Agression

Not a lot of people know this about me, but I dated an actual rock star, and not your garden-variety, mass market, "American Idol" pop star, either. No, "Kunte Kente" was (and is) a bona fide punk rocker with impressive music credentials. I met him at the recording studio I worked at, just as my marriage was breaking up, which was perfect timing. I needed a big head-of-steam to exit a poorly-made marriage, and punk rock gave me the edge I needed to punch my way out of a bad situation. That, and my new boyfriend threatened to kill my ex if he ever tried to contact me again, with a solid 6'1, 265 lb., ex-football player's frame to back it up. It was the perfect ending to a volatile relationship.

Kent had toured as a replacement guitarist for a skater band from Southern California called "Agression", led by frontman Mark Hickey. After that gig went bust, Mark moved back to Colorado to start a band called "Mark Hickey's Blues", and after that band broke up (Mark died from cirrhosis, like old rockers so often do), Kent and another singer created the band "Praise G-d And Pass The Ammunition" named after an old military song, that retained the sense of humor and spirit with which the previous bands were formed.

They were (like most native Coloradans) violently anti-hippie, what with the massive migration of tech transplants from Southern California fanning the flames of their homeland aggression. It was easy to see why. In less than five years, the landscape had totally changed. What was once gently rolling foothills leading to the massive Rockies grew almost overnight into generically suburban homes built in haste and poor taste, in ugly cul-de-sac after ugly cul-de-sac. 

So much for the Western frontier. It was so bad that the state allocated their lottery proceeds for buying land in the foothills that will never be developed, creating an "open space" park system rife with obnoxious weekend warriors. In short, there was a lot to be angry about. The building boom that had given my ex and my new boyfriend so much work also crowded out the wildlife we loved so much. C'est la vie. Kent told me that being in a band was like juggling five girlfriends at the same time, because the interpersonal dynamics are so challenging.

Soon after we met and the band played a few gigs, Kent started grumbling about the "Yoko Ono" of their group: a tall, plain, skinny girl called "Precious". She'd broken up the lead singer's marriage to be the youngest of us all, and in the heat of that breakup, she lashed out at me as an uneasy target for their growing tensions, but it was too hard a sell, given the fact that I'd art directed their only CD, which made her hate me even more, since I had genuine work-related credentials. She wore a dog collar with a dog tag of her name around her neck proudly, even though Kent bought it as a snarky joke for her utter lack of a true identity, because he used tags in his line work as a master electrician.

Anyway, their interests were waning. Mike, the lead singer, and the drummer were both in their 40s, and Kent and I had moved in together with our own careers to look after. The only thing the 20-something girlfriend had to cling to was that group, which was naturally moving on, as she looked for someone to blame. But, touring gets old and so do the mean drunks throwing cans at the stage, which means most punk rock bands (fueled by youth) die a natural death, like it did for "Praise G-d". Still, every now and again, when I'm moving stuff around the house, I find those old CD's with their photos to remind me of our hardcore punk past, and it was a blast. Hang in there, rockers. Aging gracefully is never easy.

Howling (In The Name Of)

Having a real Alaskan Malamute like Teddy was both a privilege and an honor, and one of the most difficult jobs I've ever had in my life, as one that's so often been filled with brutally hard work. He was absolutely astonishing to look at: a stunning, spectacularly beautiful animal of an uncommonly large size that marks the Giant M'Loot tribe of Mals, with their distinctive bandit face-mask of lush black and white fur. He was a lot like me, too, of a spiritual kind that's way deeper than mere pet ownership.

He was my puppy soul-mate: a "totem", a link to my ancient indigenous past like the first canines his pack still resembles so closely today. His temperament was as excellent as his looks. He was gentle yet powerful, strong and kind, intelligent while also being playful and fun. In short, he was perfect, and sometimes I was scared of the awesome responsibility that comes with taking care of such an extraordinary animal. Because of his rare genetics, he was also extremely high maintenance after human exportation to the "lower 48" states; not a lot of moose meat or seal chunks to go around the mainland U.S. As a result, he suffered from terrible diarrhea because of the filler food sold at commercial pet stores, which made me stick to him in a "mommy" way even more, that did not go unnoticed or unappreciated by him.

But our true joy with Ted was in the snow-filled mountains of the cold rocky west. There, he ruled supreme, just as he was designed to do. He was a King among animals, and as the strong wind blew back his thick mane to reveal his sharp eyes, his majestic lineage was clear for anyone to see, as his careful gaze swept cross the freezing landscape with each measured turn of his massive head. He was brilliant, he was my "baby bear cub", and he was a stone-cold killer in the deep-freeze chiller of the northern United States, which meant we loved him with all of our hearts. He was ours to protect and nourish, just as he would easily lay down his life to protect us in the wilderness, if it was necessary. He was way more than just some dog. He was part of our family. He was a part of my tribe. He was mine.

One of the most beautiful sights in the entire animal kingdom is a Malamute running through the woods in deep snow with their incredible snow-shoe paws, through one of the most difficult terrains on earth, with all the grace and elegance of a champion figure skater. He was our Olympic sport. Mals are powerfully-built athletes made for humans who can both respect that and keep up with it. Within a month or two of Ted's adoption into our human family, Kent and I easily lost our "courtship weight" that we'd gained while dating, because the "call of the wild" was too strong for all of us to resist, now a tight-knit family of three.

Our trips to the Coloradan backwoods now had a more acute focus than our nature walks of the past. Ted was a like Tasmanian Devil of unchained energy. He needed lots of fast-paced exercise to burn off his growing puppy stuff, or our apartment and any of our most precious belongings immediately paid the price for any laxity in his routine. He was "hardcore military": up at the break of dawn daily, disciplined in his habits, and voracious in his appetite for life. I was glad that Kent was former Coast Guard, and that hiking with my ex-Navy Dad meant that my pack had been carefully packed (and sitting by the front door) the night before, with a 5 a.m. wake-up that either had my father switching our bedroom lights on-and-off quickly in a jarring strobe light effect, or snapping up the window shades of our bedrooms with a loud "RAP!" (daylight permitting), because "the early bird catches the worm." Aye aye, captain...ugh...so sleepy. "Do you want to go hiking? We're leaving in five minutes."

And so it was with Ted, except that as soon as the cold mountain air blew into his snoofer stuck out the truck's window, his werewolf eyes went "something-something" that meant the crazy would start as soon as snow was quickly huffed up his nostrils. It was an altered state of reality. I've never seen anything like it, in any other types of animals, and I watch a lot of nature programming. It was unique to my snow-beast, and it was done with an urgency that had to be addressed properly. In the summertime, we had him iced down in air-conditioning and wet t-shirts that put him into a glorious bear-like hibernation state, making him sleepier and easier to manage. It was with this genius parental thought in mind (haha) that found us happily driving into the foothills at 7 a.m., greatly looking forward to a walk in the woods.

Because it was summer and hotter than we liked, we parked at a more easily accessible roadside spot than we normally would, what with wintertime skiers posing a serious threat to an off-leash Ted that frightened us once on a trail, never to happen again. Kent knew of a spot with running water, so off we went on a light walking trail. We let the fur beast loose to allow the magic to happen, feeling fairly confident of a smooth hike on a beginner's path. He lopped off to disappear down the top of a small dirt rise, which didn't concern me much. There was a lot of visibility on a trail like this. Kent and I relaxed and chatted, confident that we'd catch him around the bend. Famous last words. No sooner had we established a groove, than we heard a high-pitched shriek and a man's yell. Fuck...so much for our pleasant little Sunday stroll. Now what?

Kent chuckled as he said "let's speed up and see what that moose is up to", so we did. We ran down the path like two concerned pre-school parents to greet two very white and very scared suburbanite kids without any real hiking gear cowering in their tracks. Aw, poor Ted! He stood there at the top of the little hill a little freaked out with his head tilted cutely, pink tongue out and bushy tail slightly wagging. Wha'd I do? Oh, nothing, beast-man, and I harnessed him back to me. He was perfectly lovely. The idiots on parade were much less charming. The guy (about college age) had picked up a fucking tree branch, and he was slightly hysterical. "WHAT IS THAT?!" he yelled out to us.

He and his girlfriend thought Ted was a wolf, and they visibly relaxed when we explained he was our dog, though keeping their distance by walking off the path and around us on the small trail. Whew! As a big man, Kent knew the stigma. He'd been bullied before for being a big lad. And so, he couldn't resist tweaking out the wealthy "Trustafarian" college kids from out-of-state just a wee bit more. As we passed by them, he laughed. "Yeah, hey, just so you know, my Malamute would have chomped through that branch like a toothpick snapped in half because of the massive size of his jaws. Like a pit-bull!"

With that, they grew pale and wide-eyed again, hurrying off down the trail to warn any other hikers they met about the friendly "werewolf" walking with his family in a beautiful sun-dappled forest. It was the only real scare we had that day with our precious little beast, and "Amen" to that. We breathed easier knowing he was with us, so I didn't let him off-leash for the rest of the hike. Oh, well. So much for my easy summer day. It was a parent thing, you know? A werewolf like Ted just wouldn't have understood. But, you do. Right? Yep. You do. I can tell.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Totem

Dune

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Sand_Dunes_National_Park_and_Preserve 

Part of the allure of the west for me was that I had never seen it before. It was true: the very first time I "saw" Colorado was the night we drove up to a hotel in Boulder, and it was the dark of a rather recently settled west, which meant there were almost no lights. I couldn't see a thing. I asked Dave once or twice while we were on the highway if we would be able to see the mountains at all, even in the dark, and he laughed at me, saying that the mountains were facing his direction and not my side of the van. Oh. The next morning gave me no better clues about the landscape, because a blizzard had hit the area overnight, blanketing everything in a deep white snow that sparkled painfully in the bright desert sun. "Welcome to Colorado!" He laughed at me as we dug out the old gray van (a.k.a."The Rat") from the light powdery snow. 

Acute altitude sickness left me light-headed, queasy, and then actively vomiting. He was better with that because it mimicked his hard drinking ways, and he flattered himself into thinking that it gave me a taste of the morning sickness from pregnancy that would surely come to us one day as "marrieds". It allowed him to briefly feel like he had the upper hand over me, because his troubles were far too serious for anyone to handle outside of expert medical care, and they had failed at that, too. I knew that if he was going to stick it through, a big move like this would either shake him loose from me or give him the ballast he needed to endure serious married life with a woman like me. 

It was, in fact, exactly what I told my friends and family back home. Suffice to say, Dave was less ripe for adventure than me. Incurable brain disorders will do that to a person. Still, he was sailing on the illusion of greatness, and this was a performance opportunity for him. "Yeah", he explained to me as we swiped snow from the van, "you'll feel sick for about a day or two, but once you acclimate, it'll go away." Nowadays, I could've looked that up on the Internet in 3.5 seconds, but back then he felt that it gave him the leverage he needed to lead like a man, because he'd visited his older sister on their parents dime when she lived out there on a gated golf course community. Great. Along with the factoid about us being a mile high, thus ended Dave's supreme intellectual reign about all things western. Really, that was it.

After Dave went home, I began dating a man who was much more independent (like me), because he was estranged from his child-abusing parents by necessity. It wasn't great, but at least we could get up-and-go early in the morning, without the 12 p.m. wake-up call and grueling hours of coffee and cigarettes that Dave's manic-depression needed for him to remain sitting upright. I didn't have to sit around waiting and babysitting a man-child who would never really be fully functioning without massive support from his too tight crew of incestuous locals who also never broke away from home to explore the world. Vacation badly at a Floridian tourist trap or consistently hit an "all-you-can-eat" cruise ship buffet, yes. Real travel? No. Can't do it.

But Kent could, so we did. After so many years trapped inside a series of dark smoky rooms at night with a bunch of uneducated drunks, I felt free to roam. He was a burly sort of permanent bachelor used to being on his own, and after the cloying co-dependence of David, I found his carefree attitude refreshing. At least I was on my own again. No more playing nursemaid to a sick man. It seemed like I got away from a really bad situation cleanly, in a powerful "no harm, no foul" play that had set me completely free of a family that had never really warmed up to me. In addition to my mobility, Kent also had a great appetite for food, unlike the pale hard-drinking chain-smoker I'd just left.

We ate our way through Denver with expensive dinner dates that left me two sizes bigger than normal, but given what I'd been through with a depressed angry alcoholic, I figured I could lose the weight later, in exchange for my name and my life back. Hard as it was at the time (Denver was suffering through a skinny tan fad brought on by Californian relocatees in the millions), I knew I could bounce back from it, and slowly I did. I had my own feelings to contend with, and during a visit from my mother, she was surprised at the strength of my returning appetite. I'd spent years eating poorly or not at all with Dave, given his weird schedule of habits, and it had left me wanting. I was shocked and afraid at the ferocity of my returning hunger that seemed to never dull, and the somnolence that constantly weighed down my limbs.

The height of the mountains didn't help, either, so even though Kent and I were free to roam around and travel, I often felt too tired to do so, in sharp contrast to the 10-mile hikes I could walk in the mountains back home, even when I was loaded down with a pack. Being considered "fat" and "tired" was new to me, though my status as an outcast for this divorce was not. There was always something about me that pushed the scared conformists away, saggy as they were with their own fears. But gradually my energy returned, and with it, new life. I began ditching the car so I could walk to work instead, and we had a new dog that needed as much walking as we could stand. We hit the mountains, avoiding the obvious tourist spots for the more down-to-earth open spaces that are free to the public. 

I could feel my blood moving again, and I knew I was on the way to recovering from this most recent ordeal. Still, some trips from that time period bring it all back to me, like the sluggishness that felt like I was wading through thick muddy water during our trip to the Great Sand Dunes of Colorado. As I walked through a desert that looks much smaller than it feels after you're in it, I felt a weight sucking me down, trying to pull me in, chaining me to the sand, forcing me to take slow heavy steps, and it was a good thing, too. The desert opens up like a surreal pop-up book after that first small hill, rapidly expanding into a large full-blown desert, and that's no place for a New York girl like me to break down. I come from the water. I come from a solid place I was destined to return. I wanted to make it back home.

Sunday Paper

New York, New York.

Years ago I worked for a local paper out west, relocating to Denver because my then-husband was flailing in the Big Apple, and I wanted to help him if I could. I knew I'd always come home, because my ancestors helped built this town, but also because I never felt like I had to run away from here. Anyway, I was young and ready for adventure at points as yet unknown. The day I said goodbye to Manhattan, I went to Rockefeller Center, Tiffany's and St. Patrick's Cathedral. I remember I leaned on the railing that hung over the empty off-season ice rink, and I said softly to myself "I'll be back", and I meant it.

On the day of the 9/11 attack, I watched in mute silent horror as a plane hit a tower in my beloved city, on a huge bank of tv's in The Denver Post's newsroom. An editor alerted us to the news story coming over the wire. Our studio was right next to The Pit, a slew of desks manned by the enormous editorial team. At first we thought it was a small plane blown off course, because that sometimes happens over the windy tempestuous skies of New York. Years ago, a Yankee ball player with a private pilot's license sheared off course over the East River to do just that: slam into a building unintentionally due to high winds over the river. We talked about the plane crash in the design studio, with me as the conversational lead, because I was the only native New Yorker present with city experience.

Then someone came running in to the studio again "Another tower's been hit! Two planes! It's an attack!" He was smiling and excited. We ran into the newsroom to see the second tower burning and in flames. I put my hands up to cover my mouth. Someone next to me said "She's from New York" and from then on it was like a nightmare in slow motion, because that's how slowly I saw the towers crumble and fall. I cried out I think "no no no no!!" but I don't really remember. The next thing I can recall is that I sat at my desk, numb and shaking. There were no "sorries" from my co-workers, no handshakes, no pats on the back, just a group of out of towners silently walking around me. I said (mostly to myself) "You have no idea how many people just died. You have no idea how big those towers are, how many people they hold, the scale of them unless you've been there and seen it for yourself. You just watched thousands of people die, live on television." I remember the newsroom buzzed with the news, with talks of editorial awards already in the works, layouts being hastily made, phones ringing, people running around, high fiving each other.

This kind of break from the norm is the stuff that news programs dream of, and this event was no exception, except for one person there, and that was me. I tried to talk with another employee I knew; he had a smirk on his face about American retribution, some lefty speech about our comeuppance ready to fly off his lips, solid in the comfort that he had an Asian wife at home, smug in his practiced anti-"The Man" stance, so common of the stereotypical liberal media type used to free lunches and union coverage. After I started talking, the smile slowly faded from his eyes, and finally he realized he should have the decency to be embarrassed, looking down at his desk, bowing his head in shame. Back in the design studio, our ineffectual manager (who rode his way to the top slowly and very gradually, by simply being an union employee who never left his first job out of school) tried to console us: "Ok, OK. I know it's upsetting, but lets' try and get back to work." Right. Because I give two fucks about the garden ad that just crossed my desk. I don't think so.

A few months later, The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News announced that their competitive practices and union shops had bankrupted both papers. Thanks to a US Constitutional Amendment that preserves Freedom of the Press, both papers would consolidate all departments except the editorial ones under a new company called The Denver Newspaper Agency. They offered employees total contractual buyouts; a year's salary paid upfront and health insurance for six months also paid by them, the result of many hours of union negotiations. Later that day, the VP of Production and Design, a handsome, kind, and intelligent older man I'd always liked, stopped by to tell me that the kind of people who left were the kind of people who knew they would make it; it wasn't the worst people who left first, it was always the best, and then he walked away. I was the first person at The Denver Post to opt out of my contract and take the buy out deal on the table. Within a year, I moved back to Brooklyn, with their money in my pocket.

This story from my life is my gift to you, New York.

Born Agains

I knew two religions growing up: Judaism and Catholicism. One of the Rockland County-born boys (who'd later challenge me to a fight after school one day) said he was "Christian" when we asked around at lunchtime, which started a conversation about what exactly that was. We figured out in the fourth grade that a "Christian" is someone who believes in Jesus Christ, because the word "Christ" is in it. I remember it because the doors to the cafeteria were open, and the weather was warm. I even remember some of the kids at lunch: Molly, Vinny, Michael, me, and a few others. We were all Catholic except for Michael; a Gerlach with Dutch/German roots, whose family did not like the "ethnic" people moving up from the city during the 70s.

During my post-college career, my fiance/husband chafed under the conditions that New York City imposes upon the individual. He was struggling, and he needed my help. I knew a change of scenery wouldn't cure his alcoholism and manic-depression, but I was up for an adventure. My career and my hometown would still be there when I got back, and I knew that, too, despite a former classmate's prediction that I was committing "career suicide" by leaving New York. I didn't actually believe in my impending suicide, though, so we made the move out west to Colorado, anyway.

I'd never been to Colorado before, but I'd seen enough pictures and done enough research to have an idea of what was there. That, and I already scheduled an interview. We reached Boulder at night, and the hotel room looked like anywhere. The next day, we woke up to a blizzard with lots of snow, which I liked. I love the mountains, having grown up near the Adirondacks and the Catskills; hiking, camping, and exploring rural New York. I discovered during college that my genetically thick skin was still intact after that first winter in Oneonta: a city in the hills, where winter begins in October and ends in May.

After a bout of altitude sickness, I adjusted quickly, as is my way. Culture is another story. It's very different from New York, as anyone who's ever been to both places can attest to. Within a week, David found carpentry work that was easy to find during the town's construction boom. My work? Not so easy. It took me six months to get an excellent freelance position at a museum, which launched my career there. During that time, I got a lot of flack from both sides of my family, even though I lived off my savings and paid all of my bills on my own, without my husband's help. I am the first professional working artist in my family, and the time frames are different. It's slow and hard to find, but the work is exciting and challenging. It's worth it.

Of course, there are a lot of other differences than just geography: the weather, the people, the food, etc., but the first real bristling always happens at an office, where people brush up against one another. Needless, the women I encountered at my first job didn't like me, so I moved on. The excuses were the same as New York, though: the hemming and the hawing, the awkward avoidance in hallways, the gossip and the sniping....how....human. The next job was a fun, frat-like, all-male recording studio. It was filled with emigrés who couldn't tolerate the East Coast lifestyle, like my then-husband, but I wasn't bent on recreating myself into a mythic Western ideal like they were. I had an identity already, and from an early age. Part of the secret handshake of that world, I learned, was a disavowal of one's past life, with fretful hand-wringing about my time in New York. There's even lingo devoted to it; a sub-culture of hatred, envy, and regret, for "escaping" from New York. I was barred entry for not performing my lines correctly.

Another bout, this one with severe flu, no health insurance, and my husband's arrest, brought about some quick changes. My marriage was over, I had no health plan, and I was alone. So, I got a corporate gig with regular benefits and "stability", though I know those aren't real, either. I was part of a design group within a large company that went bust. Working right next to me was a woman who'd gone to my high school. She was immediately freaked out by me because she'd hoped to be a pioneer out west, cobbling together a "fun" identity borrowed mostly from Seinfeld episodes. My appearance blew her cover and her routine, which made her skittish and uncertain around me. Naturally, she wanted to be my "friend", which is called a "frenemy" nowadays. She hadn't lived in "New Yawk" since high school, and I threw her off because I wasn't serving up Brooklyn cliches just for entertainment. She was also the only practicing Catholic I knew out there.

We had a mostly Colorado work group, people who alternately avoided me and competed with me, which I expected. They feared and disliked me, making an uneven peace with my presence through an avoidance that they played off as their folksy, country reticence. The other out-of-towner was an unfortunate transplant who shivered all winter long in his resort-wear from Arizona. No amount of talking could persuade him to buy a coat, a scarf, gloves, or a hat. He had a large poster of a tropical palm tree in his pen, which shouted out his climate preferences to anyone who passed by. We got along well, though, as outsiders. He's a devout Christian and a wayward soul, wandering among the scriptures like a beach-comber looking for treasure. He doesn't quite get it, but he loves to talk about it. 

During another slow union-funded afternoon, he made the mistake of handing out religious pamphlets at work. I felt an obligation to tell him the truth, albeit discreetly, that he was breaking the law. He's originally from Mass., so I used that as a reference point, guiding him along as gently as I could. He wouldn't do that if he was in New York, would he? What if he handed this to an Atheist or a Jew?! It's not only offensive, he could lose his job over religious solicitation during office hours. He had the fire of a new convert, but it was also extremely condescending to anyone with a serious religious background. As a Catholic, my parents and family had introduced me to our ancient faith before I could speak. These spiritual concepts were not new to me.

Years earlier, my then-fianceé and I lived in my aunt's old apartment to save money for our wedding and moving expenses. I often went to other neighborhoods to shop and run errands they weren't available to me in the Kensington section of Brooklyn. I don't often take the bus, because I prefer to walk within distance, so I usually take the subway for further trips. I took the bus one time, a real rarity for me, and I was delighted when a normal-looking young woman asked if she could sit down next to me. Oh, good! I lost touch with a lot of female friends during the post-graduation phase of my life, and I welcomed an opportunity to make a new one. She was an average white woman, clean, neat in appearence with straight brown hair. She asked me a few questions to break the ice, or so I thought. Wow, friendly, too...nice!

Then, she dropped the "freak" bomb. She became chirpy and glassy-eyed, a little too keen to talk, speaking much quicker than before. "Me and a group of friends like to meet every Wednesday." Okay...."Would you like to come by?" Uh, what for? Shit. Too late. "Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as Your Savior?" Yeah, and a long time ago, too. Welcome to the club.There's no gift basket, by the way. Since then, whenever I'm approached by a zealot, I just blurt out "I'm Catholic!", which seems to frighten them off right away. And, yes, I also carry an "I'm Catholic" card in my wallet.  

Blessings to you and yours this week.