Monday, April 26, 2010
Wallace
'13 Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird' by
Wallace Stevens
1
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
2
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
3
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
4
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
5
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
6
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
7
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
8
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
9
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge of one of many circles.
10
At the sight of the blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
11
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
12
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
13
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar- limbs.
Wallace Stevens
1
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
2
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
3
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
4
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
5
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
6
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
7
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
8
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
9
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge of one of many circles.
10
At the sight of the blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
11
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
12
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
13
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar- limbs.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Dandelion
Doing crystal was fun.
You could stay up for days at a time, convince yourself you were having deeply intellectual conversations, rapidly lose weight, fool yourself you were getting shit done, drink like a sponge and lie and steal with remarkable success. Oh, and the lists were legendary.
Being “spun” was exciting. The sense of sheer and absolute power, numbness and the ultra sensitivity that first “bump” evoked was outrageous in every sense of the word. The world was, for a moment, perfectly still and finally, everything was a possibility. What I loved most about being “tweaked” was that everyone around me knew, that it was obvious that I was 'on something'.
The insipid chatting, the surreal places you’d end up, the hours you didn’t keep and the people you slept with when you were high. Three in the morning was my afternoon. I loved being awake when the sun rose but not for it’s serenity and color but because I had defied the laws of my anatomy, pushing myself to the edge, burning the candle until there was nothing left of me but the wick. I didn’t know who or what I was and wanted to die. I thought I’d do speed, starve myself, drown myself with liquor and, eventually, merge with the infinite. I wanted to hit “rock” bottom and I thought methamphetamine was the the most punk rock way to do it.
There’s nothing interesting about being strung out. Anyone who was remarkable did it years ago to much more theatrical and iconic effect. I just wanted to be liked and I was… I think… but back then it was for all of the wrong reasons.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
In the ‘90’s it was hip to do “rails” with close and not- so- close friends- at parties, bars- during the Simpsons- whenever and wherever. Crank lasted way longer than blow so, in effect, everyday was the weekend. I spent a lot of time walking around, trying to be exhausted enough to sleep but mostly searching for a place to rest, being essentially homeless. I carried a change of clothing (including shoes, and inexplicably, moisturizer) in my bag, always ready to crash a party and pick up stakes, of which I had none. I deliberately drove my friends away with blackouts or ‘episodes’, of which I remembered little. For the most part folks dug having me around. I wasn’t the life of the party- I was the party.
I had this hidden place in Golden Gate Park where I would stow stuff I needed like Crest, Band-Aids and small testers of cologne but I never went to a shelter or told anyone how I lived. In the morning I would go to the library, brush my teeth, wash my face, change clothes, look at want-ads (for jobs I was in no shape to apply for) devour back issues of Vanity Fair and later, in Washington Square Park, I’d sob puddles of tears, glistening down my hollow cheeks. I maintained this charade for months, sleeping in abandoned cars, riding the bus, living on Jim Beam, cigarettes, bagels, Mountain Dew and candy bars. I had family and friends in the area ( my Mom lived on Nob Hill!) yet I still felt like I had nowhere to go.
During that time I thought a great deal about theology, creationism, the Big Bang theory, reincarnation, cremation, and what I thought must surely have been the cirrhosis of my liver and tooth decay. I found the concept of manipulating my own mortality fascinating. I’d attempted suicide once when I was sixteen by swallowing a liter of SA8, a laundry detergent and an Amway product. I took myself so seriously then. Pretty pathetic, really.
I began volunteering with a non-profit HIV services organization in 1996 after eleven people I knew died. I volunteered at the Names Project, Community Thrift Store and finally the AIDSRide and began to sense the power in doing good and the presence of something greater than me and it wasn’t powder or partying anymore. Maybe it was God or the universe. I don’t know. A sense of purpose and direction began to form in my life. I learned to smile again somehow and the right people noticed. I realized that the only thing that made me feel whole was doing for others and that is when I decided to quit crank for good. This is also when my crackbuddy, Roy and I clashed.
My friend, Monique, had a plan for me to ship out with her to Southern California to do an interior installation job for a company affiliated with Urban Outfitters. Anyway, it was great money, they put you up in a semi- fancy apartment (unfortunately in Long Beach, where I got a jaywalking ticket) where you lived dorm- style with other creatives and worked everyday until the job was done. It was just what I needed.
Shortly before I escaped to Santa Monica, I bunked with the newly single Roy and had agreed to pay a portion of his rent in Hayes Valley. I needed to dry out- to detox from the months of drugging- with my friends in Oakland. This was my chance to make something of my lame existence and I wasn’t going to screw it up. So I gave Roy a couple hundred dollars (at that point I was working) and left for a long weekend with my friends Renne and Devin, seemingly the only stable people I had in my life then. For a few days we played Scrabble, went shopping, ate cheeseburgers and watched movies, and, when no one was around, I cried. It was the calmest I had felt in months and I was thankful to have them in my life.
When I returned to the city from the East Bay, I checked my voicemail to find eight successively irate messages from my Mom on my service. She was pleading with me to call her, that she was told something terrible had happened to me and that she needed desperately to reach me. I finally called her and she was relieved to learn I was alive but still pissed!
The story goes:
The night I gave Roy the rent money, he went out and got a speedball and began three straight days of serious partying. He literally went nuts and was so paranoid that he’d convinced himself that I was being held at gunpoint on the roof of my mother’s Nob Hill apartment. I told him I was going to Oakland to chill out but he’d forgotten and apparently not knowing where I was had freaked him out.
I had never known Roy to shoot up let alone do smack but when I told this story to some other folks they were not surprised but shocked- that I was so naive- that I hadn’t seen this coming. Roy didn’t drink or at least I’d never seen him do so which I thought was the coolest! Sharp, observant and protective I always thought of Roy as strong; infallible.
The cops told my Mom that they had received calls from payphones every 20 minutes from Roy as he made his way to Stockton Street where my Mom lived across from the world- class Ritz Carlton Hotel. With her fabulous apartment (with views of the Transamerica Building, Coit Tower and the newly built Marriott clearly visible from her living room) there was scarcely a reason for her to leave home. Mom was never one for visitors and if you just dropped by without calling there was no way she would buzz you up.
Like most Taureans (and like Roy) she was big on protocol and preparation when it came to guests and I wondered why there wasn’t a doorman in her building. I always felt like a prole squatting at her place, when I got up enough nerve to call her, desperate for a place to stay and a bite to eat.
After an hour of increasingly manic and frightening calls to the police, Roy arrived at her place and begged to be let in. I don’t know WHAT he told her but she buzzed him up and served him tea and they smoked a jay because he seemed rattled. Roy then left for God knows where and my Mom made the first of the calls she made to try to find me and share his story which must have been a doozy.
What we didn’t know was that the Rolling Stones AND President Clinton were both shacked up at the posh hotel across the street. There were battalions of Secret Service, cop cars, limousines and armed gunmen on three sides of Mom’s place. Heads of state and movie stars were common on her block but Clinton and the Stones made it a breeding ground for groupies and paparazzi.
It was supposed to be a secret that Clinton was there but Keith Richards was a bigger draw than Dollar Bill so there were fans lumbering around hoping for a glance at the fossil himself. Naturally when the SFPD heard that someone was being held at gunpoint on the roof across the street from where the president was staying, the S.W.A.T. team stormed my Mom’s apartment looking for Uzis and closed circuit tv and nearly gave my very private, somewhat fragile Mom a coronary! They found nothing of the sort but questioned her for an hour while they literally scaled the building. Mom was pretty cool about it but I was sorrier than I had ever been about anything and now I was royally pissed off at Roy.
I found Roy after a day of searching at his old haunts (dealers, thrift and record stores) on the psych ward of SF General Hospital. He looked horrible, was mildly sedated and had obviously been crying. Roy was my best friend but what he did or rather what I’d allowed to happen to us was the last straw for me. It was okay to get fucked up when we were together but to involve my mother in crackhead bullshit like that was for me unforgivable. I know now that Mom was a comfort to him and if only for a moment the mother he never had and maybe he felt deserted. I should have supported him when he needed me most. But I didn’t need him the way that he needed me.
I don’t know what happened to Roy, what became of his life or if he’s still drawing breath but I think of us as dandelion. Lonesome dandelion on a hill, the last ones left standing after a cruel summer in San Francisco. Instead of making a wish and blowing it out you let it sway in the breeze.
Like wildflowers and former lovers.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
I'm A Stitch
There is a picture of me from the Seventies one day that was in the seventies.
I’m about 4 years old and as cute as can be in a tiny yellow party outfit. Tiny yellow shirt, tiny yellow shorts, teensy white socks and little yellow Keds. I was adorable with bushy eyebrows and a gap-toothed grimace. A cousin, Jeanette, is also in the snapshot towering over me. I’m holding an orange lollipop and crying. Her outfit isn’t as cute and she was teasing me. The photo illustrates this.
Aunt Rosalie’s house. At one point my grandfather, Douglas the second lived there, then my uncle-in-law,
Vaughn, I guess. But Aunt Rosalie took it over and re-everything’d the place and there I was, on summer vacation, in Paterson, New Jersey, sobbing.
Aunt Rosalie covered the furniture in plastic with plastic-lined walkways throughout the house. Rosalie was rich, strict and loud so everything had to be just so. She did a gorgeous job restoring the place to its shiny original perfection and I remember thinking the house was grand because it had a finished attic and basement. Each floor was shiny and varnished and while we kids already knew, we were told ahead of arrival to watch it. So we took off our shoes.
Hidden passageways and secret staircases within this vast playground of a house made it ideal for 'hide & seek'. One staircase went from the attic to the kitchen, on the ground floor. Another from the mezzanine to the foyer was steep and if you weren’t careful you could fall down and bust your head open at a bottom door which was always left closed. We were like wild animals, running up and down those stairs and me and my cousins Kevin, Kyle and Uncle Michael were enjoying a ruthless game of 'You're It'.
It was a humid Saturday afternoon and every relative I'd ever known was at Aunt Rosalie’s place, drinkin’, smokin’, laughin’, cookin’ and carrying on. The smell of ribs, links, barbeque chicken and burgers was intoxicating but our focus was on sugar, specifically candy and desserts. Ornery children were always hyped up on candy. Now ‘n’ Laters, Sweet Tarts, Twizzlers, Jolly Ranchers, Rollos- this was the currency of first graders and we were flush!
I don’t recall how it all happened exactly, playing tag that afternoon, on what would otherwise have been a prison sentence. By then, Mom had moved us to California and this was one of the last occasions I'd visit to the East Coast again before my late teens. I wasn’t the most gregarious of kids but I was having the most fun I had had since our arrival finally playing with other kids my age.
Our homebase was the entrance door which was actually two doors. The outside door was part glass and
aluminum and on the inside a screened door. I was clocking about sixty miles an hour barreling down the plastic-coated but carpeted front stairs. Simultaneously, a cousin- was it Kevin?- emerged stealthily to add me to his list of detainees, rightfully winning the game. On my way to the door, I slipped on the slick parquet floor and went flying like Superman through the screen door and then the glass door, causing a terrible crash. I hadn’t made it entirely through the threshold of the door and was caught in it before the crush of family came to see what all the commotion was about. My cousins, the first on the scene, stood motionless, suspended in time, unable to believe the spectacle. They knew I was in trouble. I was semi-conscious.
I remember laying on the freshly painted grey porch looking up at the blurry face of my Aunt Lulu. I smiled at her and her face was reassuring. I looked around me but could only really see my arm, a sea of flesh and blood. It looked like grits and ketchup. Later I would sustain 72 stitches, on my right arm, forehead and on my knee.
I remember being taken to Barnard Hospital the same hospital I was born a few years earlier, in a Country Squire station wagon and that’s all. Swollen and looking like Frankenstein, I awoke to pale yellow powdered scrambled eggs, applesauce, toast, juice, and the Jetsons on the overhead television. Groggy and disoriented, I was told of what had happened, that nothing was broken and soon I’d be returning home.
I’m about 4 years old and as cute as can be in a tiny yellow party outfit. Tiny yellow shirt, tiny yellow shorts, teensy white socks and little yellow Keds. I was adorable with bushy eyebrows and a gap-toothed grimace. A cousin, Jeanette, is also in the snapshot towering over me. I’m holding an orange lollipop and crying. Her outfit isn’t as cute and she was teasing me. The photo illustrates this.
Aunt Rosalie’s house. At one point my grandfather, Douglas the second lived there, then my uncle-in-law,
Vaughn, I guess. But Aunt Rosalie took it over and re-everything’d the place and there I was, on summer vacation, in Paterson, New Jersey, sobbing.
Aunt Rosalie covered the furniture in plastic with plastic-lined walkways throughout the house. Rosalie was rich, strict and loud so everything had to be just so. She did a gorgeous job restoring the place to its shiny original perfection and I remember thinking the house was grand because it had a finished attic and basement. Each floor was shiny and varnished and while we kids already knew, we were told ahead of arrival to watch it. So we took off our shoes.
Hidden passageways and secret staircases within this vast playground of a house made it ideal for 'hide & seek'. One staircase went from the attic to the kitchen, on the ground floor. Another from the mezzanine to the foyer was steep and if you weren’t careful you could fall down and bust your head open at a bottom door which was always left closed. We were like wild animals, running up and down those stairs and me and my cousins Kevin, Kyle and Uncle Michael were enjoying a ruthless game of 'You're It'.
It was a humid Saturday afternoon and every relative I'd ever known was at Aunt Rosalie’s place, drinkin’, smokin’, laughin’, cookin’ and carrying on. The smell of ribs, links, barbeque chicken and burgers was intoxicating but our focus was on sugar, specifically candy and desserts. Ornery children were always hyped up on candy. Now ‘n’ Laters, Sweet Tarts, Twizzlers, Jolly Ranchers, Rollos- this was the currency of first graders and we were flush!
I don’t recall how it all happened exactly, playing tag that afternoon, on what would otherwise have been a prison sentence. By then, Mom had moved us to California and this was one of the last occasions I'd visit to the East Coast again before my late teens. I wasn’t the most gregarious of kids but I was having the most fun I had had since our arrival finally playing with other kids my age.
Our homebase was the entrance door which was actually two doors. The outside door was part glass and
aluminum and on the inside a screened door. I was clocking about sixty miles an hour barreling down the plastic-coated but carpeted front stairs. Simultaneously, a cousin- was it Kevin?- emerged stealthily to add me to his list of detainees, rightfully winning the game. On my way to the door, I slipped on the slick parquet floor and went flying like Superman through the screen door and then the glass door, causing a terrible crash. I hadn’t made it entirely through the threshold of the door and was caught in it before the crush of family came to see what all the commotion was about. My cousins, the first on the scene, stood motionless, suspended in time, unable to believe the spectacle. They knew I was in trouble. I was semi-conscious.
I remember laying on the freshly painted grey porch looking up at the blurry face of my Aunt Lulu. I smiled at her and her face was reassuring. I looked around me but could only really see my arm, a sea of flesh and blood. It looked like grits and ketchup. Later I would sustain 72 stitches, on my right arm, forehead and on my knee.
I remember being taken to Barnard Hospital the same hospital I was born a few years earlier, in a Country Squire station wagon and that’s all. Swollen and looking like Frankenstein, I awoke to pale yellow powdered scrambled eggs, applesauce, toast, juice, and the Jetsons on the overhead television. Groggy and disoriented, I was told of what had happened, that nothing was broken and soon I’d be returning home.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
It's Just My Third Nervous Breakdown
Being fired from Barneys was predictable and, in hindsight, probably wouldn’t have worked out. The fringe benefits were nice (and the steady paycheck) but I wasn’t ready and never made any friends there. I never liked the 40- hour work week. In the tiny, visual world of New York, Barney’s was definitely a key to the platinum mine. I can still hear Simon saying, “Fabulous!” in his Etro button- downs.
The high point was being hired and opening the Co-OP store, on the Upper West Side. The low point was when I still had to work after Herschel Walker died and the resignation of my mentor, Tony, the combination of which, quietly ruined me. My life and what little foundation I had at that time were fully shattered and I just couldn’t deal with it. Tony and Herschel Walker were the primary reasons I went to work to begin with.Watching them vanish crushed me. I cried and drank everyday after that until, finally, I left for Virginia, to live with my Mom.
Getting the gig and slaving away at Barneys was like being whisked into the latest clubby hotspot for free and being treated like a VIP. Once you passed all the sharply dressed poseurs waiting in line, the paparazzi, security, and had your first sip of Veuve Cliquot, everything afterwards was dulled by comparison. After all is said and then, so easily done, it’s just a fashion show, really.
In addition to Herschel Walker’s death, I also had to handle my living situation and process the end of my relationship of five years with my partner, John.
I left John for a vacation to Oregon, July 4th weekend, and it was tense. We were barely speaking to one another and I told myself and John that this would be the best thing for both of us. That someday we’d look back and realize our break-up was for the best, then laugh nervously and change the subject. It seemed like bullshit then and while it sucked to be without him it was the right thing to do, which I rarely enjoy doing. When I returned, John had moved out, to Bushwick.
I kept our apartment, thinking I’d rent out the bedroom to someone and I’d take the living room of our now desolate, railroad apartment. I’d placed the ad on Craigslist and John shored up the details, sweet guy that he is. It seemed silly for us both to vacate such a comparatively inexpensive top- floor, 4 -room, Brooklyn apartment, with a view of the river, next to the park (and the train) so I thought I’d pay cheaper rent and give up having my own room.
I found a great roommate called Summer but it quickly became clear that I’d only grow more miserable staying in the place I’d shared with John for 3 years. Lorimer Street came to represent only failure and a hardwood-floored souvenir of both terrific and horrific memories for me.
I had to get the fuck out.
Around that time is when I began hanging out with John’s friend, Emily. I ’d met Emily a handful of times, both with and without John. She was a neighbor of my pal Diego’s friend, Martin. I had been to her sister Anna’s cabin, upstate. Anna and me never hit it off but Emily and I clicked. Anna’s younger sister had recently returned after a year or so in Chile as a filmmaker and Anna got Emily ad gruntwork at a high-profile advertising firm her big sister worked for in Manhattan.
Whipsmart, reflective, winsome and kind of goofy, Emily dazzled me by playing the saxophone on the water. We’d had a couple of dinners and discussed among other things my break-up with John and her largely unfulfilling work as a video editor. The discussions we shared made me feel like I wasn’t alone and one evening the conversation about becoming roommates came up and I thought wow… great!
Emily had lived for 6 years at the top of a 5th -floor walk-up, off Bedford Avenue (in the heart of Williamsburg) with a hermit-like roommate from Chile named Karim, a warm, goodlooking Latin waiter (and a father) with a wife and family back in the Caribbean or some shit.
Her 2 bedroom flat’s rent was $690 and rent-controlled. Split three ways it was roughly $300 a month for everything and I felt I couldn’t pass that up even though the floorplan dilemma I dealt with at 732 was the same. With rent that cheap we could afford cable and a flat screen TV (with my discount at Sony) and in a few months we’d all be sitting pretty with our new impressive jobs. And, with Emily, I had a new friend, who needed my interior design experience and energy to revamp what I realize now, was the lair of someone mentally unstable. But she had a plan.
We threw out tons of useless shit, revamped the kitchen, painted the three rooms, and built shelves for some much needed storage. The place was transformed and it took us hundreds of dollars and hours of labor to set it up but the place looked great and I was happy to call it home. I learned what things would be like the first week I actually slept at the apartment.
Playing the drums for hours late at night. Paint spills and trash, littering the landing, stairs and kitchen. Arguments with the super about trash and recycling. Constant piles of refuse and eviction papers because of two months of overdue rent. Cat litter, cockroaches, constant, useless questions and neediness. We’d have huge fucking arguments because I needed to sleep but she needed advice about her very recent boyfriend, Stan, and why he hadn’t called.
Things began crumbling when Emily lost her job and Stan dumped her after a month. She also refused to take her meds…I learned that Emily was a depressive and bi-polar which wasn’t the end of the world. This was NYC! Big deal and, really, who wasn't?
I came home from work one night to find Emily hysterical and crying. She said Herschel Walker was dead.
She had taken my dog for a walk without a leash, put him down to get a burrito, a Rottweiler charged at him and, terrified, he ran into the street and was struck and killed instantly, on Bedford Avenue, during rush hour traffic. I forgave her because she seemed truly sorry and I empathized with her. I sensed her tremendous guilt. Herschel Walker was three years old and extraordinary.
About a two weeks later I came home to find a bag of Herschel Walker’s sweaters and began sobbing. I was still waiting for the vet to release his ashes to me and, up until that point, had kept my shit together, for the most part. Emily entered my room and said, “You know what, your crying about Herschel is getting really annoying. I get it. He’s dead, get over it, move on.”
Gallons of bourbon later on, I learned that my Mom was in the hospital, a message which had been left days earlier and Emily failed to mention to me. That signaled the end of my tenancy there and the end of our friendship. That night I threw some clothes in a bag, my pictures and letters and told Emily, “I wish you well, Emily, but I hope I never see you again” and I left. I’d been in the apartment a total of 9 days.
I stayed with my friends and family until the days after President Bush’s re-election primaries. I left everything else at the apartment and told her to keep it or sell it. My movies, music, stereo, TV, VCR, my microwave, my bed —-none of that meant anything to me without Herschel.
I left for Virginia on the 5th of November, right on schedule, in preparation for my fourth and, hopefully, final nervous breakdown. Nineteen seems like a lot.
The high point was being hired and opening the Co-OP store, on the Upper West Side. The low point was when I still had to work after Herschel Walker died and the resignation of my mentor, Tony, the combination of which, quietly ruined me. My life and what little foundation I had at that time were fully shattered and I just couldn’t deal with it. Tony and Herschel Walker were the primary reasons I went to work to begin with.Watching them vanish crushed me. I cried and drank everyday after that until, finally, I left for Virginia, to live with my Mom.
Getting the gig and slaving away at Barneys was like being whisked into the latest clubby hotspot for free and being treated like a VIP. Once you passed all the sharply dressed poseurs waiting in line, the paparazzi, security, and had your first sip of Veuve Cliquot, everything afterwards was dulled by comparison. After all is said and then, so easily done, it’s just a fashion show, really.
In addition to Herschel Walker’s death, I also had to handle my living situation and process the end of my relationship of five years with my partner, John.
I left John for a vacation to Oregon, July 4th weekend, and it was tense. We were barely speaking to one another and I told myself and John that this would be the best thing for both of us. That someday we’d look back and realize our break-up was for the best, then laugh nervously and change the subject. It seemed like bullshit then and while it sucked to be without him it was the right thing to do, which I rarely enjoy doing. When I returned, John had moved out, to Bushwick.
I kept our apartment, thinking I’d rent out the bedroom to someone and I’d take the living room of our now desolate, railroad apartment. I’d placed the ad on Craigslist and John shored up the details, sweet guy that he is. It seemed silly for us both to vacate such a comparatively inexpensive top- floor, 4 -room, Brooklyn apartment, with a view of the river, next to the park (and the train) so I thought I’d pay cheaper rent and give up having my own room.
I found a great roommate called Summer but it quickly became clear that I’d only grow more miserable staying in the place I’d shared with John for 3 years. Lorimer Street came to represent only failure and a hardwood-floored souvenir of both terrific and horrific memories for me.
I had to get the fuck out.
Around that time is when I began hanging out with John’s friend, Emily. I ’d met Emily a handful of times, both with and without John. She was a neighbor of my pal Diego’s friend, Martin. I had been to her sister Anna’s cabin, upstate. Anna and me never hit it off but Emily and I clicked. Anna’s younger sister had recently returned after a year or so in Chile as a filmmaker and Anna got Emily ad gruntwork at a high-profile advertising firm her big sister worked for in Manhattan.
Whipsmart, reflective, winsome and kind of goofy, Emily dazzled me by playing the saxophone on the water. We’d had a couple of dinners and discussed among other things my break-up with John and her largely unfulfilling work as a video editor. The discussions we shared made me feel like I wasn’t alone and one evening the conversation about becoming roommates came up and I thought wow… great!
Emily had lived for 6 years at the top of a 5th -floor walk-up, off Bedford Avenue (in the heart of Williamsburg) with a hermit-like roommate from Chile named Karim, a warm, goodlooking Latin waiter (and a father) with a wife and family back in the Caribbean or some shit.
Her 2 bedroom flat’s rent was $690 and rent-controlled. Split three ways it was roughly $300 a month for everything and I felt I couldn’t pass that up even though the floorplan dilemma I dealt with at 732 was the same. With rent that cheap we could afford cable and a flat screen TV (with my discount at Sony) and in a few months we’d all be sitting pretty with our new impressive jobs. And, with Emily, I had a new friend, who needed my interior design experience and energy to revamp what I realize now, was the lair of someone mentally unstable. But she had a plan.
We threw out tons of useless shit, revamped the kitchen, painted the three rooms, and built shelves for some much needed storage. The place was transformed and it took us hundreds of dollars and hours of labor to set it up but the place looked great and I was happy to call it home. I learned what things would be like the first week I actually slept at the apartment.
Playing the drums for hours late at night. Paint spills and trash, littering the landing, stairs and kitchen. Arguments with the super about trash and recycling. Constant piles of refuse and eviction papers because of two months of overdue rent. Cat litter, cockroaches, constant, useless questions and neediness. We’d have huge fucking arguments because I needed to sleep but she needed advice about her very recent boyfriend, Stan, and why he hadn’t called.
Things began crumbling when Emily lost her job and Stan dumped her after a month. She also refused to take her meds…I learned that Emily was a depressive and bi-polar which wasn’t the end of the world. This was NYC! Big deal and, really, who wasn't?
I came home from work one night to find Emily hysterical and crying. She said Herschel Walker was dead.
She had taken my dog for a walk without a leash, put him down to get a burrito, a Rottweiler charged at him and, terrified, he ran into the street and was struck and killed instantly, on Bedford Avenue, during rush hour traffic. I forgave her because she seemed truly sorry and I empathized with her. I sensed her tremendous guilt. Herschel Walker was three years old and extraordinary.
About a two weeks later I came home to find a bag of Herschel Walker’s sweaters and began sobbing. I was still waiting for the vet to release his ashes to me and, up until that point, had kept my shit together, for the most part. Emily entered my room and said, “You know what, your crying about Herschel is getting really annoying. I get it. He’s dead, get over it, move on.”
Gallons of bourbon later on, I learned that my Mom was in the hospital, a message which had been left days earlier and Emily failed to mention to me. That signaled the end of my tenancy there and the end of our friendship. That night I threw some clothes in a bag, my pictures and letters and told Emily, “I wish you well, Emily, but I hope I never see you again” and I left. I’d been in the apartment a total of 9 days.
I stayed with my friends and family until the days after President Bush’s re-election primaries. I left everything else at the apartment and told her to keep it or sell it. My movies, music, stereo, TV, VCR, my microwave, my bed —-none of that meant anything to me without Herschel.
I left for Virginia on the 5th of November, right on schedule, in preparation for my fourth and, hopefully, final nervous breakdown. Nineteen seems like a lot.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Gleek
According to Webster’s, the term “gleek” is defined as: To scoff or jest…. I understand the term to define what happens when you’re speaking to someone and a squirt of saliva escapes from your mouth. Not a British card game played with 44 cards…
When I was five, I’d often hole up in my room and read the dictionary to find words to use in conversations with my adult friends. Just as often, I wouldn’t know what the words meant but used them nonetheless to appear more mature. I couldn’t wait to be a grown up, talk about grown up stuff and do all the things that grown-ups do.
In grammar school I got skipped from fourth to fifth grade and placed in an advanced reading course and asked to say, spell and then define words like lugubrious and exorbitant. The principal would discretely take myself, Annette Chan (it was ALWAYS Annette Chan) and a few others out of class twice a week (like someone in your family had died) then usher us into a dark room we’d never known existed. School groomed me early on to think I was special and that special was good.
I had one real friend at the Frank C. Havens School in Piedmont, California. It was the early 80’s and my mother, Patricia, had just eloped with my stepfather, Mark and moved us from the flat but interesting Lake Merritt area in Oakland to the fabulous 312 Scenic Avenue, in the hills of Piedmont, with its labyrinthine roads and spectacular views of the Bay Area. I was used to shedding schools and the friends I’d made there but Piedmont was a rarefied world and I had a lot to learn about the social strata. I mean, I’d never worn two polo shirts at a time before. I needed someone to show me the ropes and that someone was Jon.
Jon and I hung out at his place after school exhausted from tether-ball and “extreme” foursquare. Sarcasm and confusion brought us together and made us feel better about being weird outcasts at school.
We’d power through our homework, drink Dr Pepper, see how far we could gleek or pop a loogie, trash all the jocks at school, smoke “roaches” scored from his sister’s weed stash and then listen to Beethoven’s Fifth from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack with which we were both utterly obsessed. Jon would let me borrow his terrycloth shirts and in exchange I’d do his chores. We were close and when we were together felt less awkward and safe, a feeling I’d chase after forever.
Jon and me talked about girls and lied about what we’d done with them. Sometimes we simulated the sex we hadn’t had with pillows or pretended we were girls, cupped our chests (like we had boobs) and moaned in our underwear. It was all quite innocent and normal but having sex with someone- anyone- was our goal since we were certain everyone else had and they were popular. Our school would be hosting its annual end-of-the-year talent show soon and we were both determined to win it by doing The Hustle and enter sixth grade as winners.
We made our outfits and practiced for days fantasizing about how popular we’d be once we won, how everyone would would worship us and how we’d be fighting off hot babes with sticks. I don’t even remember what the grand prize was for winning or if there even was one. I wanted to win but really I just wanted to be alone with Jon and wasn’t entirely sure why. I didn’t think it was weird to have a crush on a boy. He was cute and made me laugh and when I thought crazy shit and told him he said, “Ohmigod, me too”.
Surprisingly, we lost the talent show to these rich kids whose dad was friends with the rock promoter, Bill Graham. They scored authentic costumes, wigs, makeup and a fully functional band setup (although they lipsynched to a cassette) for their raucous performance of Kiss’ “Love Gun”. Dry ice, lights, minor pyrotechnics, groupies- the whole bit. Tight, professional, glam and theatrical they literally blew everyone in the auditorium’s mind. It was the first of many times that year that me and everyone else used the word “rad” to describe it when, in retrospect “gay” would have been more accurate. After that summer Jon and me were now, historically, “losers” and stopped hanging out. Ironically we lost because we weren’t being ourselves but who we wanted to be: macho, but sensitive John Travolta in a pristine white three- piece suit and boots.
In sixth grade at Piedmont Middle School (PMS) my homeroom teacher was Mr. Bartley who looked like Gene Hackman. He had a hairy chest and wore garish polyester shirts with big lapels and tight Sansabelt slacks. Mr. Bartley would sit on the front of his desk with his meaty hands close to his business and anyone who didn’t do their homework had to stay after class and write an essay on why they hadn’t. It was always the dumb jocks who got detention…
In detention, Mr. B would clasp the tips of his fingers together and squeeze his hands, in a pulsating pyramid while he stared at you, grinning slyly. Occasionally he’d say something like, “I expected more from you,________” or “You know,_________this could all have been avoided if you shared more in class”. In the bottom drawer of his desk Mr. B kept a large wooden paddle with holes which he’d use to discipline the rebels when they were “bad”. I never saw him spank anyone but there were stories and no one wanted to be alone with him.
I thought Mr Bartley liked me because I used words like ‘intrinsic’ and listened to him intently when he spoke. I’d stay after class to ask him pointless questions about assignments and he’d scoff and squeeze my leg close to my crotch and tell me “secrets” (like how there was no Mrs. Bartley even though he wore a gold wedding band).Ultimately I ”connected the dots”, found a creepy new friend and now credit him with giving me the courage to be myself and take risks. I had a new crush!
I was popular at PMS because I was cheeky, Black and lived above Highland Avenue in the hills, all of which gave me inalienable status. Slam books were big and everyone different or poor was picked on secretly (but on record) by the wealthy and perfect.
You’d sign in with your initials or a symbol (stars, smiley faces, an exclamation point, a number, a dick, etc.) then answered the veiled queries of the insecure like: Who is the cutest boy/prettiest girl in school, the biggest dyke/homo, ”parkie” (loser, drug addict, spaz), who you most wanted to screw and so on which you then secretly passed all over school. By eighth grade we’d discovered Atari, underage drinking, trigonometry and ”third base” but in the sixth grade you had all the time in the world to care about what everyone thought of you. To have a slam book passed to you was considered an honor. Not filling it out was social hara kiri.
From reading the slam book I deduced that the right girls (Ceceleigh and Kristi) thought I was cute and that they all unanimously thought that me and transfer student Ranelle Dunham would make a nice couple. She already had a bit of a mustache…if only she wore a white, three -piece suit.
The slam book also led to a conversation with my new girl friends Cece and Kris about how I should “totally” run for Commissioner of Publicity since (in jest) we’d sort of come up with student body president-elect Warren Heffelfinger’s campaign slogan, “Vote for The Finger. HEFFELFINGER!” So I ran and me & The Finger won.
By a landslide.
When I was five, I’d often hole up in my room and read the dictionary to find words to use in conversations with my adult friends. Just as often, I wouldn’t know what the words meant but used them nonetheless to appear more mature. I couldn’t wait to be a grown up, talk about grown up stuff and do all the things that grown-ups do.
In grammar school I got skipped from fourth to fifth grade and placed in an advanced reading course and asked to say, spell and then define words like lugubrious and exorbitant. The principal would discretely take myself, Annette Chan (it was ALWAYS Annette Chan) and a few others out of class twice a week (like someone in your family had died) then usher us into a dark room we’d never known existed. School groomed me early on to think I was special and that special was good.
I had one real friend at the Frank C. Havens School in Piedmont, California. It was the early 80’s and my mother, Patricia, had just eloped with my stepfather, Mark and moved us from the flat but interesting Lake Merritt area in Oakland to the fabulous 312 Scenic Avenue, in the hills of Piedmont, with its labyrinthine roads and spectacular views of the Bay Area. I was used to shedding schools and the friends I’d made there but Piedmont was a rarefied world and I had a lot to learn about the social strata. I mean, I’d never worn two polo shirts at a time before. I needed someone to show me the ropes and that someone was Jon.
Jon and I hung out at his place after school exhausted from tether-ball and “extreme” foursquare. Sarcasm and confusion brought us together and made us feel better about being weird outcasts at school.
We’d power through our homework, drink Dr Pepper, see how far we could gleek or pop a loogie, trash all the jocks at school, smoke “roaches” scored from his sister’s weed stash and then listen to Beethoven’s Fifth from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack with which we were both utterly obsessed. Jon would let me borrow his terrycloth shirts and in exchange I’d do his chores. We were close and when we were together felt less awkward and safe, a feeling I’d chase after forever.
Jon and me talked about girls and lied about what we’d done with them. Sometimes we simulated the sex we hadn’t had with pillows or pretended we were girls, cupped our chests (like we had boobs) and moaned in our underwear. It was all quite innocent and normal but having sex with someone- anyone- was our goal since we were certain everyone else had and they were popular. Our school would be hosting its annual end-of-the-year talent show soon and we were both determined to win it by doing The Hustle and enter sixth grade as winners.
We made our outfits and practiced for days fantasizing about how popular we’d be once we won, how everyone would would worship us and how we’d be fighting off hot babes with sticks. I don’t even remember what the grand prize was for winning or if there even was one. I wanted to win but really I just wanted to be alone with Jon and wasn’t entirely sure why. I didn’t think it was weird to have a crush on a boy. He was cute and made me laugh and when I thought crazy shit and told him he said, “Ohmigod, me too”.
Surprisingly, we lost the talent show to these rich kids whose dad was friends with the rock promoter, Bill Graham. They scored authentic costumes, wigs, makeup and a fully functional band setup (although they lipsynched to a cassette) for their raucous performance of Kiss’ “Love Gun”. Dry ice, lights, minor pyrotechnics, groupies- the whole bit. Tight, professional, glam and theatrical they literally blew everyone in the auditorium’s mind. It was the first of many times that year that me and everyone else used the word “rad” to describe it when, in retrospect “gay” would have been more accurate. After that summer Jon and me were now, historically, “losers” and stopped hanging out. Ironically we lost because we weren’t being ourselves but who we wanted to be: macho, but sensitive John Travolta in a pristine white three- piece suit and boots.
In sixth grade at Piedmont Middle School (PMS) my homeroom teacher was Mr. Bartley who looked like Gene Hackman. He had a hairy chest and wore garish polyester shirts with big lapels and tight Sansabelt slacks. Mr. Bartley would sit on the front of his desk with his meaty hands close to his business and anyone who didn’t do their homework had to stay after class and write an essay on why they hadn’t. It was always the dumb jocks who got detention…
In detention, Mr. B would clasp the tips of his fingers together and squeeze his hands, in a pulsating pyramid while he stared at you, grinning slyly. Occasionally he’d say something like, “I expected more from you,________” or “You know,_________this could all have been avoided if you shared more in class”. In the bottom drawer of his desk Mr. B kept a large wooden paddle with holes which he’d use to discipline the rebels when they were “bad”. I never saw him spank anyone but there were stories and no one wanted to be alone with him.
I thought Mr Bartley liked me because I used words like ‘intrinsic’ and listened to him intently when he spoke. I’d stay after class to ask him pointless questions about assignments and he’d scoff and squeeze my leg close to my crotch and tell me “secrets” (like how there was no Mrs. Bartley even though he wore a gold wedding band).Ultimately I ”connected the dots”, found a creepy new friend and now credit him with giving me the courage to be myself and take risks. I had a new crush!
I was popular at PMS because I was cheeky, Black and lived above Highland Avenue in the hills, all of which gave me inalienable status. Slam books were big and everyone different or poor was picked on secretly (but on record) by the wealthy and perfect.
You’d sign in with your initials or a symbol (stars, smiley faces, an exclamation point, a number, a dick, etc.) then answered the veiled queries of the insecure like: Who is the cutest boy/prettiest girl in school, the biggest dyke/homo, ”parkie” (loser, drug addict, spaz), who you most wanted to screw and so on which you then secretly passed all over school. By eighth grade we’d discovered Atari, underage drinking, trigonometry and ”third base” but in the sixth grade you had all the time in the world to care about what everyone thought of you. To have a slam book passed to you was considered an honor. Not filling it out was social hara kiri.
From reading the slam book I deduced that the right girls (Ceceleigh and Kristi) thought I was cute and that they all unanimously thought that me and transfer student Ranelle Dunham would make a nice couple. She already had a bit of a mustache…if only she wore a white, three -piece suit.
The slam book also led to a conversation with my new girl friends Cece and Kris about how I should “totally” run for Commissioner of Publicity since (in jest) we’d sort of come up with student body president-elect Warren Heffelfinger’s campaign slogan, “Vote for The Finger. HEFFELFINGER!” So I ran and me & The Finger won.
By a landslide.
What I Don't Know Is Immeasurable
In the 1400’s, a law was set forth that a man was not allowed to beat his wife with a stick thicker than his thumb. Hence we have “the rule of thumb”.
Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was called “Gentlemen Only…Ladies Forbidden”…and thus the word golf entered into the English language.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
Every day more money is printed for the board game, Monopoly, than the US Treasury.
Men can read smaller print than women; Women can hear better.
Originally, Coca-Cola was green.
It is impossible to lick your elbow.
The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work is Alaska.
The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28%.
The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age eleven: $6,400.
The average number of people airborne over the US any given hour: 61,000.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
The first novel ever written on a typewriter was Tom Sawyer.
The San Francisco Cable Cars are the only mobile National Monuments.
Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history;
Spades - King David
Hearts - Charlemagne
Clubs - Alexander, the Great
Diamonds - Julius Caesar
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321
If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air, the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has
all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes.
Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4th; John Hancock and Charles Thompson. Most of the rest signed on August 2 and the last signature wasn’t added until 5 years later.
Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of their birthplace.
Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?
A. Obsession.
Q. If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to go until you would find the letter “A”?
A. One thousand.
Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
A. All were invented by women.
Q. What is the only food that doesn’t spoil?
A. Honey.
Q. On which day are there more collect calls made than on any other day of the year?
A. Father’s Day.
In the time of Shakespeare, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase……… “goodnight, sleep tight.”
It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago, that for a month after the wedding, the bride’s father would supply his son-in-law with all he mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the ‘honey month’ which we know today as the honeymoon.
In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts… So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them “Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down.” It’s where we get the phrase “Mind your P’s and Q’s”.
Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle, baked into the rim or handle of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service. “Wet your whistle” is the phrase inspired by this practice.
Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was called “Gentlemen Only…Ladies Forbidden”…and thus the word golf entered into the English language.
The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
Every day more money is printed for the board game, Monopoly, than the US Treasury.
Men can read smaller print than women; Women can hear better.
Originally, Coca-Cola was green.
It is impossible to lick your elbow.
The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work is Alaska.
The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28%.
The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age eleven: $6,400.
The average number of people airborne over the US any given hour: 61,000.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
The first novel ever written on a typewriter was Tom Sawyer.
The San Francisco Cable Cars are the only mobile National Monuments.
Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history;
Spades - King David
Hearts - Charlemagne
Clubs - Alexander, the Great
Diamonds - Julius Caesar
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321
If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air, the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has
all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes.
Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4th; John Hancock and Charles Thompson. Most of the rest signed on August 2 and the last signature wasn’t added until 5 years later.
Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of their birthplace.
Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?
A. Obsession.
Q. If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to go until you would find the letter “A”?
A. One thousand.
Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
A. All were invented by women.
Q. What is the only food that doesn’t spoil?
A. Honey.
Q. On which day are there more collect calls made than on any other day of the year?
A. Father’s Day.
In the time of Shakespeare, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase……… “goodnight, sleep tight.”
It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago, that for a month after the wedding, the bride’s father would supply his son-in-law with all he mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the ‘honey month’ which we know today as the honeymoon.
In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts… So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them “Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down.” It’s where we get the phrase “Mind your P’s and Q’s”.
Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle, baked into the rim or handle of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service. “Wet your whistle” is the phrase inspired by this practice.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Zodiacal
CAPRICORN
The Go-Getter (Dec 22 - Jan 19) Patient and wise. Practical and rigid. Ambitious. Tends to be good-looking. Humorous and funny. Can be a bit shy and reserved. Often pessimistic. Capricorns tend to act before they think and can be unfriendly at times. Hold grudges. Like competition. Get what they want.
AQUARIUS
The Sweetheart (Jan 20 - Feb 18) Optimistic and honest. Sweet personality. Very independent. Inventive and intelligent. Friendly and loyal. Can seem unemotional. Can be a bit rebellious. Very stubborn, but original and unique. Attractive on the inside and out. Eccentric personality.
PISCES
The Dreamer (Feb 19 - Mar 20) Generous, kind, and thoughtful. Very creative and imaginative. May become secretive and vague. Tends to be overly-sensitive. Doesn’t like details. Dreamy and unrealistic. Sympathetic and loving. Kind. Unselfish. Good kisser. Beautiful.
ARIES
The Daredevil (Mar 21 - April 19) Energetic. Adventurous and spontaneous. Confident and enthusiastic. Fun. Loves a challenge. EXTREMELY impatient. Sometimes selfish. Short fused…easily angered. Lively, passionate, and sharp wit. Outgoing. Loses interest quickly - easily bored. Egotistical. Courageous and assertive. Tends to be physical and athletic.
TAURUS
The Enduring One (April 20 - May 20) Charming but aggressive. Can come off as boring, but they are not. Hard workers. Warm-hearted. Strong, has endurance. Solid beings that are stable and secure in their ways. Not looking for shortcuts. Take pride in their beauty. Patient and reliable. Make great friends and give good advice. Loving and kind. Loves hard - passionate. Express themselves emotionally. Prone to ferocious temper-tantrums. Determined. Indulge themselves often. Very generous.
GEMINI
The Chatterbox (May 21 - June 20) Adaptable but need to express themselves. Argumentative and outspoken. Enjoy change. Versatile. Busy, sometimes nervous and tense. Gossips. May seem superficial or inconsistent. Beautiful physically and mentally.
CANCER
The Protector (June 21 - July 22) Moody, emotional. May be shy. Very loving and caring. Pretty/handsome. Excellent partners for life. Protective. Inventive and imaginative. Cautious. Touchy-feely kind of person. Needs love from others. Easily hurt, but sympathetic.
LEO
The Boss (July 23 - Aug 22) Very organized. Need order in their lives - likes being in control. Like boundaries. Tend to take over everything. Bossy. Like to help others. Social and outgoing. Extroverted. Generous, warm-hearted. Sensitive. Creative energy. Full of themselves. Loving. Doing the right thing is important to Leos. Attractive.
VIRGO
The Perfectionist (Aug 23 - Sept 22) Dominant in relationships. Conservative. Always wants the last word. Argumentative. Worries. Very smart. Dislikes noise and chaos. Eager. Hardworking. Loyal. Beautiful. Easy to talk to. Hard to please. Harsh. Practical and very fussy. Often shy. Pessimistic.
LIBRA
The Harmonizer (Sept 23 - Oct 22) Nice to everyone they meet. Can’t make up their mind. Have own unique appeal. Creative, energetic, and very social. Hates to be alone. Peaceful, generous…very loving and beautiful. Flirtatious. Give in too easily. Procrastinators. Very gullible.
SCORPIO
The Intense One (Oct 23 - Nov 21)Very energetic. Intelligent. Can be jealous and/or possessive. Hardworking. Great kisser. Can become obsessive or secretive. Holds grudges. Attractive. Determined. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Romantic. Can be very centered at times. Passionate and emotional.
SAGITTARIUS
The Happy-Go-Lucky One (Nov 22 - Dec 21) Good-natured optimist. Doesn’t want to grow up (Peter Pan Syndrome). Indulges self. Boastful. Likes luxuries and gambling. Social and outgoing. Doesn’t like responsibilities. Often fantasizes. Impatient. Fun to be around. Having lots of friends. Flirtatious. Doesn’t like rules. Sometimes hypocritical. Dislikes being confined - tight spaces or even tight clothes. Doesn’t like being doubted. Beautiful inside and out.
The Go-Getter (Dec 22 - Jan 19) Patient and wise. Practical and rigid. Ambitious. Tends to be good-looking. Humorous and funny. Can be a bit shy and reserved. Often pessimistic. Capricorns tend to act before they think and can be unfriendly at times. Hold grudges. Like competition. Get what they want.
AQUARIUS
The Sweetheart (Jan 20 - Feb 18) Optimistic and honest. Sweet personality. Very independent. Inventive and intelligent. Friendly and loyal. Can seem unemotional. Can be a bit rebellious. Very stubborn, but original and unique. Attractive on the inside and out. Eccentric personality.
PISCES
The Dreamer (Feb 19 - Mar 20) Generous, kind, and thoughtful. Very creative and imaginative. May become secretive and vague. Tends to be overly-sensitive. Doesn’t like details. Dreamy and unrealistic. Sympathetic and loving. Kind. Unselfish. Good kisser. Beautiful.
ARIES
The Daredevil (Mar 21 - April 19) Energetic. Adventurous and spontaneous. Confident and enthusiastic. Fun. Loves a challenge. EXTREMELY impatient. Sometimes selfish. Short fused…easily angered. Lively, passionate, and sharp wit. Outgoing. Loses interest quickly - easily bored. Egotistical. Courageous and assertive. Tends to be physical and athletic.
TAURUS
The Enduring One (April 20 - May 20) Charming but aggressive. Can come off as boring, but they are not. Hard workers. Warm-hearted. Strong, has endurance. Solid beings that are stable and secure in their ways. Not looking for shortcuts. Take pride in their beauty. Patient and reliable. Make great friends and give good advice. Loving and kind. Loves hard - passionate. Express themselves emotionally. Prone to ferocious temper-tantrums. Determined. Indulge themselves often. Very generous.
GEMINI
The Chatterbox (May 21 - June 20) Adaptable but need to express themselves. Argumentative and outspoken. Enjoy change. Versatile. Busy, sometimes nervous and tense. Gossips. May seem superficial or inconsistent. Beautiful physically and mentally.
CANCER
The Protector (June 21 - July 22) Moody, emotional. May be shy. Very loving and caring. Pretty/handsome. Excellent partners for life. Protective. Inventive and imaginative. Cautious. Touchy-feely kind of person. Needs love from others. Easily hurt, but sympathetic.
LEO
The Boss (July 23 - Aug 22) Very organized. Need order in their lives - likes being in control. Like boundaries. Tend to take over everything. Bossy. Like to help others. Social and outgoing. Extroverted. Generous, warm-hearted. Sensitive. Creative energy. Full of themselves. Loving. Doing the right thing is important to Leos. Attractive.
VIRGO
The Perfectionist (Aug 23 - Sept 22) Dominant in relationships. Conservative. Always wants the last word. Argumentative. Worries. Very smart. Dislikes noise and chaos. Eager. Hardworking. Loyal. Beautiful. Easy to talk to. Hard to please. Harsh. Practical and very fussy. Often shy. Pessimistic.
LIBRA
The Harmonizer (Sept 23 - Oct 22) Nice to everyone they meet. Can’t make up their mind. Have own unique appeal. Creative, energetic, and very social. Hates to be alone. Peaceful, generous…very loving and beautiful. Flirtatious. Give in too easily. Procrastinators. Very gullible.
SCORPIO
The Intense One (Oct 23 - Nov 21)Very energetic. Intelligent. Can be jealous and/or possessive. Hardworking. Great kisser. Can become obsessive or secretive. Holds grudges. Attractive. Determined. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Romantic. Can be very centered at times. Passionate and emotional.
SAGITTARIUS
The Happy-Go-Lucky One (Nov 22 - Dec 21) Good-natured optimist. Doesn’t want to grow up (Peter Pan Syndrome). Indulges self. Boastful. Likes luxuries and gambling. Social and outgoing. Doesn’t like responsibilities. Often fantasizes. Impatient. Fun to be around. Having lots of friends. Flirtatious. Doesn’t like rules. Sometimes hypocritical. Dislikes being confined - tight spaces or even tight clothes. Doesn’t like being doubted. Beautiful inside and out.
If You Stand For Nothing You'll Fall For Anything
Pro Life or Pro Choice?
An unborn child does not give birth to itself and is not a being until it exits the womb. Until it is born. No female, whether she’s 14 or 40, doesn’t struggle with a pregnancy, planned or not. Nor does she feel nothing once the decision to bring the child to term or abort it is resolved. It is a woman’s life and I believe, her choice to do with her body as she sees fit.
For Or Against: Capital Punishment?
Many disregard the value of human life and demonstrate their disgust for it by destroying those around them. What separates us from savages, among other salient and civilized distinctions, is our ability to differentiate between what is just and unjust, what is right and what is wrong.
War, human sacrifice, torture and incarceration have been with us since the Dark Ages and this country has been built on that bedrock.
However (as evidenced by Clorox wipes and the toaster oven) we are no longer prehistoric. Still the fascination with extreme suffering, violence and death is part of our everyday lives. We live to kill and kill to live it seems.
Is being put to death by electrocution, firing squad, hanging or lethal injection a threat or punishment to someone who, for example, copulates into the mouths of severed heads?
White collar crime seems exempt from this category.
Nevermind that most serial killers are Caucasian, that Death Row inmates are largely of color, developmentally disabled, illiterate and, frequently enough, innocent.
Clearly, it is a complicated issue.
Capital punishment is a tragic, woefully insufficient and barbaric solution to a tragic, woefully insufficient and barbaric penal system problem. It’s wrong but I’m for it.
How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?
I don’t believe we can. We do find ways to live with it and move on, though. Some have found tequila and Valium helpful but I cannot recommend this method.
For Or Against: Same Sex Marriage?
One of the paradoxes of being an American citizen is our need to be recognized by family, friends and employers while also being respected for our cultural, spiritual, sexual, political and socio-economic differences.
One of many prescient issues facing gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the transgendered and transsexuals is how to unify and acknowledge the uniqueness of these particular groups’s experiences.
The concept and the reality of the American family is radically different than it was fifty years ago. What hasn’t changed with our new idea of family is love. Acceptance and tolerance is the key to civilized and modern society. Let us be the new traditionalists. Equal protection under the law is the American Way and I believe it is up to our people and government to protect these rights and freedoms for all.
I think it’s weird that queers would wish to wed but their ability as US citizens to do so is their civil right.
Is It Ever Reasonable To Play “The Race Card”?
For those of you playing at home, the “race card” is the phenomenon of alleging that someone has been given preferential treatment or is fundamentally better or worse at something, negative or positive, because of their ethnic makeup.
Asserting that all Asian people are bad drivers, all Jewish people are good with money or all Black people have rhythm (each of which I could cite many examples to the contrary) is racist.
To notice that someone is of color (or my favorite, non-White) is observant; fair. To opine, criticize or reject someone because of those differences is racist.
Racism is not a game but a sickness and anyone can catch it. And evidently it never goes away but it can be treated if caught early. Don't hate the player or the game.
Game over.
An unborn child does not give birth to itself and is not a being until it exits the womb. Until it is born. No female, whether she’s 14 or 40, doesn’t struggle with a pregnancy, planned or not. Nor does she feel nothing once the decision to bring the child to term or abort it is resolved. It is a woman’s life and I believe, her choice to do with her body as she sees fit.
For Or Against: Capital Punishment?
Many disregard the value of human life and demonstrate their disgust for it by destroying those around them. What separates us from savages, among other salient and civilized distinctions, is our ability to differentiate between what is just and unjust, what is right and what is wrong.
War, human sacrifice, torture and incarceration have been with us since the Dark Ages and this country has been built on that bedrock.
However (as evidenced by Clorox wipes and the toaster oven) we are no longer prehistoric. Still the fascination with extreme suffering, violence and death is part of our everyday lives. We live to kill and kill to live it seems.
Is being put to death by electrocution, firing squad, hanging or lethal injection a threat or punishment to someone who, for example, copulates into the mouths of severed heads?
White collar crime seems exempt from this category.
Nevermind that most serial killers are Caucasian, that Death Row inmates are largely of color, developmentally disabled, illiterate and, frequently enough, innocent.
Clearly, it is a complicated issue.
Capital punishment is a tragic, woefully insufficient and barbaric solution to a tragic, woefully insufficient and barbaric penal system problem. It’s wrong but I’m for it.
How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?
I don’t believe we can. We do find ways to live with it and move on, though. Some have found tequila and Valium helpful but I cannot recommend this method.
For Or Against: Same Sex Marriage?
One of the paradoxes of being an American citizen is our need to be recognized by family, friends and employers while also being respected for our cultural, spiritual, sexual, political and socio-economic differences.
One of many prescient issues facing gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the transgendered and transsexuals is how to unify and acknowledge the uniqueness of these particular groups’s experiences.
The concept and the reality of the American family is radically different than it was fifty years ago. What hasn’t changed with our new idea of family is love. Acceptance and tolerance is the key to civilized and modern society. Let us be the new traditionalists. Equal protection under the law is the American Way and I believe it is up to our people and government to protect these rights and freedoms for all.
I think it’s weird that queers would wish to wed but their ability as US citizens to do so is their civil right.
Is It Ever Reasonable To Play “The Race Card”?
For those of you playing at home, the “race card” is the phenomenon of alleging that someone has been given preferential treatment or is fundamentally better or worse at something, negative or positive, because of their ethnic makeup.
Asserting that all Asian people are bad drivers, all Jewish people are good with money or all Black people have rhythm (each of which I could cite many examples to the contrary) is racist.
To notice that someone is of color (or my favorite, non-White) is observant; fair. To opine, criticize or reject someone because of those differences is racist.
Racism is not a game but a sickness and anyone can catch it. And evidently it never goes away but it can be treated if caught early. Don't hate the player or the game.
Game over.
Gumball
When I was 6 years old, I moved to San Bernadino county for the summer. Desperate to make friends, I tried to pal around with the errant criminal tykes around the apartment complex I stayed in, with my Aunt Rose and her soon- to- be ex-husband, Vaughn.
The pool for the kiddies always had a floating turd in it and the adult pool was gated and the water was murky. It was too hot to be outside anyway and the blazing ‘90+ desert degree heat only amplified the chlorine and putrid pool’s urine-like smell.
One day I saw a few kids playing with cap guns so I introduced myself and as a peace offering they gave me some caps to set off along with this shiny red ball they said was a jawbreaker. I sucked on it and it tasted awful but they called me a pussy and said that if I kept sucking it would get sweeter. It turned out to be the inside of a Stretch Armstrong doll, was completely toxic and I threw up for an eternity. My new ‘friends’ left me, passed out, in the bushes and, when I came to, it was after dark.
I got a whipping for stumbling home after my curfew by Vaughn and I was just so ill and just very sad.
That’s when I sort of discovered pot.
The pool for the kiddies always had a floating turd in it and the adult pool was gated and the water was murky. It was too hot to be outside anyway and the blazing ‘90+ desert degree heat only amplified the chlorine and putrid pool’s urine-like smell.
One day I saw a few kids playing with cap guns so I introduced myself and as a peace offering they gave me some caps to set off along with this shiny red ball they said was a jawbreaker. I sucked on it and it tasted awful but they called me a pussy and said that if I kept sucking it would get sweeter. It turned out to be the inside of a Stretch Armstrong doll, was completely toxic and I threw up for an eternity. My new ‘friends’ left me, passed out, in the bushes and, when I came to, it was after dark.
I got a whipping for stumbling home after my curfew by Vaughn and I was just so ill and just very sad.
That’s when I sort of discovered pot.
Then/Now
I like lists and I always have.
Here is one I filled out five years ago and chose to update today.
1. What is your first name? Jason.
2. Were you named after anyone? Not that I’ve been made aware of.
3. Do you wish upon stars? When the stars are shooting, I will.4. When did you last cry? About two weeks ago.
5. Do you like your handwriting? I do.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Black Forest Ham.
7. What is your birth date? December 19.
8. What is your most embarrassing CD? Lady GaGa.
9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Probably but would give it a great deal of thought beforehand.
10. Are you a daredevil? If someone dares me to do something I rarely back down.
11. Favorite Magazines? Details, ReadyMade, Vice, Vanity Fair, Esquire.
12. Do looks matter? Yes, but not to me.
13. How do you release anger? I obssess until I forget what I was angry about to begin with.
14. Where is your second home? San Francisco/South Orange, NJ.
15. Do you trust others easily? Not as much as I trust myself.
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? My redportable record player and Hong Kong Phooey lunchbox.
17. What class in high school do you think was totally useless? Trigonometry.
18. Do you have a journal? Yes.
19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I prefer rapier wit.
20. Favorite movie(s): Garden State, Elling, Son of Rambow.
21. What are your nicknames? Jay Jay, Boom Boom,Count Fagula, Blacknikov.
22. Would you bungee jump? Yes.
23. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?Yes.
24. Do you think that you are strong? Yes.
25. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Dulce DeLeche Fleur de Sel but lately am into papaya gelato.
26. Shoe Size? 10 1/2.
27. What is your favorite color? Navy.
28. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
29. Who do you miss most? Jupiter Day, John Renwick Kent Haynes, Patricia Jones and Herschel Walker.
30. What color pants are you wearing? Camo cargo cutoffs.
31. What are you listening to right now? Broken Bells
32. Last thing you ate? Ravioli.
33. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Thistle
34. What is the weather like right now? 58 and overcast.
35. Last person you talked to on the phone? Karen
36. The first thing you notice about the oppositesex? Tricky question but I’ll say their attire.
37. How Are You Today? Behind schedule and happy about it.
38. Favorite Drink? At the moment it’s grapefruit juice.
39. Favorite Sport? To play: Softball. To watch: Gymnastics.
40. Hair Color? Black.
41. Eye Color? Dark brown.
42. Do you wear contacts? No, thank goodness..21/20.
43. Favorite Food? Gnocchi and of course, corn and corn products.
44. Last Movie You Watched? 500 Days of Summer.
45. Favorite day of the year? July 4/July 22.
46. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings? Happy Endings/Scary Movies.
47. Summer Or Winter? Summer.
48. Hugs OR Kisses? Hugs.
49. What Is Your Favorite Dessert? I like to make out.
50. Living Arrangements? Live alone in a bungalow.
51. What Books Are You Reading? The Women by Hilton Als, Hornito by Mike Albo. I have 3 waiting. I’m always reading something…
52. What’s On Your Mouse Pad? Nonexistent.
53.What Did You Watch Last Night On TV? I don’t watch TV but I like it.
54. Rolling Stones or Beatles? When I was younger it was the Beatles.
55. What’s the furthest you’ve been from home?Berlin/Dublin
Here is one I filled out five years ago and chose to update today.
1. What is your first name? Jason.
2. Were you named after anyone? Not that I’ve been made aware of.
3. Do you wish upon stars? When the stars are shooting, I will.4. When did you last cry? About two weeks ago.
5. Do you like your handwriting? I do.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Black Forest Ham.
7. What is your birth date? December 19.
8. What is your most embarrassing CD? Lady GaGa.
9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Probably but would give it a great deal of thought beforehand.
10. Are you a daredevil? If someone dares me to do something I rarely back down.
11. Favorite Magazines? Details, ReadyMade, Vice, Vanity Fair, Esquire.
12. Do looks matter? Yes, but not to me.
13. How do you release anger? I obssess until I forget what I was angry about to begin with.
14. Where is your second home? San Francisco/South Orange, NJ.
15. Do you trust others easily? Not as much as I trust myself.
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? My redportable record player and Hong Kong Phooey lunchbox.
17. What class in high school do you think was totally useless? Trigonometry.
18. Do you have a journal? Yes.
19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I prefer rapier wit.
20. Favorite movie(s): Garden State, Elling, Son of Rambow.
21. What are your nicknames? Jay Jay, Boom Boom,Count Fagula, Blacknikov.
22. Would you bungee jump? Yes.
23. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?Yes.
24. Do you think that you are strong? Yes.
25. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Dulce DeLeche Fleur de Sel but lately am into papaya gelato.
26. Shoe Size? 10 1/2.
27. What is your favorite color? Navy.
28. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
29. Who do you miss most? Jupiter Day, John Renwick Kent Haynes, Patricia Jones and Herschel Walker.
30. What color pants are you wearing? Camo cargo cutoffs.
31. What are you listening to right now? Broken Bells
32. Last thing you ate? Ravioli.
33. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Thistle
34. What is the weather like right now? 58 and overcast.
35. Last person you talked to on the phone? Karen
36. The first thing you notice about the oppositesex? Tricky question but I’ll say their attire.
37. How Are You Today? Behind schedule and happy about it.
38. Favorite Drink? At the moment it’s grapefruit juice.
39. Favorite Sport? To play: Softball. To watch: Gymnastics.
40. Hair Color? Black.
41. Eye Color? Dark brown.
42. Do you wear contacts? No, thank goodness..21/20.
43. Favorite Food? Gnocchi and of course, corn and corn products.
44. Last Movie You Watched? 500 Days of Summer.
45. Favorite day of the year? July 4/July 22.
46. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings? Happy Endings/Scary Movies.
47. Summer Or Winter? Summer.
48. Hugs OR Kisses? Hugs.
49. What Is Your Favorite Dessert? I like to make out.
50. Living Arrangements? Live alone in a bungalow.
51. What Books Are You Reading? The Women by Hilton Als, Hornito by Mike Albo. I have 3 waiting. I’m always reading something…
52. What’s On Your Mouse Pad? Nonexistent.
53.What Did You Watch Last Night On TV? I don’t watch TV but I like it.
54. Rolling Stones or Beatles? When I was younger it was the Beatles.
55. What’s the furthest you’ve been from home?Berlin/Dublin
Mirth
Ways To Maintain A Healthy Level of Insanity At The Workplace:
1. At Lunchtime, Sit in Your Parked Car With Your Sunglasses On And Point A Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.
2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom. Don’t Disguise Your Voice.
3. Every Time Someone Asks You To Do Something, Ask If They Want Fries With That.
4. Put Your Garbage Can On Your Desk And Label It ”In”.
5. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks. Once Everyone Has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch To Espresso.
6. In the Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write “For Sexual Favors”.
7. Finish all Your Sentences With “In Accordance With The Prophecy”.
8. dont use any punctuation
9. As Often As Possible, Skip Rather Than Walk.
10. Specify That Your Drive-Through Order Is “To Go.”
11. Sing Along At The Opera.
12. Go To A Poetry Recital And Ask Why The Poems Don’t Rhyme.
13. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area And Play Tropical Sounds All Day.
14. When The Money Comes Out At The ATM, Scream, “I Won!, I Won!”
15. When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running Toward The Parking Lot, Yelling, “Run for Your Lives, They’re Loose!!”
1. At Lunchtime, Sit in Your Parked Car With Your Sunglasses On And Point A Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.
2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom. Don’t Disguise Your Voice.
3. Every Time Someone Asks You To Do Something, Ask If They Want Fries With That.
4. Put Your Garbage Can On Your Desk And Label It ”In”.
5. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks. Once Everyone Has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch To Espresso.
6. In the Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write “For Sexual Favors”.
7. Finish all Your Sentences With “In Accordance With The Prophecy”.
8. dont use any punctuation
9. As Often As Possible, Skip Rather Than Walk.
10. Specify That Your Drive-Through Order Is “To Go.”
11. Sing Along At The Opera.
12. Go To A Poetry Recital And Ask Why The Poems Don’t Rhyme.
13. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area And Play Tropical Sounds All Day.
14. When The Money Comes Out At The ATM, Scream, “I Won!, I Won!”
15. When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running Toward The Parking Lot, Yelling, “Run for Your Lives, They’re Loose!!”
16. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, “Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go.”
Happy Mother's Day Island
So my mother Patricia went to Lowe’s and bought this five foot-long kitchen island in an attempt to solve the problem of space in her kitchen. Mom was a CIA-trained chef who only cooked for family and never intended to open a restaurant or bakery. Mom was a gifted cook but, because of her illness, she could only eat very little of what she’d prepare for us.
Her kitchen was about 12 X 12 and every corner, nook and cranny was covered from the floor to the ceiling with every imaginable appliance and utensil. In the interim of emptying the kitchen and setting up this big table Mom was also painting the kitchen’s cabinets the ”perfect bistro red”. Subsequently, every thing that was in the kitchen had now cluttered the hall. I mentioned to her that maybe she didn’t need all of this stuff and that she should have a garage sale and purge some of it. Mom had three of everything, refused to give any of it away and re-used things like expired half & half, insisting that her culinary training enabled her to ‘reconstitute’ cream.
When we lived in San Francisco my mother spent 5 years redoing her entire apartment and it was never finished except for the kitchen which, while small was transformed beautifully. She had at least 5 “projects” she was working on simultaneously and seldom finished any of them, which was frustrating because when she did complete them, they were usually excellent. The goal was to furnish her apartment completely so that she could swap with someone in Paris and live half of the year on the Left Bank. Upon turning fifty, at least a portion of that dream came true.
The instructions for assembling this kitchen island claimed that no tools were needed but suggested that two people put it together. That week Mom got really loaded and then while slicing zucchini cut the tip off of her index finger with something called a mandolin. Failing to use the safety properly the cut was so deep it nearly severed a tendon and after an hour or so of protestations and when the bleeding wouldn’t stop Mom gave in and my aunts rushed her to the emergency room.
Mom had been clean and sober for three years in the city but since our move to the country and her declining health prognosis later that year she had taken to mixing her meds with drugs and alcohol. The cut on her finger was very painful and all of her nerve endings were quite sensitive to the touch. Minor brushes with any object caused wincing pain. Since the cut happened to her right hand and because she was largely drugged most of the time, she was pretty helpless.
I had planned to go to Baltimore that weekend for my godsister Natasha’s 2nd birthday and to see her parents Joe and Vi whom I hadn’t seen in years. I cancelled the trip because I was worried about Mom and her ability to get anything done for herself which is why among other reasons I moved in with her. I was bummed that I didn’t get to spend some time away that summer yet I felt it was the right thing to do to stay and actually BE my mother’s right hand.
A few days later it’s this gorgeous Sunday and I tell her that I’ll need her help to put the table together which has been sitting in the hall for several weeks along with every other pantry item and every last wooden spoon. But her severed finger prevents her from being effective. She says, “Look, my finger hurts, okay and what are you, some sort of sadist?”. I snapped back, “If you wanted me to put that table together you should have just told me. And, no, I wasn’t trying to be mean I just needed your help but fine, I’ll put it together myself”.
Mother Jones.
She was a strong woman and a proud woman who rarely asked anyone for their help and it was really hard for her to do so when she did. Mother had so many balls in the air she really did need help to keep them all going. At an age where she ought to take it easy, let go of some things and pare down her lists, she upped the ante by trying to achieve all of this crap before she died. She grew frustrated and bitter when her family didn’t step out of their ways to lend her a hand. Mom did get better about being inclusive but later grew resentful and when you didn’t offer or ‘just see’ what needed to get done she got pissed. That orchestrated martyrdom had ruled my life and sense of self for decades further amplified by the spectre of her impending mortality.
The conversation headed south with Mom asking where I’d gotten this sadistic streak and I told her where else: You.
Offended, she retreated into her room (her office, her brain trust, her sickbay) and shut the door. Later that day I ruminated on what I’d said in anger and regretted being so insolent and sought to see things from her point of view; a terminal, colorectal cancer survivor and substance abuser who was at once frail and dynamic but also manipulative. She was in pain of virtually every sort yet still vital, elegant, completely sharp, original and engaged. Taking care of everyone while not looking after her own needs was her calling card and I’d accepted long ago that those facts were not going to change.
I have dealt with these complexities all of my life and on some level I get that this is her defense mechanism. Hurt people before they hurt you. Set the bar of perfection so impossibly high that you’re always beset in trying to achieve that new modern edition of every classic thing from art to film, literature, music and of course, cuisine. It dawns on me that I’m angry with her for raising me to be sensitive and then over the years punishing me for it. I left to go have ice cream and cool off with a friend on the mall, my original plan for that Sunday.
When I return a bit later Mom emerged from her hightower and admits that maybe I was right, that perhaps she was a sadist. She doesn’t come out and admit that she’s been abusive and she certainly doesn’t apologize. Then, in the most egocentric and infantilizing tone she remarks, ” Jay, I had no idea you had all of this rage in you. I feel so sorry for you”. That was it. I’d had it.
I stayed with friends while I processed the tornado of unfixed emotions this whole pathetic episode had stirred up in me. This was a familiar wrinkle. She couldn’t be brave enough to say, ” You know, Jason, you really hurt my feelings when you said I was cruel”. I was supposed to understand and appreciate- grovel- apologize for telling my truth which could ONLY be my ungrateful and childish opinion. Mother could not be wrong or seen as weak.
No matter how far we progressed as mother and son and regardless of how much I’ve forgiven myself and her, when we fought I was always the villain. It was like being lost at sea clawing my way to this isthmus of land hoping that the Coast Guard or an ocean liner would come along and rescue me knowing all too well that it wouldn’t. I am the rescue mission now. Alone on an island fighting to survive the torrents of both Patricia’s cruelty and her brilliance.
Several days later I checked my email and found an irate message from my youngest Aunt Maxine attacking me for being an asshole to Mom. It went on to say that I should have ‘supported her, to get over it, that I didn’t deserve her help, that I needed to get therapy, a real job and to grow up, etcetera. My Aunt Jean chimes in a day later to warn me that ‘she will have me physically removed from the house, that she will not stand for any physical forms of abuse and that she is putting me on notice and will call the police if something like this happens again’. I replay the afternoon in my head to see what part of our exchange was physical and the answer was none of it.
When I got home from the mall, Mom asked me whether or not I had destroyed her counter top in anger which was ridiculous. It had a nick where a tiny edge of the wood of the kitchen island’s tabletop was chipped. I wonder what compelled her to inflate the story to make me out to be this enraged maniac and why she felt it important to tell her sisters. I’m furious now for being attacked for such nonsense but then realize that maybe my Mom is scared of me and that my rage WAS frightening.
Then I start to cry.
I just can’t take it and I sit on my couch and begin to sob uncontrollably. It’s Easter but really it’s Mother’s Day. Suddenly, past the maudlin vantage point of the Martha Stewart Everyday kitchen island, the future, our future, has promise.
Sitting at the table I’d assembled I snack on the frittata and popovers Mom made that morning alone and realize that damned table was worth it. I don’t know my way around the island but of course Mom does.
Mothers always do.
Her kitchen was about 12 X 12 and every corner, nook and cranny was covered from the floor to the ceiling with every imaginable appliance and utensil. In the interim of emptying the kitchen and setting up this big table Mom was also painting the kitchen’s cabinets the ”perfect bistro red”. Subsequently, every thing that was in the kitchen had now cluttered the hall. I mentioned to her that maybe she didn’t need all of this stuff and that she should have a garage sale and purge some of it. Mom had three of everything, refused to give any of it away and re-used things like expired half & half, insisting that her culinary training enabled her to ‘reconstitute’ cream.
When we lived in San Francisco my mother spent 5 years redoing her entire apartment and it was never finished except for the kitchen which, while small was transformed beautifully. She had at least 5 “projects” she was working on simultaneously and seldom finished any of them, which was frustrating because when she did complete them, they were usually excellent. The goal was to furnish her apartment completely so that she could swap with someone in Paris and live half of the year on the Left Bank. Upon turning fifty, at least a portion of that dream came true.
The instructions for assembling this kitchen island claimed that no tools were needed but suggested that two people put it together. That week Mom got really loaded and then while slicing zucchini cut the tip off of her index finger with something called a mandolin. Failing to use the safety properly the cut was so deep it nearly severed a tendon and after an hour or so of protestations and when the bleeding wouldn’t stop Mom gave in and my aunts rushed her to the emergency room.
Mom had been clean and sober for three years in the city but since our move to the country and her declining health prognosis later that year she had taken to mixing her meds with drugs and alcohol. The cut on her finger was very painful and all of her nerve endings were quite sensitive to the touch. Minor brushes with any object caused wincing pain. Since the cut happened to her right hand and because she was largely drugged most of the time, she was pretty helpless.
I had planned to go to Baltimore that weekend for my godsister Natasha’s 2nd birthday and to see her parents Joe and Vi whom I hadn’t seen in years. I cancelled the trip because I was worried about Mom and her ability to get anything done for herself which is why among other reasons I moved in with her. I was bummed that I didn’t get to spend some time away that summer yet I felt it was the right thing to do to stay and actually BE my mother’s right hand.
A few days later it’s this gorgeous Sunday and I tell her that I’ll need her help to put the table together which has been sitting in the hall for several weeks along with every other pantry item and every last wooden spoon. But her severed finger prevents her from being effective. She says, “Look, my finger hurts, okay and what are you, some sort of sadist?”. I snapped back, “If you wanted me to put that table together you should have just told me. And, no, I wasn’t trying to be mean I just needed your help but fine, I’ll put it together myself”.
Mother Jones.
She was a strong woman and a proud woman who rarely asked anyone for their help and it was really hard for her to do so when she did. Mother had so many balls in the air she really did need help to keep them all going. At an age where she ought to take it easy, let go of some things and pare down her lists, she upped the ante by trying to achieve all of this crap before she died. She grew frustrated and bitter when her family didn’t step out of their ways to lend her a hand. Mom did get better about being inclusive but later grew resentful and when you didn’t offer or ‘just see’ what needed to get done she got pissed. That orchestrated martyrdom had ruled my life and sense of self for decades further amplified by the spectre of her impending mortality.
The conversation headed south with Mom asking where I’d gotten this sadistic streak and I told her where else: You.
Offended, she retreated into her room (her office, her brain trust, her sickbay) and shut the door. Later that day I ruminated on what I’d said in anger and regretted being so insolent and sought to see things from her point of view; a terminal, colorectal cancer survivor and substance abuser who was at once frail and dynamic but also manipulative. She was in pain of virtually every sort yet still vital, elegant, completely sharp, original and engaged. Taking care of everyone while not looking after her own needs was her calling card and I’d accepted long ago that those facts were not going to change.
I have dealt with these complexities all of my life and on some level I get that this is her defense mechanism. Hurt people before they hurt you. Set the bar of perfection so impossibly high that you’re always beset in trying to achieve that new modern edition of every classic thing from art to film, literature, music and of course, cuisine. It dawns on me that I’m angry with her for raising me to be sensitive and then over the years punishing me for it. I left to go have ice cream and cool off with a friend on the mall, my original plan for that Sunday.
When I return a bit later Mom emerged from her hightower and admits that maybe I was right, that perhaps she was a sadist. She doesn’t come out and admit that she’s been abusive and she certainly doesn’t apologize. Then, in the most egocentric and infantilizing tone she remarks, ” Jay, I had no idea you had all of this rage in you. I feel so sorry for you”. That was it. I’d had it.
I stayed with friends while I processed the tornado of unfixed emotions this whole pathetic episode had stirred up in me. This was a familiar wrinkle. She couldn’t be brave enough to say, ” You know, Jason, you really hurt my feelings when you said I was cruel”. I was supposed to understand and appreciate- grovel- apologize for telling my truth which could ONLY be my ungrateful and childish opinion. Mother could not be wrong or seen as weak.
No matter how far we progressed as mother and son and regardless of how much I’ve forgiven myself and her, when we fought I was always the villain. It was like being lost at sea clawing my way to this isthmus of land hoping that the Coast Guard or an ocean liner would come along and rescue me knowing all too well that it wouldn’t. I am the rescue mission now. Alone on an island fighting to survive the torrents of both Patricia’s cruelty and her brilliance.
Several days later I checked my email and found an irate message from my youngest Aunt Maxine attacking me for being an asshole to Mom. It went on to say that I should have ‘supported her, to get over it, that I didn’t deserve her help, that I needed to get therapy, a real job and to grow up, etcetera. My Aunt Jean chimes in a day later to warn me that ‘she will have me physically removed from the house, that she will not stand for any physical forms of abuse and that she is putting me on notice and will call the police if something like this happens again’. I replay the afternoon in my head to see what part of our exchange was physical and the answer was none of it.
When I got home from the mall, Mom asked me whether or not I had destroyed her counter top in anger which was ridiculous. It had a nick where a tiny edge of the wood of the kitchen island’s tabletop was chipped. I wonder what compelled her to inflate the story to make me out to be this enraged maniac and why she felt it important to tell her sisters. I’m furious now for being attacked for such nonsense but then realize that maybe my Mom is scared of me and that my rage WAS frightening.
Then I start to cry.
I just can’t take it and I sit on my couch and begin to sob uncontrollably. It’s Easter but really it’s Mother’s Day. Suddenly, past the maudlin vantage point of the Martha Stewart Everyday kitchen island, the future, our future, has promise.
Sitting at the table I’d assembled I snack on the frittata and popovers Mom made that morning alone and realize that damned table was worth it. I don’t know my way around the island but of course Mom does.
Mothers always do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
