled threats (and not-so-veiled threats) that they often combine(d) with violent cursing and escalating acts of physical violence, which, rather than convincing us to obey their demands, made us want to stay even further away from their trouble spots. For them, their sickness became weapons for gaining leverage in the home and at work, with varying degrees of effectiveness.

It was silly and wasteful, but so were/are our parents, accustomed as they were to an ever-booming economy fueled through the machines of war. We wanted something better. We wanted something more from them and society, and the world at large. We wanted actual communication over the trite tricks brought on by so much t.v. viewing for the compulsively-addicted brain, followed by periods of paranoid non-engagements that could last just as long as their patterned routines that they inserted in lieu of actual thought. We talked to each other as a social group, and we wanted to see real conversation brought back, egged on as it was by the "shock" tactics of our disc jockeys and talk show hosts. A lot of it was the same old bullshit, but occasionally we broke through the static with our own hard work. See? Repetition does bear results, and I can talk about it at length, too.  
How's that for power tripping?

Second Life

When my mom and I first met Dom and Angel, we didn't have great expectations about their stewardship of my Giant Mal, Teddy, but we were in dire straits. My father had come up very briefly to help me by putting my dog in a kennel, as I began the most intensive medical care process of my life so far that included surgery, DVT, PT, and then more DVT's. I knew I couldn't have him back in my life full-time, and besides, Teddy had been designed for me and my large Scottish ex-boyfriend, and he wasn't around anymore to do the heavy lifting needed. 

I was unused to being single so I had clung to Ted even tighter, but deep in my heart, I knew Brooklyn wasn't the right place for a huge snow dog like him, even though I took excellent care of him in Park Slope. We took frequent walks to Prospect Park for off-leash runs every morning that ended one day after a group of pit bulls set upon him, then we went on to "doggie discipline" classes for his safety while out on walks, and then a move further down the hill that was closer to a smaller enclosed dog run off of the Slope's Fifth Avenue that I could monitor much better for crazy dogs and their whacked-out owners.

I had worked it out to the best of my ability, even hiring a few good dog walkers in the process, but he was far too large for a woman my size, and I knew that, too. My father had told me to adopt him out right after my move back to Brooklyn, but in the wake of the financial crisis my ex had left me in, I didn't have the heart to do it, and with no one around me (as usual) to help out, I found a way to use my exuberant energy that marks a woman in her prime during her 30s to great effect. The exercise did me good, and after my bad break, I quit smoking to take up regular exercise again, albeit in the form of mixed martial arts, but it was either that or fencing, so I went with fighting, because I'm a natural-born fighter, and I'd been fighting all my life in one way or another. It was a good fit for me at the time, and it helped to fill up the void that had been devoted to an exceptional animal's daily care.

Ted was amazing, but I hadn't had a good night's sleep or a day off in over four years that led up to my accident while walking him. I knew I needed the break. So, I wasn't as "bummed" at the prospect of someone else taking care of Ted as much as I felt like a bad parent that had let him down. He hadn't done anything wrong really, besides pull for a bagel in the street too roughly after I put him on a diet at my vet's urging, and it was 5:30 in the morning, at the continued harassing insistence of my fucked-up downstairs neighbor. It was a situation designed to hurt me, it was I'm saying to you, and I knew that, too. Nothing new. So, after me and my mom had talked with Angel and Dom on the phone after advertising him for sale and for a free adoption, they chose the latter cheaper option, but on paper, they looked great.

Angel and Dom had worked for a pet store, and Dom had had several Mals before, which made them the perfect candidates. I was suffering from a bad sickness and heartache, with intolerably sad pictures of Teddy taken by digital camera in his pen at a Brooklyn kennel that tore my insides to shreds, and I just couldn't take it anymore. My brother decided to take the momentum from my natural motherly guilt to pour on more abuse about my "selfish" behavior in the wake of the most serious injury I've ever had in my life, not of my own doing. It was too painful for anyone to bear. And so, they offered to drive out from Pennsylvania to meet us before we signed over his doggie papers to them and then they picked him up from Brooklyn.

It showed us that they were serious enough dog owners to go through all that, and we weren't doing it for the money, even though both of us could have used every penny we could get, then and now. When I met them at the door, they could see how injured I was, and my mom in her walker just re-confirmed the seriousness of our situation, because she is a very crippled lady. "Oh, wow...", Angel said as I struggled to open the door with my crutches while my mom feebly limped into the room on her walker, "you guys really need our help!" Yeah, we do. My mom and Dom struck up an immediate acquaintance brought about by their shared Bronx upbringings as Italian-Americans. They were lower class than us, as we could plainly see from their dated dress and hairstyles, but times were what they were. They were available, and they answered all of our questions perfectly, but not before making sure that Ted was free, because they'd seen the ads for him at a fair price.

We explained that we put out as many feelers as we could, including those to some of my mom's crazier friends and the insane dog rescue lady from upstate, before settling on them as a couple. Dom had Ted's picture gripped tightly in his hands, looking down at it while we talked. "You're 'in love' with him, already, aren't you?" I asked him. He just nodded his head slowly. Both he and Angel had multiple marriages, partners, and kids before, and now they were empty-nesting. Dom was trying to quit smoking, so they decided he could use the exercise that came with regular dog-walking because he was rather significantly overweight, with nothing to do in their rural home besides surf the web all day, and that's what led to our engagements on social media.

Honestly, I could care less about their day-to-day lives as people outside of my social class, but I got a chance to see them interact with Ted through their posted pics on an almost-daily basis, and for all you parents out their with an ache in your heart that never heals, you know the feeling well. It eased the tight band around me just a little bit more, each time I saw a new photo or comment that was favorable to him and his care. I could go on living and getting better with his life finally settled, like I'd promised all those years ago after his car accident. "I'll always take care of you, Ted. I promise. And if I'm not around to do it, I promise that I will make every effort possible to see that someone else does." And I meant it, as I nursed him through his car hit, and then the serious bacterial and viral infections he got after swimming in a public park lake in Denver that included e-coli and Ebola.

It was enough, enough hurt and pain for him to last a lifetime or more. Ted deserved a nice grandma who was openly lonely while empty-nesting, and Angel was that. She and Dom broke up (of course), and I was continually horrified to see Dom's FB posts about "sexing" his "SL daughter" online, but combined with Angel's redneck views of life and her daughter's online porno business, it seemed like both she and I had finally gotten what we really wanted: some peace and quiet at home with a nice, large, furry, and very high-maintenance werewolf. 

She and I got a real second chance at the good life that eludes so many mothers and their serious heartaches. Would that we all get that shot in life! How great would that be? To actually find the people, places, things, and animal friends that give you a second shot at the life you deserve. How wonderful it was for us, as hard-working single women, to finally get the chance we really deserved at having some peace of mind for those we care about so much, because that's what being a mother is all about: giving until it hurts, then give some more. You just keep giving love.

Brooklyn Soul

Like my pops said years ago during a family visit up north, "Queens has no flavor" in comparison to Brooklyn, and he was right about that. Brooklyn was an incorporated city apart from the other boroughs for many years (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooklyn), and the seventh largest one in this nation. We didn't/don't need a lot of outside influence to hold our own as an area. As a result, its become a haven for many native New Yorkers, for being way off the beaten path of the much more saturated borough of Manhattan during the summertime, teeming with angry, tired, sweaty, and scared European tourists who just want a decent bite to eat, some cold water, a clean restroom, and a nice place to sit in the shade, which midtown does not do well.

What Manhattan does do really well is gouge the living daylights out of each and every tourist who steps foot on the island, just as it is designed to do as a business district and trade center for the world, and we do humbly thank you for your business (http://www.opentable.com/bryant-park-grill?cmpid=poi_page_referral#). Brooklyn was (and I imagine, will always be) my safe haven from the madness of Wall Street and the suburban nut-jobs working there desperate for cash and blow, in that order most of the time (until payday, at least), the crazy expensive and openly gay theater district (both of my parents are just as histrionic as any really expensive theater ticket so, thanks, but I'll pass on your tourist fare), and the out-of-towners who say they want "the real New York experience" but have no idea what that actually means, unless it involves a tour guide and a shopping trip. Uh huh...well, you ain't livin' it then.

Brooklyn was, for me, blessedly free of douchebags during my years there (from 1993-1998 and 2003-2013), and the insane foot traffic of so many people from around the world, each looking to make it and cash out before moving back to the 'burbs. But, to me, Brooklyn was the starting and finishing point that existed outside of the money-grubbing madness of the average Manhattanite seeking to put us down as "B&T" (Bridge-and-Tunnel: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridge_and_tunnel), which, for an island city, is one of the most asshole things you can say to a proud maritime people. Well, yeah, bitch, I do take bridges and tunnels to get the fuck away from insane assholes like you. Kudos! It spoke to the striving bourgeois mentality of Manhattan and their fucked up values, but not of my hometown.

In the Slope, I could grab a bite to eat and sit on a bench in peace by one of the worlds great city parks, unmolested by clusters of Asian tourists with too-big cameras, or the young Hasidic couple lost and looking for a subway to take them out it all (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borough_Park,_Brooklyn). Almost every day that I commuted from home to work and back, someone would ask me for help or directions, and I always knew why: I was the safest and sanest person they would meet that day (if not the year or their lifetime), in a too-crowded metropolis designed more for commerce than living. I looked both completely at home and totally on top of all the exit points around me, which I always tried to adhere to, like my group's motto of "Get in, get out, and nobody gets hurt."  

Word. It takes a lot of soul to do that right, and the people around me in so many office environments who were/are freaked out by the size, scale, and scope of my town(s) knew that, too. I played the game for all it was worth, and I didn't lose my soul in the process. That's "Brooklyn Soul" y'all, and it ain't fo' sale, ya dig? Yeah, you do. Sure you do. So, take a listen for yourself, kids. We're not goin' anywhere for quite some time. Get used to it. We did. All soul, baby!

http://sharonjonesandthedapkings.com/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharon_Jones_%26_The_Dap-Kings

https://daptonerecords.com/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daptone_Records

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bradley_%28singer%29
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funk

Murder, Inc.

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

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

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

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

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

Y2K

 

My Scottish/British-American boyfriend and I decided we'd spend the end of the world at one of the most beautiful spots in the Rocky Mountains; Glenwood Springs, Colorado. It has a huge outdoor swimming pool full of the sulphurous-smelling water, immediately verifying its lauded status as a natural source of mineral water that bubbles up naturally from the ground. There are also natural red rock caves catering to the modern "spa aficionado", with requisite red clay treatments and New Age "healing" massages. 

I'd finally convinced my old-fashioned father to get one on a previous trip there with my ex, and he and his second wife chose to get the "Couples Massage" together, which meant that the poor female masseuse working that day had to spread clay on them one at a time, in front of each other in the nude, and these were people who still thought sleeping together in the same bed was kind of risque. But, it established a pattern of deep tissue massage that my father would continue after that initial exposure to the traditional healing arts, and I'm glad. He's had bad back problems for most of his adult life.

The underground red rock caves dripped with the natural mineral water that'd been used since ancient times by the Ute Indians for healing, so we figured the place must be steeped in good "juju" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juju). What better way to go out than in the middle of a natural American wonder? It seemed apt to us that if the world ended, we'd be floating weightlessly in a huge body of mineral water that made you seem lighter, like floating in the Dead Sea, looking up at the great Milky Way stars burning brighter in the high dark skies of the rural west. 

Then, after we'd accepted our part in this "New World Order", we'd fight our way to my dad's ranch in West Texas, "Mad Max"-style (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mad_Max). Kent and I figured on the drive there that natural gas for our vehicles would be the most precious resource during the upcoming "Apocalypse", so we'd probably have to fight off marauders from stealing our fuel for the ride through New Mexico to the panhandle. There, we'd steal onto my dad's ranch to await our fate(s). After all, Kent had installed a solar-powered unit for my dad's use at the small shack they had on the ranch that could run A/C and water. That, and the solar water pumps on the property combined with my dad's cattle could take us to the very end, if we played it right. My pops also had land that'd been used by the ancients for long-term living. 

There were dripping overhangs and small streams that had huge rocks with the circular indentations from the pounding of wheat over millennia. If they could do it back then, so could we. We came from them, too. We'd feel it stirring in our blood, the will to survive off the land: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Texas#/media/File:Palo_Duro_Canyon_State_Park_2002.jpg. We'd be completely off the maps of the known western world. Let 'em find us buried deep in the canyons somewhere, safe in our ranch land stronghold.

In preparation for our requisite battle(s) on our route to "nowhere", we'd obviously have to have weapons, so Kent put his big elk-hunting guns in the back of his big red truck, with a couple of red containers full of gasoline, in the event of a total annihilation that knocked out all of the power sources on the planet. Of course, we're working class people, so the night before "the big event", we were asleep before 10:30 pm. Oh, well. I'd never really had it in me to stay up past midnight just to drink a beer or a glass of champagne at midnight. Who cares? We could that whatever we wanted to, not just New Year's Eve. So, we said our "good nights" to each other, and we were fast asleep soon; such is the effect of swimming in a natural hot spring all day long. 

Since it was wintertime, you'd have to do a quick hop from the big hot pool to the smaller really hot tub while sporting a knit cap, but that was about it. Above a mile high, the sun is still very warm, even in the middle of a Coloradan winter. We had fun looking at this one cute lil baby floating in a little plastic inner tube for adorable baby girls wearing striped knit caps on their "widdle" baby heads, laughing and splashing with her mama as she floated around the big pool like we did. We smiled, and rested at the edge of the pool. Not a bad way to go. We'd done it! We'd made the end of the world "cool" without even really trying to, just like every other thing my generation has had to survive and endure at the hands of others who should have known better. But, that's the way it was. We had to survive, so we did.

As we woke up the next day to a bright sunny day, Kent immediately checked the digital alarm clock as I turned on the t.v. in the motel room for the news. Nope! No apocalypse. Oh. We'd figured that it wouldn't happen, what with our computer skills for reference and the amount of time to prep for the changing of so many digital clocks that folks had to get right, but, you never know! Best to be prepared. We turned to each not speaking. "I'm a little disappointed..." I began tentatively. Kent immediately brightened up. "Me, too!" and he went on to say, "I was kinda looking forward to fighting my way out of it. I mean, I know we'd win." Yeah, you're right. We would have. Sigh...

We got dressed, had a big pancake breakfast dinner at Denny's, then rolled out of town for the drive back to Denver to pick up Teddy from the kennel. And just like that, we'd begun planning the rest of our work week. After all, the newspaper didn't wait for me, and neither did the power supply that was still working off a functioning grid for his electrical work. "No rest for the weary" they say, but the thing of it was this: we'd never felt more well-rested in all of our lives. We had a great plan, and we'd been kinda looking forward to executing it with excellence, just like every other thing that demanded our attention and skills. That's the job. That's what we did then, and that's what we do now. We work our way out of it, because we can. For you. All of you.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glenwood_Springs,_Colorado

for Kent

I ` M Gonna Be

The Proclaimers

When I wake up, well, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you
When I go out, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you
If I get drunk, well, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you
And if I haver, hey, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you
But I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
When I'm working, yes, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's working hard for you
And when the money comes in for the work I do
I'll pass almost every penny on to you
When I come home (When I come home), oh, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you
And if I grow old, well, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you
But I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
When I'm lonely, well, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you
And when I'm dreaming, well, I know I'm gonna dream
I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you
When I go out (When I go out), well, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you
And when I come home (When I come home), yes, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you
I'm gonna be the man who's coming home with you
But I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
And I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door

Live it Up!

One of the most basic lessons me and my best friend taught the kids at Oneonta during our first semester was an essential skill called "partying", or as we say avec saveur, "laissez les bon temps rouler"*. Having a really good time seems like an easy scene from some trite sitcom t.v. show until you actively try to partake in it. Then, you have to overcome your essential weakness as a near-constant consumer of hardily fermented beverages mixing poorly in one's small, starving teenage stomach. 

We've all succumbed to it at one time or another—in some of the worst hangovers on the planet—that can take you down for the count and out of the game over a crucial party weekend, leaving you sidelined on a cheap cot next to a plastic bucket, while epic-ness awaited your presence. Then, you have to hear about someone's infamous hookup with that cool kid you really fucking liked (oh, the timing! SO cruel), watching the kick-ass band you've always dreamed of seeing play, live and in person. It hurt(s) badly, at a time when it's part of the life lessons you're there to learn. Oneonta State throws some of the best parties the world's ever seen. You just have to see it to know what a good time really is. 

We had: 70s parties in full period dress, Halloween costume parties serving drinks in pumpkin punch bowls—laced with something else than straight-up booze—and funky brownies on the side with two friends circulating the joint dressed as Jesus, hurricane parties with outdoor bands that stopped in tribute to each passing gust of wind that had us hoisting our plastic cups in unison, mad "mosh pits" with proudly sported party injuries, heaven-and-hell levels that played on the dorms layout of alternating "girl" and "boy" floors in freshmen year to the sophomore suites of girls and boys living on the same floor that got us ready for real life that's the mixed living experience of any combo off-campus during junior and senior years, "round the world" parties with each dorm room serving up a different cocktail, with or without the bong hits that suddenly put you over the top and in a swirling overheated room full of strangers and you're too fucked up to know there the bathroom is, which suddenly flips the party very quickly from a good time to one of the worst times ever.

It mirrored the often violently tumultuous homes we came from, in some of the roughest neighborhoods this world has to offer. Then, when your party game flipped on you, your head would hurt so bad that your teeth ached, too, as the room spun out of control in stomach-turning episodes we called "the bed spins" back in the day. This wan't no fantasy from some "tidy whitey" shopping catalog or a canned commercially-driven episode off the t.v. with an artificial laugh track, yo. We openly called each other out for being "lightweights". Your outfit had to be tight at night when it counted and your game on point, with your conversation skills being key. That's how you "bag" the best lady in the room, fellas. Learn it, bro-friends. Then, represent your home town by proudly sportin' it around. Get to it, son!

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

The Land of "The Happy People"

Like my infamous composure and great passions, my happiness is deep and profound. You would think that's a blessing, until you meet the opposite of contentment in the form of a depressed psychotic who hates you for, uh, being "pretty". Yeah, that's it! All of my life, my ability to "right" myself like a boat that was in danger of capsizing has been noticed, studied from a distance, and just as often, despised. Having a healthy brain is a very difficult thing to describe to someone afflicted with many serious ailments, so as a result, I simply took on more work than humanly possible to make up for the difference in abilities present in myself that are so lacking in the people around me. 

During the first work week I had at yet another job with a workflow that was rife with incompetence, I was met with derision, nasty quips, and prolonged looks of anger thrown in my general direction, because unlike fictional movies and t.v. shows, the heroine of every drama is the often the least liked person in the room. "How are you doing all this?!", an incredulous publisher asked me in front of some douchebag production manager who was drowning in his own anger that'd been set to a slow simmer for many years. I hoisted up a company coffee cup in salute "With this," and then I deconstructed the next problem that was mine to solve for them through art, design, and production.

Genius is fun from afar, but not when you're always the only person in the room with all the answers, with real solutions that don't offer shelter to the mad and hopelessly addicted, because it exposes them overmuch in their shoddy thinking. Most people I worked for absolutely hated their jobs, but they felt that they needed money for healthcare and housing, which, in this century, is being reclassified as "Disability". Really, they didn't need money for much. These were not the kinds of people who can actually enjoy traveling, or really good music, or excellent gourmet food, because they simply do not have the type of brains to appreciate such things in life, which makes the concept of "upward mobility" a bit of a joke for them, unfortunately.

It was like the exact opposite of the old saying, except it was beer tastes on a champagne budget, and this was publishing, a supposedly "highbrow" endeavor for the wealthy WASPy trust fund set, made of those less inclined to strike Wall Street gold. And then I showed up. It was the same as anywhere else, for me. Sigh...yeah, I know. I don't fit in here. Right? Right! But, then, why are you so happy? You mean besides the brilliant and beautiful thing? Uh, not much, I guess! What to say? You work for me, even though it's not  "supposed" to be that way because of (pick one): age, sex, status, looks, etc. There was always a reason for my oppression at the hands of the less gifted.

In a fascinating twist, the most literary people on the planet never figured out "why", when it had been published to such great acclaim so long ago, so perhaps it's time for a reprint. I'm happy because it is a part of who I am, blessed to be alive on G-ds Green Earth, and the receiver of His Greatest Gifts. That's why. How's Monday working out for you, office grunts of the world? I'll bet it's just as bad as all the other weeks you've ever had, and I'm not there to blame, which is too bad. The right to pursue happiness is every American's right in this world we live in. Avail yourself of it. Live well, like we do. Bonjour, Acadies!

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie (1847)

• Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Part the First - I
• Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Part the First - II
• Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Part the First - III

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the
eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without
number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor
incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the
flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and
cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the
northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station
Descended.
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of
hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the
Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables
projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the
sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of
the maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun
sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
Dwelt in the love of God and of man.  Alike were they free from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of
republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their
owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
oak-leaves.
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the
wayside,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her
tresses!
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the
meadows.
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its
turret
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and
her missal,
Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite
music.

Mad Man

My dad absolutely hated working in the city, even though he'd beat the odds against poverty and a "lowly" ethnic background with a supposed "mixed birth" in his ancestry that plagued him wherever he went, because that's the reaction his last name elicits. He was been born in Rhode Island before moving to a farm in Maine with a little red schoolhouse down the road apiece, which lent an idyllic air to the surrounding countryside, if not his actual home rife with spats of violence and severe alcoholism. His family sold the farm and moved to Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, which probably seems to you like the cruelest joke to be played against a young boy, and you'd be right.

He never really got over the change of pace they'd made to be closer to the family who'd help a single mother like my grandmother, even though every place he lived afterwards would never quite measure up to our fair city, because he retained a grudge against New York City from the strife he endured. I totally understood. I hated Rockland County as a kid, mostly because of the viciously competitive yentas of New City who liked to constantly remind us—through their spoiled brats at school—that we were considered lower than them, they who were destined to become doctors and layers, and failing that, dentists and chiropractors. They'd threaten to sue.

Unlike other typical "white" childhoods, we never really passed muster the way outsiders might think we did. Yeah, you had your definite skin tone and features that placed you squarely within a solid group of other "minorities" (and that status has always been highly suspect to me, though not the subsequent abuse and racism after many Americans emigrated, whether voluntary or not), because we still proudly carried our last names and distinctive features. It don't pass notice 'round the way, trust on that, and it always starts out the same way, too, albeit deceptively innocently: "Oh, is your last name 'French'?", in a pseudo-airy style. Of course, they don't really want to recognize European conquerors and other unwanted invaders to someone like me.

Then, they (my purposefully distracted audience) pretend that our real ethnic story is so hard to understand (or dull), that it's quickly followed by theirs. My dad had trouble from the very beginning in the city, because everything about him was wrong. He wasn't Italian, or Irish, or Puerto Rican, or black, which are much easier ethnics for average urban Americans to assimilate.

It became the first conversation that our attackers learned to avoid with us, which they would only signal when hard-pressed with something vague like, "there's something 'different' about you", becoming white code for "I know you're better than me and I'm a fuck-up, but I'm crazy, so if I admit you that to you, then you 'own' me". Well, yeah, kinda. By my rights. The thing is, me and my friends all had it rough, and we couldn't explain our parents crazy on just some po' oppressed n@gro story, feel me? We were all considered lowly downtrodden ethnics, be it a loud Dominican, or drunk Irish, or a greasy guinea (all those "dark" kids runnin' around yellin', ugh...Catholics), or Africans, or my "Half Breed" cousins.

It made him want to reinvent himself at every opportunity, and combined with his learning difficulties and sometimes serious cognitive impairments, it left him feeling extremely prone. He told me half-truths about joining the navy at 17 because his home life was "so bad", when in truth, his drunk dad had left many years ago, to be replaced by my loving, gentle Italian-American grandfather who stayed with my grandmother for the rest of her life. His cousin (also a serious drunk) told me he was on the reserve list before he was enlisted, and I knew what that meant. My dad doesn't make the cut right away, or sometimes at all, which he hides out of an embarrassment and fear that never seems to go away, no matter how much money he has.

He also told me that he was in a gang, and the way my dad gambles and works the pool table tells me the rest of the story about his greaser past as a small-time hood. Like his papa, his mama probably pushed him into the military, in yet another attempt to dry up one of her folk from dying, but unfortunately the military does cure disease. He said his "best friend" was electrocuted for murder as a teen, after a knife fight in an alley went wrong. Like most of his family, it was fucking crazy enough to be true, because we have/had hard-bitten convicts doing serious time in my family. It might be right.

And so, he did what millions of American men have done, since the start of our military: he flipped money from the G.I. Bill into an education, because he found a real mentor in his Naval C.O. He hated military life, but he loved the results, so he set out to remake himself into an American ideal, like the old black-and-white movies he used to escape a rough home life or the troubles he causes, preferring to sink into a dark movie theater cooled with air conditioning that he didn't have at home, so he could check out of reality for awhile. He always carries around this deep sense of need wherever he goes, you know what I mean? Like, a deep sadness settles over him and whatever evil he thinks he's done that he can't quite recover from in a really honest way. It may not even be real, the depth of his pain, but in his mind, it is.

It didn't really hit home for me until I saw the first few episodes of the t.v. show "Mad Men", a show about so many striving city people of his generation looking to ditch their identities for fake ones that Madison Avenue churned out for them in a siren song. It was alluring for them, escaping a reality that hated them for who they were. Everyone and everything had to change to suit some commercial sameness. After watching every episode, I felt an pit in my stomach that was backed up by my mom's impressions, too, and she totally sucks at media. "Yeah", she said to me, "that's exactly what it felt like back then." She paused, "G-d, what are horrible time it was." And it was. People hid anything that they thought was "bad", or less likely to sell in a corporate marketplace, like their homosexuality or their ethnic roots, to be white-washed with the latest lead-based paint or cosmetics that passed FDA approval.

I remembered it in bursts during my own bus commutes, battling homelessness and starvation; his pressing of hot spoons in the mornings to clear up sinuses he always complained were made worse with stress, his heating pad treatments and cookie binges that left him prone on the sofa while we attended church services with our mother. When he did attend, he never mouthed any of the words to our liturgical services, before he finally left the faith for an easier version that he was raised to believe was utter blasphemy in its creation against the church of Jesus Christ. Some protest.

That was just his "downtime". He'd take us into the office for weekends when my mother didn't want us around, so me and my brother could draw pictures on old office papers and eat sugar cubes from the kitchenette area for coffee breaks taken during the work week, after we'd done a thorough search of the office drawers for candy and gum. He got his suits custom-tailored at a Wallach's store in the old Nanuet Mall by this short Jewish guy with a measuring tape around his neck who had his measurements on an index card in the back of the store. I loved it, because it was like attending an exclusive gentleman's club, with expensively-tufted leather chairs and the smell of good fabric hanging on every rack.

He hated every minute of the weird head games and strange office politics, even as he was complicit in the same type of crimes against the public trust, through every deal he'd do that put him deeper into a moral hole that followed him before and after the city that gave him his first family. I felt (and still feel) sad for the lost boy he is, even as I hate(d) his abuses against us. May this weekend, and every weekend after, find him peace, as well as for all the sufferers of the unfair, the unjust, the sick, and the poor of spirit. May they inherit the earth through their humility. This mother knows it firsthand.