old folks

it occurred to me the other day, i' ve been clubbing more in the last few months than in the last few years combined. not sure why, but it's been very fun and the disparity of bands very amusing. how many other people saw michelle shocked then the dropkick murphys? do you believe they both sang "amazing grace" ?

this week i lucked into 2 nights of free tix from a dear friend. one was for the cure. somehow, *back in the day*, i just never got to them, even though i saw so many shows and so many artists. sound was great, robert smith sounded exactly the same and 2 days later i still have "lovecats" happily running through my head. i danced hard for the first time in a long time and security chilled and let us have at it. 3 encores!!! the finale was "killing an arab." camus would have been thrilled.

bands like jane's addiction and smashing pumpkins definitely listened to plenty of the cure as kids. and there is a reason south park had robert smith save the world from mecha-streisand, lol.

next day though? ooooh-eee. my brain was very aware of only having slept 5 hours and my bad knee (i'm old, so now i have one) was aflame.

last night, same friend, with extra bonus company of the owner. like a date kinda! it wasn't a band he nor i follow or know, but m. really likes them. middle band the sound was so badly mixed our little cocktail table refused to stay still and hold our drinks. since we couldn't fix the bass that was even shaking the spotlights, our other friend finally put the miscreant out of service.

when the headliners finally took the stage (10:20!! past the owner's bed time.) the sound mix was still a mess. it wasn't the fault of the acoustics, because a few weeks back, the b-52s sounded kick-ass. except for a few self-conscious musical interludes, 90% of the songs had the same tempo (fast-fast -- good for those on x?) and everything was just out of whack. we finally caved and got earplugs, which i've never worn before and only made it all muddy. i LIKE the high notes. back when, i was always happy to stand right next to the speakers at jack's or storyville or the rat. i loved the bass making my heart vibrate and my neckhairs stand up. i've disturbed more than one neighbor with my stereo on 11. last night i kept wondering if my ears would still hurt today. thankfully not, but somebody needs to tell b.s.p. more decibels ain't always better.

we left before the show even finished, begging out to not miss the "t". we weren't the oldest people there, but we agreed that band needs a lot more work or maybe some new members, lol.

my friend m. loved the show. it was "perfect". he is older than i am, but i guess not in some ways.

forgiveness

it's always been a squirrelly concept for me. the hairshirt of catholicism with its confessions,penance and absolution from a guy in a gown was never a good fit. for my first communion, my mom was thrilled, i had a cute lacy dress and shiny maryjanes and there was going to be a big party in the yard. (my dad blew it off at the last minute, no surprise there, but i digress.) even at that lump of clay age, i felt like it was a sham. for crying out loud, i was just a little kid! i actually made up sins to confess for my first real trip to the booth. (btw, what the heck ever happened to my glow-in-the-dark rosary beads? hmmmph...)

cut to my last one where i was banished from the church because i couldn't say the act of contrition. to that priest, the rote mattered over the intent. that i was only in there for my mother's peace of mind before i spent easter sunday in vatican square with the pope saying mass was besides the point.

my mother and grandmother often were heard to say something was "unforgivable," yet we had no murderers or molesters in the family, ya know? it was rare i heard the actual offense, so lacked context, but here's one: a cousin's husband ran off, leaving her and two kids and he was never heard from again. not being forgiven by the two peggy's certainly had no bearing on his life, now did it? maybe that cousin of mine was a raving witch and totally unendurable. i sure don't know and neither did my grandmother, yet she spat on his name for years til the next castigant (i'm making that word up, but i like it) got strung up.

as we all know, my grandmother was an armored tank of lies, duplicity and selfish disregard. we were forced into abetting. she doth protest too much, yeah, yeah.

the whole things smacks of a moral superiority whose mantle i just cannot wear. if somebody hurt my feelings, i rarely think they did whatever deed specifically to harm *me*. more likely, they actually tried to spare my feelings and the thing just went off the rails. all those times my dad flaked for short and long terms? he wasn't trying to hurt me. he just couldn't deal. sucky? mais oui. but maybe his and my grandmother's horrible behaviors gave me the coping mechanism.

the owner is reading a warren zevon bio, a book i've read much about. it's an unflattering and seemingly unvarnished portrait of a voracious sybarite with no conscience or boundaries. for decades everything was magnified and blurred by drugs and booze. there was a long conga line of women, because a) he was a rockstar; b) he was wildly intelligent; c) certain types of women cannot resist a man who is damaged.

i won't posit too much here, because i haven't read the book, but this whole thing came about because the owner stands amazed by the capacity of *forgiveness* exhibited by zevon's kids and lovers. i don't know how they define it, but in my life, i think of it as *acceptance*. i can accept that not everything will be my way, and that life will not be a bowl of perfect peaches every day. i can accept that people will fall down, fuck up,rarely change, but still love me too. i know what grounds me and matters more -- not my pride, but my love for them. somebody i love does something kinda crappy, my impulse is never to strike back or even pull back. i only want to know why. occasionally there isn't an answer, but i have always seen their internal duel. i've never loved a monster, so it's also clear that they struggle with having caused me pain. that's more than enough -- isn't it?

am i playing semantics? i don't think so, because forgiveness also seems to come with a score card. the one holding the high hand has a savant's capacity to dredge up something from the mesozoic era and fling it into the present for drama. my mom can bring up slights from over 25 years ago. how could she not have healed? oh, right, cuz she keeps picking at that scab.

i watched both my mother and hers grow more and more bitter over time. they held on to hurts, and as they hoarded percieved slings and arrows their circles got smaller and smaller. so often, i see women who chose a life of anger, their faces wizened into permanent scowls. i always knew i wanted laugh lines instead.

everything happens for a reason

no.

it doesn't.

two days ago, i was mugged in broad daylight. for this account, the details aren't important and they frankly are not all that special from a million other purse grabs, i guess.

did anybody see? i don't know. i do know nobody stopped to help. i was blacked out for a few minutes, and have several spotty hours afterwards, so don't really have a knife's edge on this thing. it was a mess of a night and morning til i finally wound up at the police station exhausted and in tears. men with buzzcuts and guns in and out that little 1/2-door--how many women do they see crying every week? every single one still asked if i was being helped.

a confusion of jurisdiction brought me a statey. a guy named hugaboom (absolutely one of the best names i've ever seen. wonder if his daughter is a stripper?) his pencil map showed i wasn't his catch after all, so he drove me where i needed to go. turned out he'd done time on our local equivalent of s.v.u. his voice was a gruff smoker's, but he kept reassuring me that he only wanted to help, and was only asking and re-asking questions to jog my memory. the randomness of the attack? the absence of a good samaratin? my confusion and fear? none of it surprised him. he faces chaos everyday. it's interesting how cops file things in their heads: he told me about his ancient aunt getting robbed twice, and mother getting her car stolen. (uh, yeah, he's a townie from the bricks, lol.) it wasn't to make me more afraid, but to make me know i wasn't alone in the cruel swipe of the universe sometimes bloodying your cheek.

i don't run with bikers. my friends don't sell meth or kill puppies.

a majority of my female friends (and i) have been raped, and not most by strangers. ( "date rape" wasn't a concept when we were in college. how does it make it less worse if you know the guy? i swear a man must have coined that term.) a good portion of my gay acquaintances have been bashed, and 3 of my favoritest homos have been brutally hurt -- plastic surgery beat. i know women and men stabbed and shot. i know two women who were abducted and held.

for some, there is a need to find order in the universe. that presumes everybody's punching your same clock, ya know?

rural idylls, the cosseting of car travel vs. public transport (i know 2 girls raped by cabbies and have had my share of nastiness on the "t") and the reality of life as a tall white man put a spin on life i'll never know.

last night as i struggled to sleep under my bruises and sore head, i was reminded of the damn christian pablum about predestination. my anger welled and i couldn't sleep. the idea of some grand-master flash on high deciding your ticket before it's punched and then a life behavior based only a fear of us lowly worms not knowing the outcome made my teeth itch even as a kid. (strict calvinists even have double-predestination, which i think involves a tree-house and a bunch of backwards-facing r's on the sign, but i could be wrong.) the catholics added lots more wiggle-room with our infallible pope and all sorts of ante-rooms of hell like limbo and purgatory. the idea, and worse(!) the acceptance of a micro-manager nostradamus behind the pearly gates gets up my dander, k?

thomas paine rebuked the bible's paul, if god made us in *his* image, would he have made lumps of clay? insensible vessels, incapable of joy, misery and justice?

as part of our social contract, we owe it to ourselves and those we touch to do the *right thing*. yes, yes, ok. it keeps the fabric knit and gives morality a marker. i'm ok with that. i'm nice to babies, surrender my seat to old crones on the train and give directions to tourists, ya know?

when hugaboom was taking my initial statement, he said off-handedly that my apartment was "last night's numbah". did somebody get lucky?

some may think the reason this happened was to remind me life could always be worse. trust me, i have a mile-long list of possibilities there. if i'm dragged to this argument, best i can make out, it was to remind anything can happen.

i also still think that can mean for the better.

quotable

it's not the pale moon that excites me
that thrills and delights me
oh no
it's just the nearness of you
it isn't your sweet conversation
that brings this sensation
oh no
it's just the nearness of you

when you're in my arms and i feel you so close to me
all my wildest dreams came true
i need no soft lights to enchant me
if you would only grant me the right
to hold you ever so tight
and to feel in the night
the nearness of you

the lightness of being

a young woman with whom i work and don't hate has given her notice. i hadn't seen her all week, but the change in her spirit was enormous. she looked rested, even though it was her 10th day straight, and was smiling and laughing in a genuine way. she's just out of school and comes from money, so feels no pressure to have a fall-back. her dad's dough is her default, lol. she was packing up her things while i was fielding a complaint over a plate of thoroughly consumed crab legs. bah.

i am happy for her she has latitude and isn't forced to continue to do something she hates. clean slate, "what will i be when i grow up?" ahem. being a grown-up can suck.

on the flip side, my favorite story in quite awhile is the brazilian priest who has floated into oblivion under 1000 helium balloons. his stunt was to raise money for a spiritual rest stop for truckers. he was experienced in jungle survival and in excellent health, had 5-days worth of water and lots of power bars, was in appropriate gear and had done a similar bit with 600 balloons not long ago. he had gps, a satellite phone and a floating chair. this wasn't some idiot hiking mt. washington in flip-flops being stranded in an april white-out.

a cluster of his balloons has been found at sea, with no sign of him. his parishioners say it's a test of faith. i say it's a very clever escape plan from penury, celibacy and old latin widows. how much does a helium tank go for these days?

jackboots and krazy kids

couple years ago, i remember reading about flash mobs. bunch of kids get a text or an e-mail, "show up at this place at this time," and they do. (yeah, remember spontaneity?) it took a few years before the creator outed himself in harper's. basically performance art ridiculing hipsters and their faux-non-conformity, placing them squarely in the center of a conformed and rigid demographic. these were astonishingly fast bits. 15-30 seconds and everybody went poof.

didn't take long for this to morph into silent raves. (which, if their point is their pointlessness, i'm all for the full-circle irony, but i digress.) same organizational idea -- get an untraceable text and show up someplace public. this time, everybody is plugged into their i-pod and they dance around awhile in outer silence, then skee-daddle. last week, over 1000 kids showed up in nyc's union square, and by all reports there was no trouble. cops and on-lookers were amused, and some perhaps puzzled. then poof, it was like it never happened because the modern merry pranksters were outta there.

this weekend about 20 baby libertarians decided to honor thomas jefferson and silently rave in front of his washington d.c. memorial, an area that is open to the public 24/7. groups larger than 25 do not need a permit to gather.

it was scant minutes before park rangers told them they had to stop and leave. when asked, "why?" f-bombs were dropped and handcuffs snapped shut. a few got threatened and one girl was arrested. was it so outside these officers' orbit to simply ask, "what the heck are you guys doing?" instead of instantly going fascist? times are tense in the nation's capitol (and elsewhere) thanks to our chief-in-paranoia and his subversive snarling henchmen, and i have never known too many cops who think outside the box. but this was a very small group, not making any noise.

the arrested girl has since been released and charged with the laughable offense of "interfering with an agency function." they couldn't even muster disorderly conduct or resisting arrest.

much like last year's adult swim lite-brite fiasco here in boston, i fear law enforcement has lost all sense of proportion and balance.

one night in college, we had an lsd-fueled impulse to get in the reflecting pool at the christian science center. (if i'd known then it was full of freon as part of their complex's cooling apparatus, i doubt i would have been first in, ok?) it was 2 or 3 in the morning and only a few blocks away. it never occured to us the place had cameras everywhere, but we were just splashing around. guys with severe suits and earphones appeared out of the dark. very politely they asked us to leave the pool. "the water isn't safe for swimming and it's very late. you kids should go home." that simple. so we left, sopping wet, laughing our asses off and to this day i think of those guards as such good sports. i mean, i know they're all about clean living, but we could not have been the first and only group of toasted students who went for a dip, ya know?

i'm no hippy, but i can only see this as a corner that cannot be unturned. warrant-less wiretaps, payrolled media flacks touting the progress of all of our wars (except that pesky war on drugs -- that's so passe these days) so as to purposely mislead the public, and an administration that blatantly disregards the constitution every moment of every day.

after 9/11 so many sheeple were happy to sacrifice personal liberties for that nebulous tenet of national security. careful what you wish for, folks.

local colah

a little over 2 years ago, i googled hardware stores in my neighborhood. once cited, it wasn't far away. i poked my head in to find a very fat goombah, sitting in near dark, watching a tiny tv, in a filthy place.

"excuse me, i'm looking for this kind of light bulb." without a glance, he said, "we don't sell light bulbs." lol, ok, so you probably don't really sell anything, but it sucks that i have to take the "t" to buy a paintbrush.

determined to paint today, i went to visit on a lark, thinking maybe they have old tubs of spackle. i just didn't want to travel.

hola!!! viva la brazil!!!!!

the store was still matchbox sized, but all lit up, bursting with inventory and a smiley guy behind the counter. i was happy to pay too much for a paintbrush. yes, he's an owner. yes, his english is terrible. i can't wait to go back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

same trip today, i needed gym socks. there is a store here, even more ghetto than marshall's and tello's. (we have the latter, btw). its windows are so messy, when i first saw it, i thought it was a craft store, not a department store. hellacious mess.

i smelled a smell. awful. "don't be a snob, noodle." but as i neared the sock wall i was nearly choking. i kept hearing the incantation of "mommy, mommy, mommy.... mama... mama..." and the smell got worse. it was unmistakable, and i've never had a kid, ok?

she was on the phone, i'm sure deploying costa rican troops. he was screaming. the smell made my eyes water. in seconds, he pulled off his pants and his diaper. the shit smelled so bad i could only assume he'd eaten another toddler. if he was mature enough for that, um, shouldn't he be toilet-trained?

ok, yeah, yeah. i have no idea. all i know is that he dumped his shitty diaper on the floor and ran away. and i left the store gagging. i still need socks.

the benjamin moore here smells very clean and nice. :)

damn my mother

and her mother before her.

tomorrow will be in the 70s and patriots' day is next week. for all my wishful thinking that spring has sprung come evacuation day (st. patrick's to those not in massachusetts or our sacrificed annex of maine) the thermometer doesn't begin to agree til about now. today was a beauty too -- fluffy postcard clouds, crews on the charles and only the faintest wisp of a breeze, even in the wind tunnel of copley square.

boots and scarves go in boxes and we start peeling back and going lighter. men don't get this, but it means different shoes and bags. (flip-flops do not count. they are pool wear, ok? not shoes.) my trusty coach wool satchel needs to take a nap. however, last fall i threw away the all-purpose summer sack because it was frayed and beat to hell. i threw it out to prevent using it again this year in its disrepair. i threw it out assuming 6-1/2 months later i could easily afford to replace it.

anybody paying attention knows i'm fretting over the cost of butter, so no new mortgage purse is in the budget.

marshall's is next to one of my restaurants. i know, i know. it's ghetto. but sometimes i've scored decently there. (although never once on a purse... hmmph -- did i remember that earlier today?) they had LOTS of bags, all arranged by color. sheesh, looks like brights are the new black. so many screaming yellow patent leather bags -- what the hell is the gorton's fishermen fleet wearing in gloucester? like a discerning bee who only likes the pollen from the rarest of orchids, i drifted over to a camel-colored vision. ack. $285. at MARSHALL'S.

ok. exhale. rethink. scope some more. in the cross-hairs -- $195. wtf? a couple more lookies and i was out the revolving door. my eyes were like the scope on a smart bomb. through the sea of off-kilter colors and just too much shoddy detailing, every bag that called me was supple italian leather, with only the subtlest of adornments. spare me the fringe and the damn faux bling. yuk. if miuccia prada puts buckles on a bag, by the time it filters down to the rack dreck at marshall's it's bad so many ways there ought to be a law. gaah.

if i was really a masochist, i could have tormented myself looking at the michael kors shoes that had just arrived. but i had only snuck away for a moment and my desire to remain employed outweighed my desire to self-flagellate over buttery leather soles.

maybe i'll just carry to-go bags all summer. yeah. that's it.

my mother and grandmother could shop from open to close. while they both enjoyed finding a steal, it was the hunt for the italian leathers, the irish wools, the 3-ply cashmeres that was the point. they taught me to look inside the garment, at the finishing you couldn't see, to determine how well the piece was built, affecting both its fit and how long it would last. my grandmother wasn't so long away from hand-me-downs and boiled potatoes for dinner to waste money on shoddy clothes.

so things like those bags sing to me in a store. even when moths fly out of my wallet cuz they are going hungry in there. i'm stuck not wanting to waste even a small amount of money on a piece of crap that i'll hate and not being able to afford anything nice. grr.if only women left purses all about public places like they do umbrellas. unfortunately, tod's bags do NOT belong to the universe like parapluie.

doesn't she want more?

as extroverted as i may seem, i have a fierce sense of privacy. every side of my family had lots of secrets, so sealed lips were the family shield.

my father's mother was the queen of silence. when her parents died and left she and her sister the house upstate, neither could agree on an amicable division. rather than figure out how to share the sprawling manse, they stopped speaking and had a wall built right up the middle. each pretended the other was never there -- like there was no *other* side of the house. cool for us kids, the attic wasn't divided and was full of creepy trunks, papers, mannequins and ghosts. they never spoke again for the rest of their lives.

an uncle who smoked lucky strikes from age 14 and basically hacked himself to death, died of *a cold*. my aunt who died of a brain tumor had a *very bad headache*. fascinating as victoriana, except claire was born here well after the queen's death and *had* to marry my grandfather.

previous posts have addressed the adultery and the duplicity in my family. frankly, i no longer care if it's shame or pride that drives my discretion. i can't change the past and it's just nobody's damn business, ya know? the cruel flip of this is the owner's dedication to eviscerating any sense of privacy i might have.

it's a wiggly line, because our lives, love, passion and dynamic are so intertwined. he approaches other women openly, with the fact of, " i have this woman who is devoted to me..." i don't know when, how, what he actually says otherwise, but i do know it's followed up with, "but i have her and still will and want to fuck other women." from my exposure to women, i imagine most run screaming from whatever virtual room they hear this. a few may may feel wooly and wild, but the recent control freak who manifested her insecurity and disrespect with her profound tardiness said what i suppose most think: "doesn't she want more?"

which brings the owner back around to what would i have done all those years ago, if presented with this same equation. we'll start with, "i can't say," and that it's a pretty useless exercise. i do know i was profoundly attracted to his open sexuality, his quiet dominance and his determination. the best i can guess, is that i would have erected the usual emotional force-field that had served me so well in the past, preventing the eventual emotional hypnosis and dependence. however, there were chinks in both of our armors. plan aborted. both ends.

"doesn't she want more?" more is more. it's more flesh, more sex, more partners, more engagement, more pain, more denial. it's more, in the real sense, not less.

"doesn't she want more?" likely i'll have *more* than most will ever know.

how much??

some hob-nob, and my mother in her hey-day, liked to proclaim that if you have to ask, you can't afford it. i remember shopping with my mom in boutiques where nothing had a price tag, and we'd come home with bags of glad-rags and matching shoes.

these days, i'm in reduced circumstances and by no means flying solo in that air.

the president won't say recession, but everybody else is clamoring about it, and just this week, the fed announced its biggest overhaul of the financial industry since the great depression. the oblique impossible math of bear-sterns stockholders thinking their bits were hovering around $60, but the buy-out coming in at $2? how's that again? oh, ok, wait, $10? WHAT?

i think most folks are in numb acceptance about the price of gas cuz it's been at or around $3 since katrina. (it seems.)

but there are more insidious hikes and they are everywhere. confident about their low prices, i stopped at trader joe's the other night for some groceries. the eggs were $2 more than last month. double in price. the smoked trout i sometimes treat myself with at $4 a package was also doubled. last time i bought butter, it was $1.99. this time, $4.99. the trout i skipped. the eggs and butter are for the owner, so i can't not have them.

to save time monday, i ran to the corner bodega for cat litter. it's $2.49 at the shaw's and was $4.49 last time i bought it from pedro. 2 bucks to save the 40 minutes to and fro seemed worth it. it was priced at $7.49 today. wtf? off to the square. the price of clay sure isn't in the news.

at work, we order 50-lb. bags of flour. one week they were $18, next week $60. 300% increase. we buy 5-gallon containers of frying oil. they went from $16 to $40. those cooking oil riots in malaysia and morocco don't seem so far-fetched, do they?

the ceo of countrywide is walking out with an extra $10 million in his pocket. um? job well done? no doubt when the nickels shake out the bear-sterns poo-bah will get a nice chunky payday too.

any wonder why that poll yesterday showed 80% of americans think we're heading in the wrong direction? maybe the question should be, is there any direction?

let's get physical

"lemme hear your body talk..."

way back in 6th grade, i ate a bunch of strawberries. not just a cup or a bowl, but an entire quart. they were perfect and sweetly red and tangy and juicy. within hours, i had a blotchy rash all over my stomach, chest and neck. it threatened to creep to my face, so i was allowed to skip the next day of school.

it was YEARS til my mother told me that famous rash day was the 4th time in a row my dad blew me off. it was that same number of years til i ate another strawberry, presuming an allergy, not emotional manifestation.

tonight i received the opposite of what i wanted.

he withdrew. he stayed away.

even though i spent the week trying to gird myself, i got hot and dizzy and sick. my ears were filled with a buzzing while he talked. my eyes welled and my heart raced. luckily i was at work and very busy.

now, i'm long home, and it's late, and i'm letting myself cry.

"pretty music", his mean grandmother might have said.

i just have no place else to put "it".

i get smaller and smaller, huh?

cheesecake to feed the world

previously i've written about the little brown people with whom i share the late-night train ride back to my neighborhood. mostly men, all redolent with the smell of cooking and cleaning.

lately, i've been amazed by the number of them all carrying cheesecake factory doggie bags. i think there are 3 of these sloporiums within a rational subway commute, and i know they are huge operations requiring giant staffs. last night, in a car with about 50 passengers, about 10 guys had these bags. night before, a similar ratio. i figure about 90% of the riders were coming home from restaurant jobs.

much is made about how many hours and different jobs these guys work, often without legal documents. millions of dollars flow from the states to families left behind in central and south america. (the benefit of the exchange rate, however, is beginning to dwindle as the dollar sucks more and more air.)

i'd love a numbers-cruncher to figure how much cheesecake and salads the size of my head are helping keep brazil afloat.

emotional roulette

"your feelings don't matter." -- repudiation.

"don't be sad."-- invalidation.

"if you don't get through this, it will not go well for you." -- direct threat.

"we'll talk in a few days." -- withholding.

i feel like i'm log-rolling in white water rapids.

i admitted being confused. i asked for some more time to process. miles between us, i could smell the smoke coming from his head. yet if i can't (won't???) articulate it, how can we discuss it effectively?

damned if i do, damned if i don't here.

how do i feel about what i did? i feel violated, sad, dehumanized, sickened, anguished, troubled. i feel like i did something awful to someone else and something horrible to myself. which is primary? i don't know yet. if i refer to statement #1 above, wouldn't it be better/advantageous/expeditious if i just got over it? if my feelings are never to matter, than shouldn't inurement become my friend? how can i live life as an open wound?

and now i feel afraid.

more than once in the last weeks, i have confessed to feeling disenfranchised. i don't feel connected and my being owned feels tenuous at best. there are moments, yes, and i devour and savor them. as for the rest? he basically said, "tough shit."

the owner is on about kindness lately. funny that, huh?

ball of confusion

currently i am one, and now i've got fear tangled into the skein's prickly strands.last week, in anticipation of something that would challenge me, i asked the owner for help. "please tell me what to do." he was putting me in the situation and i asked him directly and simply. he was traveling, he was pre-occupied, a few days went by; then a lightbulb broke over my head. i knew he'd just say suck it up. so i did and concentrated on what was most relevant to me, what would allow me to behave in the way we both desired. mostly, i succeeded, but i just plain refused to consider what i knew would be an inevitable facet.

jump-cut>>

unexpectedly, i ran into the owner upon his return. he was waiting for a date. i knew about her, and had even scoured my apartment to make it gleaming for any potential hijinks. she was woefully late, and i frankly couldn't believe he wasn't more irritated. i was thrilled to see him, yet felt misty that i was not *to see* him. he was there for her. i was told, " don't be sad," even though i was. i wasn't angry or acting out or behaving irrationally, ya know? i had missed him and there he was right there, looking gorgeous -- but waiting for another. so, yeah, shoot me for wanting you. did he mean in some bizarre way to cheer me? i don't know. it felt like invalidation.

(a post-script here in fairness: after over an hour of waiting he wound up putting her feet to the heat. she balked and didn't show. i got pizza and mmc. lol. she messed up. he's wonderful to be with, at table and in bed.)

next day, up there>>

plenty of chores for me and we had big plans, which involved an actual start-time, and to my nerves and his happiness, this other woman with whom i simply don't know what to do. i had asked. i had admitted i was flummoxed. he didn't care. oooooh-k. my problem, but my hackles were up as soon as i heard her voice, so i just stayed quiet.

she went to the bathroom almost immediately. (hey, long train-ride, lol.) he came to me. he kissed and fondled me. i felt my rigidity, but could see the fire and joy in his eyes. i realized my arms were folded and i was unconsciously holding him at bay. i stopped. i let go. i wanted him too. like a fever running though me.

over dinner, he coaxed her to tell a story from her blog: "spanish danny." eyes cast down and her voice full of hesitancy, it brought a whole new meaning to my mother's oft-said, "it's not what you say, but how you say it." the owner seemed genuinely charmed, so i knew it wasn't the time to share my multiple johnny anecdote. once i loved a man who was tall, dark and handsome, played rugby professionally and broke my heart twice. his mates called him irish johnny. he was of irish extraction, but by way of australia. his friend, who wooed me after the 2nd shattering, was johnny black. he wasn't, but he drank it. another in their circle was johnny o'. irish johnny was also an "o", but arrived too late to catch that sobriquet. there was also big johnny. johnny without an adjective was 1st, i guess.

the concert was brilliant fun. i felt madly in love and so happy he brought me.

i pretended she wasn't there.

there was copious alcohol.

i had to do something that i never ever want to do. never. not in fantasy, not in my dreams, not in bed. never. in this case, i had to do it to someone i don't like, don't find appealing and who did not want it. how do i process that?

yes, i did what i was told. ok, that part is good. the rest? i just don't know. maybe i just won't allow the feelings up since i spent all those days sublimating? i really don't know.


eventually, she reached critical mass and fled to her cocoon. she hid, silent, until i left in the morning. he and i slept, fucked, slept and fucked some more and laughed alot. yet all the while, i was so conscious of *pretending* we were alone. it was bizarre, but i was too wrecked and work loomed.

i didn't hear from him the next day. he was just back and i had lots to do and social plans. after a venue change and a few drinks, i ran into an ex. it had always been casual. he liked to handcuff me to the bed, but he was never a keeper. he told me i looked great, and for once, i actually thought i looked ok. good hair day; sweater set, seamed stockings -- retro and flattering.

timing is everything.

i came home and cried.

next night, the owner called. i knew he'd had a bad spot with the future ex. we chatted and laughed and it was great to hear his voice. it's always so nice to know he's thinking of me, ya know?

after awhile, i admitted i was struggling with saturday. i asked if we could wait to talk about it. it was late, and i was still confused.

he

got

so

angry.


much has been made lately that "my feelings don't matter". i am trying very hard to keep my hand off the fire of what is looking to be an adventure in dehumanization. objectification is hot for me. this is terrifying.

i also struggle with not wanting to be a bother.

he was furious.

he accused me of being presumptuous.

he hung up.

i was/am terrified.

i sat by the window and waited. i feared an express lane drive to midnight midieval punishment.

i'm at a loss. utterly.

if my *feelings don't matter*, i don't know how i can stay in a place of emotional vulnerability. am i supposed to? or shall i just drag myself to a place of defeat and loss of hope? what is life without the potential for joy?

even this, i just don't know.

paraphrased

"if the phone don't ring, i know it's you."

power plays

he was very old and walked slowly with a cane. his son lagged behind, like a beaten dog.

"would you prefer a table or a booth?" "i'll decide that, thank you very much." i'm thinking, "ok, yeah, i just offered you that exact option. so tout de suite, grumpypants." he heads towards a booth. great, fine, i start clearing the extra settings.

he gets up. "no, this one is no good," and starts heading elsewhere. the son and i just follow. he pauses, turns, surveys the dining room and switches direction. he picks a new, third booth and sits. i crack wise and he kinda laughs. the son is mortified, but we both know this ritual has a tacit agreement. i walk away with the extra settings. when i'm returning, he is UP AGAIN! fucking goldilocks trapped inside an 80-year-old man.

"sir, you can have any empty table in this restaurant. however, i'd appreciate it if you would choose one now for your meal."

he grabs my forearm. i feel the rage start to well. why do they always think they can touch me?

"let me tell you something about you hostesses."

"i am not a hostess."

"whatever. you're a girl, and you're seating me. you're a fucking hostess."

"sir, the profanity is not appreciated, please sit down." (they need to check his meds...)

"let me tell you something. back when i was ceo of xxx..." and he launched into "back in the day" how he'd always get the best of them, blah blah, blah. i knew he just wanted to hear himself talk. it's a very wealthy community, so he quite likely had been a powerful man in his prime and now was lonely, lost and listless in retirement, with a fading mind and degrading body. i was not unsympathetic, but his tone was just so... mean. somehow, this story he has doubtlessly told dozens of times, the jist of which is, "you (me, hotoynoodle) are an idiot," winds up with him smiling and asking if he can hug me. UM? WHAT? "uh, maybe after you eat. i prefer hugging after people pay." the son nearly chokes laughing, but i see the old man smolder. he has not gotten his way. "sir, i never hug on the 1st date. please enjoy your meal." and i hightail away. i visit him mid-meal and he's happy as a clam. i stay out of reach.

4 squirming kids and 2 adults. she checks in for her reservation. "great, i have a very nice round table up front for you." "i won't sit in there. i want a table in the back." the kids are crawling and climbing, one of them bouncing himself trampoline-style on a lobby chair.

"unfortunately, i have no tables for 6 in the back. it's full, and this table is very nice."

"it's cold in there."

"i assure you, it's not."

"i don't like it. i want another table."

"there are NO other tables for 6."

"i'll wait."

i think, ok, you will wait, but what about those 4 little kids and your mute castrated husband? it's already 7:30. shouldn't it be bath-time at the shapiro house? i prevaricate. "it will be at least 45 minutes for another table."

finally her husband coaxes her forward. all the while she is muttering how "it better not be cold, if it's cold, it will ruin my meal, it better not be cold, i'm always cold." (yeah, i bet.)

the father asks the boy where he would like to sit. "where it's warm. i hate eating when i'm cold." torch passed.

this happens many times a day. countless times a week. as long as i have been at this, i don't "get" the petty power play. it's fucking dinner, that's all. it's not a corporate buy-out, it's not leaping the queue at the country club, it's not getting a birkin bag before your neighbor. this is not lunch at nyc's four seasons nor a toyota executives' banquet. just sit the fuck down. you're not cowing me or impressing me. nope. i'm thinking how small and petty is your life, and how glad i am not to be you.

i know they blame others. it's their life, ya know? we all make choices.

"chance of a lifetime"

one of my restaurants has a mother-daughter duo working there. they are lovely women, both with very nice husbands and the daughter's 2 girls couldn't be sweeter. i like them.

the mother comes from an insanely large family, and produced one of her own. the daughter never finished high school. info that was offered weirdly, it's never something i would ask. (or think really; that's way out of my life's context, but i work with a few kids like that here.) they are both natives in a very affluent town, but are of the working class who fix and clean the homes of the range rover drivers.

next month they are taking a trip to the old sod. 100% irish extraction, 2nd and 3rd generation, it's been a life-long dream of both. the mother came into a very small inheritance (it had to be divvied up so many ways!) and decided to take the plunge and blow the cash. they both keep calling this 5-day trip "the chance of a lifetime."the daughter is 28 and has never been on a plane. while i am happy to see how excited both are as the days count down, it also saddens me to see their perspective. that they see their lots in life as so fixed. only a windfall has made this possible, so unless somebody else much more well-to-do drops dead, they're never going anyplace again.

as much of a pit as i feel i am in now, as much as i've gnashed my teeth in here and in lawyers' offices over these last months, i really believe my situation is temporary. shoes and trips will again be in the budget. this is just a bad patch, and they happen to most. (mark twain and donald trump both filed for bankruptcy. they kept going, right?)

the owner would say i'm trying to frame them in my world-view, and he's right. maybe they are perfectly content. i don't know. i hope they are, you know? however, i don't think it's a bad thing for me to want more out of life.

as seen here

disclaimer: this is actually more of a "heard here" because i couldn't really bear to look.

her voice leaped harsh and bitter over all the other subway noise,
"... and maybe just fah fuckin' once ya could try not lyin' ta me." shrill, coarse -- too many marlboros and too many defeats. i glanced sideways. a tall boy, hunched, broken, his big hands on a stroller. inside was a wriggling giggling infant. the mother, tiny, a vicious girl-starling with a sharp nose and mean lips. she leaned into the baby and said, "don't get used ta seein' daddy cuz he's goin' home. i dunno know whayuh the fuck weah goin'. we can't go back to the sheltah, cuz they think you have aids."

yeah. she was talking to the baby. mercifully, i lost some of the thread as a train came and went...

"oh, and when yahr back in jail? what the fuck happens then, huh? nobody will take dah fuckin' kid cuz everybody thinks he has fuckin' aids. it's yah fault!"

both parents were teens and even so both knew life would never be more than a long chain of these moments. accusations, retaliations, hate, anger, hopelessness. tangles with the law and social services. broken teeth, bloody noses and a kid who will not do well in school.

i watched her feed her baby emotional poison. i felt sweaty and sick.

my train came and i went to work. they were still fighting. well, just she, you know?

do little

nope, not another reference to the wacky doctor in that technicolor spectacle. tonight there will be no frolicking in puddleby or erotic exploring of the insides of that giant pink snail.

rather, i mean the aggregate output of most restaurant managers. i'm not quite sure how many of them get there. it's certainly not part of that "when i grow up i wanna be..." essay, now is it? but i suppose when most of them fall in, they stick around (or bounce around) because other than grueling hours and mediocre pay, they coast. it seems for most, spending all those hours at work is little hardship since they have such arid outside lives. (no digression here on the husbands hiding from their families.)

i could count on one hand how many dynamoes i've worked with in my career. positive, upbeat guys always on the move, always anticipating, aware of everything -- even stuff they don't see. eyes in the back of their heads? but they make everybody kick it up and feel energized.

i would need an army's worth of digits to tally the drunks, the gamblers, the cokeheads, those in questionable liaisons with staff, the vanishers and the comically inept. we had one we called the "void monkey," since that seemed all he could do. oh, and drink coca-cola by the gallon. (did they not have it in his native hungary?)

the vast majority are just lazy. recently i had two projects that needed cooperation from various managers to succeed. my itinerant schedule means i can't cheerlead in 2 places at the same time. they blatantly ignored both my pleas and printed invites and refused to pump their staffs. the events failed to attract attendees -- because nobody knew about them. in a meeting today, i was informed that unless a dictum came down from j.s.j.**, "do this or fucking else," nothing would happen. essentially they will do it in the future to avoid an ass-reaming, and that's the model they have created and feed in this company. ooh, nellie, don't want independent thought or enterprise! or ambition! ahhhhhh, noooooooooooooooo!!

today i had alot of work. alot. yet, every time i went for a glass of water or to stretch my legs, i saw the m.o.d. (yeah, ok, the guy is nice, but an idiot) sitting at the bar watching a soccer match. i understood it was a very important game, however, could have thought of 10 other things that needed tending. and what kind of example does that set? i have never seen him bus a table, take an order or work one minute past his scheduled time. however to jsj, he's a warm body on the floor who can cash out the servers and doesn't make trouble.

my disinclination to jog set aside, i am not a slothful worker. i feel proprietary in my places of employ and like a challenge. however, the ton of bricks has fallen for the last time. i do not kiss ass well. i do not draw overt attention to my achievements. i do not throw other people under the bus or back-stab to save face. i don't believe negative reinforcement and creating a culture of fear makes for a good work environment. i hate being micro-managed and distrusted for no reason other than jsj's paranoia and bad faith in people.

i want a life outside my work.

in an effort to cut costs, one of the gm's has forbidden his staff to drink soda. it's out of a gun and costs pennies. they can have coffee, but no milk or sugar. fucking prison is more generous with the bevs.

i need out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

to prevent confusion, the business owner will now be referred to by his initials (not the actual, but i'll use an inside joke for them) and the owner will heretofore be called "the owner". he's not *my* owner, since i don't *have* him, but that's not for this footnote, and perhaps it's time for this blog to begin a slightly different path of exploration.

see blog title.

simple

he took me where i wanted to go, and was nice about it.

i bit the bullet and stayed late at work for a bunch of reasons.

due to the tunnel and the airport, there are massive fees for taxis who come over here to return. most riders go to a terminal. i go to a condo. although i am sympathetic and willing to compromise, *legally* i cannot be charged any of those extra goodies, yet have had gajillions of late-night fights with drivers who a) refuse to let me in the cab; b) insist i pay the extra $7 in fees (yeah, not so much trouble in the global picture, but try that on relative poverty wages several times a week); c) call me stupid, ignorant and a thief. yeah. for real. all that and more. just what you want to hear in a thick accent after a night of getting your ass kicked.

this guy said, "OK!" when he heard my destination. he wasn't yammering into a cellphone, smoking out the window or ignoring my directions the whole trip. in fact, he didn't need directions. we got here and he charged me the meter, no extra bogus massport shit. so, unlike all the other small-minded bigots who haggle my nerves, he got all the extra. and i was happy to give it to him.

nothing beats coming home on a note of nice. ya know?

christallmighty -- path of least resistance. yup.

underneath

during today's snowstorm, i again saw that poor put-upon english sheepdog in his slicker and boots. as a kid i had a giant mutt of a sheepdog, who would howl to be let out in blizzards. she'd lie out there and be covered by inches of the stuff before my mom would finally freak, drag her inside and plop her in front of the woodstove, where she'd crash like a damp stone for hours, lol. the dog knew, and we found out, that she had a unique 2-layer coat that kept her 1st dry, then warm. either my neighbor doesn't know this, has never had a dog before or thinks they *need* clothes. or maybe all 3. regardless, the poor thing looks like a cartoon.as the snow quietly blanketed my park, i took a brief call about a potential job. not one in which i've invested much more than a fleeting, "maybe i'll make more money doing x." well, the money ain't much and the title doesn't seem approprie. nonetheless, i agreed to meet the director of operations next week. can never have too much practice interviewing, right?

so why was i laggardly and late to work? why did i feel despondent and on the verge of tears? greeted hale and hearty when i arrived, everybody was glad to see me, but i hid in the office awhile to collect myself. it's no secret to you guys i hate my job, but when i'd barely touched the handle on the door of potential change, yet spun so badly down, i realized the depths, and the power of sublimation.

it's interesting, because in many respects it's not *so* bad as far as these sorts of jobs go. but in the last week, i had a few too many conversations with people far more senior/veteran than i, including 2 gm's and 2 executive chefs, all of whom hate their jobs. they freely admitted staying because so little is required of them. combine lassitude and apathy from those in charge; stir it in a cauldron of distrust and belittlement from on high and it all makes for a sour stew with which to feed your staff.

recently the owner reprimanded me that my attitude of late "sucks." i have worked in lots of restaurants. LOTS, lol. never before have i faced such a wall of indifference and blindness to mediocrity. so yeah, i'm sorry, but it's demoralizing to be the only cheerleader. shocking to be met with a blank stare and disdain from a 20-year-career server about why it's wrong to clear a table by sticking your fingers in all the used glasses.

the owner wants to change the markers with which i self-identify, but he's yet to make clear those i'm allowed. my career has always been a post, so with its current state of dessication i feel adrift.

in my head, i know my emotional response to today's call was out of balance. however, it does make me wonder what's under the layer that's keeping me dry. because i am rarely warm.

keeping up

not with the joneses. lord knows, these days the most po' of the hatfields do more shopping than i.

this is about the social contract.

there is a picture of me at age 3 or 4, taken on thanksgiving. there had been a nasty succession of arguments; crying, a fistfight, more crying. i remember just changing locations -- kitchen, living room, car, (flat tire, lost hubcap,) my aunt's house, etc. -- but the drama seemed continuous. it was an ugly day, drenched in sleet, and could be why i never much cottoned to the supposed and projected spirit of the day. in the pic, i am in a frilly dress and shiny maryjanes, wearing a football helmet, playing the guitar and singing. i think we all kinda know where my aptitudes lie both with contact sports and strings. for years, my mom trotted this out as an, "oh, how cute you were!" document. somehow trying to prove i was just an adorable lil scamp always playing, "let's put on a show!" by my fucking self. nope, i couldn't possibly be a distressed only child, the littlest person in the room, trying to change the subject, stop the conflict and make everybody laugh.

italian and irish, there were plenty of men in my families who, along with their colorful friends, (don't tell your mother we were with so-and-so) taught me how to be fast and sharp. how to pace and tell a story. even embroider the truth for a bigger laugh. hell, then that becomes the truth, right? there was no, "ok, lil noodle, now on the third beat, ya go for the laugh," but that breaking of the ice was something i knew i could use.

fast forward to a career that depends on my people skills. on being a certain type of gregarious. not the steamroller-stfu- kind, but the kind that hears your clues and then can engage on another/different level.

my colleagues and friends are like me. if we weren't, we'd not succeed in this field, nor would we keep company. not everybody is on the same plane of verbage. but the accepted expected context is kinda the same. if you don't feel like keeping up, stay home. you're supposed to bring something to the party. and not just a 6-pack.

briefly i had a roommate who even more briefly had a b/f who was painfully shy. she told me one night they were stopping by. i heard them come in, then ... nothing. finally i couldn't stand it and went to her open door. he was sitting in the huge walk-in closet. in the closet. in. the. closet. no metaphor for gay here. i felt a forcefield. it was almost hostile. i said "hello, my name is," and got a downward glance of "um, hi," in return. then more silence. he was 30, not 3. it was so odd, i backed out and mumbled goodnight. so much for small talk. or introductions even. i remember sharing this with my b/f at the time, who howled and worried for the guy's sanity.

so now i am faced with somebody pathologically introverted. i am trying very hard not to be cruel here. the owner is choosing to spend time with her, for his own reasons. that time sometimes overlaps with his time spent with me, so we do and will occasionally share space. it was explained to me that all her interactions happen inside her head. frankly, i'm not even sure i understand what she does. she sits there and imagines what she might say if she spoke out loud? she plays pretend party girl? or are her internal replies 2 or 10 paragraphs late, so better left unsaid?

i am also trying very hard to reconcile my feelings about this. it's been a few weeks, but i think i finally have come 'round to teasing it out from the visceral dislike. her behavior feels parasitic. i don't like being a dog-and-pony-show. to some, this may seem to conflict with my objectification kink. however, if i'm being used as a slut or a dinnertray, the guy above me is perving on using me. it's mutual, it's satisfying and it's hot. if you're a knot of social and verbal impossibility, why are you out with other people? maybe she pervs on being socially uncomfortable? if that's the case, what does she offer me? her discomfort is palpable and it sucks.

when i mentioned her lack of small talk, i was reprimanded with, "maybe she doesn't care." i've already blogged plenty about my low tolerance for the uncurious, so that's not a good avenue for me either.

i'm left empty-handed on this one and i HATE that. my judgement is made, so all i can do is modify my reactions. she is not going to change. i don't think he wants to take that on as a project, lol. so it's left to me. i cannot offer strife. it's disrespectful to him and shows a lack of grace on my end that shames me.

however, i have yet to shake the jeebus out of the fact that she gets to wallow in her comfort zone of pretend and quiet. and ya know what? i find that profoundly selfish. maybe that's why i like my friends, and my owner, so much: because we share.

strange words from an only child, huh?

that being said

some things we ache to hear. a few days ago, i was greeted with an ocean of so much love, so much devotion, i was nearly swept off my feet. it was something for which i'd ached, yet could never ask. that expression, "i love you," followed by the again and never repealed promise of "always". i guess he thinks i *know* it, but with the rippling waters now beneath our feet, i don't feel certain about much. except for uncertainty. ;)

it was uttered after a series of actions and reactions that would have led most to the police or the loony bin, lol. we even joked that morning about "a day in the life" around here. mon dieu! finding a normal between and for *us* will be a thing of ever changing fluidity. it scares and thrills me.

i am a creature of the literal. "what did you mean when you said/did that iota of a thing?" he is a creature of the bigger picture, "what do you mostly mean most of the time?" of course, he doesn't ask obliquely. he observes, he plants seeds, he challenges. so our ways of acting and understanding are vastly different. no different than before, just now with less room between to hedge.

there was a long study of a painting today in a movie i watched. a man was being flayed alive.

a certain class of victorians had a whole lot of extra time thanks to the industrial revolution. (and slaves and stuff in the west indies and colonies; props please to triangular trade.) make the urchins work longer/harder/more and bring me my mock turtle soup, bi-yatch!

a pretty side of this and the point of my meandering here is floriography, the language of flowers. a secret code grew and was transported between gardens, homes and lovers. some flowers had ancient significance, but the code got pretty elaborate in the land of corsets and smelling salts. even whether the poesy was handed lefty or righty, forward or backward, ya know? however, in proper and upstanding society, a certain simple language was known, and i can imagine the gentle yet erotic flutter of opening the box of blooms.

at least since aphrodite, roses have stood for love and passion. red for true love, pink for desire and perfect happiness and white for eternal love. the colors together imply unity.

in many vineyards, roses are planted at the ends of vine rows. they are sensitive and show distress from pests and such before the grapes. masochists for the good fight. :)

kids today

the other night at work, the phones and internet crashed. each company blamed the other, which as we all know makes for a raging snail's pace towards solving the problem. add in that it happened past *normal* office hours (yo, isn't tech support 24-7?) and they're in a whole lot of no-rush to fix anything. emphasizing you're dealing with a full restaurant packed with high-maintenance suburbanites doesn't compute. "when will somebody be there in the morning?" "uh, we're here right now and this is a major issue." "oh. well, i'll call somebody."

the owners are too cheap to buy what's known as a crash kit. it's a back-up for situations like this so you can process credit cards old-school style, so we had only a few manual slips and 200 + people with no intention to pay cash. a scramble among local businesses to get something. a reasonable facsimile is found. not a single waiter or bartender had the slightest clue what to do. i've mentioned not having the sharpest knives in my employ. whether they were merely too lazy to think through what might be needed, or truly too dumb to figure it out doesn't really matter, i guess. the card number, the expiration date, the amount. the same exact info they manually enter if the magnetic stripe is dead on a card. gah. so i had to hand-write every slip, and assume the local affluence assured nobody's card was over the limit. it was painstaking, tedious and thoroughly irritating how dickish many of the regulars were because it took 12 extra seconds to process their bills.

collecting checks and payments from the servers at the end, none of them seemed to realize the check and credit card slip should be attached to each other so i could close them properly. in modern processing, it's now one and the same, yet again my optimism superceded the abilities or inclinations of others. more time to sort through the messy piles bunched in their fists. "can i cash out?" "uh, no. please sort that." "what do you mean?" gah. again. mind you, i'm calm as a cuke through all this and everybody remarked on me being unflappable. i'm ok with my apathy being mistaken for imperturbability.

********************

again at work, different store, different crowd, i mentioned seeing a show just the other night and how long it had been since i'd done so. what great fun it was and how i wished i indulged more often. i saw michelle shocked. never a major star, not videogenic, but at one point a true indie darling. a wall of non-recognition stared back. "who?" i repeated her name as the chef was walking by, and he laughed at me *dating* myself. hell, i guess so. but where is that line of ceasing to know what came before? would they know the god who is elvis costello? the jam? bonnie raitt? black flag? i knew my parents' music but i know timbaland and 50 cent too. ( i love you like a fat kid loves cake.)

are they so barraged with the now, they don't have the bandwidth to go back even a few steps? do they just not care? i've always enjoyed exploring the luxury of context. in school, i remember reading a near throw-away about the triangle factory fire of 1911 and then independently seeking out more info. just cuz, ya know? (waaaaaaay too long a route to explain why that's in here, lol.)

when i'm faced with those who lack curiosity, i'm always disappointed. a particular someone will say i'm holding others to my own judgement. again, lol, i know that. it simply makes me know there will be little *further* with that person.

it's not wrong to enjoy active minds and prefer them in my conversations and my circle. and i don't blame tv or the internet. my childhood included many hours of "match game" and "happy days," and my adulthood allows plenty of perez hilton and mr. wiggles. but i've always liked the open-armed approach to learning and knowing.

a recent "frontline" dealt with this "1st internet generation," with a profile of a very wealthy community near my hometown. these kids all had pcs in their rooms and at some point had a disastrous encounter with parents whom belatedly discovered inappropriate hijinks. they all admitted caging school notes from a net-version of cliff's notes. because they didn't have time to read books. "i know i should have read hamlet, but whatever. the important stuff is all right here anyway."

what will happen in a world where everybody is satisfied with a sound-byte?

who's that?

"almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess."
~~samuel johnson

"at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face."
~~ albert camus

pesky hard-wiring has been rearing its ancient dna head again and i'm at the mercy of pattern recognition, my antennae now tuned to what social pysychologists refer to as "imposter syndrome". they've been studying it since the late 70s when *somebody* noticed the anxiety embedded in successful women. (quelle surprise that 2 ph. d. dudes, during the era of "love, american style" would find insecurity in female execs something to pick at, huh?)

a few years ago i was at one of those rarified dinners to which i'm often invited. the kind of evening precious few get to attend and fewer still have in their job descriptions. (we'll mercilessly exclude those for whom a night with a french champagne maker, a billionaire duke, and plates of caviar and truffles happen only on hbo. "people don't live like THAT.")

a mentor was praising me. we were drinking out of hand-blown crystal and discreetly dressed to the nines. i've known him many years and he was one of the first to set me on my career path. he was, gulp, "proud of me". a buzzing began in my ears and my vision started to swim. i watched the candlelight dance in his glass and what looked like sincere affection glisten in his eyes. i thought i might faint. he must have seen me go white and within seconds an iced mineral water was in my hands. i laughed it off as not having eaten all day and we took to table. the night was a smash, and my dirty little secret stayed secret.

"who the hell do i think i am?"

since then, i've worked to formalize my knowledge, (yo, my name is in that english ledger, y'all) and expand my horizons. i've climbed some career rungs, so at least on paper it looks like mobility. when i answer the question, "what do you do?" invariably i'm greeted with, "wow, that sounds great!" no point poking with the pricking pin.

however, i now host two demons. while others saw me sail through most classes, excel at exams, ride in the *popular clique* (whatever that meant), never at a loss for dates and always ready with the repartee, the one who has long dwelt within manifested through anorexia, promiscuity, emotional avoidance and substance adventures. now we add the one whispering in my ear while carving up my soul. he is determined to make me see i'm nothing. that i've accomplished nothing. that whatever smarts i might pride myself on having do not exist. that anything in my life i think i've done right is a fiction. through his recent prodding, i was in a fit of confusion and he asked me what was i good at? i couldn't think of anything. everything felt like a lie. everything.

on a selfish hedonistic lark, i became involved with a married man. in a heartbeat, he became the oxygen to my life. we lived years of lies and now are trying to build up something on the ashes of heartbreak, yet remain behind a firm lock of secrecy.

my glamorous loft stretches me beyond healthy bounds, and my finances and credit are thoroughly botched.

people think i swill krug all day at work, but i clock in each day with 90% loathing and negative percent hope.

among my co-workers is not a single partner in crime.

my hair is increasingly grey and my body rapidly succumbing to its age.

these are all things of which i'm keenly aware. like my name and eye color, i know this, and it's ALL ugly.

through the ages, certain folks have made handy livings convincing others (and perhaps themselves) they were not whom they appeared. the lost princess anastasia and the undead jesse james managed quite nicely. the delusion brought them solace and likely comfort to others who wished they still went to romanov cotillions or rode the range.

a little bit of "i'm ok, you're ok," sometimes gets us out of bed. a brash flash of "hey, look at me!" might get us over a hump of uncertainty. hubris fucks us over. there is plenty of wiggle room, i'm thinking, between all those brackets.

there is a smart bomb with me in his sights. he wants to seize and destroy. his emotional tnt is dissonance. i know i've made some bad choices and procrastinated recovering from them, but not every decision has been foolish. yet i'm beginning to see i shall be allowed no credit. only demerits.

i know i don't know where this will go. i know i cannot stop it. i know i've already acted out against it. contrary to popular belief, my sense of self-preservation is fierce. (hell, i've leapt from speeding cars and rappelled within electrical storms.) my fuck-ups exist, but, hey! they are mine. is the point to make me let them go? to make me wallow in the seething filth of my shame and guilt? who the hell measures what's normal here? everybody has a corner of the closet cobwebbed and quiet, right? 'cept... i guess... not me. anymore. ever.

throwing stones, glass houses, mary magdalene, orwell, kant, hegel. bah. i'm terrified.


memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.
man remember, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.

happy ash wednesday.

coming up short

we watched.

we'd seen them have undefeated runs before, yet somehow this season seemed... golden. brady seemed telepathic and moss' receptions a thing of grace. he was gorgeous and unstoppable in the air and on the turf. for the first half of the season they were invincible. tanks rolling over tender daisies. the wins got embarrassing for the point deficits.

then the murmurs. then louder. then... maybe?

it did get harder, and ceased to be a walk in the park. the ravens put up a fight and then it seemed everybody found a chink in the armor. never enough to beat them, but enough to make a fan like me, who still picks at her red sox scabs of *whaaaaaaaaat????*, never certain of the win til the clock ticked done.

i'll confess right here a certain close affection for the pats. i've met most of 'em up close and personal. had some young eyes down my blouse, beefy hands on my waist, sweet raps in my ear. i've also dealt with the no-nonsense coach and owner regularly. these are stand-up guys, all of whom put the team before themselves.

it is as old-school as you're gonna get. it's the kind of team with which i grew up and learned about sporting.

game-day, espn posted its equivalent of the electoral map. only THREE states thought the giants would take it. (who knew mississippi had so many ex-nyer's, y'all?) a quick back-flip from when only us blue states thought they'd take it. guess when your team is off playing golf, you back the sure thing, huh?

watching it sucked badly enough, so i'll not belabor the details.

they are physically and mentally specimens of something sublime and superhuman. they played 18 undefeated games. 18. against bigger, stronger, faster guys than those fucking dolphins -- with 12 -- from 35 years ago (shut up, already!) they achieved something i doubt i ever will see again.

yet bajillions of people around the globe watched a *sure thing* come up short. inexplicably defeated, they walked off the field into the arms of wives, supermodels or maybe even jack daniels. ("you gots any cardinale, lil lady? don't open it, i'm just gonna take it to go...") some will go to the pro-bowl; others to pebble beach; others to cabos. whatever. spotlight: off.

recently i've come under closer scrutiny than that of ever before, and i know it's only the tip of the berg. while it is the eyes of only one, it is a microscope whose powerful lens burns. i fall short everywhere. nothing is right or good. how do i tie my shoes and get out of the house? everything, anything, prior to *now* got zapped from the history books.

i allowed myself to get in over my head. you know when people say, "what's the worst that could happen?" well, pretty much it all did. bad, bad, omg, then even worse. the financial knee-bone is most assuredly connected to the shin-bone, and also to the ankle-bone. except the knee-bone now is uncooperative cuz it's under too much stress.

nobody is stalking my building for pix of me in defeat. (well, hopefully, not...) yet, believe me, i cannot get away from it. my failures and demons are a big useful pointy stick for hurt, but not for teasing out the strands of solution and solvency.

last night, i felt bewildered sadness watching my pats trot off the field. then again, not one of 'em has to worry about scraping up the escalade payment next month.