The Troubles (Na Trioblóidí)

Irish people refer to their civil war as "The Troubles", in a shy euphemism that reveals the gentleness of a warm, kind, generously hospitable people aghast at the suddenly vicious violence that broke out, assisted as it was by outside economic interests. False divides in homelands are disturbing to live under, because it implies that families cannot live together, similarly constructed as the fair people of "The Emerald Isle" are. I have ancestry from Galway and County Tyrone, which, in centuries gone by, would have presented me with the unenviable task of choosing sides before military zones were demarcated by England, familiar as these lines are now, but hard still. Who would you choose? Which side? Your Protestant son and his family, or the Catholic boy living just outside of Dublin? Why did we ever have to choose?

It's the same around the globe, like the same epic battle fought between Cain and Abel we repeat in these disordered histories around the world, as walls built to separate instead of unite. We've seen it throughout time: The Berlin Wall, The Great Wall of China, and a wrongly-felt nation of Korea now split as "North" and "South", just as the U.S. was once divided, too. When will we learn? Mothers and fathers said goodbye to sons and daughters who fought and died in the wars of wealthier people vested in key government positions, far above the grunts sent to fight conflicts that did not always benefit them back home. What would you do?

Who actually wins in these wars? Not us! On my last trip back to "Eire" (it was a big fat New York family trip, let's just leave it at that for now), we were blessed to have a border crossing that was told to us gently, knowing the changeover only when we stopped for gas and got British Sterling back as change, instead of the Euro that marks the currency for the Free Republic of Ireland. Scotland was recently given the chance to switch to an independent nation through a legal vote but declined, and I can't say I blame them as a people. England is far wealthier, like Puerto Rico's relationship with the United States. Would you cut ties with us quickly? Certainly not, and neither would a savvy mom like me who only wants what's best for her children, economically and otherwise.

You haven't seen poverty like the kind that we saw as Americans visiting in Ireland back in the day. My first trip to Ireland in the 80s was like a time machine trip; a country so poor, they still used the local bus to travel with their chickens in cages to sell in the markets of the bigger towns, like the sawdust strewn quickly and cheaply on the floor of a Brooklyn supermarket in the far-out neighborhood of Kensington that was such a long subway trip away from the big city, no one at my first job in publishing ever heard of it. That's changed, though the character remains the same, because genuine pockets for natives never really appeal to out-of-towners or hipsters, and if they do, it's short-lived.

But that's not our commitment to these homelands we love so much as immigrants. When my father and his wife came up last year for a brief visit, we went to Louie's for Sunday brunch on a day that was as briskly cold and sodden as those of "The Green Island" itself. He'd  asked for a quiet spot without music because of his poor hearing (a genetic disorder I share with him), and I instantly felt at home. One of our friends from Clarkstown South worked there as a waitress when we were in high school, and it remains a great local spot.

Our waitress was Irish, as was obvious from the lilt of her brogue. We fell into conversation easily, as we are wont to do here among family and friends, similar in tone to the pubs ("Public Houses" for short) we know so well overseas. She explained a little bit of her life to me, as the parents looked over the classically seasonal menu; she chose to have her sons born on American soil so they would know the the gift of freedom as dual citizens, and it was one of the most beautifully-said, softly-spoken words of progress I have ever heard. 

She went on to say that her life wasn't problem-free living in this new reality. Her husband struggled with his work Visa during her boy's senior year of high school, and we laughed over the difficulty of securing a driver's license through the careful navigation of all those Irish turn-abouts, with its level matched only by New York's requirements for a learner's permit. Poor kid! Her husband stayed with her oldest son throughout his last Irish school year while she remained in New York with her other children, working her part of their family.

She'd knew they'd get by as a family, what with her husband spending time with her boy in Ireland, and her here to keep their family foothold in both lands, and I immediately thought to myself "That's it!". This is the solution that each and every American has longed for: assimilation without regrets, the preservation of culture without the taint of "foreigner" to dull our united hearts, for who could choose better? How do you split your body and soul in half? You don't! Now, with better immigration laws and fairer practices for recent emigres, we're no longer forced to choose between siblings, or children and their grandmothers, because we can keep our families together.  
We really can have it all.

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

A Thousand Points of Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exodus (Movement of the People)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Spoils of War

http://voc.tv/1jOnjUT

I watch and read a lot of content that isn't specifically designed for me, nor catered to my particular demographic, because it's part of my job to stay au courant of pop culture trends. Like my former job description as an Art Director in Adult Trade book cover design ("You can't judge a book by its' cover" for the umpteenth time. Haha...yes, you can, and you certainly should. That's why we invest so much into it upfront as our most important marketing material: to create enough visual interest on a bookshelf for you to pick it up and want to explore further, because we actually really fucking care about the books we make. But I digress, shit-heel...), people think my job is one thing over the actual reality of it: to be an expert who accurately judges and assesses any type of creative content, in whatever form it takes, in any language or country, on any device, for any audience. 

It's actually a lot harder than it sounds or looks, because you're big hit bestseller may, in reality, be a totally trite and highly repetitive piece of derivative shit for me; one that's almost exclusively driven by slavishly current marketing trends, which is a really bad sign in creative businesses, because if you can't come up with original ideas consistently, you're done. It means some asshole middle manager who is a big nobody has sapped your talent and then gets the pathetic joy of discarding you like you're a used car battery, which is the worst thing that can happen to any artist. You are no longer relevant culturally because you've lost your platform.

With that in mind, I always try to let my friends at the library know what I'm checking out as part of my job, and what I really like, because part of their job as librarians (who are some of the most important people in our audience to market to) is knowing my preferences and suggesting materials to me as recommendations, then talk to me intelligently about it (but really, you, not me, because I already know). We publish almost exclusively to libraries at times, in special Library Editions; maybe large print books for the blind or vision-impaired, or perhaps books designed to handle the rougher climate of a public library's bookshelf by using tougher binding materials manufactured just for them. They know me and my audience here, because I've published books just for them at certain times, or oversaw it as a supervisor at some point in time in my long career.

That's why I read the "Twihard" series to my great displeasure: because my weirdo aunt who is emotionally stuck at 14, due to the severity of her mental disabilities and impairments, desperately wants me to believe that I am just like her, through this obviously fake Christmas "gift" (because hoarders use objects to express their feelings for people....ugh): I'm permanently stuck on stupid with some "hot" vamps involved, just like her. Uh, great. It's a series, right? And so I read the entire series as part of my professional follow-though routine, and because it also became a wildly popular movie series of some of the worst tripe I've even seen marketed to teens, which really pisses me off. And the books really suck, too. Bad writing.

So, when I check out some white men war movies, it's always attached with the caveat that this content may or may not be marketed for me, which is fine, because I'm a grown up, and we might also have the added bonus of making fun of some really bad art at the check-out counter, because librarians are people, too! I digest way too much content that is throwaway junk, but that's no different than any other day for me: it's for you, kid, and not for me. Mommy has very few needs. And so it happened that I saw a string of war movies recently, representing different types of people (loosely drawn from the facts), in the form of wacky expensive movie fiction, which is problematic for a realist like me. If it's tied to actual human beings who exist(ed), then great; my job just got easier by cutting out the rich white man to go directly to the source. Moms also don't need puppet shows that are stand-ins for real people, kids!

"Unbroken" was about some small town guinea who was picked on for being Italian (yeah, me, too), which got him angry enough for his brother to use as an energy in the white man Olympics, in front of Nazi's who yearned to be the purest whitest people ever....uh oh, Dago Boy is in real trouble. And then he is: all of his fancy Olympian skills become fodder for some mentally ill jerk-off who wants to channel his homoerotic energy into breaking an American Olympian cleaning up shit in a Japanese prison camp. Tough guinea wins (we usually do), but he never gets the apology he wants by the mad rich Jap who heads for the hills in embarrassment after the war. Boohoo, bro. No guts, no glory. We women know boys find war games really fucking fun. Would you want to grind sawdust into the scant remains of the flour that you have on ration, while your children starve slowly in front of you? No?! And that was one of the easier WWII scenarios women had, back in the day. You don't want to know about the rest: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unbroken_%28film%29.

"Lone Survivor" is better: this tough muthafuckin' white boy (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcus_Luttrell) pulls through champion-style, too, but with a broken back and a new foreign friend. I like that he manages to rise above the spoils of a typical war by bonding with the villagers who hid him from the enemy, because they realize that the nasty war tribes around them are totally fucking nuts, regardless of nationality, and they would just as easily kill them as that broke-back white boy, because they're right. People are driven mad by war, because video games with real targets (like pregnant women and their nursing children) are really fucking hard to kill, even if you know that they are human smart bombs sent to rip you to shreds. Do you want want to be the person flicking the switch to that electric chair, you monster? (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monster%27s_Ball)

I know I'm a great warrior who would totally fucking kill you in a knock-down, drag-out battle to the death for survival, but it's a rare thing to have a fair fight, when the righteous wins over evil. What do you do when the sands shift under your feet? Or, how can I be a good guy when I just blew the head off of a defenseless woman? That's the kind of thing that stays with you, man, and sometimes it kills you back at home, where another type of war rages: the one that plays inside your shell-shocked and highly concussed skull, which is what this white boy played in this fucking war movie about how war may turn even your new war friend into a foe, in a heartbeat: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Sniper.

Not so glamorous anymore, is it? These actors don't go home to nurse you through the after-effects of your war-induced illness, bro. I do that for you, people in social services do that for you, but this fucking celebrity gets to breeze through a photo op at the local VA, drop a check, and he is gone, gone, gone, girl. Then, the really bad movie starts to play in your head, once again...where will Hollywood be? Nowhere in sight. That's the true spoils of any given war; money you don't get and will never see, while you heart-breakingly watch (by yourself) your son or daughter struggle through yet another series of tremors that the Veteran's supposed benefits package just ran out on, and G-d forbid that they get their hands on that kitchen knife before you do. Who will be there in that room with you? 

Here's a wild guess: it won't be a Bradley Cooper type of actor. The man who helps you pick up the pieces later on will be your real friends, family, neighbors, and community activists. That's who you owe, and that's who I work for everyday, because that's who I am: your friendly fucking neighborhood war hero. But, like, so not with the actual PTSD that's so dramatic on camera, dude. That's, like, totally not cool, you know? Pay me, yo! I'll throw you a real party, man, with no weird gold statues that don't mean jack-shit, either. I promise ;)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Iraq_War_films

Detox

So-called "celebrities" burn through $30,000 in cash for this, yo.

Just like Californian wildfires and desert droughts, every year summer's are extremely hot across America, and every year New Yorkers short out the power grids by turning on their air conditioners full blast at the very first sense of heat and/or discomfort (http://bit.ly/1D96Ny1). You may not know it, but your ridiculous "lifestyle" makes us easy targets for developing Third World countries around the globe, who mistake our waste for future affluence. 

Trust me, you don't want this. Shiny cars and blonde bimbos with fake tits and spray tans look good for awhile, but just like any high maintenance object, they require an almost constant stream of money to stay that way, and after awhile, "Father Time" gets us all in the end. It's Fool's Gold*; not a genuine gold rush like the Old Hollywood movies and t.v. shows of the past portrayed it. Most of those fantasy movies were made by East Coast Jews and low class Micks who didn't fit into their own pictures "look" anyway. 

No amount of money could erase that fact, written across their faces for the world to see, obscured only by costumes, makeup, and fake "movie magic". It was recently reported that Mariah Carey needs $50,000 an appearance** to maintain the illusion of beauty (which would certainly explain the less attractive Billionaire Euro she's now dating), and you really don't want to know what those Kardashians spend. If I saw that on t.v., and my child was starving to death in my arms in some refugee camp, I'd hate us, too. Bombs away!

This "celeb" is also AFRICAN-AMERICAN! http://bit.ly/1MwnaYH

I can only tell you that me (and many others like me) are not the wasteful ugly Americans you see on t.v., because almost every day for years, I have written about our collective truths and showed you our landscapes here, so you would know that I am not lying to you about how I live, who my people are, and how we got here.

We have to detox from: sugar, processed foods, plastic surgeries, countless harmful cosmetic procedures, alcohol and drug addiction, ignorance about treatments for mental illness and psychosis, wanton consumer consumption, fossil fuels, bullshit vacations to escape hateful (and wasteful) office jobs, over-commuting to stressful city jobs to maintain an illusion of success (when you are, in reality, one paycheck away from losing it all: the houses, the cars, the "family" toxic cruises), the old factory model of business management, the medieval concept of "landlording" and serfdom, and a billion other hateful systems that Old Money Europe set up in America. 

You don't need all that stuff, hoarder, so just let your useless, worthless junk go. We've been bankrupted by rotten debt, from a system I certainly didn't create or support, nor ever willingly participate in. Did you? Then turn down that friggin' A/C*** with your dumb, sweaty ass in that twenty floor office building. Asshat.

*     http://bit.ly/1DMfqcN
**   http://bit.ly/1SL9Oqj
*** http://nbcnews.to/1LfaLX2


Oh, I ain't done, yet, kids. I'm about to ruin your day completely with this joint right here: http://bit.ly/1IGN6QL. Enjoy!

Blood for Oil (Fuel-Mad Americans)

http://bzfd.it/1GUWZmk

The one weapon worldwide that warring people always reliably count on against "evil" America is our supposed lust for oil and petroleum products. Speaking as someone who walks downhill daily as part of her commute, I can assure you that there is no such person, at least not how it's portrayed overseas as an excuse for violence and murder.

Americans use transportation regularly because one of our states, that land called "Texas", may be the size of your entire country and then some, which is difficult to envision if you've never been. When I lived and worked briefly in Germany, Arnold Schwarzenegger was a newly-elected Californian governor. The next day, my studio-mates in the atelier tried to use it against me, which was baffling, because I lived in New York City. I tried explaining it to them, but without an illustration like the one you see below, it's almost incomprehensible to a Euro.

The distance from Berkeley to New York City is 2,900 miles—driving time of 42.5-48 hours.

It felt like my time in Denver, when I tried (in vain) to explain to the designers and editors around me how many people we watched die, live on t.v. during the 9/11 attacks, because they also tried to dismiss it immediately. America is so vast, it is a state of mind that's much bigger than other countries on the globe, which makes it unknowable to anyone who hasn't seen it or tried to travel across it. Freedom, like being American, isn't a state or ethnic group; it's a choice.

When I explained to my German co-workers that I would have to fly on a plane (or two, or three, depending on fares and airline hubs) for SIX HOURS just to reach California from New York, I could see an "Aha" moment spreading through the group, which was solidified later on in  my trip when an editor and I blithely mentioned we were driving to Amsterdam for the weekend. They were shocked and scared beyond belief by such a journey as ours (and by beautiful women, too!), until we once again mentioned that we could drive for hours in New York and still remain in our home state. 

To us, driving a mere 2-3 hours to be in another country is so easy and ridiculous a hurdle to accomplish, we cannot imagine NOT doing that regularly. Same thing with the English language: if you had to fly for 10 hours just to get to another country, you'd probably use less languages, too, Euro. Trust me on that. Anyway, English has become the lingua franca for world business and trade, which makes sense to me, because New York City is the capital of the world. 

Writing that is still no excuse for gluttony, just because you may like shiny new things. I love good design and classic American cars as much as the next person, but to pull ourselves out of this mess, we have to buckle down and conserve. This means you! I really liked the German system of limiting car usage and petrol to orderly days of the week divided by neighborhood, like so: on Mon-Weds., these streets conserve fuel and cannot drive, so my co-workers biked as part of their daily commute instead, to a train equipped with bike racks. 

"Petrol" is considered a very expensive luxury in Europe overall, which is the right idea to have, because the cost of using too much gas is a price we can't afford to pay anymore. Think about the melting of the polar ice caps, and you're already there. Same with your air conditioning running at full speed whenever you feel like it, because you're overweight and always overheated. Fuck that! Staten Island has already experienced crippling power outages and it's not even August (the hottest month here), yet.This world needs to go on a diet, and not a Texas-sized one either. We need to change the world.

Confederacy of Dunces

http://nyti.ms/1skVMyf

You've seen it on all the news programs lately: why all this fuss over some old flag? Because, (and this will be the last time I will address this issue with any amount of serious consideration, because it's that fucking stupid to me), our ancestors fought and died in our nations' bloodiest war: a civil war that divided families and pitted brother against brother, in the name of righteousness. 

Southerners created their own stupid dip-shit flag and useless Monopoly money so they could pretend to live in a delusional fucking world where it's okay to murder, torture, rape, and continually victimize people like they're worse than the cattle most of us eat every day. 

You see, if a cow didn't make the brutal trip across the sea and over a very long distance, like, say, the ones West African people were forced to endure under inhuman conditions, those poor people of the South wouldn't have food, ergo cows are better than people from another country. See? That's logic! No?! Well, my stars. 

http://theurbanchica.com/poetry-and-still-i-rise-by-maya-angelou/

Take down that fucking flag hundreds of years after we won the war, because it is a symbol of your continually deliberate and very calculated system of ignorance, hatred, and oppression, you inbred fuck. I mean it. You lost. There. Get over it. 

You will not "rise" again. There is no "confederacy", and they never will be. We are one united nation, shitheads. Oh, and your boringly repetitive music sucks, too. Ahhh...now, I feel better. Thanks, guys!

Here's your homework, fuck-up:
http://www.ushistory.org/us/27f.asp
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p2956.html 
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/slavery
http://www.civilwar.org/education/history/civil-war-overview/overview.html 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War
http://www.history.com/topics/american-civil-war

For Kara

http://www.learnnc.org/lp/editions/nchist-colonial/1904

On the hunt

http://www.venisondonation.org/

If you're a regular reader of mine, you should know by now that hunger is a human problem, and not a food one. Humans have always used resources as leverage against one another in times of war, and what greater weapon of mass destruction is there if not for starvation? 

Many a cynic has gone on t.v. in some corporate-sponsored advertisement to disturb your Saturday ballgame viewing with horrible images of bloat-belly children in Africa, in a crass exploitation of so-called "white guilt" and the collective sense of responsibility we feel as hardworking, wealthy Americans. 

But, as my man Father Raphael (from Nigeria) pointed out to one such carnival barker who used the St. Francis parish to fund-raise, with his disgustingly lurid pictures of poor children: "When hasn't there been starving children in Africa?", which is a delicate, sensitive, and extremely intelligent criticism that opens up further under scrutiny. Aren't there rich people in Africa who care about Africans?! 
What happened to them all? 

As bad as the slave trade has been for many people of American descent, it isn't the full story about our world in crisis. It's sort of like my old housemate from art school, who immediately noticed when I didn't pack-rat my tiny hearing aid batteries for recycling later, because I replaced an old one for a new one while walking and talking with her on the street, and then tossed the tiny battery into a garbage pail. (Sue: they're mercury-free because I asked my audiologist on my next visit to town. Thanks for making me feel paranoid and irresponsible. Sleep easy, gentle hippie). 

Is it really up to me and my every miniscule action to save the world?! How can that be? I understand the Butterfly Effect*, and the implications that a small movement may have many miles away, but like my mom's exhortations about sending my uneaten broccoli to Africa, there's something about useless fretting that obscures much deeper issues.

When I had no money to give, I gave my blood. When I had no food to eat, I sold my belongings. When I had more time to spare, I gave it back to the church as an apprentice Sunday School teacher. 
Which brings me back to the same eternal question of: what can you do? Besides sending badly cooked vegetables overseas. 

This week, I urge you to look beyond the quick, obvious, and easy, as you reach back out into the world to help. What can you do right now, with just what you have on hand? 

Thank you for your patience while we right your wrongs, most directly with new legislation that addresses massive supermarket waste. 
Don't worry: we won't send you deer meat, if venison isn't your thing. 
It isn't mine, either.

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/food_waste_loc/?bkmQyjb&v=61604

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

For JonBenét

I was walking to church service a few weeks back, enjoying the sunshine and looking at shop windows in town, when this particular brand of insanity popped out at me, like a punch to the face:

WTF?! I'm no prude. I grew up dancing around in formfitting leotards as a kid, but never in some weirdo outfit like this, because (and this is key) MY PARENTS WOULD HAVE NEVER ALLOWED IT. Why, you ask? Listen to me, you g-ddamn fuck up, you know perverts who hurt children look for little girls to be dressed up like a woman because they are fuck ups. They know parents who outfit their kids like this are totally vulnerable to their brand of manipulation.

Just like we know "reality" t.v. stars pimp out their kids, pumping them full of sugar and drugs so they can "perform" onstage for these weirdos who use these events as a pretext to fetishize their children, the people who pay money for the privilege to attend, brandishing phony trophies and other "prizes", as they also lurk anonymously in the darkened audience, gazing at the objects of their desire onstage, primped out for all the world to see. In other words, this ain't no Sugar Plum Fairy dancing in a classical ballet at Lincoln Center, and we are onto you. Do you hear me, loud and clear?

We are onto you.

G-d bless you today, my parents, neighbors, friends, and dear families in Christ. Today (and for every day after, as these atrocities continue to occur), we go to battle against all the things that dare to go bump in the night, in direct defiance of Our Lord's True Nature, thinking that their sick gazes go unmolested by our unseeing eyes; that it does not pierce straight into G-d's heart, He Who Sees and Knows All. We see you. Know that, and sleep well, my children, tonight and every night.

And you, you who have so deserted the keeping and company of men of good faith, look what you have chosen to make famous with your attentions and focus. How do you sleep at night? This, this woman below, this is who you gave a major t.v. contract to. This is who you put on a major t.v. network. This is who you made famous. Does she look like she cares about you, or us, or herself, or anyone? No more.

http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/19/living/parents-ban-child-beauty-pageants/

http://www.tlc.com/tv-shows/toddlers-tiaras

Happy Birthday to Me

When I was growing up, birthdays were rare breaks from my very strict norm. It was the one day (read that again: ONE DAY) of the year when I was allowed to choose what we had for dinner as a family, and what kind of cake would be served as dessert. As I got older (say, around 7 or 8 years old), birthdays became trading opportunities for my brothers to petition me with (ahem, more like, try to strong arm me into), by giving up my birthday dinner for money. If I switched out my usual spaghetti and meatball dinner with something more palatable to them, ("So boring! You pick the same thing every year!"), something they preferred, like spare ribs, they'd give me an extra $10 or $20 bucks for my birthday, which was really money for the Christmas gifts I'd spend for them, and they knew it, because it came up quickly on the heels of December 17th. Everything in our household was up for negotiation: my birthday, my gifts, my privacy, my body, even the food I waited all year to have free from strife, or so I thought. 

We were desperate for these few scant "outs" from our daily lives, which my parents could not tolerate as well, because they bartered between each other over just about everything, like a couple of spoiled and highly deprived children. It was excruciating to endure and bear witness to, and so, birthdays lost their luster eventually, too, just like everything else in that house did, quickly becoming another day to me, and a very abusive one that was rife with potential conflict at that. In short, I grew up, even when the people around me couldn't or wouldn't, stuck on just one speed or another. You want my cake that badly? Sure, take it, I guess. I mean, what the fuck?! It's readily available food! What gives? They became greedy, grasping, rabid animals in the face of this one freedom we had among the crushing grinding reality of our day-to-day life that my parents so hated. So, as I matured, it went: first, it was my simple chocolate cake with whipped cream and canned peaches that my grandmother had perfected over the years, next it was my humble pasta dinner so that I could have money to buy the few things I wanted, needed or liked. In short, I became a mother, as the people around me began pushing and pulling against one another after I caved into their stronger desires. 

At the end of the day, it was just a spaghetti and meatball dinner, covered with tomato sauce and coated with grated cheese on top. Shit, I could make that any time I wanted to, with some advanced planning. I was already a master chef by age ten, absorbing and inhaling my mom's few scant cookbooks in the pantry, because she considered cooking a plebeian chore for lesser minds, far beneath her "advance degrees in science" kind of mind, a skewed and warped view of her "feminism" loudly pronounced through a wedding gift titled  "The 'I Hate to Cook' Cookbook" that sat on the pantry shelf in accusation. It spoke to her desperation for some kind of legitimacy, one that she would never really be able to achieve on her own, given the problems inherent with her brain chemistry. She wasn't bashing against oppression. She came up against her own inequities, and creative cooking was just another one of her shortcomings that she cleverly hid, saying that baking was more precise and to her liking, because the measurements were like her lab concoctions at work, which were so much more important than us and our dinnertime. 

And so it went throughout the years, as I watched these days ripped away from me one by one in a type of silent horror show, like the throwaway milestones they had become to my family. First, it was the food I liked, then my gifts were traded for money given grudgingly, shoved at me from across the kitchen table, or thrust hastily into my hand as we passed each other by in the hallway, on my way to my childhood bedroom. My supposedly big adult years became birthday bashes they could use to manipulate one another with, and also use against me to dominate me with their far more pressingly petty needs. I knew it went haywire one year, when I found myself eating grossly over-sweetened cake that I did not like nor want, in my grandmother's overheated apartment, that I grew sick over with a painful food headache from yet another forced ingestion that had to take place in front of my very sick godmother, to placate her mental illnesses through her viciously depraved sweet tooth that she angrily substituted over actual medication, in tribute to her before I was finally allowed to reach my intended destination of a Sushi dinner my sick mother paid for with her birthday coupon, which she promptly screwed up by falling down on a slight sidewalk incline to the restaurant the moment I was distracted by opening the door for her in the bitter cold night. 

Whenever I folded in family, they ruined it gleefully and spitefully, right in front of my face. My brothers took away my 40th from me cruelly as well, co-opting the play I wanted to see with one of their selections instead, picking the restaurant and meeting place, booking a hotel for their families' comfort and enjoyment by pushing me into a forced engagement that I hated every minute of, culminating in my nephew taking and eating the birthday cake right off my plate in front of them without bothering to ask anyone about, that they pretended to ignore. In families with rampantly untreated mental illnesses, I was simply another pawn they tried to pass around abusively, as a covert excuse to hide their real intentions. Such was force of their hatred against me.

The next morning after that 40th birthday debacle, I found myself sick and throwing up into a tote-bag that I had bought from a breast cancer charity in honor of my cousin's successful battle against Stage Four Lymphoma (I bought her one for Christmas, too): on the subway, and in full view of fellow passengers, because I no longer drank as much alcohol as my family did anymore (I was well into MMA training at the time), stumbling through a full-blown snowstorm, stopping to heave in big gulps of cold air so as to not get sick again in public, desiring only to climb four flights up a rundown Brooklyn townhouse to an apartment I could barely afford but made due with through my salary by finding a rare rent stabilized place in a good, safe neighborhood. 

I knew something had to give, and that something was me, because they would kill me if I allowed this to go on. Certainly, they had bankrupted me until I had nothing left except myself to give. And so it went on: over these preceding next few years, I fought battle after battle with everyone in my family, as they deliberately turned their backs on me one by one, during my time of greatest economic need (which had never happened of such duration and acuteness before), to finally, in this year, achieve the real success my family has always needed. How did I do it? By allowing them to bash me bloody, body and soul, pushing my body and brain to its' limits, to achieve the actualized success of a self-sustaining kind, the type my people have always needed, by becoming a leader who is a force to be reckoned with, and on to the destiny I have always been fated to be, recounted here as a Queens' true life tale about the real Game of Thrones.

This year I will order food that I want, off the menu of a female warrior who runs her very own kitchen, cooking her very own type of food, in this town we call home, paid through blood, sweat, and tears covertly disguised as a paltry birthday lunch on my mother's dime, long overdue and sorely lacking. Finally on this day, our day has come. And so as my birthday approaches, so does our day together. As a united people, we will move forward through the power of a forceful realization felt in my body and soul, a queen to be linked and joined to her destiny at long at last. Enjoy this 17th day in winter in remembrance of me and on the house, to be always paid by me through The House of Doucette. Long may we reign, in peace and in victory. Amen to you, my children, from your ever-loving Mother in Christ, who is also Marie the Beautiful, Marie the Strong, Marie the Brave, and Marie the Brilliant, the very words you spoke near me to invoke the spirit that will be here forevermore. We have won. The fruits of my success will be yours to savor eternally ever after, on this 45th birthday of mine in the year of Our Lord 2014, the 17th day of December will forever and always be known as my true Mother's Day because it is for you, my people.

My 39th birthday at my grandmothers' house, December 17th, 2008. I made a minor typo in the photo caption when I posted it on Facebook back in 2008, which was immediately pointed out to me in typical "clever" hipster fashion as an error, unsolicited as it was by a older and supposedly more powerful man from my employed publishing past.

The Rust Bus

Wow! That is one brown truck, from head to toe.

The owner of a certain big old yellow house (where a certain artist, writer, and publisher also lives), also owns and operates a very successful, busy garage next door. They work on old junkers, classic American sports cars, and every other type of vehicle on the planet. 
I often look out the windows in the kitchen of my studio apartment to see the trucks go by, while I drink coffee in the morning. It's like a grownup version of Tonka trucks, except this game has tight deadlines that run on lots of grease and manpower.

Wait a sec...that's wood grain! He painted faux wood grain! Why?!

The other day, this little school bus was parked in the lot next to the garage that's reserved for longer jobs, and it immediately drew my attention. When I opened the curtain all the way for a better look, I knew I was going to snoop around for a closer eyeballing on my way to the market one afternoon, and so I did, but not without speculating on the type of character who would drive such a stand out vehicle. My first guess was immediately "Woodstock Hippie", because the thing looks like it's being held together by rust, but up close it revealed an entire different (and surprising) story.

Wow! I mean, it's nuts, but it is painted really well. Weird...

Someone actually took the time to paint the entire bus a brown color that's supposed to simulate wood grain, because the whole bus is delicately painted with a second darker brown color that mimics the grain running through wood. What the eff?! Why do that?! Why do all that painstaking custom work on a mini bus that looks rusty from afar? It's so weird.

But, closer inspection revealed a few more clues, like the "Wounded Warrior" sticker prominently posted in the interior (the hinged door of the bus was open for the day). Ah. Say no more: it's a restoration project as therapy for PTSD. Yep, this would definitely qualify as that. It's crazy, and it makes no sense, but it does take a lot of time and effort that's task-oriented. I have a family member through marriage who is similarly constructed. Whenever someone brings up a hobby, like say, gardening, she immediately spits out, "Oh yeah! Great therapy!". Uh, actually, I really like gardening, and I have a good green thumb, but if plants help keep you together, for the love of G-d, please go for it. She always comes off like she's gonna explode in this tense, over-caffeinated, jacked up way.

Jeez, even the headlights are done up. Whatever. Enjoy, my brother!

Same principle here. I wouldn't want to actually meet the individual who painted this entire thing badly with great skill and a type of devotion that makes absolutely no sense, but I am glad that whoever he or she may be, they are back on U.S. soil safely. It may be insane, it may not even register as a paint job to most onlookers, but if your special magic bus brings you some degree of calm and peace, go for it brother. You earned it as the price you paid for our freedoms.  
Long may your freak flag fly.

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ 

The Tyvek House

Years ago I dated a man who was friendly with a third cousin of mine, 
a cousin who felt closer to me because he and my brother were the same age. They had a tight bond as kids and teens. We parted ways necessarily: my brothers and I had destinies that included education and great successes, while he struggled with older family issues like two alcoholic parents who died early on, car theft, and false claims through labor unions for workers compensation, the petty cons he learned early on from the masters themselves.

After I came back from my travels out west, I naturally sought him out, because both before and after Denver, Colorado, I lived in Brooklyn, and he is from Sheepshead Bay. I am the sole remaining family member of my father's line to retain any footing in the city at all, such is the length we have moved outward from it, but such is the place of big media houses and art, so that's where I returned.

And just like my romantic life, I felt I had left behind the traps of working class culture for good, like binge drinking partners, tangles with the law, and domestic violence, but such would not be the case. Like many women of my age, I had a brief marriage to a totally inept partner, only to immediately take up with a man who was slightly better in comparison, then he too fell apart when we left his comfort zone for my urban habitat. I was single, and 37. My cousin's then-girlfriend (now, wife), had just the same experience. Sure, my cousin was a violent, chronic drunk who was always unemployed, but have you been out there lately? Dating is hell! She felt it especially as a large woman, enough to frighten her back into my cousin's arms, even after he disappeared to Ireland with a girl he knocked up when she broke up with him, then returning to Brooklyn, begging her to reunite with him. 
I had reconnected with my cousin at a family reunion, listening to his tale over many drinks that day, while pictures of a boy that may or may not be his circulated around a large picnic table.

I had also tried the usual dating outlets available to modern women, like online dating (a cruel joke for brilliant women, if ever there was), and then a prolonged relief from such abuse through intentional, deliberate abstinence. My cousin, knowing this, reintroduced himself into my scene, with (what else?) bait to hook me back into the lifestyle. It was sophisticated baiting, too: his friend was, on the surface, a great catch: Irish American (as I am in part), a business entrepreneur, and a brilliant mechanic. It seemed logical: two advanced tradespeople uniting for mutual benefit. But just like life, he was far from ideal.

He carried around baggage from a prolonged, bitter divorce, his parent's broken family with kids from different fathers and mothers, a raging drinking and cocaine habit (that he had pitched to me as moderate during the courtship stage), and the insular, inbred ignorance of the uneducated, vicious closed-mindedness that marks the isolated clans of Gerritsen Beach. Enter me onto this stage, and you can already imagine the conflict. I kinda stood out. Noooo?! Me?

But, I had been celibate awhile and I was vulnerable to suggestion, so we began a dysfunctional dance that revolved around his baffled incompetence with relationships, coupled with my continued breaks up with him via text messages, like a nightmare version of me as a teenager dating in the Computer Age. It was nonsense, but it was the kind of bullshit I was raised in, so I knew it well.

Just like his typical working class woes, so the block in his neighborhood followed suit. People, okay let's just say it, a string of fucked up drunks, rung his doorbell at all hours of the day and night, and they felt completely justified in doing so. They all knew each other and had intermarried with one another, so it was kind of like the repulsive, convoluted dating done in front of a reality television audience, but with much less monetary compensation. He knew his environment was problematic; he is very intelligent. We bonded early on at a stupid St. Patrick's Day party we were invited to in the Rockaways about the idiotic drunks around us that slobbered and pawed each other while wearing daddy's cop hat as a costume, enacting terrible, deeply ingrained patterns that always got them nowhere but drunk and out of money.

The events of 9/11 were no different for the people there. It was rife with severe, long term mismanagement. Across the street from his house, which was in a permanent state of construction that went on for years, (my then-boyfriend also lived in a state of flux. He had a staircase in his house without a banister, the components of which remained packed away in a long cardboard box on his living room floor, because there was "never enough time" to complete projects), stood a house permanently clothed in Tyvek covering, the stuff that goes on before the actual house siding goes up. We used to muse aloud about when it would be done, but there were never any signs of progress.

He told me that the man of the house had received a huge settlement from the city after 9/11, supposedly for a fireman's service, but John thought he was merely "retired" on disability after winning money from some lawsuit. His drunken lurching about the block in the middle of the day would obviously suggest such a thing happened, such were our awesome powers of observation. And just like any Shanty Irish Mick with a serious addiction, his requisite blond "trophy" wife (no big prize, but she had all the stereotypical attributes like hair dye, nail polish, and leisure suits) had a bright, new, red sports car in the driveway. Such were their priorities in the wake of great trauma: permanently applied workout clothes, shiny sports cars, and a house renovation that went nowhere, a visual reminder of their perpetually stuck state.

I've since moved on successfully, finally closing that chapter in my family's history forever by physically fighting my way out of his reach, which effectively broke many years of culturally supported abuse. When I think back about the events surrounding 9/11, New York, and New Yorkers, I know that I am just one of the millions who made it out of a continual, self-sustaining abusive cycle alive, and for that, I will always be grateful. I fought back and I won, even when no one was in my corner, because I broke his arm when he put his hands on me, even before I learned (and earned belts in) mixed martial arts. I know now that whenever he feels uncertain about his story with me, he will remember me each and every time a rainy day causes his healed fracture to ache, while he tries to repair the trucks in his fleet.

Take care of yourself today, New York.