Got my last NYC haircut today, from my original "Chelsea Styles" lady. (That shop closed after owner Vincent -- the Robert Goulet-lookalike-- retired last summer and moved to the Poconos after 30 years in business across from the Chelsea Hotel). Many of the same stylists relocated to the same new shop that I went to today. The new shop isn't the same, though. It's nicer, but with much less character (i.e., they know about "gel" and "blow-drying" and there are young Russian women there kvetching about Midtown night-clubs and Fresh Direct, as opposed to 70-something Jewish ladies from the 'hood kvetching about everyone else in the shop).
Here's a "farewell to NYC" haircut picture, taken in my bathroom (where the light's better) minutes ago:
Which reminded me of another set of "bathroom mirror shots"... In September of '07, when I had a brand new (what I thought then would be cool) place to live, and a brand new (what I thought then would be permanent) job in the beautiful Union Square that paid $28 an hour! As well as a brand new (what I thought then would last 6 weeks) haircut from Chelsea Styles. Do I look a little cuter and more smug and a lot less frazzled? :) (I feel like I've aged 10 years in the past 3 because of the stress. And the bathroom decor was better then, too.)
My made-up prayer. I think it's fair. "Let Me Be Where I Should Be."
You can't ask God/The Fates/the Unifying Force for anything in particular. All of history has taught us this, for sure! All you can ask: "Let me be where I should be." And then go along with it and, more harshly, get on with it because it's half the chance cards you were dealt and half the result of your own wishes.
Me in NYC? I've been here for 3 years. I've had to go through 3 major job searches. The first 2 cycles, I gave it my all. The last? By May of '09, when my last full-time project stint was over, I was, honestly, more concerned with moping about Sandra. I was still sending out resumes, and...also starting to get pissed off at the lack of responses. And when a semi-regular temp gig at a major company became available in June of '09 (sometimes 8 hours a week, sometimes 57), I put faith in that, thought it would lead to something permanent, got lazy about actively pursuing other options. Needless to say: No regular offer was forthcoming (either from Sandra or from the financial company!) :)
I just got bored and depressed and irritated with all of the trying to look for work. Whatever company I did do regular work for in the last 3 years praised me. I knew my work was good. After a while, I just got mightily sick of being told I was good/knowing I was good, but still getting let go after 8 or 6 months because whatever company was shutting down for months, or had a rule about keeping temp workers after 6 months, or didn't have the funds to make me a regular employee, or what have you.
It all became ridiculous. As was the pay. The major financial company I've been working for since June? $21 an hour. (I made $20 back in Austin, where my rent was $825 as opposed to $1550 here.)
Hate to admit that New York is for either the rich or the young, but... it's for either the rich or the young! (Entry-level publishing jobs pay under $30,000 a year. Thus, for the young rich local English-majors who either still live with their parents, or whose parents pay their city rent. For the young, also, if you're willing to have obnoxious roommates and/or live in a single room... At 44, I'm too old for that crap! I need a larger space than a 12 x 12 room. And, at my age, I don't want -- at all -- to have to deal with a stranger's weird habits/psychoses.)
Or for those with rent-controlled apartments. Or those whose family lives in a cheap house in Queens and are just commuting to The City. I didn't move here to live in Queens or the Bronx.
All of the constant stress got old. AND I was moping about Miss Sandra, in Houston. So I only tried 85% to stay here, as opposed to the 100% I could have tried. If someone had offered me a job that paid more than $40,000 a year (really -- I have a Master's degree, is $40,000 too much to ask? please), I would have taken it and stayed here in a heartbeat. But... that didn't happen.
"Let me be where I should be." End of Youthful Dream, Beginning of Reality? Yeah, I think so. Maybe now, home to get settled, situated, buy a house now that I'm 44... I tried for something I'd always wanted since I was a teenager. I'm disappointed that it didn't work out. But I'm also happy that I learned about the area. That was always part of it. Learning what this part of the country was all about. NYC (specifically, Manhattan) was/is gorgeous, but definitely not the artistic/spiritual Mecca that I'd naively hoped for! :) Now... back to Austin. I need to get myself situated, financially, mentally, emotionally. (After these last 3 years of poverty and loneliness and fearfulness, I've learned a new respect for "getting situated...")
And we'll see if Sandra will speak to me once I'm back in Texas... (Hi, Honey!) :)
Accompanied by "Pulling Mussels from a Shell," 1980, by Squeeze. Love this song, love New Jersey. :)
p.s. Just danced and danced and danced to this song! Pretended like I was on the "Tonight Show" presenting it to the nation for the first time or somethin'... Felt so good to DANCE, to feel like dancing, for the first time in ages. Thank you Mick Jagger and Axl Rose and Michael Jackson for teaching me how to dance! :)
Thanks, northern New Jersey, for letting me see 18 or more inches of snow for the first time in my life. It's pretty. And people, for the most part, shovel their walks, and the Weehawken trucks are out scraping the streets and laying down gravel immediately. There's hardly any problem at all getting around. WHAT is the big dramatic "blizzard" deal?? There was hardly a blizzard. Just a lot of snow falling. Sigh.
That said, buses from Joisey into NYC were suspended today because of the snow. I'd had only 2 days all week of temp work scheduled, one on Friday. Couldn't go because of no bus. Didn't care. I've given up at this point. Instead, I walked around for 2 hours out there, with my red snow boots (that a random lady off a bus once told me was "quite a statement").
Pretty, pretty snow. At least 5 snowmen counted. (No pictures, because my new camera, bought last year, won't download to my 2000 computer. Though I so wanted to take pretty pictures!) Snow on trees, snow on statues, 2 feet of snow piled up on cars... A luminous, almost-full moon over the skyline of Manhattan across the Hudson, before the snowy fog rolled in to obscure it.
I must've walked 2 hours and 3 miles today, in my red snow boots, not really scared of any falls, or anything, just admiring how all-pretty...
I've been doing temp work for a major NYC financial company (with a spectacular view of Times Square, but an obnoxiously loud Puerto Rican co-worker) since last June. Upon hiring, I was told that they needed someone full-time, etc. Since then, I've been called upon between 8 and 57 hours per week... Sometimes I've been grateful to them for allowing me to make my rent that month. Other times I've cursed them for only calling me in for 8 hours (and for subjecting me to the Puerto Rican Asshole).
I suppose I should be grateful for any work I get...But last night, my pride kicked in. I got a phone-call from the temp agency at 11 p.m., calling me in at 8 a.m. the next morning to the above company. I was already in bed. I didn't answer the call personally, just listened to the ring and then the message.
After I heard the message, I questioned myself as to why I was feeling so angry... I needed any and all work, after all. Then it came to me: When you call someone at 11 p.m., it's a Booty Call.
I've got a Master's Degree. I've been working for you loyally and efficiently for 8 months. More importantly: You pay your regulars to sit around during work or no work, and you grant them benefits. Yet when "an emergency" arises... BOOTY CALL.
I ain't no Booty Call, you cheapskate motherfuckers.
Everybody's talking and no one says a word Everybody's making love and no one really cares There's Nazis in the bathroom just below the stairs.
Always something happening and nothing going on There's always something cooking and nothing in the pot They're starving back in China so finish what you got.
Nobody told me there'd be days like these Strange days indeed
Everybody's runnin' and no one makes a move Everyone's a winner and no one seems to lose. There's a little yellow idol to the north of Katmandu.
Everybody's flying and no one leaves the ground Everybody's crying and no one makes a sound. There's a place for us in movies you just gotta lay around.
Nobody told me there'd be days like these Strange days indeed most peculiar, Mama.
Everybody's smoking and no one's getting high Everybody's flying and never touch the sky There's UFOs over New York and I ain't too surprised.
Nobody told me there'd be days like these Strange days indeed most peculiar, Mama.
A civilization is primarily remembered by the remnants of the monuments it (the rich, with the complicity of the masses) once erected in honor of what it worshipped.
When they later find us (the US) in ruins, they will see little but our massive temples to Big Business and Big Sports.
"Heart of the Country" -- which has been in my head all night. From one of McCartney's first solo albums, '70 or '71, I can't remember which, but I used to own 'em all.
I knew I was really, really poor when I, after more than 15 years, had to let my "New Yorker" subscription lapse over a month ago. I'd been looking at it online, but...not quite the same! Luckily, my mother took pity on me and, while I was home for Christmas, renewed my subscription. And I just got my first issue today -- Hoorah! Perhaps I'm overly appreciative after being deprived, but... I just looooved some things in there. The story "Trailhead" by E.O. Wilson, for instance. About a civilization's tragic last stand. (And the "civilization" is... an ant colony.) And I learned about Renaissance Man Neil Gaiman (author of "Coraline"), whom I regrettably had never even heard of before. And then there was this extraordinary poem, "Earthquake," by Aime Cesaire -- again, someone I'd never even heard of. But this poem is amazing; such rich, energetic language. (Unlike the tepid Merwin/Bly/Strand the "New Yorker" usually loves.) I've read it at least 10 times already:
EARTHQUAKE by Aime Cesaire (translated from the French by Paul Muldoon)
such great stretches of dreamscape such lines of all too familiar lines staved in carved in so the filthy wake resounds with the notion of the pair of us? What of the pair of us? Pretty much the tale of the family surviving disaster: "In the ancient serpent stink of our blood we got clear of the valley; the village loosed stone lions roaring at our heels." Sleep, troubled sleep, the troubled waking of the heart yours on top of mine chipped dishes stacked in the pitching sink of noontides. What then of words? Grinding them together to summon up the void as night insects grind their crazed wing cases? Caught caught caught unequivocally caught caught caught caught head over heels into the abyss for no good reason except for the sudden faint steadfastness of our own true names, our own amazing names that had hitherto been consigned to a realm of forgetfulness itself quite tumbledown.
When I was 15 in '80 and reading all I could about the Beatles, I read about the group going to India in '68 for some spiritual awakening... And Ringo coming home early (after 2 weeks, as opposed to Paul's 4 and George/John's 6 -- ooh, the vast spiritual difference!) 'cause he said he didn't like the food.
When I was 15, and so into the Beatles mythology, I was horrified upon reading about the reason for Ringo's early abandonment. Now that I'm older, and on my own trek... I sympathize with Ringo.
NYC food sucks. Famous for their pizza? Their pizza's not good, regardless of what part of town you're in -- barely any sauce, flat and tasteless dough, sparse and cheap-meat pepperoni. Famous for their street pretzels? Their pretzels are almost always cold and cardboard-ish. Famous for their street hot-dogs? Their hot-dogs are BOILED! When you ask for one, the guy hoils it out of a luke-warm bin of water! UGH! NASTY!
As for real food like (1) brisket, (2) fajitas, and (3) chicken-fried steak: (1) I've yet to taste any real brisket in this town. Though I've gotten into an argument with a Jewish guy who claimed that brisket was a JEWISH thing!! (2) I ordered fajitas once from a restaurant in Chelsea called "San Antonio Star" or something... The meat was disgustingly fatty and chewy, and I had to actually send it back and ask for another dish. (3) There's NO chicken-fried steak in this town! :(
And the closest I seem to be able to get to "Tex-Mex" is the one or two Taco Bells that I can find... and those are hard to find! (So far: There's one in Union Square; one in Union City, NJ.)
Ringo, I now completely feel your gastrological pain. I miss my brisket and fajitas and chicken-fried steak and SIMPLE JUNK FOOD LIKE TACOS! No, not weird Dominican/Central American "shredded beef" tacos with weird, creepy sauce, or weird California tacos with shredded beef and shredded CARROTS... NO. I want the good old-fashioned GROUND-BEEF tacos a la Taco Bell: ground beef, shredded cheese, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, a dollop of sour cream. THE END. No carrots. No weird Central American/Caribbean additives. How hard is that??
(As a side-note: I also miss Arby's, Whataburger, and Long John Silver's. Where the heck are these franchises up here?!)
"The Happening" and "Girlfriend in a Coma" have to be the jauntiest depressing songs of all time!
Hey life, look at me I can see the reality 'Cause when you shook me, took me, outta my world I woke up Suddenly I just woke up to the happening
When you find that you left the future behind 'Cause when you find a tender love You don't take care of Then you better beware of the happening
One day you're up When you turn around You find your world is tumbling down It happened to me and it can happen to you
I was sure, I felt secure Until love took a detour, yeah! Riding high on the top of the world it happened Suddenly it just happened I saw my dreams torn apart When love walked away from my heart And when you lose a precious love you need to guide you Something happens inside you, the happening
Now I see life for what it is It's not a dream It's not a bliss It happened to me and it can happen to you Ooh, and then it happened Ooh, and then it happened Ooh, and then it happened
Is it real? Is it fake? Is this game of life a mistake? 'Cause when I lost the love I thought was mine for certain Suddenly it starts hurting I saw the light too late When that fickle finger of fate Yeah! It came and broke my pretty balloon I woke up Suddenly I just woke up
So sure, I felt secure Until love took a detour 'Cause when you got a tender love You don't take care of Then you better beware of The happening
This has got to be my mantra for my middle age. Put away the fancies/fantasies of my youth (Sandra; tons of welcoming used book stores and cafes in NYC -- all ideas circa 1986) and listen to the realities of the place and time that I'm actually in.
Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself by Wallace Stevens
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outside Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it, A bird's cry, at daylight or before, In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six, No longer a battered panache above snow... It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism Of sleep's faded papier-mache... The sun was coming from the outside.
That scrawny cry--It was A chorister whose c preceded the choir. It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings, Still far away. It was like A new knowledge of reality.
I haven't seen "Avatar" yet -- honestly, didn't want to; I, in general, hate sci-fi films ("Lord of the Rings" was utterly boring to me), and I hated Cameron's cheesy "Titanic" -- such a powerful story in and of itself, utterly ruined by DiCaprio's being chained to a pipe.) Thus, I didn't trust this movie. (Over Christmas with the family, I, choosing the "Christmas-with-the-family movie," went to see "Up in the Air" instead.)
But earlier this week, I read on CNN that some teenagers who had seen "Avatar" were actually thinking about killing themselves...Because the movie portrayed a world so pleasing that it didn't live up to the teenagers' actual realities... And they missed those good feelings.
Wow. My first knee-jerk conservative reaction, at age 44, was to scoff: "Gawd, I'm so tired of today's melodramatic, idiotic teens." But then I stopped and thought for a second:
Back in the early Summer of 1980, when I was a 14-year-old stuck at home alone out in the country, utterly isolated, pre-Internet, with only books and television for companionship... A local TV station was showing the few Beatles movies... I'd been listening to Beatles albums ("Rubber Soul" and "Revolver") for a few months prior (how did I discover those?? -- I can't remember now), and was starved to actually SEE them... Then "Help!" (1965) came on afternoon TV in Dallas-Fort Worth... I was so utterly miserable in my own actual 14-year-old life, but was so flooded with HAPPINESS after watching the Beatles on TV... It was odd, and scary. And after seeing "Help!" I remember standing underneath the heavy light in my parents' living room and wishing with all my heart that it would fall on my head and KILL me and PREincarnate me back to a time when I could be young and into the Beatles as they were happening.
I longed for that world with all of my heart.
And I've never read of anybody else feeling like that until I just read this about "Avatar."
It breaks my heart for those "Avatar" teens. I thought I was a freak. And I never wanted to hear about anyone ever feeling that intensely about anything again... To learn that that kind of feeling still goes on...
At 44, all I can say to young people is: Be Strong. Hang in there. Your feelings are intense and serious, but, ultimately, fleeting -- you, however sensitive, WILL move past them. When you're older, you'll see... You will not feel this bad forever.
OK, you know how when various mean things happen to you in a row, you start to get paranoid and think, "It's me! I'm doing something horrible to deserve all of this shit!"?
Well, here's my story to refute that it's me! (Sometimes all it takes is a random NICE gesture to completely counteract the earlier shitty gesture, and to set things aright with the world again!)
'Twas the eve of Christmas Eve (aka, "December 23rd" for you nonliterary types)... Now, admittedly, I was stressed out to begin with. I had to go to work for 8 hours, and somewhere in there also find the time to pick up a few cheap trinkets for my family, since I was flying home for Christmas the next day (aka, "Christmas Eve"). (No, I usually never wait until the very last minute to Christmas shop. This year, I was extremely unemployed and extremely poor, and I didn't have enough money in my account to get anything at all until then.) Anyway, that's why I was tense.
I needed cash before work, so once I got into NYC from Weehawken, I stopped at an ATM center for my bank. In NYC, ATMs don't just sit in a wall, out in the open. There's always a glassed-in, locked area with multiple ATMs inside. You swipe your card at the door to get in.
I arrive at the door. I swipe my card. It doesn't work. I try it again. It still doesn't work, and I still can't get in. There's a young black woman standing at a counter near the door. I make eye contact with her, hold up my card (to prove that I'm really a customer and not a robber), and gesture toward the door, thinking she'll open the door. Instead, she pointedly looks away. I then knock on the door to get her attention again, thinking she misunderstood. I again hold up my card and gesture toward the door. She again purposely ignores me.
In the meantime, several people have lined up outside behind me. I tell them that my card's not working, not letting me in; maybe one of theirs will work? The guy behind me tries his card. His also does not work in the door. The woman behind him tries hers; it doesn't work. The young woman inside occasionally looks up at all of us struggling with our cards and gesturing at her, then looks back down at whatever she's doing.
Finally someone in the queue behind me has a card that allows the door to open. All 4 or 5 of us rush in gratefully. By this time, I am absolutely incensed and practically BELLOW at the woman inside: "What in the HELL is your problem? Did you not see all of us out there? You couldn't open the damn door?"
She looked at me calmly and said, "Who do you think I am that I should open a door for you?"
I was flabbergasted. And I fear that this was some sort of idiotic "I'm a Proud Black Woman and I don't open doors for white people" crazy bullshit. I stared at her. And then I continued to yell back at her while I stormed over to the nearest available ATM: "What? WHAT?! You couldn't open the goddamn door? You didn't see all of us with our cards? I showed you my goddamn card! Did you think I was a bank robber? Where in the HELL are your manners? Where are you FROM?"
(I love that "Where are you FROM?" question! It always gets people's goats!) :)
Her "snappy" comeback: "Where are YOU from?" My "snappy" comeback: "From New York, where people have MANNERS!" (Honestly, I almost blurted out that I was from Texas, but that wouldn't have made any sort of sense in this case!)
While I was getting my money, she and I kept going back and forth, her saying, "You are unbelievable. It's unbelievable that you would expect me to open the door for you." And me yelling back, "YOU'RE unbelievable! You have no manners! You don't know how to act!" Two ladies in the line behind me tried calming me down, telling me not to pay attention to her... but I was still yelling at the bitch on my way out the door: "You don't know how to act! MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!"
Whew. Now, I'm 100% certain that I was in the right. (Half the time the cards don't work right away in the doors. Either they finally work, if no one's inside to open the door for you, on one's 10th swipe, or... SOMEONE INSIDE LETS YOU IN!!! Geez. I cannot stress enough: Someone always lets you in.) However: In this case, I completely lost my cool, I completely upset myself and was tense for the rest of the day (and in subsequent days, when thinking about the incident), and I completely failed to make her publicly back down and admit that she was a fucking rude idiot. (And then a very small part of me was wondering: Is she actually from out-of-town and doesn't understand the etiquette in this case??)
What would I do differently? Perhaps, upon entering the room, just SAY (rather than yell): "Why didn't you open the door for us?" And then, when she gave her "I don't open the door for Whitey" speech, just shut up and ignored her. Perhaps. But... it felt darn good to yell "What is your problem?!" Despite the tension I felt long afterwards...
Anyway, that whole unpleasant incident has hung around in my consciousness since the Eve of Christmas Eve. Until tonight. During my break at work, I went out to my bank's Times Square location to get cash out, had my card in my hand, ready to swipe... There was a young black guy just inside the door; he saw me with my card out, and, before I could swipe it, he... OPENED THE DOOR FOR ME!!! God. Thank you. THANK YOU. A tiny bit of regular human kindness and normalcy.
I am just a poor boy Though my story's seldom told I have squandered my resistance For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises All lies and jests Still a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest
When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy In the company of strangers In the quiet of the railway station running scared Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters Where the ragged people go Looking for the places only they would know
Lie la lie ...
Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job But I get no offers, Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there
Lie la lie ...
Then I'm laying out my winter clothes And wishing I was gone Going home Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me Bleeding me, going home
In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of ev'ry glove that layed him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains
I had a phone interview today with an HR rep for the major company I've been temping for off-and-on since last summer. A real full-time job! With real benefits! (Can't even imagine what that's like any more.) Not to be a naysayer, but I most likely will not get this job; another temp -- who's been at the company a year longer than me -- is also applying. (Our boss told both of us about it at the same time; and the boss has been giving the guy more temp hours than me.)
But what stood out was a little nugget of info the HR rep shared: Apparently, the number of people who have applied for this one job is... 100,000. 100,000!!! Now, that CANNOT be right! That's just an insanely large number, even in this economy. But then, things are weird right now. My brother, who's an editor/writer for a small Texas paper, told me last year that when they advertised for a position, they got nearly 1,000 nationwide applicants. (Conversely, when he himself applied for his position nearly a decade ago, he was one of under 100 applicants, most of whom were from Texas.)
I just rang in 2010 (alone, with a bottle of Freixenet, after working on my Joan website -- not depressing at all!) watching Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin on CNN, and got goosebumps watching the people in Times Square and listening to Frank's "New York, New York"!
When I was little, my mom would always let me stay up 'til midnight on New Year's Eve, with a glass of champagne, and we'd always watch "Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve" live from NYC; Dick's age/illness prevent him from hosting any longer, but... the beautiful, beautiful city remains.
When I was little, I always dreamed about actually being in Times Square on New Year's Eve... Now that I'm 44 and have lived here for the past 3 New Year's Eves, there's some reality that has set in: If you venture to Times Square for the year-end celebration, you're then crunched in with a million people for hours, unable to leave the area or go to the bathroom... Hate to admit it, but, given the hard-core reality... For the past 3 years, I've still just been watching the Times Square festivities on TV! (Some things are best left for the young and/or hardy tourists.) :)
While I was home over Christmas, I was looking through old photo albums and at the family tree. I knew I'd had a sister that had died before me shortly after her birth. But I'd never thought about when her birthday was. In my life, I've found myself constantly attracted for some reason to either Scorpio women, or to women born during the Aquarius/Pisces cusp (late February). While at home, I just discovered that my dead older sister was born during the latter time frame. (I know the exact date/year, and it's a bizarre coincidence that it almost nearly matched someone I used to be in love with.)
Is there such a thing as free will, or are we actually bound by patterns?
So much for not being grateful for small things! I was just walking to the beer-store and on the way came across a small 3-tiered book-shelf that someone had set out for the trash pick-up tomorrow. My apartment is sparsely furnished, and I immediately had to stop and lug the thing home before continuing with my beer trek.
Since I've been unable to buy many items of furniture for my apartment in the past 2 years, I've been genuinely excited whenever I've found stuff set along the curb that I was able to cart home and use: A black night-side table. A narrow bookcase to set my small bedroom TV up on (with shelves for a DVD player and knick-knacks below). Shelves for my shoes in my closet. And now this one! For ages, I've wanted a credenza by my front door, just to place my bag and keys on when I got home. And my books are overflowing, so I could place it by my desk for that use, too.
Believe it or not, it's actually fun for me to think about! :)
One of my Facebook Friends actually just posted this:
"They may want to take Christ out of Christmas, but they can never take Christ out of me. If you are proud to be a Christian and are not ashamed of Christ, then post this as your status for 1 day as a light to the world. Most people will be ashamed or scared to do this. ** Jesus is the reason for the season! **"
Now, I don't want to go around starting fights with my newfound Facebook Friends, but...I was so flabbergasted by the above that I had to respond there. Pointing out that "Christmas" didn't start out being called that, but was, rather, initially a pagan holiday designed to give ancient folk an excuse to feast during the shortest, coldest, most miserable day of the year (the Winter Solstice, December 21).
Once Christianity became more popular, Christians invented a birthdate for Jesus Christ (December 25, which scholars almost universally acknowledge is not the actual birthdate of Christ), and incorporated many of the local pagan customs into their newly created holiday. (The tree, worshipfully decorated and lit, which is the holiday centerpiece today of most homes, is completely a pagan holdover.)
And then there's "Saint Nick"/Santa Claus. I haven't done research into his origins. Judging by the "Saint," though, I assume that the concept of the Jolly Old Elf flying around the world delivering gifts somehow has its origins in the Church. (Though, with the "magical elf" part, I suspect there are also pagan roots to this, too.)
In short: Jesus AIN'T AT ALL the "reason for the season"!
Your horoscope for December 20, 2009 There is a great chance that incredible luck will befall you, STEPHANIE, but it is important to realize that nothing will come without hard work on your part. Don't just sit back and expect someone else to hand you the treasure chest. You have the map in your hand, so start following it. Once you get started, you may realize that you are much closer to the "X" than you think. It is up to you to make the journey, but keep in mind that there is a great deal of help for you along the way.
Your horoscope for December 19, 2009 You may be a bit confused by your heart, STEPHANIE. For some reason, you may find that it is not beating as steadily as usual. It may become extremely frustrating for you when you can't grab a tight rein on your emotions. This internal conflict is a signal that there is a lesson for you to learn. Perhaps your heart knows something that your conscious mind has not yet realized.
YouTube wouldn't let me directly embed this video here, but above is the link. Great song, and happy party! :)
p.s. My Christmas CDs are really putting me in a good mood. I have only a few, but they're good ones, just the right blend of swing and holiday spirit: Christmas with the Rat Pack Christmas on the Town (two discs) Christmas Cocktails (discs one and two) Elvis "If Every Day Were Like Christmas"
I hadn't even heard of Parker until a few weeks ago.
S., from Houston, writing on her blog that she wouldn't vote for a lesbian made me wonder what the hell she was talking about! (Thought she was being oblique as usual.)
I finally figured out that Houston had a gay woman headed to the mayoral run-off. Wasn't too hopeful about her chances -- running against a black candidate in a city with a large black population, having to deal with all of the anti-gay right-wingers and the big business faction that had backed someone else. Looks like common sense (she had the best, by far, record of serving the city) won out!
Now, if the city would just do something about their water and hair quality...
Just got home from working 47.5 hours this week -- 7 days of work in a row! Thank you, god, for the work!!!!! More to come next week! (all adding up to January 1 rent...almost there)
And thanks, also, for the great deli across the street from the office. Usually quickie restaurants run by Chinese folk are crappy. (Seriously -- have you ever eaten at a "Tex-Mex" place run by Chinese people? OK then.) But... this Chinese-run place has GREAT roast beef and chicken and fish and salad bar...I've been eating very healthily and happily all week (for the first time in 6 months).
Also found a $10 bill lying on the street tonight while walking to my bus! (According to god, should have given it away, but...went and used it for beer instead. But, hey, the homeless person I'd have given it to would have just done the same...All the karma evens out, right??) ;p
And now...at home listening to Christmas CDs: "Christmas with the Rat Pack" and "Christmas on the Town." Dean's "Baby It's Cold Outside" has to be one of my favorite winter-time songs ever!
It was a good week, and today was a good day. Manhattan's absolutely beautiful in winter. Thank you for letting me be here!!!!!
Me and Jody, future New Yorkers, winners of Azle Junior High's Clash Day! :)
Thanks to Jody for finding me on Facebook and sending me this picture. Notice the second picture above: Jody -- TO THIS DAY -- keeps a reminder of our triumph by his printer! :)
(Thanks also to my mom for the hat, gloves, and left shoe that I'm certain helped assure my sweet victory.)
Your horoscope for December 9, 2009 Love is in the air for you, STEPHANIE. Think of yourself as a sprite skipping through the forest and offering your magic to all the creatures you encounter. You will be rewarded handsomely because you have so many things to offer. Spread your love far and wide. You will find yourself skipping from place to place and person to person, picking up smiles of pleasure from others. Put your worries aside for a while. There is every reason to be happy. Laughter is what keeps you young.
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Oh. My. God. I am probably the least sprite-like, least happiness-bringing, least love-spreading person in the world right now!! That horoscope for my Good Twin cracked me up! ;p
I have a fairly heavy emotional nature to begin with, and these past months of unemployment and constant worry have weighed down my spirit in relation to others into burdensome albatross-like proportions. Ugh.
And...this year I'm not even into Christmas! I have always been a real "Christmas person." For instance, in years past I would buy several boxes of Christmas cards and spend a whole evening picking out which was EXACTLY APPROPRIATE for the person I was sending it to. I'd spend weeks planning on EXACTLY THE RIGHT GIFT for people. I'd spend a whole evening decorating my house, complete with a mini-tree and door wreath and garlands strung over inside doorways. And, since living in the NYC area, I would wander around gaping at the pretty lights and the skating rinks and the interesting, fun goods at the outdoor booths of the local merchants set up in parks around the city. It was fairy-tale-ish for me.
This year, I'm not horribly depressed about Christmas (I could never be "horribly depressed" about Christmas; it's too warmly magical -- I say that unironically), it's just that I'm feeling very FLAT about Christmas. I don't have money to buy anyone anything, so that pleasure of planning and shopping is gone. And when I go home to Texas for a few days, it's with the knowledge that within a month I might have to move right back there (and also that I can't buy a nice outfit and get a great haircut to try to impress the folks who haven't seen me in a year). It's a bummer, man.
On the positive side, though, I did get a week-long work gig this week. At a mega-company that really knows how to deck their halls! 20-foot-tall sparkly wreaths, 15-foot-tall heaps of fake presents in the lobby. Again, I'm not being sarcastic -- the stuff really looks pretty! I really enjoy walking in and out of the building! And, since I get off at midnight each night, the company pays for a car to take me home. I feel quite glamorous! Whenever I walk out of the beautiful lobby to my awaiting coach each evening, I almost nod at the passing tourists, pretending that I'm a well-dressed financier who's just put in a hard 12-hour-day and made tons of money...now tired, but "good" tired...being driven home to my Upper East Side apartment. Fantasizing lifts this wannabe-sprite's spirits.
Oh, but last night the real me, the anti-sprite, kicked in: When I got in the car, the friendly driver gazed out through the windshield at all the bright lights of Times Square and said pleasantly to me, "It's Christmas." Mean Elf me replied, "What? Oh. It would be a better Christmas if I had a job." He didn't speak to me after that! So much for my "skipping through the forest and offering my magic to all the creatures I encounter"!
People who absolutely cannot spell are somewhat fascinating to me. I just was browsing on eBay for Joan Crawford things and came across someone selling a "Joan Crawford Hanker Chef."
A "hanker chef"!
The "fascinating" part for me comes into play when I start thinking about the life of someone who would spell "handkerchief" publicly that way...
(1) Have they never, ever read a book? (Admittedly, it's a tricky word to spell; I don't remember how I first learned it, but it was somewhere back in early grade school, when it kept popping up over and over again in various school texts. Eventually, at a young age, I picked up on how to spell it. Reinforced over the years by seeing the word again and again in numerous books.) (2) Surely, when they were writing out their eBay ad, they had an inkling that they weren't spelling the word correctly, that certainly the word wasn't "hanker chef." Did they think to consult a dictionary? Did they not have a dictionary in their house?
Another thing that I came across recently (also in Joan-world) was "cold slaw." I was doing a Joan Crawford book review for an Amazon page, and someone there had accused Joan of throwing "COLD slaw" at a dinner guest. I wrote my review, and countered their claim of "COLE slaw" throwing -- correcting the spelling, thinking maybe there was just a typo on their part. But no, they came right on back with their COLD slaw!
My absolute pet peeve remains the mother of former Miami Heat basketball star "Anfernee Hardaway." My brother claims that I'm racist for thinking that Anfernee's mother simply didn't know how to spell "Anthony." Racist, Schmacist, I don't care! I'll bet you a million dollars that Hardaway's mom had heard the name "Anthony" but had no clue how to spell it, and so wrote down "Anfernee" on the birth certificate! (Same with player/coach "ISIAH Thomas" -- If you're going to name your kids biblically...then check your bible! It's ISAIAH, goddammit! Which reminds me of the story behind Oprah Winfrey's name: She herself said that she was named after the biblical character "Orpah" -- only her mom misspelled it "Oprah"!) :)
You know what I like about Facebook? If you're prone to wild spurts of fancy like I always have been, you might have imagined various dramatic "fates" awaiting your high school or college classmates or old crushes; but Facebook calms you down, makes you feel better about yourself in that, once you get back in touch with the sundry people from your past, the vast majority of them are simply going about their business nowadays. The popular kids in high school that you envied, or had crushes on, are housewives or balding insurance salesmen or realtors. The "glamorous folk" in your poetry classes whom you thought, when you were 19, would be famous are wives or librarians or community college teachers. Some people that you once judged as hopeless are now as put together, or much moreso, than yourself.
Back in my club days, I carried around a decidedly sinister view of the world, which I've also been garnering from watching too much TV lately while unemployed -- "sinister" as in: a feeling that the world is controlled by the awful, soul-deadening, depth-less opinions of uber-rich party girls/housewives and shallow gay party boys, and if you didn't conform to THEIR standards, then you were lacking and mocked... Well, gee, wonder why I felt like that! Maybe 'cause the Worlds o' Club and TV ARE INDEED controlled by said demographics!
Facebook proves life ain't like that. (And NYC, also, proves the same daily. There's so MUCH here! All walks of life, all types of people. The botoxed are a tiny minority. The beautiful women here might have something to say. The gay men are more likely to be interesting MEN, not just stereotypical "club boys." I can't get over how SANE a place this is, all around, for the most part.)
I probably wrote all of the above because I was just thinking of an acquaintance from high school who recently contacted me via Facebook. In high school, I remember being in advanced classes with him; I remember his serious expression and straight blond bangs; I remember his being part of the Timberlake "rich kids crowd"; I remember that he had a severe stutter at that time, and that once, at a school English-class outing, he asked me to order his food for him because he was embarrassed to stutter in front of the fast-food clerk. And, as he just reminded me, I now remember the "Clash Day" contest he and I won together in junior high -- prizes for who could intentionally wear the most mismatched clothes! (Photo to come, he promises!)
He's now a good-looking, successful designer dividing his time between NYC and a western state, with a long-term successful relationship with a good-looking older man. And, for some reason, he thought of me enough to contact me... Perhaps he remembered a fellow high-school odd-ball. He was from the "good" crowd, but he stuttered... I was pretty and smart, but I was often depressed and "weird"... Or, maybe his contacting me is just the innate "gaydar" acting up! :) Gay Azle-ites in New York City! :)
When you're unemployed, you get to scout out lots of formerly unexplored TV show re-runs. I will always, ALWAYS HATE "Three's Company" and "Who's the Boss" and "Full House" and "Sex and the City" however much they're shown and re-shown.
However... CURIOUS GEORGE rules! :) I normally avoid watching cartoons. Even adult cartoons that I know are funny after watching a few times, like "King of the Hill" and "The Simpsons" and "South Park." I don't know why. I just don't particularly enjoy watching them (though I'm gaining a penchant for "King of the Hill").
But Curious George... I just discovered this PBS show aimed at 4-year-olds last week and now... I cannot get enough of George! He's too incredibly cute; I can't stand it!
Other new-found TV favorites that I never would have discovered had I been gainfully employed: "The Office"; "18 Kids and Counting" (those Duggers -- freakishly religious, but also freakishly NICE to the point of fascination); "Everybody Loves Raymond."
It's amazing how much you can get done on a day after not drinking anything! This morning I woke up at 7am, immediately got online and sent out 5 resumes, then made an appointment with yet another temp agency.
After that: Did dishes Did laundry Hand-washed 2 bras and 2 shirts Took 2 bags of old clothes to the local thrift store Walked to the Hudson to see the NYC skyline Craved Taco Bell, took a bus there, then walked the 3 miles home
The Taco Bell sauce packets have been bugging me for years now, though. A few years ago, they started putting "sayings" on the packets. Trying to be "edgy," but falling far short. For instance, here's what sauce I got today: "Help! I can't tell where I am. It's dark and I can hear laughing." And "Will you scratch my back?". And "Ahhh...We meet again."
Is "Help! I can't tell where I am. It's dark and I can hear laughing" really appropriate for a taco-sauce packet? Do they want me to feel angst while I eat my 99-cent taco? Or do they want me to feel that I'm "dark" and "hip" for eating at Taco Bell? What 19-year-old geek-boys did they hire to write this stuff? (What's next: McDonald's printing on their Happy Meals boxes: "Hello, little girl, I'm watching you"?)
I'm completely amazed and stunned by that amount. 2 weeks ago, I, in desperation, begged Joan Crawford fans, readers of the "Best of Everything" website, for contributions to help me stay in New York, to help me pay my rent... And they responded with over $1000 and tons of spiritually, psychologically helpful "you GO girl"-type of good, powerful wishes ...
WOW. I can't even begin to say how grateful I am for everything... the kindness of their thoughts... and the utter kindness of their donating anything to me. Even donations from some people who are themselves unemployed, or from teenaged kids who still live at home with their parents...
My Joan site really has meant something to them since 2004. And they're now literally paying it back. Revealing, I think, the true character of all of us Joan fans: Support for hard work, acceptance of admitted weakness, support for a dream...
"I want your love And I want your revenge You and me could write a bad romance..."
This song makes me wish I were back in my club days again!
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah Gaga Ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance
Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah Gaga Ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance
I want your ugly I want your disease I want your everything As long as it’s free I want your love Love-love-love I want your love
I want your drama The touch of your hand I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand I want your love Love-love-love I want your love Love-love-love I want your love
You know that I want you And you know that I need you I want it bad Your bad romance
I want your loving And I want your revenge You and me could write a bad romance (Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!) I want your loving All your love is revenge You and me could write a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance
Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah Gaga Ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance
I want your horror I want your design ‘Cause you’re a criminal As long as you're mine I want your love Love-love-love I want your love, uhh
I want your psycho Your vertigo stick Want you in my room When your baby is sick I want your love Love-love-love I want your love Love-love-love I want your love
You know that I want you And you know that I need you (‘Cause I’m a freak bitch, baby!) I want it bad Your bad romance
I want your loving And I want your revenge You and me could write a bad romance (Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!) I want your loving All your love is revenge You and me could write a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance
Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah Gaga Ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance
Walk-walk fashion baby Work it move that bitch crazy Walk-walk fashion baby Work it move that bitch crazy Walk-walk fashion baby Work it move that bitch crazy Walk-walk fashion baby Work it I’m a freak bitch baby
I want your love And I want your revenge I want your love I don’t wanna be friends
J'veux ton amour Et je veux ton revenge J'veux ton amour I don't wanna be friends
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! (I don't wanna be friends) Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance
(I don't wanna be friends) Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh! (Want your bad romance) Caught in a bad romance (Want your bad romance)
I want your loving I want your revenge You and me could write a bad romance (Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!) I want your loving All your love is revenge You and me could write a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! (Want your bad romance) Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance (Want your bad romance) Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh! (Want your bad romance) Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance
Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah Gaga Ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance
My mom's generosity. The generosity of Joan Fans this past month. My health (not mental health, surely, but physical!). My quiet apartment with nice landlords. The Cowboys and Longhorns games on today! (yearly traditions to watch; enjoyable even by myself)
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Speaking of "thanks" in general, and karma:
Years ago, in the maudlin doldrums, I remember thinking about Sylvia Plath and what her karmic punishment might have been for killing herself, for not being grateful for what she had. I came up with the perfect wicked scenario: She would be reincarnated as ME -- a poet, but not as talented as she had been; smart, but not as brilliant or as well-educated (state schools vs. Smith/Cambridge); and not as lucky in love (she bitched about Ted, but...I've been cheated on WITHOUT the benefit of someone brilliant and sexy to live with for 7 years!). The girl didn't recognize how lucky she actually was.
As for me today: Gee, back in Austin when I had a job and a car and friends and a family to be with on Thanksgiving, did I appreciate it? NO, not enough. Though I still don't think I made the wrong decision in moving to NYC. If I could only get situated job-wise here, I definitely don't mind not having a car; and seeing my family only once a year, at Christmas, isn't too bad, though I do wish I could see my nephews a lot more... As for friends: well, once you start working at a place regularly, and start having a regular income so you can spend money on going out, you start to make friends and start to go out! So...while I think I was partially ungrateful for my life in Austin, there's still something up here in NYC that my soul NEEDED to try for.
Love is coming your way, STEPHANIE, and you are likely to be more passionate than usual. Be careful, however, for your enthusiasm for the object of your desire may go a bit overboard at this time. It is quite possible that you have an unrealistic view of the situation. It also could be that someone is leading you on, making you think something that isn't necessarily completely true.
[I may be by born nature constantly hopeful and romantic, but I ain't stoooopid. I remember last year around this time going over the same stuff with the same person; I remember the past 44 years. Everything is mostly utterly arbitrary. Surface stuff that others respond to/react to because of their own pasts, innate inclinations. Hardly anything about YOU.]
Let the below remain a real-life lesson to me about "how life goes":
PLASTIC BAT: Age 6, Iowa Park, Texas: Next-door neighbor Al Aceves (dad mocked him as stupid, mom wondered why I helped Mrs. Aceves take in her groceries, but never helped her) organized a softball game for all of the neighborhood kids/teens: "Go get your bats and gloves and meet me back here." I was 6, I was excited, I ran to get the only softball equipment I knew of: my plastic bat. All the kids arrived back in Aceves's front yard. He checked out all of the equipment that all of us had brought, then told me: "Can't use that plastic bat." I was a crushed 6-year-old. I can still see me standing there sadly holding my plastic bat while all of the older kids walked away to play without me.
WHITE CAT: Age 20, Austin, Texas: My first poetry class. There were some stunning heavy-hitters there, and I turned out to be one of them. But there were also many people who didn't write so well. One was a girl who wrote things like "White cat, sitting on my rug, I wonder what you think..." I pitied her and utterly ignored her, while simultaneously, shallowly triumphing in my own glory of being, for once, "one of the good ones."
As the song goes: "Sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug."
Today I saw a feel-good ad on TV that showed a retarded girl being crowned prom queen. Everyone in the shallow, teenaged crowd wildly beamed with whitened teeth and applauded themselves for being so saccharinely warm-hearted.
For some reason, the smarminess of the ad ticked me off. And I also started wondering: What if that retarded girl were a real bitch? (I have no experience with retarded people; but on TV they're ALWAYS portrayed as good-natured and lovable. Are any of them in real life just plain intentionally mean, just like some people in any other group? Or does Down's Syndrome automatically override the "bitchy" gene?)
Which all flashed me back to my junior high and high school years, to a little Crippled Bitch named Amy. I don't remember what exactly was wrong with her physically -- something debilitating that had shrunken and twisted her limbs. She could still use her arms and hands, but not her legs, so she was always in a wheelchair. She wasn't, though, one of those cripples who can't speak correctly or who writhes around and so is embarrassing; rather, she was smart and from the best neighborhood in town, and so had teacher support and a "posse" of 3 smug future-banker-wives types and the one guy in school everyone thought was gay (even though in 1977 small-town-Texas, we 6th graders really didn't know what "gay" was; we just talked amongst ourselves about whether the guy was a guy or a girl -- he had a neutral name, so no one could really tell! He went on in high school to become the first male mascot.)
Amy was a mean little bitch!
Our bad blood started in 6th grade, when we were both up for the same part in a school play. I can't remember the play or the part now, but in try-outs, I was better than her, and everybody knew it. A teacher even took me aside after my audition and asked if I wanted to try out for a different part; I knew this meant that she was going to give that part to Amy. I really, really wanted to be in the play, but I was stubborn, and told her "no." I wanted THAT part. My friends even begged me to just give in and take another part so we could have fun together. "NO." I, of course, didn't get the part I wanted; didn't get to be in the play (though the latter was my own stubborn fault).
In 7th and 8th grades, Amy had an annual summer "Snoopy Party" at the pool at her house, making it a point to hand out invitations publicly, so everybody would know who exactly was receiving the "honor" of being invited. Only the "loser" kids (bad students, cheap or stinky clothes, budding druggies) were not invited. I was pretty, well-groomed, an A-student, played sports, had a group of friends who were all invited. The little crippled bitch didn't invite me either year!
Once in high school, Amy and Her Cripple Cadre took over the Student Council. In Senior Year, the Council met to discuss the theme of the prom that year. The vast majority of the group voted for one theme; Amy and the Cadre wanted another. And managed to maneuver the parliamentary procedures so that, after 3 or 4 votes, they ended up getting exactly what they wanted! Their manipulations were outrageous (though perfectly legal), and no one intervened to stop them, or even seemed to be angry about what they'd just done. I was Editor of the school paper, and wrote an editorial about what I'd just witnessed -- something about "the letter versus the spirit of the law," blah-blah-blah. I was hoping for an uproar of some sort amongst both those on the Council who'd wanted the more popular theme and the general school population. Nothing. Except even more of a cold shoulder from the Cadre.
Further along in Senior Year, the Mean Crippled Bitch struck again. It was the time of year when teachers in our home-rooms were taking nominations for things like "Most Beautiful," "Most School Spirited," etc. Once the nominees were chosen, the whole school would then vote on the winners, which would appear in our yearbook at the end of the year. One of my close friends was in home-room with Amy (though I wasn't) when the teacher asked for nominations for "Most Likely to Succeed." When I was nominated, Amy piped up with, "Yeah, most likely to succeed...at DRUGS!" My friend dutifully reported how everyone laughed; my name didn't move forward.
Now, in hindsight, I suppose they were right! I didn't ultimately become too successful! But that's not the point. At that time, while I did wear John Lennon and anti-military T-shirts to school and walked around with a surly expression on my face -- I was also Editor of the school paper; I was a National Merit Scholar Semi-Finalist (the only one in our school; and we had only one Finalist, as well); I'd come in 2nd in STATE in UIL editorial writing; I'd won the academic awards in English for all 4 years; I'd won an essay contest sponsored by our local Congressman; I was active in school activities. I was fully qualified to be nominated... SANS bitchy sarcasm! :)
As for drugs... at that point, I'd never even seen a joint, much less any harder stuff; never drank; and had maybe smoked 4 cigarettes in my life. And the biggest irony is: AMY HERSELF WAS A REGULAR SECRET POT SMOKER!!!!!!! While I was mainly friends with the school nerds (paper staff, band members, science/math team kids), I also had a few smart "thug" friends -- one of whom had on several occasions provided Little Miss Cripple with joints and had smoked with her!!!
Oh, I was boiling mad. And, at the time, too darn wimpy to confront her. (One doesn't confront Little Crippled Chicks.) Over the past nearly-30 years, I've continued to have fantasies about what I should have done: We had an English class together; I've fantasized about marching up to her, saying firmly and sternly, "I need to speak to you in the hall." If she refused, I would then start my chastising tirade loudly in front of the whole class: "How DARE you accuse me of taking drugs! I've never taken anything in my entire life! And YOU, YOU'RE the one who smokes pot regularly, you hypocrite! How DARE you!"
(Whew! That felt good!) :) :)
God, but that bitch was pretty much the representative of everything that I considered awful/evil then, and still consider awful/evil now: Getting favored not because she was more talented but because she was crippled; publicly not inviting people to her parties; manipulating rules to get her way; the hypocrisy of publicly and FALSELY dissing people for an action that she herself was participating in.
Though I do have two softer memories of her...
(1) She and I were both in a drama class together in 9th grade and were performing a one-act play in front of a school assembly. We had one scene together, just the two of us, with rapid-fire, angry lines of dialogue back-and-forth. In the middle of the scene, she froze completely... We were two feet apart; I could see the panic and pleading in her eyes... When I realized what was happening, I pretended that her character wasn't answering me deliberately, and went on with my lines as a speech, as if my character were angry with hers for deliberately not responding. It worked. It saved her scrawny, wheelchair-bound ass! ;p Afterwards, backstage, she was big enough to thank me, and to ask me for a hug... I felt very close to her then. (You'd've thought she would've remembered that nice moment in Senior Year!)
(2) The friend who'd sold Amy pot told me that, once, while they were smoking, she'd revealed how sad she was that she was in a wheelchair; how she'd always wanted a boyfriend but didn't think she'd ever have one because of her condition...
The last thing I ever heard about her: One of my friends roomed with her at TCU their freshman year of college. My friend, L., was, probably still is, one of the nicest people in the world. But years later told me that, as Amy's roommate, she somehow became responsible for carrying her to the bathroom, and doing numerous other personal chores that ultimately became simply too much to handle. After the first year, they didn't room together again. (Don't know what happened to Amy after that. L. was gay briefly, later married a man who despised gay people, had kids with him; I'm assuming she's still kept her secret from him all these years.)
"The city never sleeps better slip you an Ambien..."
[Jay-Z] yeah Yeah I'm out that Brooklyn. Now I'm down in Tribeca. Right next to DeNiro But I'll be hood forever I'm the new Sinatra And since I made it here I can make it anywhere (Yeah they love me everywhere) I used to cop in Harlem All of my Dominicanos (Hey yo) Right there off of Broadway Brought me back to that McDonalds Took it to my stash spot 560 State Street Catch me in the kitchen like Simmons whipping Pastry Cruising down 8th street Off-white Lexus Driving so slow (but BK, it's from Texas!!) Me I'm out that BedStuy Home of that boy Biggie now I live on Billboard and I brought my boys with me Say what up to Ta-ta Still sipping Mai Tais Sitting courtside Knicks and Nets give me high-5 Nigga, I be Spiked out I could trip a referee ...tell by my attitude that I'm MOST DEFINITELY FROM...
[Alicia Keys] New York!!!! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, There's nothing you can’t do, Now you're in New York!!! These streets will make you feel brand new, the lights will inspire you, Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York
[Jay-Z] I made you hot nigga, Catch me at the X with OG at a Yankee game, shit I made the Yankee hat more famous than a Yankee can, you should know I bleed Blue, but I ain't a crip tho, but I got a gang of niggas walking with my clique though, welcome to the melting pot, corners where we selling rocks, Afrika bambaataa shit, home of the hip hop, yellow cab, gypsy cab, dollar cab, holla back, for foreigners it ain't fitted act like they forgot how to act, 8 million stories out there and they're naked, city it's a pity half of y’all won’t make it, me I gotta plug a special and I got it made, If Jeezy's payin LeBron, I’m paying Dwayne Wade, 3 dice cee-lo 3 card marley, Labor Day parade, rest in peace Bob Marley, Statue of Liberty, long live the World Trade, long live the king yo, I’m from the Empire State thats…
[Alicia Keys] In New York!!!! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, There's nothing you can’t do, Now you're in New York!!! These streets will make you feel brand new, the lights will inspire you, Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York
Welcome to the bright light..
[Jay-Z] Lights is blinding, girls need blinders so they can step out of bounds quick, the side lines is blind with casualties, who sip the lite casually, then gradually become worse, don’t bite the apple Eve, caught up in the in crowd, now you're in-style, and in the winter gets cold en vogue with your skin out, the city of sin is a pity on a whim. good girls gone bad, the city's filled with them, Mommy took a bus trip and now she got her bust out, everybody ride her, just like a bus route, Hail Mary to the city your a Virgin, and Jesus can’t save you life starts when the church ends, came here for school, graduated to the high life, ball players, rap stars, addicted to the limelight, MDMA got you feeling like a champion, the city never sleeps better slip you a Ambien
[Alicia Keys] New York!!!! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, There's nothing you can’t do, Now you're in New York!!! These streets will make you feel brand new, the lights will inspire you, Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York
[Alicia Keys] One hand in the air for the big city, Street lights, big dreams all looking pretty, no place in the World that can compare, Put your lighters in the air, everybody say yeaaahh come on, come, yeah,
[Alicia Keys] New York!!!! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, There's nothing you can’t do, Now you're in New York!!! These streets will make you feel brand new, the lights will inspire you, Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York
1) Did a temp employer from 2 years ago just e-mail me and ask if I was available for a project that runs through January?
2) Did the woman whose very soul I feel (!) just mention "Leo" (me!) alongside her usual "Virgo" on her blog?
3) Did Joan Crawford fans just contribute money for my December rent because they knew how much I loved Joan and how much time I'd devoted to the website over the past 5 years without ever asking for anything, and because I told them how much I sincerely loved New York and begged them for donations to the website so I wouldn't have to leave just yet?
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THANK YOU, GOD, FOR EVERYTHING --- for this brief reprieve, for the chance to stay, if even for a little while, in the oh-so-beautiful city that I'm in love with. (And thank you, also, for Sandra's beautiful spirit, for her innate ability to forgive.)
We'll see what happens. We'll see. I am so overflowing with gratitude right now. Just took a walk to the Hudson at 11pm and looked at the NYC skyline and cried with gratitude. There was no one around, so I also said out loud a couple of things: "Thank you, god, for letting me be here. Thank you. Thank you." and "Thank you, New York, for letting me be here and letting me look at you. You are sooooooooooo pretty."
Hey, Obama's also a controversial cutie -- why doesn't Newsweek run a cover pic of him shirtless playing basketball, hmmm? Because it would be disrespectful, that's why.
Just as it's disrespectful to run this photo of Palin in her shorts on the cover of an alleged NEWS magazine. (A shot Newsweek stole from "Runner's World" magazine.)
Ironically, the below quote accompanied Palin's "Runner's World" article:
"It doesn't matter your background, your demographics, your race, your political affiliation, it's such a uniting, healthy, fun, awesome activity. It cracks me up going to some running event and seeing some dude who campaigned so hard against me, or a lady who's been blogging some mean comments about me. But we're all there together and we're smiling and we're having a good time because we're going to do something healthy and active. We need more of that."
The idiotic, overtly biased behavior of the corporately intertwined Newsweek/NBC/MSNBC ever since the 2008 Presidential campaign is every bit as bad as that of the right-wing Fox network, on the other end of the political spectrum. In fact, while I still can't stomach Glenn Beck's drama, it's now come to the point where I, a life-long Democrat, would much rather watch the relatively sane Bill O'Reilly on Fox rather than the overtly insane, snarky, asshole Keith Olbermann on MSNBC any day of the week.
She forgets this Leo's love of water signs. (p.s. The below poem, part of my 1995 thesis, used to be titled "Of Luonnotar" -- pretentiously -- after a Nordic sea goddess. I think the new title is now "Swim At Your Own Risk.")
There is something left unsaid: for wounding eyes a cut of silence bled for washing clean. In frequent deep, voices unwed; lone divers careless in this wet sky, a stroke above the clouds that part their waves to meet god.
She swims to this sign: a glass-winged girl heaven-sent, stirring sluggish soil and flooding deaf horizons with the brook's gurgle, a babble academy loosing its flow, dismissing what may shatter stone.
There is no fear of drowning, no caution at the water's edge. All is safe, she will say, in sinking to the sea below.
My grandma, Me-Ma, on my father's side lived in a trailer in East Texas. While my parents were still married, we'd visit her maybe twice a year. My mom was German and always kept me very well-groomed, so I was a favorite with Me-Ma among the cousins, just because I looked cleaner than the "scruffy little locals"! :)
One time during one summer, when I was 8 or so, my parents let me stay with Me-Ma for a whole week by myself. On the surface, I don't remember that much about my stay, except for getting to scrounge through her costume jewelry box, and running errands with her. (And, in the car, her mildly chastising me for reciting "Beans, beans, a musical fruit, the more you eat 'em, the more you toot.")
But once I got home, I remember crying and crying and crying. My parents asked and asked me what was wrong, and all I could say then was that I missed Me-Ma... What I missed about her, what was so different from my own home, was that she was kind to me. Not that she bought me things or anything, but rather that she listened when I talked and had conversations with me; she showed me things; she took me around with her. She made me feel like a normal person. I hadn't had that at home. And discovering it, and then losing it, hurt awfully. I was 8 and I was momentarily utterly heartbroken.
I was looking on craigslist for jobs tonight. Found one for $7 an hour; one for $8 an hour; one for $10 an hour.
Let's see: At 40 hours a week, before taxes, that would be... $1120 a month; $1280 a month; $1600 a month.
This is what's being offered for a copy editor in New York City? I made $7, $8, and $10 an hour in Austin, back before I'd ever even gotten my Bachelor's Degree, doing shit jobs.
My rent now, for a modest place outside of NYC, is $1550.
How is it expected that a grown woman in NYC can live on $1120 or $1600 a month?
I've never had any mentor, anybody I could turn to for life/career advice.
When I got to UT in '83 at age 18, I was a lost kid. Nobody helped me. Several professors/grad students offered me an "A" in their classes if I would "have coffee with them" regularly. I kid thee not. Three times I was overtly offered this: specifically, an "A" if I'd see the professor/grad student socially. I was shocked, I didn't think the professors/grad students were attractive, and I said "no" each time.
Was THAT bullshit my chance at having a mentor?
I never had a professor take an interest in me. I loved the 3 poetry classes that I took with David Wevill, and I know that my poetry was good... But I don't think Wevill particularly liked me, and, come to think of it, I don't think he helped anyone else, even his favorites, get anything published. Why not, Wevill? You lazy fuck. Too much trouble?
I do dislike Wevill for his laziness. After his own personal success in the early '60s, the man gave up. Got his tenure, and then promptly gave up, never helping anyone else, even though that minor effort wouldn't have hurt him a bit. I have very little respect for him, though I did think he was a good teacher.
As I write this, at age 44, I'm melancholy: Wishing I'd had a mom or dad that guided me emotionally; wishing that when I'd gotten to college I'd had someone to guide me intellectually. I've had to raise myself and educate myself, and I think I've been sloppy and haphazard about it.
"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."
Whenever the movie came out, I remember talking about it with my boss. She thought it was surreal, extreme. I thought it was ultra-real and horrible and frightening, based on my past experience. I envied her ability to look at it serenely, from a distance.
Please click on the below link to read exactly why I need your help to stay in New York City. I'm desperate. And I thank you in advance for any help you can give.
A couple of days ago, I caught a couple of seconds of the "Dr. Oz" show (he's one of Oprah's acolytes who's now got his own show), and the topic was, "What type of woman are you?" (nurturing, organizing, etc.) One thing he mentioned, that I'd never heard of before, was that, thanks to the testosterone we're exposed to in the womb, most men have ring fingers that are longer than their index (pointer) fingers; while, among women, either the two fingers are relatively equal in length, or the index finger is slightly longer.
Well, of course, I immediately looked at my hands: longer ring fingers! Manly! Actually, I'm not that manly. While I'm mentally competitive, and especially competitive with men (thanks to a childhood of being told that women were inferior, as well as being well aware that I was smarter than most of the boys in my classes while they got touted for being smarter, except in head-to-head competitions with me), I'm actually extremely sensitive to my surroundings and to others' psyches, which is considered a "female" trait. (Though, my often-intentional ignoring of others' states of mind because I find them irrational or unfair is perhaps rather masculine and cold. And, to this day, I remain extremely proud of the fact that I stopped believing in the Bible practically the second that I read there that women were to be subservient to men. I was 15. Even at that young age, I recognized utter illogical bullshit when I saw it, despite its utter hold on our culture.)
Anyhow, childhood traumas/mental triumphs aside, after I saw the "Dr. Oz" show, I got curious about the "ring-finger/testosterone thing." And came across this BBC "Brain Sex" test.
For me, it turned out to be pretty generic and inconclusive, despite my longer ring fingers. I scored in the "50" percentile, which is what the average "female brain" scored. (Though, in the "Eyes" section -- reading the emotions of 15 pairs of eyes -- I got every one right! Very female of me. I liked that one. Proud to know that I can spot dead, blank eyes when I see 'em.)
(1) When I was little, still wetting my bed (4 or 5?)... If I woke up in the night and I'd wet the bed, I'd call out for Daddy, because he wouldn't get mad. If, on the other hand, I woke up in the night and hadn't wet the bed and just wanted a drink of water or something, I'd call out for Mommy. I knew that Daddy was the nicer, less-judgmental one! (2) When I was 5 or 6 or so... When my Daddy came home from work, he smelled, in a GOOD way. I was a little freak -- I always asked for my Daddy's musky T-shirt to take to bed with me, and I'd sleep with his T-shirts. (3) At 10 or 11, going to the Air Force-base swimming pool. (Though NOT the time that we drove there playing "The Sweat Game"--windows of the car rolled up in the Texas heat, suffering/sweating utterly, to see who would give in first and ask for the air-conditioning -- I was as stubborn as he was. Only to find that the pool was closed that day!) I loved riding on his back in the water. I also liked other base-things, like pinball and bowling. (4) Staying up late and watching movies. (5) Taking a Reader's Digest word-test with him, and scoring higher, and him not getting mad. (5) Post-divorce: As a college student, showing him poems by Plath and Sexton. (He found Plath "angry" and liked Sexton.)
I also appreciate the family myth (told to me by my mother) that in 1968, when we lived in South Carolina: The day Martin Luther King was shot, my father stayed up all night sitting by the door with a rifle, just in case "angry Negroes" came to white neighborhoods seeking revenge. In 2009, this sounds crazy, but in 1968, many Southerners, especially in South Carolina, really did fear this as a possibility. I do honor my father's sitting-up-with-the-rifle-all-night 1968 protectiveness of his family.
Their 27th world championship, the most in any sport!
I must say, I seem to be a good-luck charm wherever I go... :) When I lived in San Fran in '94-'95, the dread Cowboy-rivals, the 49ers, won the Super Bowl. And while I've been living in NY, the NFC East Cowboy-rivals, the Giants, won the Super Bowl. And now this! :)
I didn't grow up as any sort of baseball fan, Texas or otherwise, so I can now be genuinely happy for my new home-town team, the Yankees! (Football-wise, though, I can NEVER be a Giants fan, since they're in the exact-same division as the Cowboys.)
p.s. I was in a happy mood this afternoon -- went and got a cheap ($28) but good Jersey haircut; then, on my 40-block walk home, stopped at a sporting-goods store and bought a $15 pair of sweat-pants, which also made me happy, having lived with 2 crappy, decrepit pair of sweat-pants for after-work-comfortwear for the past 5-or-more years. (The receipt from the sporting-goods store, and a sign in the window, said, "If the Yankees win the World Series, this location will open at 5 am the following day." It makes me happy to think that Yankee fans will be so excited that they'll be at the store at 5 am!)
I can't get this song out of my head. I dreamt it last night, woke up hearing it, have been walking around with it all day...
Sorry to say, I don't find Gaga physically sexy in the least; despite her overt, constant "men-men-men, but I'm also bi" verbal and video proclamations of her ravenous sexuality, she seems, in actuality, much more like a dorky guy who becomes fabulous only when in drag. (For instance, check out the opening scenes of this long version of the video; they're supposed to be erotic, but to me seem only awkward. Despite all of her accoutrements, she's guy-stiff, doesn't at all move like a woman.)
But, as a performer and conceptualist, she's very mentally interesting! I started catching the tail-end of the video on MTV a couple of weeks ago, where a smirking, black-cupid-lipped Gaga is poisoning her boyfriend... I was first interested in the plot and the visuals, then... the catchiness of the song itself took over! (I also now find myself internally stuttering on about "mymymymymymymymypokerface"...)
