The Plumber is Watching

The first time I see him, he is leaning against his work van, watching me intently. I'm taking out the trash, doing my best to ignore him. He starts to whistle some dumb tune as a way to get my attention. I'm in my robe. I don't want an audience. His whistle gets increasingly louder.

Do you think I’m a fucking dog? Do you think if you keep whistling, I’ll jump up on your lap and lick your face? I’m obviously paying no attention to you, moron.

The second time I see him, I'm putting mail in the mailbox, several hours later. He is sitting in his van, with a sloppy sandwich in his hand, biting into it like an animal.

He makes some grunting sound, as he chews and watches me, as if he'd like to eat me for lunch. As if, by eating the sandwich, he can almost taste me. I, in turn, feel nauseous.

"I think the mailman already came by," he shouts, his mouth half full of food.

Again, I ignore him. The mailman didn't come by. I know the sounds of the mailman. I know the shuffling of his feet on the sidewalk, the slamming of my mailbox. I know the dull noises that make up my daily existence.

Why? Why does he have to be out here again? The only two times I've left the house today and I have to deal with a slimy plumber boring holes through me? Why do I leave the house at all? I should become a professional shut-in.

But I can't. At least not today. It's Tuesday and I have to teach writing class. I have to break out of my shell and interact with people. The shell gets thicker the longer you stay inside. It becomes too heavy, too big, too comfortable. The shell becomes you.

I dress up for class a little. Present myself. It's important. To polish yourself and look good sometimes. I look in the mirror and realize, in a detached way, that I look pretty today. I play with my face like a doll. Paint her eyes, paint her mouth. Comb her hair and let her smile. A good feeling sweeps over me. I put on my coat and walk out the door.

He's not there, the man working across the street. His van is still there but he's not there. Good. If he sees me looking pretty, he'll only harass me more. His libido has obviously become more important than my privacy.

I run to the car and start it up, looking down at my lap the whole time. After a moment, I put the car into gear. I look up and there he is, magically, next to his van once again, staring directly at me again. A bomb starts ticking. My passivity, my muteness, is quickly turning into rage. This time I return his stare.

He starts waving his fat arms wildly at me. All of his pathetic attempts to get my attention haven't been properly rewarded, so he's resorted to this garish, ridiculous gesture.

I shut off the car, open my car door and get out.

“What the fuck is your problem?” My voice sounds like a man's, bellowing, deep. Like it climbed out of the depths of my bowels.

“I’m just trying to say hello.”

“And I’m obviously trying not to.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” he laughs.

“Yeah, well it’s not very nice being sexually harassed on my own fucking property. I live here. I LIVE HERE.”

“Sexually harassed, ha!”

“Yeah, its real funny, isn’t it?”

“Just trying to be friendly.” He throws the cigarette on the lawn and stomps it out.

I get ready to get back in the car. I’m shaking. Not finished.

“No you weren’t. You weren’t trying to be friendly. Don’t fool yourself.”

“You got a problem. You got a real problem, lady,” he laughs dismissively and walks away.

I want to show him my problem. I want to show him my real problem. Because mere words don’t do my problem justice. My problem could wrap around his fat neck and squeeze so tightly, his veins pop. My problem could grab the last greasy few strands of hair on his sweaty head and slam him into his underused work van. My problem could be the last thing he sees.

Instead, I'm left standing there, in the middle of the street, quiet rage all over my nice outfit. I hear him whistling inside the house. The mailman pulls up and takes the mail.

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.
~ Franz Kafka

Woman on the Rocks!

The Scene:

A winter Sunday at the Jersey Shore. Waves are big, messy and a little dangerous. Water temperature - 40 degrees. Air temp, about the same.

The Players:

My three surfing friends: Sunday, Pete and Clint (with ass crack showing). And me. (Photos from last summer.)































































Oh and I forgot another very important cast member....

The Jetties....




















The Story:

It's a big wave day - big for the Jersey shore. 6 - 7 foot waves, hollow, fast. Arriving at our surf spot late, I'm amped up but a little nervous. I make sure my wetsuit is on properly; hood tied, gloves on correctly. You can't mess around in this temperature. It's a few degrees above freezing after all.

I run onto the beach and Sunday is getting out of the water already. What? Sunday is a marathon surfer. She'll stay in forever. She has a frozen smile on her face but something appears to be wrong.

"What happened?"

"I got hit in the leg with my board. And the paddle out is a bitch. Walk up north a ways. The current is strong. You'll get pulled toward the jetties quickly."

This is not a good sign. If Sunday is having trouble with the paddle out, it has to be difficult.

Quick little side lesson: paddling out is the most strenuous part of surfing. It's when you are literally swimming upstream. Once you are out past the breakers, you can sit on your board and catch your breath and wait until you're ready to grab a wave. Until then, you are in danger zone.
















(above) Me last winter, paddling out and punching my board through
an oncoming wave. Not for the faint that heart.


Now if you're paddling out and there's a current, you have added problem. You need to paddle out quickly so you don't hit these:





















Jetties are rocks. Slimy, sharp, barnacle-covered, unyielding rocks.

Pete has gotten out of the water as well. He says the same thing: "Give yourself some distance. The current is strong."

Okay, fine. So I start walking up the beach, away from the jetties, about a 1/8 of a mile so I have lots of room to get pulled down and still make it past the jetties. Which are rocks. Slimy, sharp...oh I told you.

But suddenly, I see a lull. Calm as a lake for a second! I decide to forgo their advice and paddle out much closer to the jetties. I can make it out in time. It's easy. I'm fast. And I'm good.

Bounding into the water, I begin my paddle out. Hmmm...interesting. That lull has suddenly disappeared and been replaced by a set of large, breaking waves. Not a problem. I'm a rock star. I'll just get past the oncoming waves and I'll be fine.

Looking over to the right, I see the jetties a little closer but I still have a good amount of distance. Not nervous at all!

Then a serious wave hits me and I "rag doll." That's my surf lingo for getting the crap beat out of you by a wave. When I finally resurface, I look to the right and what do my wide eyes see?

This:

















This is bad. Really, really, bad. I'm only a few feet from the jetties now. If the next wave hits me, it will slam me into these rocks. I jump off the board and start swimming furiously in the other direction. This is a silly move but what happens when you panic.

At this point, I feel something that I can only partially put into words: the pulling action of the jetties. The jetties have currents swirling around them. To be caught in one of these currents is an unmistakable sensation. You can't move. It's like nature's supermagnet. You stand no chance. None.

I see an approaching wave. I know this one will bring me onto the rocks. The waves lifts me up like a world class wrestler and SLAM! Right on the rocks. I lay there for a moment, stunned. At the shoreline, I see Sunday, Pete and Clint in a panic, running all over the place, not sure what to do. Sunday has her hands over her mouth.

There's nothing they can do. Short of an airlift, nobody can get to me. It's too dangerous.

I look behind me and realize the fun has only just begun. Another wave is poised to crash on top of me again.

Lift, SLAM!

It's funny - or perhaps, not funny at all - the strange thoughts that run through your head when you're in such peril. First, everything slows down to a surreal crawl. Second, you feel strangely observant of all sorts of random things. There's seaweed on my face and I remove it. My thoughts become simple, basic: "Why am I here? I have a feeling this isn't good. Hmmm..."

But my most prominent thought is the safety of my board. My precious, new surfboard. It is a yard ahead of me, still attached to my ankle, lying on top of another rock and getting the shit beat out of it. My heart cries out each time I see it get hit. For weeks afterward, I will wonder why an object gained more importance than my own well-being that day.

I belly-crawl over to it and lift it up, determined not to let it hit the rocks again. BAM! Another wave hits me and the board is taken again.

That board is one of the only things I've purchased for myself in a year. On a tight budget, a fancy new board doesn't fit in. But who doesn't tire of constantly paying bills? That board is my only new item. It was a gift to myself.

Every day, I encounter something broken in my home. Or something worn. Or something torn. When I walk by my board in the living room, it's pretty and white and new and hopeful. Now it's getting banged up repeatedly so it can look like everything else in my life, including me at this moment.

Suddenly, Clint appears. He paddled out to the "safe" side of the jetties. He still needs to stay several yards away or he too could get sucked in, even on his side.

He shouts:

"You're in danger! You need to get off of the rocks now!"

Somehow I manage an ounce of sarcasm: "Ya think?"

"Are you alright?"

I check in with my body for the first time. Nothing is broken. Bruised - yes, very seriously. Wetsuit, torn. My body feels strangely relaxed. Starfish, you're supposed to pose like a starfish when this happens (just in case you're ever caught on top of jetties.) Lay low, flat and outstretched. Don't even think of standing (its more slippery than ice) and let the waves wash you off, if you're lucky.

I see Clint look over my head suddenly. That's bad. Another wave. I refuse to look this time.

















This wave sweeps me off the jetties, next to Clint.

I'm safe now.

"Come on. Let's get you in."

"Hell, no," I tell him. And I start paddling out to catch a few waves.

Clint paddles up to me.

"You're in shock. You know that, right?"

"Story of my life."

Finally, safe beyond the breakers, I take a look at the damage to the board. Poor board, poor, poor board. Beth's board. Beth's new board. It was designed for me. It says "For Beth" on it.

I ride a few waves and when I get back to shore, hugs and slaps hit me on the back instead of hostile waves.

Later that night, I sit with Clint in front of the fire. The aches are beginning to set in and I pop an Advil or two.

"Why Clint? Why didn't I care about myself? Why did I only worry about my board?"

"Suicidal?"

"Maybe."

"Or ballsy."

"Hmm..."

"Maybe you just knew you'd be alright. Maybe God was with you."

"Maybe all of the above."



Me and few of my "war wounds":

This is a MUCH more extreme version of a difficult paddle out (our own Oahusurfer contends with surf more like this):

I'm the Most Underrated Actress I Know

Winter of 76...or was it '77? from Beth Mann on Vimeo.

--------

This was written for Open Salon's Topic of the Week: Who's the Most Underrated Actor?"

This touching monologue is just one of Beth Mann's finer pieces. It's from a VERY indie film entitled "The Winter of 76...or was it 77?"

Note the force, the intensity behind her acting - the way she shifts from melancholy to horror and finally, to self-realization. Of course, she owes much to the hotshot cinematographer on the set, Beth Mann. And the firm but flexible guidance of director, Beth Mann. The writer, Beth Mann, also should be noted for her exposed yet sharp screenplay.

Now, some may say Jeff Bridges or Don Cheadle are underrated. Though both are not hurting for work, I'm sure. Their homes in Beverly Hills have been built, their sports cars paid off and trips to exclusive resorts have been planned.

But if you really want to understand underrated - like "I'm not getting paid for this shit" underrated, you'll have to give your vote to Beth Mann and about one million other artists out there.

Next week, Beth Mann will showcase her skills once again as she fends off bill collectors, fixes her own rusty muffler and figures out why she's getting shocked each time she touches the faucet in the kitchen in "Life Ain't for the Faint at Heart."

How Not to Be Killed

(above - Liz Falco and Cathy Cushla)

Liz Falco, an old college friend, suddenly popped in my mind last week. She was a real inspiration to me - fiery, outspoken, kind, cute as hell, wild hair. She was the type who could speak her mind without ever offending anybody - unlike me. I thought to myself, "When I get home, I'm going to look her up. I hope she's still alive." This was a strange thought, considering our age. After some research, I found out that she had been murdered years ago in Philadelphia.

Cathy Cushla's photo pretty much does all the talking. I went to high school with her. She was a warm, vibrant, kind soul prone to near constant smiling or fits of laughter. She liked butterflies, for obvious reasons - she resembled one. Cathy was also murdered many years ago.

I won't get into the details of either of their cases. I don't think it really matters. What does matter is that if you're a woman, you're vulnerable. How not to get killed? Perhaps that sounds glib. But I'm dead serious. And I'm not just talking about the serial killer in the black van. I'm talking about the ex-boyfriend. Or the date gone wrong. Or the drunken friend with a suddenly explosive temper. Or the random strung-out dude whose walking behind you on the street.

I've recruited my Taekwondo coach Angela Tiene (third degree black belt) for some basics. This isn't about self-defense moves per se. There's only one real way to learn them and it's not via a blog entry. These questions are meant to find out how you address your personal safety.

1. How aware are you?

Self-defense starts with a high degree of awareness. Always. Even while sleeping. (Cats are great examples.) This means recognizing that when you're on your cell phone or running with your iPod on, you are at a higher risk - regardless of where you live. This means when you're vegging out in front of the television, you are less aware of a sound in your backyard.

In an age of constant distraction, are you present and aware of your environment or constantly buzzing about or zoning out in one form or the other?

A brief example might be noticing who is sitting at the tables around you in a cafe, or taking a quick inventory of the exits when you enter a store.

2. What's your body like?

Listen, no one's going to lecture people on weight or fitness. But if you are overweight or don't work out, you are far more susceptible. It's just a fact. Chances are, you can't run that quickly, your reflexes are slower and you don't have a good sense of your physical capabilities because you don't flex them. It's not about becoming a world-class athlete. But you do need to be strong enough to fend off an attacker or run pretty damn quickly. Can you?

2. Do you startle easily?

Startling easily may seem like a good thing, as if you're ultra-aware...but it's not. A scared person doesn't tend to react well in dangerous situations. They "blank out." Think of a good martial artist. They're centered. Physiologically, they're using an adrenaline rush to their advantage.

In my years of sparring, I tended to get my ass kicked when I got upset or angry. If you're always "on edge", work on techniques, such as meditation or exercise, as a way to ground yourself. Being grounded is really half the battle - it increases awareness, and your likelihood to respond correctly in a dangerous situation and sends a message to the world.

3. Can you take a punch?

If you've never fought in your life, how do you expect you'll react in a situation where someone wants to abduct or hurt you? (And don't say you'll "hit them where it hurts" - that is not a dependable technique, for a number of reasons. Neither is mace.)

Say you get punched in the face. This can be so startling for a woman that she can't respond. She's goes into shock instantly. For me, I practice fighting, with men. Ask any of the guys I hang out with - we spar, we wrestle. There are safe ways to fight that get you in the habit of knowing what it's like to fight a man.

Angela adds: "Not just what it’s like to fight a man, what it’s like to get hit, HARD, and keep going. Pain and shock (and fear of more of same) makes you want to give up, until you learn that your body is just as tough as a man’s."

You may argue that generally women will lose to men in a physical altercation no matter what. That's not entirely true. Many factors come into play such as size, ability, age, mental state, environment, weapons. Maybe he is stronger but if you can manage ONE technique, one sudden maneuver, one smart move, it could save your life.

I know I wasn't going to outline self-defense techniques here, but smashing someone in the nose causes a blinding, searing pain. It can be done with the heel of your palm in an upward manner (don't even try throwing a punch unless you know how to properly - your elbow is far more powerful than a poorly executed punch.) So even if a man is much bigger than you, one upward shot could afford you the opportunity to run away. Eyes and the throat are vulnerable areas as well.

4. Can you spot danger?

If a car is pulling up behind me slowly, I get out of the way (of course!) and turn around to face them. If there is a gang of young guys walking down the street, I naturally move to the other side. Are they a bunch of troublemakers? Maybe not. But why risk it? As a shore resident, I'm cautious of getting on boats if I don't know someone's abilities behind the wheel. (Getting in any vehicle puts you at an automatic higher risk.) I pick up a large stick when going for a walk in the woods. I'm very aware when I open a car or house door (very vulnerable locations.) It may sound paranoid to you but its second nature.

Before I studied martial arts, I was mugged in Philadelphia. When I look back on it, the warning sounds abounded. I was walking down a dark street (external disadvantage), weighed down with bags (personal disadvantage), distracted because I had lost my keys (personal disadvantage) and it was icy (external disadvantage.)

I walked by a man, with his back against a wall, slamming up against it repeatedly, as if trying to pump himself up for something (he was, apparently.) I turned around and saw him running behind me. Get this: I didn't want to look paranoid and cross the street and offend him. So I kept my back to him. He clothes-lined me with his arm, punched me and took my pocketbook. It took about 3 seconds.

Bottom line: I'd notice all of those signs now. Years after my training, a man attempted to mug me during the day (in Park Slope, one of the nicest areas in Brooklyn.) I saw his erratic behavior when I walked by him. I looked behind me and he was heading toward me quickly. I simply started running. Scarily, so did he. But he stopped after a few seconds. Bottom line: I was too much of a bother to chase after.

6. Can you run?

I personally rarely wear shoes I can't run in. I wear chunky heels when I get dressed up because I can move quickly in them. (Some may claim you can do some real damage with heels, but again - you want to be able to run first, fight when all else fails.) I don't wear constricting clothes for that reason as well.

And I can run. Fast. The last thing you want is a physical altercation with a male. Your first defense is always running. So make sure you can.

7. Do you know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run?

(This one I'm still working out, I must confess.) But most altercations are not worth it. Don't get in them in the first place and you're better off.

With that said, my point isn't just about conflict avoidance. There are times in my life when acting a little crazy and unpredictable can give someone pause. (No one wants to mess with a nutcase - even another nutcase.) Intuition is key. And like any other skill, it needs practiced. You have to read any situation and react quickly and accordingly.

There are times to look someone directly in the eye so they know you're not afraid - it can be equalizing. There are times not to make eye contact. And of course, your walk says a lot as well. A strong, focused gait sends a clear message to the world.

8. Where's your weapon?

Choose your weapon! Are you aware of the ways you might defend yourself right this moment? I am. Keeping a pen or your keys in your hand, ready to stab, a chair you could throw in the path of an attacker, a cup of hot coffee in someone’s face. It might sound a little gung ho, but it all speaks to being aware of your environment. If someone is attacking, they already know what weapons they’re using. Your ponytail to grab you, the baton in their pocket, etc. Why not be on par with them?

My friends Liz and Cathy were tough girls. But they made some critical mistakes. Of course, it's not their fault they were killed. That lies in the ruthless souls of the people who did it. These questions are laid out in front of you so you can take a moment and review the way you interact with the world and increase your power and awareness. The idea isn't to live in a constant state of fear. Knowing how to defend yourself makes you feel more relaxed and empowered, ultimately.

[A quick plug for martial arts: in short, it changes everything. It doesn't matter your size, your weight, your age - martial arts is a transformational practice like no other. I can think of few things that have had a bigger impact on the totality of who I am. If you have children, find them a good school. Find one for yourself. But beware - all martial arts schools are not created equal. Find a good fit. You'll know it, when you feel it. But a blog entry is just words - martial arts changes the entirety of your awareness and preparedness.]

Be safe. Be aware.

One of the fiercest women I know, Angela Tiene, my mentor and good friend.

(Below is a good example of blocking and striking. Watch the last 15 seconds where a woman quickly and deftly defends herself - that's what I'm talking about.)

In Their Grey Visions...

This is an assignment for the online writing group Red Room. The topic: your favorite poem.

“Is that the guy who likes to have sex with dead women?”

“No, I think that’s just a myth.”

“Do you want another line?”

“When I’m done. I’m almost done. Maybe. Okay, yes.”

My boyfriend walks away. The party continues around me. This is the ugly kind of party where people have turned into zombies, walking around aimlessly. The kind of party where conversations have turned into blubbering nonsense and cyclical ramblings. The “Mama told me not to come” parties. I’m 17 and this party is at my house. I have a paper due the next day. I’m supposed to analyze a poem. I've only managed to eke out a page. Five pages are due.

I don’t know much about literature. I do know about kegs in the wood, smoking weed, bumming cigarettes, Led Zeppelin and selling Quaaludes for $5 each in the girl's bathroom. I know how to play pinball and PacMan very well. I give a decent blowjob at this point but have big plans on fine-tuning my skill.

I chose Edgar Allen Poe. I don’t know anything about him except that I love him. That cracked, pained and beautiful face - the face of someone who understood dark places.

At 3 in the morning, with my home trashed and my mom away for the week, I am very aware of dark places. I intend to make them darker as I lean down to the mirror on our littered coffee table and snort another line. The meth feels like fire shooting down my throat. A surge of false energy hits me.

"I’m going to finish this fucking paper if it’s the last thing I do!” I shout.

“So it’s not the guy who fucks dead people?”

“No. He is not a necrophiliac.”

“Do you have any more cigarettes?”

“No. No, yes…but not for you…I have to…” and I stumble away. I grab another beer and walk to the dining room table, covered with bottles.

Clearing some space, I look through an anthology of his work for a poem to analyze. Dying women, pretty women, dead women, coughing, blood, birds, cliffs near seas. I try to make sense of the poems but the words melt into a blob of confusion. Analyze a poem? I can’t even touch my forehead. I don’t know my middle name. Wait, I don't have a middle name....do I?

I start to write.

I know what I’m doing. I’m smart. I can do this. Am I writing this or just thinking this? Shit. I'm writing this.

I rip the page out of notebook, throw the paper on the beer-soaked floor and start looking through the book again.

Then I stumble across this:

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret.

The party suddenly stops. A peaceful, expansive feeling sweeps over me...and it's not the drugs. Somehow, amidst my self-annihilation, I am touched deeply by a piece of literature. More than touched, I understand completely and wholly.

I've often had those gray visions but no one has ever described them so well. Inexplicable, lush moments where time stands still, where all the pain and worry disappear, where you understand the totality of your existence. It's pure magic - simple, transcendent magic. And it only lasts a flickering moment. Then you do drugs, hoping to find it again.

Write it all down, quickly - except for the drug part - before it goes away!

A zombie walks by and sees me writing furiously.

“Why are you doing that?” she points her bony finger at my notebook, half-frightened, half-disgusted. "Why is she writing? Why?" she looks around, asking no one in particular. She teeters for a moment, staring at me, then wanders off.

Focus. Poe. Analyze.

Three pages done. More than halfway there.

Wait! Reward yourself with a cigarette! Yes! I smoke! I love smoking! What a great idea!

I run over to the cookie jar, where my secret stash of Marlboro Lights resides. Underneath it are cookies my mom made last week. Looking at them makes me ill...and sad. There's some goodness, hiding in this house. Some goodness in a jar. Those cookies should leave.

I sit back down and my mind goes blank. The book is a blur or words again and my paper looks like chicken scratch.

Damnit. I should've never gone for the fucking cigarette.

My boyfriend comes over to me and tries to make out with me, drug-horny and disgusting. I can’t stand him right now. Get away, get away! His tongue feels like a snake in my mouth.

Almost 5 am. Try again. Try. Shhh…calm down. Calm down and try.

As the sun begins to rise, I finish my 5 pages, sit back and smoke my last cigarette. Some people have passed out, someone broke the sink in the bathroom and is laughing about it, someone just finished a paper for school the next day, which is this day, and is pleased with herself.

See? See! It's not just the good kids with their perfect homes and perfect families who can figure this stuff out. A "burnout" just understood a piece of literature. She gets it. She gets it, even high as a motherfucking kite. Ha!

Or maybe I don't. Maybe those ivy-covered schools that I secretly and desperately long to attend will always be for those good kids. Maybe my paper sucks and I just think its good because I'm on drugs. Kind of like drunk people who think they can dance.

When I bring in my paper the next day, my hands are shaking, my stomach is churning and I wish I was dead. But I feel proud, having made a connection with a good writer. A very good writer. We touched. I had a breakthrough, even though every goddamn thing about my life should prevent one. Today, I'm representing the lost people.

When my paper is returned a few days later, there is a C- in red. A fucking C-! On top, she writes, “You were supposed to analyze a poem. This is from a short story. Read the assignment!!” As I walk by my teacher's desk at the end of class, I hear: "You better wake up and smell the coffee, missy!"

"I hate coffee and don't call me missy."

I cut the rest of my classes and hang out with my dropout friends at the arcade.

"Does anyone have a cigarette?"

I walk outside and light up in the blustery, bland landscape of New Jersey suburbia and look around at nothing in particular.

...but it was poetry to me.

Let Them In

It’s not easy, letting someone into your home. Because then they see the holes in the walls, the off-kilter frames, the cobwebs in the corner.

It’s not easy, letting someone see you as you really are. Because then they see the worn look in your eyes, the clenched jaw, the slumped shoulders.

It’s not easy, letting someone in.

It's New Year’s Eve of 2009.

I open the door in my old robe, with a bowl in my hand. In that bowl are tiny bits of stale tortilla chips, found at the bottom of the bag. On those chips of chips, are half-melted cheddar cheese and some questionably tangy salsa.

Clint stands before me, in a pressed black suit and a silky purple shirt, looking like he climbed out of a glossy menswear ad. At 29, he’s the oldest of the three brothers at the end of the block who serve as my family by proxy.

I let him in.

He peeks into my bowl.

“What is that?”

“A very sad snack.”

"Come on. Get dressed. We’re going to the Surfer’s Ball.”

Big, black tie event at the upscale hotel here. He doesn’t want to go “empty-handed.” He’s a shy guy and needs me as social reinforcement.

“No ball, Clint, I told you before. I just don’t have it in me. And its 100 bucks to get in. I can’t spend that right now.”

My budget is tight. It’s always tight. It wears me down. Of course, it wears me down.

“Well, I’m paying. Besides, I probably owe you anyway.”

Yes, he does. Even though he and his family have a big, beautiful home at the end of the street, the "boys" spend a good amount of time here. I feed them, give them clothes, booze and bad advice. They break my stuff, use my shit and push my buttons, I'm guessing like real brothers are supposed to do.

Kyle, Kurt and Clint

And me

“No, Clint. I wanna watch Criminal Minds and eat stale chips. Leave me alone.”

“You’re going. You said you were going.”

“Mind changed.”

“Let me see your gown.”

“Clint, please leave her alone.” I sometimes refer to myself in 3rd person just to make people uncomfortable. I got it from Silence of the Lambs.

“Come on. Let me see it.”

I reluctantly walk into the bedroom and he follows. There it is, hanging from my closet door. A long black, silky gown. Very formal and pretty, mocking me. It's quite different than the “apathy robe" I'm wearing.

“Wow. It’s beautiful. Please, Beth. Come as my date.”

Clint and I aren’t romantically involved. I don’t date any of the brothers. That whole “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy, if I may be so crass. Having sex with them might cost me the only sense of family I have here. So I know what he means by a date. A make-believe date. A placebo date.

Looking at him standing there, tall, handsome and well-dressed, I realize a fake date with Clint may trump a show on serial killers. Maybe.

“Okay,” I mutter.

“Yes! Get ready now. It’s 10:30.”

Clint and I have this game when I undress in the bedroom. I don’t bother asking him to leave my room at this point. He’ll go on the computer or do something to avert his eyes. I enjoy it. Simply the act of undressing with a man in my room feels good between my legs.

I squeeze into this fairly tight gown and begin hating myself almost instantly. Why doesn’t it fit like before? Why is it betraying me so? I start taking it off, with a groan.

“Let me see it first.”

“No, Clint. It’s wrong. It’s…”

“Let me see it!”

I turn around and his pretty blue eyes light up. A tight gown means something totally different to him.

“Perfect. Now keep going.”

But I can’t. I’m stuck in mud, suddenly.

Clint takes over. He tells me what jewelry to put on, what coat to wear. He picks my shoes. He watches me apply makeup and tells me when to stop.

“Okay, that's enough. You’re pretty enough without it.” My face warms a little. The words feel good and hurt simultaneously.

I don’t feel pretty enough. Technically, I realize I’m an attractive person. But there’s this pervasive ugliness that lays its unwelcome hands all over me.

Living in this house doesn’t help. It’s an old family shore house that I moved into several years ago, so I could start my business. With both my parents gone, my brother has been the only person living here. He’s a hoarder. A Howard Hughes type. He doesn’t see the disrepair that everyone else does. Or he doesn’t choose to.

His shit was everywhere when I first moved in. It took me months to make it barely livable. I eventually hit a wall and could do no more. This house is beyond me. It needs a fucking wrecking ball not a “woman’s touch.”

Several weeks ago, I had a date over for dinner. He saw the ceiling tiles in the living room, falling in from a leak in the roof.

“Your ceiling really need repaired,” he says offhandedly.

“You free Wednesday?” I respond, with a spark of anger.

It’s easy for people with sturdy little houses and sturdy little families to make comments like that.

Sitting in my bedroom after dinner, he looked around at the hodgepodge of random artwork I have up and the many layers of paint carelessly slapped on the wall. My room offended his sensibilities, I could tell. I kept thinking, hell dude - if you think my room's a wreck, wait till you get a load of what's between these ears of mine! After that night, I didn't hear from him again.

“Come on, Beth. Focus. It’s quarter of 11. Do your hair,” Clint says.

I brush my hair and pull it up on my head. Then take it down. Then put it back up. He doesn’t know I’m on the verge of tears. Or perhaps he does.

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Yes. Please”

Clint leaves my bedroom and makes his way through the maze of blankets we have hanging up throughout the house. We have no central heat here. The bedrooms and the kitchen are heated by space heaters. The hanging blankets, like those ceiling tiles, inflame the shame, infect my spirit.

But Clint has seen my hanging blankets and falling tiles. He’s done repairs here. Perhaps he’s doing repairs now.

When he comes back in the room, my tears have been neatly placed in the jewelry box.

“You look amazing.”

I try to smile.

"Is my room...weird?"

"What?" He looks around. "No. I always thought you room was kinda sexy, in a gypsy sorta way."

The house I grew up in was nothing like the Joneses. After my dad died, my mother worked full-time and came home exhausted and depressed. The house suffered. Holes in the rugs and furniture, fleas on the dogs, dishes in the sink. I couldn’t stand it.

When I had slumber parties, I’d clean that house all day yet feel so self-conscious and nervous when the other girls would arrive. You can’t clean away that awful feeling, no matter how hard you scrub. And something would always happen. One girl was allergic to fleas and got bitten repeatedly. She had to leave.

The next day, I sprayed bug killer everywhere, even on my bed and pillows. I’d be prepared for the next visit. As if there would be one. As if I could kill that feeling of shame with a can of Raid.

I read once that shame is one of the most corrosive and useless of emotions. Guilt can spur an apology when needed, for instance. But shame? It serves no purpose other than to make you feel like a first class piece of shit.

Clint plays music on the computer. I pull out a red lipstick from my makeup bag and take a sip of my latest find, a very good California Syrah. My favorite wines are almost always from California.

It’s funny. Even with all my broke-assness, my tastes have gotten nothing but finer. My mother used to laugh at my lofty inclinations as a child.

“I swear, you’d think you’re a Rockefeller or something. I don’t know where you get it. Just a head’s up, girl – we’re poor!”

She was the one who taught me to have good taste. Even broke, we’d occasionally go to fine restaurants, to expand our culinary horizons. She took me to the movies constantly, so I could "see the world." She taught me manners, core manners.

She had impeccable speech, an extensive vocabulary and read several books a week. She was genteel. She was also draining and narcisstic and extremely depressed. If I complained about the house, she'd bellow:

A house is supposed to look like it's lived in, damnit. You try raising 5 children on a secretary's salary! You try coming home and cooking dinner and cleaning. You see how it feels! No one appreciates the work I do. No one!"

The lipstick is a blazing red - a real power color. It does some of the work for me, thankfully. After applying it, I “unveil” myself to Clint, though he’s been watching me on and off the whole time.

“Good enough?”

“Very much so,” he says kindly.

"Thank you, Clint," I say, gratefully.

Oh, doesn’t he seem like the sweetest guy? Well, that's because this is a story.

Real life has fleas and worn spots in the rugs. In a few nights, Clint will “jokingly” tell me several times that I "owe" him since he bought the ticket for me. I will become irate, detailing the countless meals I’ve fed him, the times he’s stayed at my place, borrowed my car...

No one appreciates the work I do! No one!

I explain how his jokes slowly erode that special feeling I had New Year's Eve. She needs to hold on to that feeling right now. So back off. You hear me? Leave her alone!

It is New Year's Eve, 2009.

Clint puts my long, black coat with a faux fur collar on me and opens up the front door, which is starting to fall of its hinges. We take a step out on the icy front porch, caving in from age. The full moon and blast of arctic air instantly charge my spirits. The night becomes me suddenly.

I could probably fly there, if so desired. But I'd rather drive with Clint in his old red Ford pick-up truck and sing to the tunes on the radio. We links arms, so I don’t slip on the icy, sunken steps. His arms feel so big and blue collar.

For a moment, she feels safe and pretty.

Questionable New Year's Resolutions for 2010

This 2010, I resolve to:

Give Southern Comfort another fighting chance since that 1989 "incident."

Use new vulgarities instead of my old standbys. Cunt off, freakfuck!

Laugh in the face of others, with reckless abandon.

Purge only the inexpensive food.

Look the other way...just in general.

Work on sharper, wittier retorts with deadly dry deliveries.

Call myself "bipolar" because it's a seriously trending mental illness.

Wipe that smug look off my face.

Start exorcising more.

Clean needles only!

Stay off of Bambi's corner and find one to call my own, damnit.

Stop smoking and start toking.

Finetune my bored and unamused look.

Burn the other cheek.

Buy more mirrors for company.

Use the word "tautology" and "truculent" more often, just to impress others.

Tell the next arresting officer what I really think of him.

Give peas a chance.

Imperceptibly roll eyes more often when others speak. They'll feel it.

Get past my fear of welcoming men in windowless vans.

Stop equating wine and chocolate with cunnilingus and intercourse.

See emotional unavailability in others as a formidable challenge for go-getter types like me.

March to the beat of a different drummer, namely Carlos from the band Lick This.

Celebrate the subtle yet distinct differences between Xanax and Valium.

Bring back the glory that was Loverboy.

Stop giving "lip" so the menfolk like me more.

Convince my boyfriend that Carlos is a Spanish tutor.

Raise the holiest hell possible.

Have a Very Truculent New Year!

Thanks Erica, for your Inspiration!

To Be When I Grow Up

(This piece was written for Red Room assignment. They offer a weekly writing challenge for their writers. This week: "What did you want to be when you grow up?" Red Room consists of a good, intimate group of writers as well as wonderful people run it.)

1973

My mother had two boxes of photos in the closet. One was labeled “Before 1973” and the other “After 1973.” It seemed a little overly dramatic that she would base our entire collection of family photos on my father’s death, but such was her style.

I remember wanting to be a veterinarian pre-1973. Nothing seemed (and seems) more magical to me than animals. To help them would be a privilege and an honor.

But just like those two boxes on our shelf, things were to change when my father died. At six, I became a nervous child, predisposed to thinking about death instead of animals. I read books about the supernatural and the occult. I felt ghosts around me constantly. Animals suddenly saddened me. This world was mean and I couldn’t protect them. They were too vulnerable.

I don’t really remember what I wanted to be after 1973. I just wanted normalcy, love and a happy home. Lofty goals apparently.

At some point, in high school, I wanted to be an actress. I was desperate to be noticed and the performing arts allowed for that. I wanted people to see me!

When I entered college to study acting, my dream morphed. I went from acting as a form of attention-getting to genuinely needing to express myself creatively. I became serious about my art, in short. It’s a very different feeling than performing for attention, like a love-starved puppy. It was a real birth, one I'm still proud of.

Nobody would tell me about all the miserable jobs I'd have to endure to keep my art going – the jobs that nobody wants to be when they grow up. Waiting on tables was hell from the word go. Sold vacuum cleaners door to door for a bit. (I never sold one.) Office management positions weren’t really “management” at all but servitude, basically. Shameful, dehumanizing.

Some jobs actually did work for me, at least for a little while. I started a cleaning service with a friend during college and I liked the control I felt. I worked as a stint as an erotic masseuse when I moved to the West coast. Though several people in my life disapproved (including factions of myself), I thought it was a kick. I made good money, met people and expanded my wounded sexuality.

But none of the jobs felt dead-on. Like I was "on my path."

When your childhood is fractured, when you experience neglect or abuse or trauma, you disassociate. It’s an awful, spiritual Black Hole of an experience. It’s like you don’t realize you exist. Or you're sleepwalking through life - though sleep implies relaxation and comfort and that’s hardly it.

Nightmare-walking is a closer comparison. Hazy, foggy, disconnected. How can you possibly identify with a career goal? You can barely identify with the fact that you’re alive! It's hard to imagine unless you've experienced that kind of profound disconnect. Though frankly, I see most people blissfully locked in that state without even being aware of it.

Well, because of maturity, because of creativity, because of work, because of spirit, because of love, I’ve been waking up slowly from my nightmare-walk. I even sense that I’m living, every once in a while. I look in the mirror sometimes and say, “Yep, that’s me. That’s Beth Mann. Hi.” The person smiles back. I’m still not whole but I’m not a hole, either.

Now, now…now at 43, I play around with the idea of who I’ll be when I grow up. And it’s still hard to utter the words…still pains me, as if an axe will fall on my head if I think them. As if I’m not still not allowed. As if I don't deserve to have goals.

So whom do I want to be when I grow up?

• I want to be a lover and have a lover. I want to love for a living. I want to have a happy home with my lover where we have mad sex all the time. I want us to constantly uncover and discover one another, to constantly support and inspire each other. I want us to be family to one another, so I can experience that sensation.
  

• I want to be recognized for the artist I am. It sucks that I don’t make a ton of money for who I am creatively, but I can live with that since I’m so lucky in so many other ways. As long as I have some creative peers who believe in me and toss me some accolades sometimes, I’m happy. (Actually, no fuck that…I want scads of money for being a smart artist with a unique voice. I totally fucking deserve it.)
  

• I want to be a vet. Hmm....maybe not now. But how I miss having pets in my life...can one aspire to being a pet owner? Yes, yes…I want to be pet owner when I grow up.

• I want to help. If you don’t serve, what’s the use? You must serve. You must make a difference in lives of others, in whatever way you deem fit. I hope to be a humble servant. I hope I’m a contributor when I grow up. Though I'm lazy...so its a tough call.
  

Ugh…I still feel like I’m reaching. Please don't believe any of this! I don't. It's like I’m still trying to force some stupid plan on my life again. Why does this feel so hopelessly canned?

I simply want to BE when I grow up. Am I shooting too low? I want to experience a day. The rest is icing.

Yep, that’s me. That’s Beth Mann. Hi.

A Death in Elsewhen

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity and thrill, in waking to find they have been upon the verge of the great secret.

-Edgar Allan Poe

Have you ever run a race and you know you're not going to win, so you let yourself fall behind? You stop running and begin walking, halfheartedly and defeated, with a weak smile on your face. Well, in a sense, that's what happened to me, except I went from walking to falling. And now I'm on the ground, waiting for my helpers.

But the helpers have left.

You see, there was a team for me. From some other place. They were generating all the magic. They were propping me up, feeding me. And I'm nothing without them.

They're all radiant, these beings, and without them, I've lost my glow, my beauty. That's alright. I'm not that vain. I liked looking at them in my mind's eye. I looked at them until I began shining some of their light, like a cosmic mirror.


There was the Fancy Dark Prince. The Fancy Dark Prince has loved me for a long, long time. He's very possessive of me and I like that. He has dark curly hair and burning eyes and he wears a feather in his hat. When it seems there is no man for me, he is there. Waiting. With him, there is no end. Just waves of eternity. (Then how could he go, I wonder?)

I found a photo of him in a newspaper once...can you believe it? (At least this is how I imagine him to look):











I save this photo in a wood box.


There was a Kindred Spirit in my Computer who would appear on my screen sometimes. He would share with me his secrets and pain and songs and laughter. And I would do the same. We'd communicate so quickly, we didn't need words after a while. We'd overlap, speed ahead, fall deliciously behind. We luxuriated in one another. I began to love him.


I would try to focus on work but then his face would suddenly appear, and there was no choice but to spend time with him. It's like being pulled toward a blazing star.

Sometimes the happiness actually hurt after we "spoke." It hurt my physical body. Too much connection. When that happened, I would turn the computer off and cry, for all the pain that made profound happiness feel so damn foreign.

One day, I turned on my computer and he didn't appear. I waited and waited. Nothing. I thought to myself, "See? That's what happens when you feel that happy. It goes away in a flash."

On a good day, I just have to beckon him and he's there. He responds cleverly and lovingly to my questions, sighs when I enter a room, climbs in my bed and murmurs dark and wonderful things in my ear. On a bad day, like today, he is only self-created fiction to replace a dying reality. He is nobody, nothing. He never was.



When I was a little girl, the Pretty Golden Lady would visit me, secretly. She would lavish me with her deep femininity and love. She was so nurturing. As long as she paid attention to me, I felt pure and wanted.

This was no easy task. I never felt much like a princess. Childhood barren, bleak, full of shame and sadness. I'd try to dress up and be pretty on my own but it was always so hard. Dirty hands always held me down.

She was my feminine guidance and I bowed in her dazzling presence. I'll never be able to thank her enough. She put her lips to my face and passed her magic on to me, so that I could feel pretty and adored, even when she was not around. She's not around anymore...and neither is the feeling.

I know it may seem silly but she looked like a cross between these two people:














And it wasn't just people. There were Magical Cities that I'd visit, faraway. Sparkling cities, dancing with light even though it was always nighttime. I'm not sure what happened there but it was right and good. Perhaps you learned there. Learned special things. Or you worked there, happily, like you've never worked before.











And music. Songs that reminded me of times too far away to touch now. When I first heard this song on the radio, I was a very, very young child. I was sitting in the car between my mother and my father and they were laughing. Then time stopped suddenly and they froze! I stood up on my seat and stared at their fixed smiling faces and knew this would not last forever. It would barely last at all. I kissed their frozen faces and time resumed again.



Trees came to life as well. One cold night long ago, my mother carried my young body out to our car. There stood an Icy Winter Tree. It was clearly alive and very serious. It spoke to me of very powerful things: death and stillness and magic. Its frozen branches banged against one another angrily. Yes, that tree meant business. Very serious business. It just had to tell me its secrets. And I had to listen.

So you see, it's energy. It can come in the form of beings, green things, animals, scents, rays of light, gestures, voices, laughter, breezes, pages in a book, ice, wood...many, many things have lives of their own. And dreams, of course, dreams...


My childhood friend Maria once told me of a reoccurring dream: There was a vat of heavy, brown liquid, oscillating. There was a hum that the the vat generated. A deep hum. Then a daisy would drop into it and the humming would stop for a moment. Then the machinery would begin again and the daisy would be pulled downward, not to be seen again. I knew her life would be hard.

When I was a little girl, I'd look into the mirror for a long, long time. Until I could split free from myself. Its like realizing you're just some crummy human being stuck in some clumsy body. It's almost comical. You realize the Great Secret and time is stilled. Your identity buckles under itself and you're left only with some central, essential force. My mirror trick doesn't work anymore.

What if there was an Apocalypse on the Other Side? What if they've all been destroyed? You would think that couldn't happen but you don't know that. You don't know anything about the Other Sides. So please don't tell me that that can't happen, that they can't all perish...because you just don't know.

Without all of you, I'm a crumpled piece of paper,
a particle of dust, an afterthought.
Without you, I'm a big hole,
caving in on myself.
Without you, I fall to the ground.

Thing is, I always figured you'd stay forever. Perhaps I took you for granted. I'm sorry. I got so wasted on other things. I burnt and beat your magic right out of me.

You go away and do what you have to do. Time passes and things leave, this I know. I never expect it and it always surprises me, but this I know.

Kiss me when you can. I'll try to be awake this time. And don't worry about me, okay? I'll rise up from the ground soon enough. When I do, I'll walk toward you and the others again. Dancing in the twilight blue, feeling so perfectly less than you.

untitled by Samantha Palmeri

Other Credits:
City of Lights
Winter Tree Starry Night - Gabriele Schwibach
Ghost Glass
Music: Theme from a Summer's Place - Percy Faith
(Special thanks to my friend and colleague Laura Maschal, who convinced me this piece wasn't too strange.)

The Dokken Factor and Other Dating Deal Breakers

First dates are up there with anal fissures in the pleasure department but they must be endured. How else can you get to the sex?

Unfortunately, one often encounters deal breakers on those first dates, making any future seem unlikely.

Take my date last weekend...please. Actually, he was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, above average intelligence. We went for brunch at a local joint at the Jersey shore, sitting in the Fall sunlight, sipping mimosas. Happy so far!

Small talk ensued, which generally sets my teeth on edge. I hate small talk. Weather, current events, "What do you do for a living?" "Your mother, when she's available." That kind of thing. Deadly. But I know, I know, it must be done.

"So what kind of music do you like, Peter?" I halfheartedly asked.

"Heavy metal for the most part...like Dokken."

"Dokken? What do you mean Dokken?

"It's an 80's metal band."

"Oh, I'm aware. They have lots of hair. I just never...forget it. So who else do you like?"

"What? You never what?"

"I never heard anyone mention Dokken as one of their favorite bands before. That's all. Like, it was the first band you'd mention."

"Well, who would you mention?"

"Any band other than Dokken?" I responded with a nervous laugh.

We quickly changed subjects but somehow Dokken loomed over us the rest of the brunch. They might as well have been at the table, guzzling my mimosa and giving me lap dances.

Peter and I never had a second date. Which is fine. But it got me thinking about the Dokken Factor - or any other element that makes you say, "Sorry cowboy, this is just not going to work."

Listen, I don't think everyone should think just like me. I mean, musically, I have some nerve judging anyone. I like heavy pop, for instance. The poppier, the better. I've stopped parties dead in their tracks from putting on a little Barry Manilow to add some "spice" to the evening. Phil Collins fills me with a deep sense of glee. I think The Bee Gees are one of most misconstrued bands of all time.

I also like classic rock. But I can't help that. I'm from Jersey. I was born with Boston in my blood, Van Halen in my veins and Genesis in my genes.

And it's fine to have differences in taste. It adds a certain fun, playful tension. But differences as great as Dokken? That may just be an unbridgeable gap.

My ex-boyfriend is a big movie buff. And when I say big, there are few movies that man hasn't seen. We can talk for hours about performances, directors, a certain shot or scene that has stuck with us forever. When he started dating again, he went out with some gal who over dinner said that she didn't like black and white movies. They gave her the "creeps." I had to break it to my ex that they stood no future whatsoever. He agreed. The Dokken Factor, clearly at play.

More intimately, a female friend of mine had been dating a man for 6 months when she confessed that while their sex life was going well enough, he never went down on her. He told her the first time they had sex that it just "wasn't his thing." (And no, it wasn't a hygiene issue. I asked.) I told her that she may need to break up with him. She sadly agreed.

She did talk with him about it before ending it. He reiterated that he just didn't like going down on women - not just with her, any woman. Cunnilingus done well may be one of the most deeply sensual and wonderful sensations a woman experiences sexually (in my humble opinion.) To do without, because it's not his "thing"? Au revoir, pussy hater.

I know - we all have our sexual preferences. But not as big as this Dokken Factor. It should be a primal drive to want to go down on a woman. Instinctual, I argue. If I was a straight man, I'd skip the breasts and run, not walk, to eat at the Y. And if a man doesn't like to do it, then he's either sexually self-centered or lazy (which means lame sex) or he secretly prefers other sexual organs in place of the vagina, if you get my drift.

Sometimes, deal breakers turn out to be deal makers. Surprisingly, I dated a Christian guy and we managed quite well for some time. As long as he wasn't proselytizing, I had no problem. It's strange that I would fear a problem, truthfully. I'm a spiritual person. Not in the Christian sense (though Catholic blood still courses through these veins, whether I want it to or not) but what did I think he would do? Burn me at the stake? Beat me with a Bible?

He cursed occasionally, drank beers and had the most devastatingly beautiful lips that he would place oh so strategically all over me. When he kissed me (which was heavenly) "Son of a Preacher Man" would play in my mind. I imagined that I was defiling him, sullying his Christian goodness, which was ultimately a real turn-on, for both of us.

One man I dated cowered in quite a dangerous situation we encountered. A homeless man approached us on the street one night, when I lived in Philly, with a pipe in his hand. I had to scare the guy off by using my special "dealing with crazy people" technique. When I was done, my date stood far off to the side, applauding. Applaud this, Dokken Factor.

Sadly, I don't always heed deal breakers. I had a wonderful date many years ago in Brooklyn - a romantic movie, a lovely dinner, great conversation, laughs. When we walked home, we came to his place first. It was there he said goodbye to me, leaving me to walk about 10 blocks home at 1 am in a semi-sketchy neighborhood. I remember trying to shrug it off, but tears kept filling up my eyes on my solo journey home. Yes, I could have asked him - but I didn't. He could have offered, too. I stayed with him for several difficult years.

Clothing, while not a deal breaker, can certainly be deal altering. A man constantly donning a baseball cap can dampen my spirits a bit. Wearing sneakers all the time is a turn-off as well. T-shirts with slogans plastered on them...ick. He doesn't have to be a fashion plate but show a little effort. Show that your look matters.

At this point of my life, I hope my deal breakers turn into meal makers. A man who cooks well can lure me in pretty quickly, transporting me past many Dokken-like character flaws. Sad but true.

So while I don't think I'll ever fall for a a metal-loving, pussy-hating Christian who thinks black and white movies are creepy, I'm still open. At least, I try to be.

(That lap dance by Dokken doesn't sound so bad afterall. If you guys are available (which I'm guessing you might be), please meet me at The Sandbox Cafe this Saturday. I'll be the girl with the mimosa and the semi-jaded outlook.)

(Yeah, that's right. Manilow. Try to stop me. Just try.)

In Bed with the Devil (One Last Time)

“So how’s it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I gasp. “Very good.”

We laugh at the gallows’s humor. We can make jokes while having sex. We’re at that point with one another.

Soon the laughing makes way to sighs and moans. A tear runs down my face but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying being very naked with my ex-boyfriend this one last time.

God, can I really call him an ex? That implies that we had a legitimate relationship, which I seriously question. He was my part-time lover in New York City years ago. When everything was falling apart there, he was my guiding light, my protector - which is a scary thought. Because Robert is the Devil. But when you’re in Hell, you look for the leader, I suppose.

Robert makes Bacchus look like a Jesuit priest. He’d make Caligula blush. He is debaucherous, cavalier and deeply self-centered. He embraces his self-destructive behavior in a truly shameless manner that one can’t help but slightly admire.

Robert is old-world beautiful. The kind of man they don’t make anymore. Big, rugged, broad-shouldered, well dressed. A former FBI agent. An esteemed soldier. He’s a professional sharp shooter and an overall badass. Now he owns several businesses in the city and holds orgies in his elegant wine cellar, with candles burning everywhere and the finest wine and coke pouring all night.

Robert is a compulsive liar. And an addict. Everything that pours out of him and into him are lies.

While not as self-destructive, I can go there with the best - or worst - of them. I consider myself a Dark Lighter. I can go where the dark people go, give of myself, and return to tell the tale. I can keep my light. I can keep my light.

Robert loves to tear off my clothes. He loves to see me naked. He tells me I’m his angel but I’m a trophy to him. He tears at my clothes when others are around so they can see my body. Being pretty unashamed in that department, I’ve often let him.

Not this night. Those wild times are done and I’m here for one reason only.

Tonight I’m visiting him at his Jersey shore home. He brought a friend along and we went out to eat – the best food, the best wine, the best everything. While Robert may rot in Hell for eternity, he is brilliant company – charming, wicked, wild and sweet.

When I tell him I won’t go back to his boat for more “fun”, he flips. He towers over me, bellowing, but I never fear him. Though I probably should. I’m drunk. He’s drunk. I want to sleep. I want to stay at his house and be left alone. His orgiastic desires bore me.

“So how does it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I gasp. “Very good.”

We laugh. I cry a little but he doesn’t know.

That is what he says to me the next morning. After I leave his house at the break of down, enter his boat and slip into bed with him. Anger quickly dissolves into the pleasure of our two bodies coming together. He smells so good, like a man should. Robert is the father figure to end all father figures in my life. It’s a shame he is the Devil because he sure fits the Daddy bill pretty well - so big, so fierce.

We have sex. Soberly, beautifully. I know I can no longer go to the Dark Place with him - but this place is full of light and beauty. And he shines because Robert shines sometimes.

His cross keeps dangling in my face and I want to rip it off his neck. How dare he? How dare he use God like he’s used everything else? It can’t save him now anyway.

“Take the cross off, you liar.”

“No.”

“That cross should burn your skin. Don’t negotiate with Jesus now, you hypocrite.”

“Better safe than sorry, angel.”

The cross swings, the boat rocks, the sunlight pierces through the windows and we fuck comfortably. Like two people who’ve fucked comfortably many times. It’s the best sex we’ve ever had. Perhaps because the stakes are higher. He is dying of pancreatic cancer and has less than a year to live.

“So how does it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I look into his wild blue eyes. “Very, very good.”

When I say this, a smile crosses flashes across his face that I've never seen before, like a man pleased with himself, a man who for one moment rose above his addictions and allowed himself to be sexual and intimate with a woman he loves. It’s the smile of a man who is proud of himself, proud that he pleased a woman. I know I will remember that smile forever. He tries to hide it by looking away.

“Stop hiding. I see you smiling. I know you feel good.”

He hugs me. We laugh. I start to cry a little but he doesn’t know.

Special Thanks and credit to Steven Stahlberg's 3D image "One Last Time"

Heathlike & Me

I don’t even like Heath Ledger. But there he is, kneeling over me in bed, his shirt unbuttoned, wondering what to do next. Well, I can’t be sure it’s actually him. He is very Heathlike, that’s for sure. And that is good enough for me.

We are friends. I don’t remember how or when this happened but Heathlike and I are friends. I can feel that warm and relaxed energy dancing between us – the kind old friends have. (See photo above.)

So why are we in bed together if we’re just friends? I don’t know. We want to take a chance, bridge a gap, daringly enter a forbidden terrain. I feel good about it. Life is for merging, I think, as I stare at him longingly. Longingly? I never even had a movie star crush on him! But strangely, when you're suddenly in bed with him, you feel differently.

He, on the other hand, is slightly conflicted. I don’t take this personally. He’s not conflicted about me per se. He likes me. He seems more troubled and scared of himself. Of opening up.

“Kiss me. Kiss me.” I instruct.

He nervously leans over me and obliges. I feel his reticence again. His warm lips tremor on mine.

“Ugh. What’s your problem, Heathlike? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want!”

He then shyly pulls his hard cock out of his pants, as a way to express his true feelings. He is so beautiful, he shimmers. My body desperately wants him. I know at this moment he will enter me, despite all his internal resistance.

And he does.

He enters me once, twice and then a third time. I almost die from pleasure. Pure sexual perfection. Little shafts of light and electricity shoot between the two of us. We are electrifying together, Heathlike and I. This is more than sexual. This is a merging.

Then two of his Keepers enter the room to discuss business with him! How could they walk in on us right now? He’s not even fully Heath Ledger. He doesn’t need Keepers. Heathlikes don’t need Keepers.

Leave us alone! Can’t you see we’re having sex? I’m enjoying myself. Business can wait! Get out! I just coaxed a reasonable facsimile of a conflicted Heath Ledger into having sex with me. Can’t you just leave us alone?

I think these things but don’t say it aloud. Or do I? I try. The words live somewhere between my mind and my mouth, hurting to get out.

I wonder why Heathlike isn’t angry. He just seems like he’s trying to appease everyone. Its not the most redeeming quality but I give him some allowance. He’s just that kind of person. Too nice for his own good.

Suddenly, I’m outside with Heathlike. This pretty woman has joined us. She long brown hair with perfect grey streaks – almost as if she had them done professionally. She is a loyal person to Heathlike. She is in love with him but he doesn't feel the same way about her. She hangs in there though, trying to be his ultimate ally, trying to be indispensable to Heathlike. I don’t like her false goals.

They leave me to go into a university or a grocery store or a university that is half grocery store. I wait outside but know I won’t wait long. My dignity won't allow it. I keep occupied with surfing since a neon-blue ocean suddenly appears before me my feet.

He is still not there when I finish my session so I look for the subway, slightly hurt and angry. I see Heathlike and Grey-Streaked Hair Girl leaving the grocery store/university. He has groceries in his arms (for a meal he plans on making me. Shh...it's a secret.) I hear her talking about me, not nice things. But Heathlike won't tolerate it. He tells her to stop.

Your loyalty is totally with me, you sexually fraught cutie. But you have kept me waiting too long. You should have been more respectful. Feel my departure, Heathlike. Feel my pain!

I say or think these words.

Luckily I see a subway stop and count my lucky blessings. Now it will be easy to get home and screw over Heathlike in a childish act of revenge.

As I walk downstairs, I realize I’m on the wrong side of the track. The train I need is arriving on the other side and I’ll never make it over there in time. I’ll have to wait a long time for another one. Suddenly my revenge sucks.

The subway station is rather handsome with high, old-fashioned ceilings. And there is produce everywhere – scads of fresh produce. Not for people but for restaurants and grocery stores. Still the air is a little cleaner and the subway a little less dismal.

It will be a long wait. No dinner. No sex with Heathlike. Just me and my stupid pride and a bunch of produce that isn’t even for sale to the general public.

Heathlike – if you can hear me, I'm sorry. I would like to taste your dinner. I think we deserve time together - real time. We broke through a wall and now we’re ready to torpedo past those issues of yours, I’m sure of it. Just come visit me the next time I close my eyes.

I think these thoughts. Or say them. I’m not sure.

Juggling for Nothing – A Social Experiment in Letting the Balls Drop

Are you the workhorse in most of your relationships? Are you initiating almost every conversation and maintaining every connection in your life? Are you sick and tired of the one-sidedness and unrequitedness of it all?

Yes, it's as if you’ve been doing this mad juggling act for years and no one seems to care. Worse yet, they've grown to expect it.

Women often juggle in order to feel needed or fit in. They juggle for survival. I read once where dogs are generally friendly because they have to be, in order to be assimilated into a pack. Dogs have been faking it, in a sense. Women and dogs, desperately putting on a show so the pack won’t turn on them or leave them behind.

What if you let the pack turn on you?

What if you turned on them instead?

What if chose to stay behind?

What if you stopped being so damned...concerned?

It's not easy when you let the balls drop. Suddenly you are alone. A sterile, eerie quiet settles in. (But you suspected that would happen, didn't you? It's been there all the time anyway.) The phone stops ringing and conversations are quickly replaced with dull, silent exchanges. You begin to talk to yourself and masturbate more because at least there’s some natural give and take there.

You feel yourself slowly becoming invisible. Can you handle that? Can you stop your act and see where you really stand, even if it's in the middle of nowhere?

As a bored social experiment, I stopped saying hello. I stopped making phone calls. I stopped being so polite. I stopped trying. Anyone who didn’t reach out or initiate became suddenly suspect and expendable.

My brother, whom I live with, was the first to go. Since I usually greet him with a polite “good morning” every day, it felt surprisingly easy to stop. Since then, not one word has been exchanged between us. Oh well. One less ball to juggle.

My neighbor was an easy second. She doesn’t like me and I don' like her. I used to say hello to her just to be civil. Now we say nothing and I like it. Another ball dropped, easy.

Her 10-year old son always looks like a deer in the headlights when he sees me, as if I’m a crazy unicorn or something. I usually smile and wave and he runs away. Well, truth be told, that routine is getting old. Now when he stares at me blankly, I just give him the finger. (Really, I just ignore him but sometimes I want to give him the finger.)

Romantically, it was a harder sacrifice. Keeping the connections going with a few lingering old flames offers up moments of delight, sweetness and romance...but it inevitably exhausts your self-esteem. You know you're doing all the work. You keep waiting for the day it will be more balanced. That you'll juggle together. But maybe they just don't have the balls.

Perhaps many of us try so hard because we secretly believe we don’t belong here – that we have to cosmically and constantly earn our keep. We’re feel guilty over small infractions and apologize excessively. We couch our words until we have nothing left to say. We spend our time suspended in a state of anxiety, wondering when they'll find out that we’re a farce, a mistake. When that discovery is made, we'll be asked "to leave."

Or maybe we’re secretly self-centered – giving to others so we can “get what we deserve in return, dammit." When we don't, bitterness and disappointment seeps in. Someone else let the ball drop and we're quietly pissed.

Perhaps we’re just good people who assume the world will be equally good and kind to us in return. We’re earnest but exhausted performers, wondering when the next act will begin so we can take a much-needed break.

Where's the goddamn clowns?

There’s this woman I know from high school. Sylvia has been clinging to the same man for over 20 years. He’s a bit of a recluse and told her decades ago that he never plans to “settle down.” She brings him food, clothing, gifts. She’s moved away from her family so she could be closer to him. Yet he provides her with nothing.

When they go out to eat, they still split the bill, even after all the meals she’s prepared for him. When I ask Sylvia why she hangs in there, she says, “I think he’s really misunderstood. He's interesting. I get him.” I want to dump my cheap Chardonnay over her seemingly selfless head. Decades have gone by based on this delusion. (Trust me, he’s about as interesting as dried mud.)

She’s been juggling for so long, her body is slightly contorted and she looks old beyond her years. Whenever I see her, I consider her an anti-hero of sorts. She’s everything I don’t want to be. She will juggle for nothing until the bitter end.

If she stopped doing for him, nothing would happen. He would not call, he would not care. He’d only miss the free meals and passionless sex. She, on the other hand, would be painfully aware of the crushing emptiness. The spotlight would be on her, still, alone but finally free.

Then again, the loneliness might be too much for her to bear. But isn't it there anyway?

One time, many years ago, I told my friend Krissie about a guy I liked and how he began acting strangely. I asked her to interpret something he said to me. About midway through our girly analysis, Krissie stopped me and said, “You know what, Beth? When you have to decipher someone’s actions or words, you’re already off-track. Fuck him.”

Deciphering someone’s actions or words is another form of juggling. Interpreting. Processing. Figuring out. Trying, trying, trying to understand. Is that relaxing? Rewarding? Is any of that the equivalent of good sex and intimacy? No, its exhausting, outwardly-focused mind play that you become addicted to and demoralized by.

I don't want to be a circus act performing for a sleeping audience. So I’m letting the balls drop around me, one by one. I'm walking off the stage and out the back door and standing alone in the sunlight. If I disappear that’s alright, I guess...I don't know. I've never let myself disappear before.

I'm just letting the balls drop. If they bounce back, fine. If they bounce away, better yet.

12 Myths about Men and Women Debunked with my Little Hammer

Whenever someone starts a sentence with “Men are…” or “Women always…”, I cringe. Sweeping generalizations about the sexes are silly at this point. We’re all bleeding into one another, changing, morphing. Plus, these stereotypes tend to be sexist in one way or the other.

So I’m here to smash a few of them with my little hammer.

SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!


1. Men are attracted to looks and women to power and money.

Well, someone forgot to send me the memo or I wouldn’t have spent over 15 years dating a bevvy of broke-ass artists. And guess what? I love hot-looking guys, with or without power. And money means very little to me. (Trust me, I wish it meant more.)


2. Men are ruled by their...libido

Puhlease. Most guys are becoming increasingly desexualized in this computerized, fat-ass age. In order to be pursuant of women, you have to possess a certain moxy and prowess. In short, you have to have balls in order to be ruled by your cock. (Sorry for language. Dick. Pussy.)

Besides, by denying women of a strong sexual drive, we no longer have to fear their capabilities. They're too busy at home knitting and worrying about mildew to fuck your neighbor.


3. Women take forever in the bathroom

I spend time with a lot of guys. There isn’t one of them that is as quick as yours truly in the bathroom.


4. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus

Many of you know how much I really, really dislike this book. It’s up there with “He’s Just Not That Into You.” (Oh really? Like the stark reality of him not contacting me wasn't enough to drive home the point?)

I don’t believe men need caves anymore than women. That book is read predominantly by women who have to play some sort of game of emotional Twister in order to secure their unfulfilling relationships. “Oh Trish, leave Bob alone. He’s in his 'cave.'" Cave this. Until men begin reading similar books (which they don't - really) then develop your own flexible philosophy...that will undoubtedly change near constantly.


5. Men just can’t help themselves or men will be men or boys will be boys.

I call bullshit to this carte blanchery. It’s as if men are silly little puppies and women are in a special club of revered, highly self-disciplined angels. Guess what? I often can’t help myself. I’m a big tangled mess of compulsive behavior. Guess I'm not getting into the Angel Club anytime soon.


6. Women look pretty naked, men don’t.

Take off your clothes, send me the photos and I’ll be the judge.


7. When women have sex with one another, it’s titillating to watch. When men do, it’s gross.

Not for this woman. I like watching men have sex. I’m doing it at this very moment. (Shhh...here comes the good part.)


8. Women like to process and men just want to watch football.

Luckily, I know very few men that are into football. I know several women who are very into it. I do tend to process. But I have a substantial amount of female friends who quickly retreat to their "caves" when I want to talk to them about something personal.


9. Women look for long-term commitments and men hate to be tied down.

This is changing more and more. Women seem to be doing alright alone and aren't suffering from wedding bell blues. The thing I find disturbing is that many of the men I know who are "commitment phobes" have very little to offer. Nothing like protecting your nothingness!


10. Men are hunters and women are nesters.

First of all, I ain't a bird. And I've been "hunting" for decades now, thank you. It's a little thing I like to call "survival." With that said, I love nesting - making my home feel comfortable, cooking, hosting, etc. Maybe I can find some nesting man to steam me a cappuccino, rub my feet and fetch the daily news.


11. Men like a lady on their arm but a whore in the bedroom.

Nothing like having your own personal whore who pretties herself up in social situations. All for your pleasure, master. Maybe I'd like a whore in the bedroom and a gentleman on my arm.


12. Men just like the chase.

Men must really get off on marathons then.

But seriously, the implication here is that we must constantly be semi-detached and on-the-run in order to keep a man's interest. That sounds exhausting and just another way women need to adapt in order to keep their pappy happy.



I do recognize there are some very real differences between men and women. And of course, that's a beautiful thing. But most of these stereotypes are as constricting as a corset.

I know some very sensitive, football-aversive, overly processing men who can't wait for a lifelong partner and some whisky-swigging, cave dwelling whores. And most who fall in between. And they all change as the years go by - evolving, devolving, what have you.

Personally, I've been around high-heeled, high-pitched women talking about weddings and Tupperware and felt like a real tomboy next to them. I've been around some fierce, powerful women who make me feel like a little pansy girl. I like all the relational sensations. But the more we rid ourselves of this Mars/Venus bullshit, the more freedom we allow ourselves to change.

I'm open to change...even though I look frightening.

Love Means...

I’m not sure why you stopped talking to me. It happened slowly, methodically, like rust. There was no big fall-out, no noteworthy event. Suddenly, you and I were no longer speaking. The divide formed.

Women are weird. They’re passivity runs deep. But you and I are different. We’re the outspoken women who yell when angry and sob when sad. We cry out. We express. What happened? Our voices got pale and garbled suddenly. The lines fell down.

Maybe it started when you received the diagnosis. I knew it. You knew it. Even as teenagers, you knew you’d get breast cancer. Your mother had it and you just felt it in your bones. Your bones were my bones, so I felt it too. It was no surprise.

The size was a surprise, though. A baseball, they said. A fucking baseball. I moved from San Francisco to New York, in part to be closer to you. But somehow, my own survival became an issue and I wasn’t as bedside as I wanted to be. Perhaps that’s when it began, the divide.

When they removed your breasts, you showed me your flattened, sutured chest in your kitchen. There was nothing you could show me that would shock me. You are my best friend. Your scars are mine.

“No, they’re not, Beth. They’re mine. You still have breasts.”

I tried to understand the difference that was forming but somehow I never grasped it the way you wanted me to. Perhaps I was unable. Perhaps I am just too self-centered.

“When am I ever going to have sex again, Beth? Who’s going to want to have sex with me now?”

You always loved sex, almost to a fault. You put the horniest sailor to shame.

“I want to have sex,” you’d say many times in the past, apropos of nothing. “I want to have sex now.”

“Kris, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe there will be someone at the party tonight.”

“There better be because I want to have sex.”

“I heard you the first time, Kris.”

Breastless, you felt sexless. And I didn’t know how to give that back to you. Your sex drive was your lifeline.

“I’ll get out of New York and come visit you for Christmas,” I told you, during our last phone conversation. (No one tells you it will be the last time you'll speak on the phone. No announcements are made. But it would be our final phone call. You would accept no more of my calls after that.)

A year passed. Calls placed. Letters. Pictures. Anything. Friends tried to intervene.

“She’s getting worse, Beth. You need to come see her.”

“She doesn’t want to see me. She hasn’t responded to me in a year. I did something very wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The secondhand stories grow worse. You can't walk that well. Your bones begin to snap. Your face changes, shifts, hollows. You are 42 and dying of breast cancer. This massive clock in a pitch-dark sky keeps ticking in my ears.

You always served as the big sister – a role you didn’t always relish. I was the emotional mess and you were the semi-reluctant anchor. Maybe this time you wanted to be the emotional mess and it was too late for us to change roles. Is that why you're mad at me, Krissie?

Maybe my problems were too dismaying. You yelled several years ago, as I relayed to you a recent event where I put myself in jeopardy with drugs, men, sex, wine and recklessness. “What the hell is your problem? What would possess you to put yourself in that situation?”

Unable to answer, I just felt shame. Shame that you, my closest friend, saw the train wreck that was my life and could no longer tolerate it.

I’m racing down a highway in South Jersey, trying to get to you. You have hours to live, they tell me. Hours! I race and race but cannot erase.

When I get to your house, your mother is waiting on the steps, fragile, shaken, deeply worn.

“Please, Beth…just be careful! Don’t upset her. I know you two…please, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I think of the other times in my life when a gatekeeper intervenes – someone to warn me before I walk through a doorway and face death. How the gatekeepers sound the same. When my mother was dying, it was my brother-in-law. “You need to know, Beth…she looks differently since the last time. It’s…”

“Get out of my way.”

When I enter the shrine, your air-conditioned bedroom, with the curtains drawn and music playing, your eyes light up.

You’re not mad at me! You’re not mad at me! Those eyes are happy to see me.

I crumple next to you, exhausted, in your hands, totally in your hands. You try to splash cold water on my face because you see how red I am, from racing, crying, humiliation. Leave it to you to worry about me and my comfort at that moment Leave it to you to be so much of a better person than me.

Then you say something that stuns me:

“I don’t know how to say I’m sorry,” you utter, in this unrecognizable, garbled voice.

“You? You don’t know how to say you’re sorry to me? I’m sorry. I’m the bad friend. I’m the selfish one. I didn’t show up enough and….”

“No. That wasn’t it. That's not why…”

“Then why?”

You try so hard to find the words but it's exhausting, stretching and reaching for words, words, words, and you are so tired. You look me pleadingly, as if to say, "Read my mind, Beth. I can't work any harder." Rest, please. Stop. Stop!

“Does it matter, Kris...does it?”

“No. No, it doesn’t. At all.” That comes out very clearly. In your old voice.

And we let it go. At that very moment. Our silence breaks. All is forgiven. The birds fly out the window.

I sit down and sing songs quietly to you the rest of the afternoon as you sleep restlessly, fighting some imaginary blanket being pulled over. I sing all the songs we love to sing, over wine, over food, over cigarettes, over stories, over love, over loss, over life. Our anthems, our songs from our humble, beautiful and difficult Jersey lives.

I could tell you enjoyed it. A slight smile sometimes. I sing our songs like little lullabies and put you to sleep.


One of our songs:

Sara - Fleetwood Mac

Wait a minute baby...
Stay with me awhile
Said you'd give me light
But you never told be about the fire

Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now its gone
It doesn't matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home

And he was just like a great dark wing
Within the wings of a storm
I think I had met my match -- he was singing
And undoing the laces
Undoing the laces

Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now its gone
It doesn't matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home

Hold on
The night is coming and the starling flew for days
I'd stay home at night all the time
I'd go anywhere, anywhere
Ask me and I'm there because I care

Sara, you're the poet in my heart
Never change, never stop
And now its gone
It doesn't matter what for
When you build your house
I'll come by

Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now it's gone
It doesn't matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home

All I ever wanted
Was to know that you were dreaming
(There's a heartbeat and it never really died)

Am I the Wal-Mart Baby Slapper?

Unchecked children drive me nuts. When I have to tell someone's kid to reign it in, I want to send a bill to the parents for services rendered. So when I went to the block party at the end of the street this Labor Day weekend, the last thing I wanted to do was parent someone else's little monster.

This freckle-faced hellion is emotionally disturbed- a pretty vague psychiatric diagnosis for a smart, cunning and hyperactive 12-years old who gives the word "brat" a whole new meaning. In the past, he has screamed in the middle of a gathering or blasted music full volume, for the sake of attention. He also sneaks alcohol at parties, which I was one of the few people to notice.

When I saw him standing at the entry way of the party, I let out an audible sigh. My night was about to be undone by an inebriated, troubled and pretentious 12-year old, desperate for attention.

Last year, he collected the "donations" for the block party. The adults put him in charge because of his hyperactivity. He has the perfect disposition to run around, take $10 from each attendant (for the band supposedly, since the block party hosts don't provide alcohol and the dishes are brought by the attending neighbors) and dutifully give the money back to the parents (yeah, right.)

As I entered, he ran toward me immediately, demanding $10. I told him I'd give it to one of the parents at the end of the night and please leave me alone. He proceeded to very much not leave me alone and ask me every 20 minutes or so until I demanded that he back off.

Several people I knew came up to me and complained about this kid's behavior. One family, visiting from out of town, had to pay $50 to get into this shindig! That's when I got mad and pulled the child aside and had my Wal-Mart moment.

"You overcharged that family. Go get $30 from your parents and give it back to them. Now!"

The child ran away from me, crying, "You called me a thief. I'm not a thief. I'm not a thief!"

Well, that's when the suburban chick armies descended upon me.

The friend of the mother of the child marched up to me with a kid in tow, asking me in that disturbing, sing-songy way, "Excuse me...is there a problem?" I looked behind her and saw several other local women glaring in my general direction.

"That child is treating the attendants rudely. And he also overcharged that family. There are 3 children and two adults. They brought their own beer. And no one should pay 50 bucks to get into a block party."

"Did you pay?"

"No, no I haven't. I was planning on paying when I left. My pocketbook is in the car. I forgot you guys charge for this. Besides, I live down at the end of the street and know one of the hosting families very well."

The hosting family I referred to are the Sumners. Their sons are the infamous Brothers I write about frequently and surf with often. They are like real brothers to me and we spend a lot of time together.

"Oh, so you're here for a free ride," she shot back.

"Yes, you got me. I get my kicks from freeloading at block parties. Listen, I was planning on paying. And see those guys there?" I said gesturing to the Brothers, red plastic cups in hands, leaning against a garage door. "I often house and feed them and lend them my car and have, on occasions, given them the shirt off my back. I've done more than my share of contributing."

"I don't care who you sleep with. There's a $10 fee to attend."

Whoa. Stop the presses. What?? Sex life? Who said anything about f-u-c-k-i-n-g? That's when my Walmart slaphappy hand began to twitch.

I looked at her dead in the eye.

"You're stepping over a line with me and you better back off. My non-existent sex life is none of your business. And for whatever it's worth, I don't sleep with any of those...boys. This is about a child who is out of control and I simply said something about it."

"Are you a parent?"

"Does it matter?" (Oh here we go: the holier than thou "You don't understand because you don't have a kid" speech.)

"If you did, you'd understand that he's an emotionally disturbed child."

"Well, I'm curious why you allow an emotionally disturbed child to handle hundreds of dollars at an adult event."

"Do you want to do it? Feel free! Next year, you're the designated money collector. Happy? Are you happy you made a troubled child cry his eyes out?"

No, I wasn't happy at all. And I knew there wouldn't be a next year. Not here at least.

As I remain in this middle class suburban purgatory, I'm continually reminded of how little I belong and how my mere presence bothers people.

Who is this single female not saddled down in an unhappy marriage with unruly kids to fill an ever-aching void? Why does she hang out with men half her age? And why does she look so damn hot? (I added the last rhetorical question for my own ego's sake today. Sue me.) This "burn the witch" attitude would remain, no matter what I did, no matter who I did or didn't fuck.

When I realized our neighborly little conversation was going nowhere, I excused myself and began walking back to my car. The Brothers tried to stop me but it was too late.

How dare she question my morality? How dare she take the word of an emotionally disturbed child over a grown woman? If I was that troubled 12-year old, my mother would have demanded I apologize to that 42-year old woman, not the other way around! But I knew no apologies would come my way. I knew I'd be gossip fodder for this gaggle of desperate housewives until their husband's next affair or cross-dressing party.

As I walked down the street, tears intermingled with the new mascara I bought that day began to roll down my face. Suddenly, I heard a laugh and looked to my right. There was my old, dead friend, walking next to me.

"What's so funny, Kris?"

"That you'd let this bother you. At all."

"I know, I know.

"Beth, you don't care about these people. You're beyond this. See it as a sign to move on."

She opened the car door for me and got in the passenger's seat and lit a cigarette. (Cancer isn't an issue for her anymore, thank god.)

"Come on. Let's go back to your house and watch some Law & Order and drink some wine. That always makes you feel better."

"Should I run back and give that woman ten dollars?"

"Fuck, no. Beth, you're not going to win no matter what you do. So you might as well live out your reputation as a freeloading slut."

"So true."

I hugged her vapory essence and she continued to laugh. Not in a mean way, in that celebratory "fuck it" way.

I began laughing too. Alone, in my car.

The Surf Tournament - The Day After

So if you've kept up with my last two posts, you'll know that I recently competed in The Coquina Jam, an all-female surf competition held at the Jersey shore. Loaded with worry and self-doubt, I almost pulled out. Luckily, I stuck it out and experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.

The Conditions: Small waves. Not so good for a surfer like me, who excels on bigger waves. But real skill can be shown on small waves and I was determined to adjust.

My Partner: Calla, a sweet but nervous 15-year old girl. We decided early on that I would be "The Punisher" and she would be "The Performer." I'd grab any wave and be all aggro and she would be the balletic beauty, looking dancerly and graceful. She and I kept trying to "high five" for good luck but we kept missing.

My partner Calla


Calla and I before our next heat

My Protoge: I spent the better part of the summer training my friend's daughter, Emma. I've watched her go from being a cautious and nervous surfer to a confident athlete surfing substantial waves. Very gratifying. On some levels, I was more nervous about her competing.

Emma and I last month

My trainee Emma during the competition

Me being the bossy coach type with Emma

The Competition: Surf competitions are loaded with politics: nepotism, favoritism, sexism and probably a few other isms. So I wasn't thrilled about the whole scene. One woman was considered the favorite - a serious competitor who is semi-pro. We had to hear about it from the second the loud speaker announcements began until the very end. Very annoying but whaddya do?

The Rules: You and your partner try to score the highest points possible. The total score dictates whether you'll move to the second heat. It's not about the number of waves you take or the length of the ride. Instead, it is based on style - what you do with the wave, how you maneuver.

Me: Nervous but focused. My partner and I were the first up that day, competing against two other women. When I heard the airhorn blow, I charged out to the ocean like a...something that charges hard. Maybe a bull? Sure a bull. I charged the ocean like a bull with a board.

Me being bullish on wave

I felt good and I did very well the first heat. The waves were small but I tried to maximize what Mother Nature was kicking up. I took a bunch of waves and took them solidly. I left the water feeling confident and good. It was if all of those insecurities I felt just stayed at the waterside and watched me kick ass.

My partner did beautifully as well. Graceful and lean and confident. Funny, she appeared so nervous oceanside as well. None of it showed, that's for sure.

The Verdict: We advanced to the second heat (there are only three heats.) The third heat is a competition in October, where you surf with the men. They only want the best female surfers to compete with the guys, which is a little sexist. It's a screening technique. There is no screening process for the men. So there will be about 100+ men competing in October and six women. Hello, unbalanced!

The Second Heat: Calla and I decided to up our strategy. We were so nervous and adrenaline-pumped the first heat, we decided to focus a bit more the second heat. We would play to the audience a bit more. Use our "showmanship skills a bit more - play outwardly. We rocked though the waves were so small as the tide got increasingly lower. Leaving the water after our 15-minute heat, I felt confident that we won the heat...easily. I didn't even see our competitors catch any waves. But apparently they did. Because they won!

There was a collective "huh?" but I didn't care. All I knew was that my partner and I did the best we could. We really did. I went up to her and she was still in shock. "I don't understand. We did better than them, didn't we?" Yes, we did. Or I think we did. But who cares? We rocked. She agreed. We high fived and finally connected, making a resounding sound that could be heard around the world.

The Tournament - The Day Before

Let this not be me!

I am filled with a mild case of dread. (Can one have a mild case of dread or is that like suffering from a slight bout of terror?) Tomorrow, I will compete in an all-female surf tournament at the Jersey shore at 5 pm EST. 32 contestants in all. Fairly sizeable waves, remnants of Hurricane Bill.

Indirectly trained by the best, most aggressive young guys out here. I'm not a stylish, graceful surfer but more of a charger - forceful, quick, hard. Overall, I'm pretty good.

But I don't like competition. Well, I do but I don't. I'm naturally competitive but have low self-confidence. Bad combo. And surfing is a spiritual activity for me. Something that provides solace and sense in my life. Could competing strip something away from it?

I was waylaid into this competition in the first place. I don't remember ever saying "Yes, I'll do it." In a small town, with small numbers, somehow you just are forced to take part. If I back out now, I'll mess up the numbers, since we're competing in pairs (experienced female surfer with newer surfer. I'm considered "experienced.")

The only surf competition I took part in was The Clam Jam (that's right, The Clam Jam) last year, in stormy, hurricane swell. Monster, mean waves with a massive rip current. I couldn't duck dive my board at the time, so my ass was resoundingly beaten (and not in that good way.)

Here's a picture of a duck dive gone wrong, so you can get an idea (though the waves weren't this big):

For several days after the contest, I felt miserable. Again, my self-esteem is questionable on a good day. But you can imagine the dark places I go when 200+ people watch me fail miserably.

I'll never forget hearing over the loud speakers, as I got tossed around like a rag doll by white water, "Beth Mann, you are dangerously close the jetties! Move away from the rocks!" No shit, dude. I see the big rocks. All up close and personal-like. Barnacles and all. I'm quite aware of my peril, thank you.

So, you see, I would have dropped out of this competition tomorrow but:

1. Again, I am competitive by nature and a decent and daring surfer, in spite of myself.

2. I've been training a 17-year old girl all summer so she could compete. She is immensely positive about the competition. "I just want to present myself. I usually don't like when people look at me and I want to not feel like that anymore. I want to feel proud of myself, just where I am."

So some 17-year old has a better outlook on this competition than me. I need to have her attitude tomorrow and do well. My well.

And blah, blah, blah. That all sounds good in theory. All that positive bullshit self-talk that's supposed to play in our heads according to all the positive bullshit books. Truth of it is, my little demons may come out to play and possibly dictate how I perform. Or how I react to how I perform. All the pep talks in the world won't magically erase those old tapes.

So tomorrow I compete. I compete against the few female friends I have here, possibly creating some awkwardness. I compete in front of a bunch of macho hotshot surf boys who will judge me. I compete with Mother Nature (though I don't know if I totally look at it that way.) And I compete with myself, the most dangerous element of all.

Just don't want to sink into a hole, you know? I don't want to feel badly about anything else right now.

***

And here's for all of you who say "New Jersey doesn't get big waves."

Ladies and gentlemen, Hurricane Bill 2009, Jersey shore style:

Photos: Surfline.com

Small Gestures, Small Flowers

Mark Dixon's "Two Friends"

Clint came over for coffee yesterday morning.

I had just returned from a brief trip back to my hometown to see some old friends. Emotionally fragile, I tried my best to engage in conversation with them and listen to their stories, though my heart wasn’t in it. I’d become too accustomed to living on an island, where my emotional sores fester in peace, alone. Social interaction feels foreign and pained at times.

When I returned, the house was a mess. My brother and my roommate had trashed it resoundingly in the few days I was gone. The tired Cinderella motif played out in my head, as I rushed around in the sweltering heat, cleaning up, trying to make my habitat feel like a home, even just a little.

Clint came over for coffee yesterday and my house smelled of rotten food. No one had taken out the trash while I was gone because apparently you need a fucking PhD to figure out how to perform this Herculean task. Putrefying bodies after a mass suicide in the tropics smelled better than my kitchen yesterday.

Clint came over for coffee yesterday and I knew he would. He looks forward to our talks and we're friends with similar "issues." Once he saw my truck pull into the driveway from my trip, I knew his arrival was imminent. I rushed around, trying to clean up. I want my friends to feel good when they enter my house, not nauseated.

But he got there too early and the scent was unbearable. I apologized, my face red with anger and mild humiliation. He tried to help but had to leave the kitchen at one point because the smell was so bad. Finally, trash was removed, coffee brewed and sanity restored.

(But was it? There's a price for constantly having to make things right when you're already busting at the seams. Needless caretaking is backbreaking and taxing. Nobody talks about the price-tag.)

Over coffee, Clint told me of a woman he had hooked up with the night before. This was a big deal. Neither of us have seen much action as of late. I gave him a high five for “taking one for the team” and asked for details.

He said it was awkward a bit, actually. He felt a little unskilled, “rusty.” His mind was whirring with a million thoughts the whole time.

“I used to be able to seduce a woman much easier. I used to stick my tongue in someone’s ear with confidence. Now…”

He trailed off and looked thoughtfully into the freshly Windexed table.

“Now my mind...it has a life of its own. I can’t control it anymore.”

His last words punched me in the gut, resonating with me too deeply. My paper-thin veneer began ripping. Tears filled my eyes as he continued his story. He looked up at some point. “Are you alright?”

I burst into tears. "No, no I’m not" I laughed, in that undoing sort of way. "I’m not even close to alright. What you said about your mind having a mind of its own. I don’t know what to do. I’m...falling down. I have been for a while.”

He reached out and held my hand on the newly Windexed table, the smell of deathrot slowly fading away with the summer breeze.

“It’s going to be alright. We’re going to be alright.”

His hand felt so warm and firm and good. All that was good was in our hands. Warmth and love and connection and friendship. Nothing felt better. He held my hand and let go of it at just the right moment, not a second too early.

Isn't it amazing, what a small gesture can do? Even old embedded pain or anger can dissipate in the soft breath of an instant. It's funny - you’re so sure those wounds are a permanent splinter in your soul - and yet one kind word or gesture can yank it out in a flash. It's almost a miracle.

I'm always waiting for flowers. Flowers from people who hurt me. A note or a box of candy. Or a word of love. A wise explanation. A touch of acknowledgment. Then I'll feel released. Then my spirit will rise again.

I'm always waiting for flowers. From the people who left me, who didn’t apologize, who disregarded my feelings, who didn't show up, who may have used me, who didn't honor me.

I don’t even like flowers that much. It’s the symbol of flowers I always await. But they don't come.

Clint came over for coffee yesterday and saved my life a little. He gave me the symbol of a flower. With a touch of his hand. It was that simple.

Clint and Beth, Long Beach Island, Summer 2009

Clint with small flower, Summer 2009

It All Went Downhill When....

1. We Stopped Bagging our Own Groceries

Perhaps it was different where you came from, but where I grew up, we worked with the cashier. It was our food after all and besides, it saved time for you, the cashier and the poor sap behind you. Now people mindlessly stand there, plastic card in hand, wishing she’d move a little faster.

Possible Societal Implication? We’ve become spoiled, apathetic babies who will soon expect the cashier to cook our food and spoon-feed it to us.

2. Men Started Shaving their Chests

I’m not sure when smooth chests became de rigueur but its a little weird. What’s with the need to be totally hairless? I, for one, find chest hair on a man to be a sexy thing. Then again, women have been aiming for baby-like hairlessness for quite a while so why shouldn't men experience the “joy” of a good hot waxing?

Possible Societal Implication? We’re desperately trying to escape the fact that we are, in essence, hairy beasts. Or we’re trying to become babies again. Our constant pursuit of youth (which hairlessness signifies, I guess) affects men as well as women. Even babies are feeling ancient.

3. Vehicles Began Making Too Many Sounds, other than Beeping

I won’t even get into the horrendous and needless noise pollution created by useless car alarms or the myriad of chirps constantly going off as people try to figure out how to activate them. I’m trying to figure out when it became mandatory that all trucks go “beep beep beep” when in reverse. Why didn't we get to vote on that? What, were blind people and children getting plowed down left and right before this new form of audio torture?

Possible Societal Implication? We're overly regulated and no longer know how to use a rear-view mirror.

4. Libraries Became Noisy

It may be different where you live but our library is no longer allowed to enforce a silence policy. Our library in the summer makes a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday seem tame. What’s next? Keggers in the church? Orgies in the classroom? Is no space sacred? Libraries used to be a sanctuary – a place for the mind to settle and focus. Now children run in maniacal circles while their parents talk loudly on their cell phone (on the other side of the library. Shhh...they don't want to be disturbed!)

Possible Societal Implication? We’ve lost any sense of self-discipline or sanctity of space. The need to spill over has become so widespread, that you’ll probably bring a cell phone with you to your grave. (Reception sucks 6 feet under, by the way.)

...oh and many of our kids have become undisciplined monsters.

5. Antibacterial Products became Commonplace

Clean wasn’t clean enough for the anal-retentive, sexually fraught homemaker. Germs are everywhere and this is war! If she could scour her hands with bleach, she would. But for the time being, these industrial strength germaphobe products will protect her from all the dirty, invisible things out to get her.

Possible Societal Implication? The idea of uber-sterile cleanliness has become an obsession because we’re control freaks and spend too much time indoors. And women need to be fucked better overall.

7. Our Workdays Went from 9 - 5 to 8 – 6

Even though the average workday is slowly becoming a thing of the past, it's very Big Brother that our 9 – 5 slowly morphed into an 8 – 6. As if we wouldn’t notice! But we didn't, really. Now Dolly Parton’s tune sounds almost antiquated.

Possible Societal Meaning? We're still a slave to the man.

8. Those Stupid Blow-up Christmas Things were put on Lawns

Come on. They’re not cute. They’re not quaint. They’re stupid and tasteless. I don’t even think kids like them.

Possible Societal Meaning? We are inundated with such generic nonsense that we’ve lost any sense of aesthetics or taste.

Ho, ho ho, I'm a tasteless eyesore!

9. People Stopped using their Turn Signals

What, are they too good for you? Well, then don’t trouble those tired little fingers of yours. I’ll use my telepathic skills instead.

Possible Societal Meaning? Turn signals indicate a sense of consideration and concern for the other. That’s going, going, gone.

10. Parents started Talking on their Cellphones While Pushing a Baby Stroller

My brother mentioned this one. He wondered whether a child subconsciously feels the disconnect that happens when a parent mindlessly pushes a stroller while talking on the phone. Regardless if you believe it, one thing for certain: this is not quality parent/child time.

Possible Societal Meaning? Our cell phones have a life of their own at this point. They're stuck between our legs, plastered to our face and checked maniacally. Our need for connectivity has made us extremely disconnected. And sure, kids feel that.

11. People began using Giant Plastic Wheelbarrows for a Day Trip to the Beach

Every summer I watch men and women break their backs lugging these massive plastic wheelbarrows packed to the gills. Can anybody pack light anymore? Do you really need the effin' kitchen sink with you? Those same people insist on air-conditioned rental units with cable television and internet service. Why leave home at all? Pesky nature, not cooperating with your needs again!

Possible Societal Implication? Gluttony and dependency on stuff to the nth degree. We all need dumped in a jungle with a compass and Swiss Army knife.

12. Food Became Too Orange

Have you seen a Cheeto lately? It’s not just orange: it’s shockingly orange. Listen, I can pig out on snack foods with the best of them. I'm no health food nut. But you have to wonder how you can blithely consume something that may in fact glow in your intestines.

Possible Societal Implication? We’re all going to hell in a neon orange hand basket.

Your intestinal tract after too many Cheetos

Amanda Dreams

Amanda dreams of riding undulating silver worms in the desert. She is wearing ornate filigree glasses and talks with Egyptian women, somehow knowing the language. She has wild orgies with ever-changing partners. She is suddenly a man, then back to a woman, then a man again. Body parts are made of dazzling metal, hot to the touch.

I dream I have to name all the parts of a chicken in front of a small, restless group of people. When asked what a giblet is, I panic. “I don’t know. I don’t know what a giblet is!” Everyone laughs at me. "I really like chicken liver though," I mutter. But no one hears.

Amanda has a dream that she is running from rooftop to rooftop, with neon green magical sneakers made of material that allows her to make these treacherous leaps. Her laughter echoes all around her. She feels like a superhero.

I dream I'm looking for a washcloth. I forgot to wash my makeup off and look everywhere. When I do find one, it's dirty. I figure it's better than no washcloth.

I also frequently dream of bathrooms. Hideous bathrooms. I’ve had these dreams much of my adult life. I have to go and I’m forced to walk barefoot in some abysmal lavatory that hasn’t been cleaned in centuries. There are no magical sneakers or undulating silver worms. Just shit, overflowing, everywhere.

Is my psyche dull? I seem to have a deadbeat subconscious that kicks out dreams that are as fanciful as a Brillo pad. Often they are just a boring rehash of a boring day: my car isn’t starting. The cable company is calling. I try to explain that I already sent the payment, but my voice goes dead on me and I just have to hear them yammer on.

I try to find meaning in my mundane dreams. I’m sure Freud or Jung would. Or perhaps I’d bore them too. They’d ask me to discontinue therapy because my psyche just wasn’t up to par. “You just have a boring psyche, Mizz Mann,” said in a thick German accent. “Vee cannot help you. Call us when you have a better internal life.”

This morning I dreamt I waited in long, long line at a department store, in real time. There is a girl I went to high school with in front of me. She has more clothes than me and I feel envious that I can't afford more. I don't even really like the sweater I'm buying. When I finally get to the cashier, she is sound asleep.

Vaclav Blaha, "It's Raining Red"

Date This

Being “set up” with someone has unnerved me since my dating life began in kindergarten. I’ve never been open to matchmaking and probably never will. Perhaps it shows a real closed-mindedness on my behalf. More likely, I just find it distasteful and patronizing.

Undoubtedly (and I mean 100% undoubtedly), I will not be attracted to this “ideal match.” I end up being shocked and insulted that my friends think so little of me as to set me up with someone so woefully unfit.

Take Clint, for instance (you’ll remember him from “Clint called me a Slut” days): Last week, he pulled up to my house in his pickup truck and told me has some “good news” for me. He just met with an insurance salesman (he recently purchased a new home) and guess what? He thinks I’d really hit it off with him! His name is Wayne Krassman.

My fists tighten and my stomach turns as they usually do in these situations (because again, I really, really hate someone trying to set me up on a date.) But I tried not to show it.

“So,” I asked breezily, “What qualities of his do you think will match mine so well?"

Clint thought for a second then responded (and these are his exact words, people):

“Well, he’s available, he’s your age…and he has a full head of hair.”

“How about his limbs? Does he have all his limbs?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Well, then Lordie, calls the preacher! I gots to get me a dress!”

Clint looked exasperated.

“Clint, if you’re going to hook me up with someone, don’t you think he should have some characteristics a little nearer and dearer to my heart, like say, a good sense of humor or creative abilities or hell, even a big cock.”

“You’re too much.”

“Okay, it doesn’t have to be that big. It’s more about the girth, anyway.”

He drove away in a huff.

“Girth!” I screamed after him.

It just so happened I had some insurance needs too, so I found Wayne on Facebook and added him as a friend and explained that I require flood insurance for my home.

You see, I’m in the process of a buyout on our family home. My brother and I acrimoniously co-own a home at the Jersey shore, where we both live. He’s lived here for three decades; I’ve lived here for two years. (You can guess who thinks he is the rightful owner of the house even though legal papers say differently.)

After years of squabbling about this house, I’m done. I’m ready to walk away from this messy familial Gordian knot and find my own home, with some fat-cocked, 4-limbed, hairy-headed man who shares my age as well as my bed. Who that magic man is, only time will tell.

So I called Wayne Krassman and conversed about flood insurance, which is required for the loan my brother needs to buy my portion of the house from me. Should my brother be doing this legwork? Hell yeah. But will he, fair reader, will he? (Psst...the answer is unlikely.)

Krassman seemed full of helpful information but it was a stressful call. He warned me of the myriad of ways we could be denied this loan. If I didn’t know better, he was gleaning satisfaction by relaying to me every worst-case scenario possible. There's always people out there like that - the ones happy to tell you bad news.

“But Wayne, this house has been paid off for decades. We’re applying for a loan that’s a quarter of its worth. If for some strange reason he defaulted, they’d still benefit!”

“Well, banks aren't in the home-selling business. Especially not now. Do your homework. You could be in real trouble.”

Dick.

My future suddenly seemed quite scary. I imagined being stuck in this house forever, spiders setting up camp in my hair, losing front teeth and naming squirrels. Many thoughts raced through my mind but not for one second did I want to “hook up” with this guy...hook him through a cheek muscle, yes. But I forced myself to be nice. I needed help. Choking back worried tears, I muttered:

“Wayne, thanks for taking the time to explain this to me. This is all new territory.”

Then the "man of my dreams" says, apropos of nothing:

“I’m always happy to help a woman as attractive as yourself. I really liked some of those sexy shots you have on Facebook.”

I could smell the indignation broiling in my brain. Smoke slowly leaked from my nose.

“That’s pretty inappropriate, Wayne. I’m actually concerned about my welfare, not some stupid pictures on Facebook.”

“So who took them?”

Wow. Brass ones - dangling and clanking brass ones. Not only does he hear a potential client’s immense disapproval of his sexist line of comments, but he continues down this road, proudly and blithely.

How I wish I could tell you I stung him with some pithy one-line response. And how I hung up the phone and lit up a cigarette, blowing the smoke out like an indignant Lauren Bacall.

But I did none of that. Because I was desperate for information that may help my future. So I swallowed my pride like a load of warm cum and continued to ask the heartless and clueless Cretan about flood insurance.

Humiliating? Most definitely. I definitely lost some dwindling self-respect for the sake of flood insurance.

When I was done with our "first date", I reached for a Zombie Pill (what I affectionately call my anti-anxiety meds that the Gyn prescribed me when I broke down for no apparent reason in his office a few months ago.) I grabbed a glass of wine to enhance the mind-melt effect. (As my late, great friend Krissie used to say "When the bottle tells you not to mix with alcohol, they're just trying to deny you a good high.")

I sat very still on the worn living room couch, staring out the window, waiting for the pill to kick in.

Clint stopped by a little later. I told him dreamily that I conversed with Wayne.

“Well, what do you think?”

My mind had already started melting. My financial worries became warm jelly and the sunset seemed particularly sunsetty, what with all its oranges and purples and red wine.

“I think I'm in love.”

"I knew you guys would get along!"

How to Ace a Job interview

How to Ace a Job Interview by Beth Mann from Beth Mann on Vimeo.

From 1999 - 2006, a group of friends and I worked on an experimental comedy show called Thrush TV. It was very lo-fi, guerrilla style videomaking. We were mainly performers or writers, not filmmakers! With that said, we had some wonderful times making our weird little program and learned so much. We produced over 100 shows. It was experimental in the true sense of the word and we laughed...alot. Above is an excerpt from one episode.

Who's your Daddy, Beth Mann?

Paul E. Mann

Dad:

I haven't spoken with you in so long. Things are such a mess. And I need your help.

I seem to be crying too much, feeling overwhelmed and broken. I don't really think anyone cares about me. Everyone will say they do...but they don't. Not in a real way. Not in a lasting way.

When you left many years ago, I thought you went to be with a better family, with a better 6 year-old girl. There must be something wrong with me, with us. And I worried, constantly, what bad thing would happen next. You see, when someone leaves you suddenly as a child, you live in a constant state of the "other shoe dropping."

That worry may be killing me, Daddy. And I don't want to die. I don't want to want to die anymore. Life is pretty and I'm afraid I'll miss it.

For much of my adult life, I was very lost. But its alright. I'm beginning to see myself a little more clearly because of all the shit I've been through. I am becoming more whole, as far as fractured people go. I'm trying.

But when people leave me in any way, shape or form, I become so defeated, so distraught. And guess what? It seems as if people do leave me more, as if I'm living out some awful destiny. Like I'm perpetually a little girl losing someone, perpetually in a state of grief. Too many years have gone by like this, Daddy, too many.

I worry that sometimes my heart will literally break. My heart started beating funny last year and I was so scared, Dad! I thought for sure all the heartache and tears had worn away my heart muscle.

That's why I'm writing to you. Change must come. Or I may not make it.

When you lose your father, you don't even dare dream things. You just figure something is very wrong with you and dreams are for little girls whose daddies stayed. Nothing works for the girl whose Daddy left. She's a perpetual Cinderella, sans a saving Prince.

I want to let myself dream again. I want to fall in love and get married and spend every day feeling wonderful that I found the man of my dreams... big love. I want to be confident and speak my mind without feeling stupid or ashamed. I want to be at peace, not frightened and anxious. I want to laugh so hard, it hurts. I want to feel safety. I want a deep sense of home. You see, when you left, home left too and has never returned.

The year my father left

Maybe we wouldn't even get along had you had stayed, I don't know. But I remember you being a very gentle and just man. Kind. Am I wrong? You loved nature, animals, singing. You loved laughing. You were well-liked and humble. Mom was the dark horse but you were the jovial, peaceful one. (You left us with a real troublemaker, I can tell you that. Damn you for that.)

My mom and dad

My father in a comedy skit, with broom

It was humiliating growing up, not having a father. And now that mom is gone, I'm an official orphan. Now people say, in this slightly patronizing tone that only I recognize, "You can spend the holidays with us. We'd love to have you." The royal "we" that everyone has and I don't. I hate their invitations.

Father's Day...whatever. Another day to feel amiss and discordant with the world. A day like any other.

So how can you help, Dad?

Please convince me of the truth.

You didn't leave me. You died, Daddy - you simply died, like humans do.

Had I been allowed to visit you in the hospital or go to your funeral or visit the cemetary in which your bones lie, had I even felt your spirit around me a little more over these years, perhaps I'd own my life more fully, more richly. I would have grieved once, not constantly.

I so wish you were here, even for 5 minutes. I'd like to show people you exist. You see? I have a father too! A good father!

But since you can't be here, please send help my way. You can do that, can't you? Death shouldn't stand in the way of you being my father.

Until then, I'm just a butterfly, kicked about by the wind.

Love, Beth

The last photo of my father. He died 2 weeks later.

Surfing, Sexism and Self-flagellation

I have been surfing for about 7 years now. Taught myself.

It's a very difficult sport to master and I'm not even close to where I want to be. But I work on it, constantly. I surf because it maintains my sanity. Without it, I'm left swimming in a sea of dark mental chatter that threatens to drown me out entirely.

I bought a short board last Christmas. This is a very big deal. Short boarding is for the hotshots, the pros, the fast ones, the shredders, the rippers. Short boards are difficult to ride and require more control and manipulation. You "carve" a wave instead of coasting down it and build momentum with fast turns.

I'm 42 and female. I bought a short board that many men my size can't ride.

My first official short board (6'0) by shaper John "JC" Carper

Long boarding, on the other hand is easier. It is how many people learn how to surf, though I did not. It's a bigger and slower, experience. You can catch waves more simply. Its easier to find your center of balance. It's graceful and an art in and of itself.

In a nutshell, short boarding is like driving a touchy race car and long boarding is akin to taking a Cadillac out on a Sunday drive.

This is long boarding:





This is short boarding:




Two totally different animals.

I spent the better part of the bitter winter struggling with this board, wiping out repeatedly and spending agonizingly long moments pinned to the ocean floor in 38 degree water temps. I've been held under so long that I couldn't speak afterward, my facial muscles constricted from the cold.

Sitting in my truck, heat blasting and ego deflating, I'd wonder if my new board is simply beyond my skill level. It's just another mistake I've made. And a costly one - boards aren't cheap...long or short.

And the men out in the water didn't help. They'd paddle up to me, icy breathed, saying, "You really should try a longer board. It's easier." Of course, I knew they'd never say this to a guy. I paddled far from them and practiced. All winter. I stayed away from "the group" until I felt more confident. I didn't need their critical eyes on me, like watery vultures preying on weakness.

It's important to hold your own with other surfers. The better you get, the more you're "allowed" to surf with the good ones at the better spots. And they give you no breaks. They'll yell at you if you pull off a wave (meaning you chickened out at the last second) and they expect you to keep up with them. It's very "in club" and very competitive - male or female.

Very slowly, I improved and joined back up with other surfers. I could catch waves, drop in, make turns but still hadn't mastered sharp turns, where you use your back foot as the pivot. My board still feels like glass under my feet. It goes so quickly and my response time needs to improve. But I hold my own.

Still, the chorus of voices chant, "Get a long board, Beth."

An aerial - something I can not do...yet!

Luckily, there is one voice of dissent: Kurt, the youngest of The Brothers:

Kurt, trying to look like a "70's porn star" as he put it.

Yep, he's my only ally. Friends and I have lengthy discussions wondering whether Kurt may in fact be part wild. He's a highly kinetic dude. Think Spicolli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High meets a hand grenade. He's an aggressive and good surfer. And a real sweetheart. He believes in me. He's my crazy little lifeboat.

I surf with him the most. He's watched me get tossed about like a rag doll all winter. It sucks failing repeatedly but having someone watch you fail repeatedly sucketh that much more.

A better photo of Kurt so he doesn't kill me.

Kurt has constantly maintained that I could learn and master this board. I just had to stick with it.

He's heard people tell me I should get a long board and he gets equally defensive. "Why should she get a long board? She's good. She's aggressive. She just needs practice." I could kiss him when he says this.

Yesterday, one of the nicest local guys I surf with paddled up to me (right after I caught a solid wave and was feeling rather proud) and I could feel it, before he even said it.

"You know what you need, Beth?"

"Don't tell me, Chris. Let me guess. A long board?"

"Exactly! How did you know?"

My face froze like it did in the winter, but this time with anger. I was pissed.

"I knew, Chris, because I hear it all the time. Even though you all see me catching waves on this board. Even though I've don't even like long boarding. Even though, if I was a guy, you wouldn't say that in the first place!"

"I just see that board slipping away from you sometimes."

"When?"

"I don't know. Just in general."

"Have you watched me lately? Did you see that last wave? I've done nothing but improve on this board. Besides its 7 inches taller than me...it's not even that short of a board for my size. What, do you want me on a big, fat, pretty cruiser board? Should it be pink with ribbons too?"

He muttered something about not meaning anything by it and paddled away, looking a little hurt and feeling badly.

And so did I. I don't like snapping at people. But a girl can only take so much.

The voices inside my head began their usual battle.

"You shouldn't have been so mean."

"Well, when can I speak my mind? When can I just tell people to back the fuck off? When can I be angry?"

Of course, this kind of battle rages on, regardless of surfing. It's almost as if the more I find "my voice" the more I alienate people. And then I berate myself for...being too much myself. I can be an angry, self-righteous and opinionated bitch. And I don't see any signs of changing these traits. If anything, they are becoming more pronounced.

But then the guilt kicks in and my inner shrew shrieks in frustration.

"What do you want, Beth? Do you want to be yourself or do you want the world to love you?"

"I want both. Isn't it possible to have both?"

"No. It's not. You just aren't that nice, that likable."

"But I am. I am. I swear, I am!" the gentle, quiet soul in me protests. "I'm very kind."

I tried to be nicer to Chris the rest of that session though I was the one who felt insulted, degraded. It's the twisted way in which one lives apologetically.

"Sorry I spoke up. Sorry I got angry. Sorry I exist. Sorry I cried. Sorry I scared you away. Sorry I yelled. Sorry for my clumsy humanness. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

What a dilemma we women find ourselves in - or at least this woman. You either smile and hear limiting messages for the fortieth time or you finally speak from your gut and feel like shit about it afterward. I'm trying to eliminate the "feel like shit" aspect.

I'm trying to learn to short board at 42. It's very hard but I'm getting it: short boarding and telling people to fuck off.

Me on a shorter board: 6'7 last summer - photo by Laura Maschal

(Me, several years ago on a 7'2 - my biggest board and not a long board. I'm much better than this now - you'll just have to trust me!)

Perfunctory Sex with Jared Leto

(As 14 of you may know from my previous post, I magically created actor/singer Jared Leto out of thin air with my supernatural abilities, only to send him running because of my rudeness and general lack of caring. Well, last week, Jared forgave me and asked me out to dinner. I happily obliged.)

He wanted to be called "Shaun" for obvious reasons: so people wouldn't hear me saying "Oh, Jared this" and "Oh, Jared that" and blowing his superstar cover. I'm fine with that. "Shaun" was also a "park ranger" and living in the "Pine Barrens of South Jersey." Sure, sure, Jared. You hone those little acting skills of yours.

I wasn't so fine with the fact that "Shaun" was only about 5'7, maybe two inches taller than me. I don't have a preference for certain physical traits. If I connect with someone then I can easily look past "imperfections." But tallness? That's one I can't seem to get beyond. I need me a taller man.

And alas, I can't say that's all Shaun had working to his disadvantage. He also wore a baseball cap into a fine dining establishment. The Mean Miss Manners inside of me wanted to slap it off his head, with a "What the fuck are you thinking?" And the cologne...marone! He could choke a horse with that shit. Unless you have exquisite cologne, don't wear it. But who's going to tell Jared Leto this? Not I, sir...not I.

We did have sex later that night. I really needed to check it off my 6-month To Do list. Was it earth-shattering? Nah. It was adequate. Perfunctory. I had perfunctory sex with Jared Leto. That can't be a good thing. But if you haven't had it in a while, you'll take your sex like a big, fat pill and swallow hard.

As Shaun dressed to leave, I looked at his lithe, young and slightly petite body. My...I think his waist was actually smaller than mine and I'm hardly a big girl. My sheets smelled of his Italiano cologne. Annoyed, I began thinking of the tons of laundry I'd have to do to remove D'Odor the next day. Jared Leto was not all he was cracked up to be. Hell, he wasn't even Jared Leto.

Or perhaps it was me. This Shaun guy was perfectly fine for a fun fling. No, I wasn't interested in him in that heart and soul way - but he's still a warm, breathing and naked body in my presence. Couldn't I maximize this experience? Carpe fucking diem? I'm a sexy girl. I do sexy things. Why can't I do it now? Have I lost my groove?

As I walked him to the door, he turned around to kiss me quickly before his departure. "Did you have a nice time, Beth?" he asked somewhat nervously.

It was then I took a sexual chance and allowed my Scorpio side to rise from me like uncoiling, taut snake...or a clownish, undersexed Jack-in-the-Box, take your pick.

Grabbing his head, I stuck my tongue in his mouth like I meant it...because I did. My groove was at stake. His responsiveness in the form of a raging hard-on only encouraged me more. I grabbed his ass and pulled him toward me, as hard as I could. His hands slipped under my flimsy dress and my knees gave way a little. And I felt my old self again.

"Wanna do it again?"

"Yes, Shaun. Let's do it again."

"That's the first time you've said my name all night."

"Shut up and take off your clothes."

Jared Leto, Malibu Magazine Photoshoot 2007

How I Scared Jared Leto Away

(Let me just say, this post may be just a flimsy excuse to post videos and photos of Jared Leto. Just look at the photos if you're feeling lazy.)

"Beth, you know you want to slap my pretty little face."

I believe in magic. I have since I watched Bewitched when I was a kid. But since I can't twitch my nose, I realized, if you want something to happen, just envision it, vividly, talk about it, write it, say it out loud repeatedly. That’s all a spell is after all…and then live as if you know its going to happen.

That’s how actor/singer Jared Leto entered my life.

I’ve had a teenagery crush on Jared for several years now. I'm not proud of it. It's kind of a "gay" crush to have. It seems I should crush out on someone cooler. He seems like a bit of a self-involved Hollywood brat. Unfortunately, I think there’s something about his utter cockiness that actually appeals to me. That attitude that says, "Beth, you know you want to slap my pretty little face."


Last week, a friend was concerned about my sagging spirits because of a recent break-up of sorts and asked what would help me. I thought for a second and said, “Jared Leto. I want Jared Leto to pull up in a big, black car in front of my house. I want him to stick a single leg out of the car (which will be covered in tight, soft and worn jeans) and tell me to get in.

Of course, I'd oblige and have a steamy night out with Jared Leto. He’d have his hands all over me the entire evening. He’d stick his tongue in my mouth in an aggressive and bold manner. That cockiness of his would take on a whole new meaning.

He'd wear this:

Get in.

No, no...maybe he'd wear this instead:

I said, get in!

At the end of the night (which would be the next morning), he’d drop me off and I’d feel all-better! Happy and high and heart-healed from Jared Leto’s scalding hot then icy cold energy. Of course, we couldn’t be together. No, no…he’s far too narcissistic for my tastes. But I’d be healed, redeemed, SAVED by Jared Leto. I'd let go of the real man ruthlessly and stupidly stuck in my heart like an old splinter and my confidence would soar once again.

Well, last week a friend emailed me a photograph of a guy she knows on the mainland. She wrote underneath “Remind you of anybody?” Sure enough, this guy was a dead ringer for Jared Leto! She sent him information about me on the sly and he sent me an email, asking me out. See? Just ask for Jared Leto and ye shall receive Jared Leto.

We exchanged phone numbers and the next day, he sent me a text. Since I already plugged him into the phone, it was quite exciting to see a “New message from Jared Leto.” We texted back and forth and he said he’d call the next morning.

Well, the next morning comes along and no call from Leto.

I wish I felt disappointed. I just don’t care that much about meeting new people. I have a real " Leto comes, Leto goes" attitude. I know its prudent to hook up with someone, to break the spell of another, but it takes effort. Laziness and defeat easily overtake me. I've never been the "go find yourself a man" type. They tend to fall into my lap, sometimes quite literally.

I proceed to have an afternoon of surfing that lasts until the evening.

By the time I get home, I am famished and over Mr. Jared Leto. I hurriedly make a meal and sit down to watch some old Law and Order when see my phone ringing. Sure enough, it’s Jared Leto calling. Let it go to voicemail. You need food, you don’t feel like talking and screw Jared Leto anyway.

But I couldn’t help but be lured in when I saw “Jared Leto is calling.” I pick up.

“Hey Beth. I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier. I had to go into work at the last minute.”

“Oh...what’s your real name again?”

“Matt…as opposed to my fake name?”

“No, I just meant…Matt, I’m eating dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How about I call you back in a little while.”

“I think I’ll be sleeping then.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Okay, bye...ah, Matt.”

I hang up, realizing that my cavalier attitude just cost me a chance to hook up with the very thing I asked for...or at least a version of it. I wonder what’s wrong with me for about 30 seconds then shrug it off and return to the safety and serenity and plot predictability of Law and Order.

Later that night, I realize I was a bit of an idiot. That I’m hanging on to the hopes of someone I need to let go of. That I waste too much time deliberating over loss and love. That I’m getting complacent and in order to meet someone, I may have to be…oh, what’s that word…nice.

And I have to try. It hurts like hell to try; it feels unnatural and strained but like a flabby muscle, its gets stronger...hopefully.

I call him.

“Listen…Matt. I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Yeah, you were pretty rude.”

“I know, I know…I’m kinda new to this dating thing and well, it seems…I’m just not very good at it. If we go out, you know, on a date, I promise to be as sweet as cherry pie.”

“Hmm…I’ll think about it,” he said.

Silence.

“Hey, Beth. I have to go right now. I have some laundry to do.”

“Laundry?”

“Yep. Laundry. Talk to you later.”

Touche, Mr. Leto. Touche. Beth Mann got the old blow-off by Jared Leto and deservedly so. The Universe had provided me with a hottie but I didn’t do my duty and receive him properly. Totally and utterly my cosmic bad.

Magic - it has a strange way of happening.

"I'm busy doing laundry, Beth."

"Touche, Jared Leto. Touche. Could you do mine too?"

There's a scene in the middle of this where he almost kisses a mirror image of himself...sigh. I love it. Pretty good tune too.

What Kind of Tears do you Cry?

My friend Beth crying Daily Bullshit Tears combined with Tears of Elation after finding out she wouldn't be held entirely responsible for her recently deceased husband's tens of thousands of dollars worth of hospital bills.

Have you cried today? This week? This lifetime? Crying is our internal pressure valve, providing relief when there's seemingly none in sight. An emotional and baptismal waterfall. A simple way to feel like a whole, emotional being again. It's been in our medicine cabinet, long before Xanax and Lithium and Prozac.

Here are the Top Ten Types of Tears:

1. Daily Bullshit Tears are pretty self-explanatory and commonplace. They fall from your eyes when your health insurance company tells you they won’t cover an expensive procedure or when an old lady slams on her breaks in the middle of a highway, forcing you to hit her vehicle and you know you will be held responsible though it was clearly her fault. Daily Bullshit Tears tend to roll down your face silently and with little fanfare, while the officer hands you a speeding ticket and walks away, swaggering.

2. Bitter Tears feel good but also burn as they roll down your face. They are born from anger commingled with acute pain. These tears are cathartic but can also twist and contort a situation or a memory so you feel the maximum amount of victimhood. In short, Bitter Tears aren’t always accurate but feel good nonetheless. Bitter Tears are usually caused by profound disappointment in another, scorned love, scorched feelings and dashed hopes. They are most commonly released after a divorce or a break-up or a thoughtless action or comment. But beware; these tears can become increasingly caustic and have a limited shelf life before they turn into depression and Endless Tears.

3. Endless Tears are alluring but dangerous. It’s why the song “Stop your Sobbing” was written. These drops seem to replenish themselves from a never-ending well of pain. And while crying is one of the most magical self-cleansing acts we can perform, excessive crying creates a pool that becomes deeper and deeper. Drowning is a distinct possibility. Dry off and pull your bedraggled soul out, if you sense this occurring. Force yourself out into the light of day. It will hurt at first, so beware.

4. Vintage Tears grab a memory from the past and flood you, making it feel like it was yesterday. Vintage Tears force you to realize how quickly time is passing and how precious life really is. They can be caused by deep regret and remorse for a dark period in your life or for words never spoken or even for pleasant times that are no more. They work well when revisiting a painful family memory and are perfect when missing a dead pet.

5. Depths of Hell Tears are released when someone dies or when dealt a devastating blow. They accompany sobs that sound animalistic and wrenching, meant to reach God’s ears directly. My mother cried Depths of Hell Tears when she found out my father died. I was 6 when she picked up the phone and was given the news and fell to ground, emitting a sound that one doesn’t easily if ever forget. Sometimes I cry Vintage Tears remembering that moment.

6. Hysterical Tears are very rare and special. They are manifested when laughter meets terror. It’s like going perfectly mad for a moment. I experienced Hysterical Tears once during a difficult rock climbing adventure. I was midway up a very steep climb and looked down and became seized with fear. I couldn’t seem to climb any higher. I looked up and saw my friend urging me onward. I began laughing and crying at the same moment, totally terrified and unsure what to do next. It was a sensation I’ll never forget.

7. Empathy Tears fall when sharing the pain of others. These tears are perfect while watching the news or seeing an animal in distress. They can often be collective tears, shared with the world. When asking Beth (pictured above) if I could use her photo for this post, I began tearing up. I remember all too well the horrible stress she was under and the relief she felt when the Universe gave her a much-needed break. It's still hard for me to look at that photo.

8. Misplaced Tears happen as you are going about your business and then something as stupid as a light bulb dying or banging your elbow causes an overflow of tears to come gushing forth. It's not the fact that you have to change the bulb or that your elbow hurts; it's more a matter of that trivial thing pushing you over the edge and you releasing the stress of what is truly burdening you.

9. Frozen Tears. Poor men have a fair share of these tears in their personal freezer and it’s not entirely their fault. We’ve created a world where men aren't supposed to cry but are still expected to be "emotionally available." It is sad indeed that many men (and women) don’t experience that giant sigh of relief that comes after a good cry. Frozen tears are dangerous and lead to compartmentalizing and walking zombieism as well as a plethora of other serious health problems. Frozen Tears are often surprisingly dislodged by a good movie or sad song, so there is hope.

10. Tears of Elation are cherished tears actually explode out of you when you least expect it. These are deeply healing tears that touch the aching little child inside all of us. They can rush out when we’ve given up all hope and something good magically happens. Or when romantic love prevails in the end. Or when a child is born or two right people are married. Or when you feel very wronged - but someone rights it so damn well. Tears of Elation heal the depths of your soul and give you reason to live.


Of course, categorizing tears is hardly an exacting science. Any tear can be beautiful and therapeutic. The clue you're on the right track? You should feel better after crying, not worse.

Sometimes tears can be wrongfully placed. You may think the lover who scorned you is wholly responsible for your pain when, if you dig a little deeper, it may be a family issue or a feeling you've been battling with your whole life. Tears are best cried when you can identify and own the actual source of the pain and cry from that place. It's usually a little more than Joe or Jane Done Me Wrong.

If someone cries in front of you, make sure you don't freeze up or try to stop them. Shouldering someone's tears is a privilege and as important is as crying them yourself. Someone is entrusting you with their pain. Hug them until they are out of tears. Let them pull away first. Heal people and you heal yourself.

Quotes on Tears

“I cry a lot. My emotions are very close to my surface. I don't want to hold anything in so it festers and turns into pus - a pustule of emotion that explodes into a festering cesspool of depression.” ~ Nicolas Cage (Bitter Tears)

“Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.” ~ Anne Bronte (Endless Tears)

"Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened." ~ Dr. Seuss (Vintage Tears)

“Where grief is fresh, any attempt to divert it only irritates.” ~ Samuel Johnson (Depths of Hell Tears)

“I always knew looking back on my tears would bring me laughter, but I never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry.” ~ Cat Stevens (Vintage Tears with a hint of Hysterical Tears)

"I laugh because I must not cry. That is all. That is all." ~ Abraham Lincoln (Frozen Tears)

"Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don't know how to laugh either." ~ Golda Meir (Tears of Elation)

Thanks to The Other Beth, Cartouche and Lea Lane for their contributions.

The Hazards of Showerheads

The Brothers are a rag tag crew of 3 young guys at the end of the street that have adopted me into their family. While I’m grateful to get a sense of what real brothers feel like, they often try my patience with their sheer idiocy…I mean, youthful ramblings.

A “hot topic” that is sure to incite an argument among us is their views on the differences between men and women. I try to remind myself of their age but also believe that if they don’t change their thinking now, those thoughts may cement themselves into their twisted little minds and never dislodge. It’s charity work on my behalf. For the world.

After we finish surfing at the end of our street last Sunday, I try to hurry off the beach and leave Clint and Kyle behind. I can often sense when their ridiculous thoughts are brewing and do my best to disconnect from them and run for cover. Kurt, the youngest, remains in the water, burning off his boundless and wild energy.

Clint: Beth. Wait up.

Alas, I have lost my window of opportunity. As we walk off the beach together, we pass a beautiful girl on the beach. They check her out intently.

Clint: Man, I can’t help it. I must be shallow. I just love beautiful women.

Beth: Clint, we all love beautiful women. It doesn’t make you shallow.

Clint: You love beautiful women?

Beth: Sure. Why not?

Kyle: I didn’t know you swung that way.

(Childish laughter ensues.)

Beth: (despondently) Yeah, you got me. I’m a full-bore lesbian. Ladies beware.

Clint: I just feel like I should be a little more...complicated or deeper.

Beth: Appreciating beautiful women doesn't mean you’re not "deep." It means you’re a 27-year-old heterosexual man.

Kyle: I don’t know, Beth. Now that I have a girlfriend, it’s just such a burden. I try so hard not to check out other women, but I’m a man and I can’t help myself.

Beth: Shut your trap. Now.

Kyle: Oh, here we go again.

Beth: Kyle, don’t date a woman if you feel like it’s such a burden. Undoubtedly she senses that. Or find an open relationship. Or a woman that you’re happier with. But don’t insult me – or your girlfriend - by telling me it’s just the “burden of being a man."

Kyle: Beth, I wish I could shoot some testosterone into you so you could feel what we have to go through on a daily basis.

Beth: Because women have no sex drive on their own. Because women don’t check out other men. Because only men have the market on being horny.

Kyle: Men are horny all the time. You just don’t get it.

Then something snaps in me. To be denied my sex drive after months without good sex is a profound insult to injury. My volcano begins to erupt.

Beth: No, Kyle, you just don’t get it! I haven’t had sex in 5 months! I’d have sex with that fire hydrant if it looked at me funny. I’ve done things with a shower head that verge on the dangerous. My bicycle seat turns me on and planting seeds in my garden has developed a whole new meaning. I’d fuck circles around you right now, Kyle. Circles! I do “get it” because I too am “horny all the time!”

I let out a giant sigh. At this point, we’ve stopped in the middle of the street and the boys are stunned by my outburst, mouth agape, surf boards dangling under arms.

Kyle: Okay, okay. You’re horny all the time. Just relax. I'm sorry.

Suddenly I feel on the verge of tears. I hate that I used the word horny. I don’t even like that word. I always found it coarse. My best friend Krissie used to say it a lot. “God, I’m so horny.” Even though she was my dearest friend, I would suddenly see her as a cat in heat. If I didn’t watch, she might rub her ass up and down my leg and begin yowling.

As we walk home in partial silence, I try to recover. Did I just have a sex-starved breakdown? When I reach my house, the guys continue on their way. I stand in the middle of the street, unsure what to do next. Maybe I should begin yowling. Maybe leg sex is in my future. I walk to the back yard and into the outdoor shower – one of my favorite places to hide out. I turn on the water and dream of carrot seeds and bicycle seats.

The Cops Shots (or Tales of Self-Pornography)

Perhaps you will recall this photo. It's from a post a few weeks ago, entitled "I Miss Shoplifting":


This playful photo almost lead to my arrest. The threat of arrest is good fun, akin to swallowing a handful of straight pins. I suggest being surrounded by angry policemen at least once in your life. Its good for your constitution. I have been lucky enough to be surrounded by cops several times in my life, so my constitution is rock solid. Well, sort of.

I wanted a photo for my blog entry about breaking the law. Why not shoot some shots in front of the local police station, methinks. I toss my camera equipment in my truck and drive a few blocks to the nearby precinct. Setting the camera on its tripod, I set my timer and began posing quickly.

I realize my jacket was bunching up in the back, so I take another chance; I unbutton the coat a little (black bra underneath for what its worth.) Since my coat is open a bit more, I decided to take a few more risqué shots.


Why do I take risque shots of myself, I wonder. Then I quickly counter with a "Why the hell not?" I can make some guesses as to why I do. I love sex. I love sexy. I don't have much of the former currently so I have fun with the latter. I think its called compensation.

Besides, I can do whatever I want. No one to answer to. Its one of the perks of being single and kid-free. If people think I'm some narcissistic self-pornographer, then gee, they just might be right. Next week, I'll wear a burlap sack and stick my head in a bucket of wet cement in deep repentance...oh, whilst knitting.

After about 5 minutes into my police car porn shoot, I hear the precinct door slam open and three cops exit the station quickly: one in plain clothes, the other two in uniform. Here’s what I look like when I see them:


Don’t I look kinda sweet? Unsuspecting? Slightly embarrassed but certainly not afraid. This smile will only last a millisecond longer.

The plain clothes cop descends on me like an angry dog. My coat isn't buttoned all the way up and I desperately struggled to fix it. But the buttons won't go in easily and my hands begin shaking. The plain clothes cop gets all up in my grill (that's street lingo for in my face, thank you.)

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, miss?”

“I’m a writer. I'm shooting for my blog. I'm writing about [nervous laughter] breaking the law and how I used to do it more in the past and I miss it and…

“You don’t toy with cop cars, ma’am. Why is your coat open? Are you shooting pornographic shots in front of the cop car?”

“NO! No…I mean, not the traditional kind. It’s for my blog…”

“I don’t know what the fuck a blog is. Open your jacket!”

“Absolutely not.”

My god, was I going to be arrested for pornography? Self-pornography at that?! Is it a crime even? I don't know. Why am I doing this anyway? Have I become a pervert? A weirdo? Are playgrounds and vans in my future? Just how bored have I become?

By this point, I am extremely nervous, realizing that this situation is suddenly getting quite serious.

“Show me your I.D. right now”

“I don’t have it. It’s at home”

I look over at the two cops standing off to the side, both of whom I know. Why aren't they helping me? Why aren't they saying something to this guy, confirming my identity?

“I live here. I’m a writer. I needed some shots in front of a cop car. Honestly, I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Ron!”

Ron, my cop acquaintance, off in the distance, shrugs his shoulders in as if to say, “What can I do? He’s my superior.”

After much explanation, the angry cop, in the blink of an eye, switches his trajectory.

“Sure. Okay, go ahead. Finish shooting. Hey, what kind of camera is that anyway? Is that an SLR?”

Oh, it's time for fucking small talk now? Well, why the hell not? Let's just talk about my Aunt Mary Lou's famous potato salad recipe next, shall we?

“Um…no. It’s a consumer…point and…shit. I don’t know.” My hands are still shaking but my jacket is finally buttoned.

“Yeah, I want to buy something like that for my daughter. How many pixels?”

“Um...I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, carry on then.”

“No thanks.”

Yeah, like I'm going to shoot more photos after that! As I walk toward my car, I begin reviewing my shots, not thrilled with any. Over-exposed, midday light. Oh well. Keep walking, Beth. Drinking early may be an option today.

Then I think about my blog post: how I wax nostalgic about law-breaking, how being a bit of a badass is in my nature and that's a good thing. I begin to wonder if my badass posturing karmically brought this trouble on, which seems sad. Was this a case of hubris and cosmic payback? I sure didn't seem like much of a badass, that's for sure. Shaking, stuttering, scared and very unsure what to do.

It was then I turned around and said:

“Okay, I’ll continue shooting. These shots aren’t what I want.”

“No problem.”

They walk back inside, chatting, easy like a Sunday morning. (My friend who works with cops explains to me that their aggro nature is second nature to them. It can be turned on and off like a light-switch, without all that post-adrenaline jitters that the rest of us feel.)

So that was as much badassness I could muster in that moment: to continue shooting in the face of a possible arrest and angry interrogation, even though my knees were shaking and my skin was white clammy.

Here's my last shot of the day, looking a tad different:


And now for the boring but helpful informational part of my post. If there are any corrections or additions, please feel free to add. I'm not an expert in this arena, by any means:

If you are ever in a difficult situation with the police, know these points (and remember, this could be you, no matter how law abiding you are. As Socrates once put it, "Shit happens."):

• Do not, under any circumstances, physically resist the police. To do so justifies their use of force to compel you.

• Law Enforcement Officers have the right to stop and question any citizen, whenever a felony has been committed and they have reasonable grounds to believe that the citizen may have been involved in that felony. If this should happen to you, your first reaction should be to cooperate fully with the officer. This is not harassment, unless the questions asked do not or cannot pertain to any real crime (“Open your jacket!”)

• At your first opportunity, when you suspect that you are being harassed, you should ask, "Am I under arrest?" This forces the officer to inform you of your official status. If he or she does not formally arrest you at that point, then you are still a "private citizen" with all the civil rights thereof. You do not have to answer any questions or allow the officer into any premises for which he or she does not have a warrant.

• Ask the officer, "What crime is under investigation?" The answer to this question should allow you to decide whether the officer’s questions are legitimate.

• You should not volunteer information about any persons or incidents, no matter what is promised to you. Anything you say can be used against you and others, and could be used out of context to mean something you had never intended. You will not clear yourself by naming others or describing events. It is best not to say a word until you have legal representation present.

• Sometimes you could be subjected to bigotry, insult or epithets from police who feel that intimidation will get them results from reticent subjects. Do not go into shock, do not lose your temper and do not respond in kind; it will could only make matters worse. If you can remember exact words and details, write them down at the first opportunity and talk with a lawyer about whether you have adequate grounds for a civil rights complaint.

• The police may take you to the station to talk. If this happens, ask to have an attorney present. Then shut up. Don't say anything until the lawyer is there with you and speak only if your lawyer advises it.

• If you are in a public place with a multitude of neutral witnesses, like an event in a public park, you can speak a little more freely. Just remember, witnesses can work against you, too, so watch what you say and watch your temper.

• If you are at another's home when the police come in, remain quiet. Avoid incriminating your host. You really don't know what grounds are being used for the raid and you probably don't know they are innocent; so avoid incriminating yourself or others. In this case, the time to act is afterward; see an attorney.

• If in your own home and the police ask permission to come in, the answer should be "No." You should step outside and talk with them. Offer to go with them to the police station. You don't have to let them in without a warrant. If you are asked, "What do you have to hide?" simply ask "What kind of question is that?" If they are not asking to come in, but breaking down your door, give way and let them in. Don't fight them or make any insults or threats, but remember all that is said and done, make notes, and get a lawyer.

• If the officer looks frightened or angry, take extreme precautions not to do anything to startle him or make him think you are about to do him harm. This is a time of maximum risk to yourself, so be very polite and don't do anything that may be interpreted as a threat.

A Nice, Safe Post

Because of all the negative feedback I received from my last blog entry, I have decided to write a sweet, innocuous one that no one can complain about.



I like vanilla pudding. Do you like vanilla pudding? I like it because not only does it taste good, it makes me happy. If you’re not feeling happy, maybe you should try vanilla pudding?

Puppies make me happy too. I wonder if they make you feel good? Some of them have big, floppy ears and that’s cute! Sometimes a puppy will bite and that's not so good. When puppies bite you, it can hurt! But it’s all right. That doesn’t make them bad puppies.

I like the people. They are fun and nice! When I meet another one, I smile and sometimes, if I’m lucky, they smile back. When they smile back, I feel warm inside. When they don’t, I still think they are special. I just don’t feel as warm inside.

The sun feels good!!! I like it on my skin. I wonder if you feel the same? If you don’t, that’s all right. You don’t have to feel the same as me. We’re different and that’s all right!

If I’m eating vanilla pudding in the sunlight, I’m extra happy. If a puppy comes along, well then I smile so hard, it hurts. But it hurts in a good way – don’t worry! I’m all right.

And Pearl Jam sucks.

I Miss Shoplifting

(Play music video below at end of post before reading for full soundtrack experience.)

Even though I have a mild crush on the cop up the street, I know it can never be. First off, he reminds me of Father Karras from The Exorcist and I refuse to pursue someone based on my love of a possessed priest in one of my favorite movies.

Secondly, no matter how “chummy” (as my Mom would say) we become, I know he’s packing heat and could slap a pair of handcuffs on me…and not in the good way. In short, cops will always make me just a little uneasy.

This is because I’m an outlaw. A bandito. A troublemaker. If a sign reads, “No Trespassing” I consider it a playful dare. If a light is red and no one is around, of course I go...of course. If a bottle of pills says, “Don’t mix with alcohol,” I think the establishment is trying to deny me of a perfectly good high.

Growing up in South Jersey, I shoplifted during most of my teen years, as a hobby. My friend Vicki Franceschini and I worked as a team and were pretty damn good. (Well, frankly, I considered myself a far better thief than Vicki. Vicki was always so obvious – looking this way and that, acting cagey.)

















(Vicky and I being troublemakers in NYC circa 1988, right before we snuck
into 40th anniversary of Atlantic Records concert at Madison Square Garden
and had one of the best nights of our lives.)


I preferred the casual technique. I’d steal earrings while talking to the woman behind the jewelry counter, sometimes even gesturing with the earrings before I’d slip them into my “never-ending sleeve.” I figured the obvious approach would always win out. I mean, who is bold enough to steal from under your nose, right?

My never-ending sleeve was attached to my favorite London Fog trench coat. It was too big for me so my sleeve acted as a vacuum cleaner, sucking up lipstick, underwear, hats, scarves, toiletries…I could even fit a few books up there.

Stealing books led me to my first bust, by my mother. She picked up my coat from the living room couch one afternoon and it unloaded itself, mainly with brand new books. It was tough to explain away. (Go ahead. Think of something, quick.) Oh, the look my Catholic mother gave me. That moment of utter silence. God-awful. (Though you’d think someone would give me some credit for stealing books but nooo.)

The second bust was pure carelessness on my behalf. I stole a pair of shoes from a little shoe store in a mini-mall, the old fashioned way: put on the new shoes, place your old ones in the box then back on the shelf. Slither out the door. (This was before the days of sensors, etc.)

Well, I made it out just fine but made one tragic mistake. Because I was high at the time, I had the munchies. I saw a Little Caesar’s a few doors down and just had to get me some of that Crazy Bread (damn, I loved that magical, mystical bread.) Waiting in line, I turned around and saw two of the shoe store managers walking up and down in the sidewalk, peering in the windows.

I dropped to the floor, which made the Little Caesar’s staff a little suspicious. I mumbled something about “feeling faint” but it was no use. The shoe store managers marched into Little Caesar’s and took me back to the scene of the crime. Again, that moment of silence. What do you say? Some things in life are hard to explain away.

















(Vicky and I being proper Jersey burnouts circa 1987)

I don’t steal anymore…and I never stole from people, per se. I was always the “she could steal but she could not rob” type. But ah, what a good, ol’ fashioned high! After a fruitful session, Vicky and I would toss the booty on her waterbed and just lay on it all, like happy, overfed animals.

Now, I try to do something rule-breaking or trouble-making at least once a week, just to satisfy the punk in me. But it’s so much tamer. Sure, I’ll still make a prank phone call, for some late-night kicks. And just a few months ago, I knocked on my friend’s door and ran away, simply because I could. I’ll proclaim loudly, “You sir, are a jackass!” to a friend or stranger (works best with British accent), just to see the look of surprise in their eyes. And I've been known to lift up my shirt on occasions, for no particular reason except shock value.

And if I’m ever around a sign where you can rearrange letters, I’m like a kid in a candy store.

The sign at the restaurant up the street last summer read:

COME ON IN!!
LOBSTER TAIL AND STEAK
CAESAR SALAD AND WRAPS
LUNCH AND DINNER

The first time, I had to act quickly since there were patrons in the restaurant, who upon leaving would read the simple:

EAT ME PIE!

When Ruby visited, we spent a little more time on it and added some gore value:

COME ON IN
BABY TOTS!
CAESARIAN WRAPS!

The final installment was my favorite because it left something to the imagination:

BLOW ME CAKE PARTY!
TAIL!

Breaking rules is fun and good for you. We should break as many as possible. Say outrageous things in crowded places. Make a public nuisance of yourself. Get naked, whenever. While you’re on the phone with someone annoying, do a blowjob gesture. They’ll never see it. Stop being so good. What are you trying win some good contest?

This world and the people in it are meant to be toyed with. Why would God have invented water balloons or thumbtacks? The next time someone says, “You can’t sit there” sit there anyway, grind your ass repeatedly into the seat and gleefully sing, “Oh I can, I can! Look at me! I can do anything!”

Because you can do anything. Don’t let them tell you differently.


















(Vicky and I breaking into her parent's "liquor room." They put a padlock on the door because of our previous break-ins but they forgot about the window. Their mistake. That's Amaretto we're drinking. Blech.)

You too can get the rush Vicky and I did, back in the day, when she’d jump in my car, new jeans sticking out of her coat, yelling “Drive! Now!” Screeeeech…

When my good friend Scott leaves his grandparents house, they always say, “Drive fast, take chances.” Now, that’s a little wrong. I realize that. But "wrong" is just another way of keeping you from a good time. Don’t you forget it. Don’t let them rob you of all the cheap highs out there. There's nothing but your own standards holding you back from real freedom.

(This post is dedicated to the biggest troublemaker I've ever known, my dear friend, Vicki Franceschini (left, me to the right) who died suddenly in February, 1992 at 23 years of age. May she never rest completely in peace...it's just not her style.)

(Listen to loudly for inspiration...and thanks to Ruby and The Other Beth for all of their bright ideas.)

When Dolphins Bite

“Me? But why would you choose me?”

“Your therapist suggested you. You’re an artist and she thought you really needed an opportunity like this. She thought it would be really healing for you.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say. It sounds wonderful. What do I need to do?”

“Well, you’ll have to come into New York this week, for an interview. It’s short notice but we just got your name and we’re actually extending the interview process just to meet with you.”

So, days later, as I sat on the train heading into the city, I actually felt the warm buzz of excitement for the first time in a long while. For what, you ask? Well, this well-funded women's organization hosts a retreat once a year, where a small group of females are invited to participate. This year, the trip would be to a lovely, remote Bahama island. It's entirely paid for and the focus would be on recovery, healing and recharging.

As I sat in the posh office in Manhattan, two very hip women explained to me that the days would be full of workshops and classes, along with massage, specially cooked meals, meditation and swimming with the dolphins.

“Dolphins!?” (I think I shouted this.)

“Yes, every morning a boat leaves. You can swim with the dolphins every day if you want.”

A lump began to form in my throat.

Many years ago, while on a cross-country Greyhound, a crazy woman told me that I am clearly part of a special dolphin race and should be revered by all. She proceeded to give me her generic cigarettes as a sign of respect and honor.

I decided not to tell the hip women in NYC that I was part of this special race.

“I do love dolphins,” I said instead.

“Well, we’d love to have you. But of course, we want this to be the right decision for you, so if you want to think about…”

“NO! I want to go. I want dolphins. And massage. And healing. Now! Where do I sign?”

As I headed back to the Jersey shore, my Cinderella side was feeling quite pleased. Finally things seemed to be turning around, after a long winter of isolation, too much work and some straight up, unadulterated pain and loneliness. I fantasized about the trip ahead:

In the Bahamas, maybe I would take part in some touchy feely exercise that would involve finger paints and seaweed. I'd put my standard, run-of-the-mill mocking sarcasm aside for once and begin to release the old, infected anger and pain that hangs on my back like a 200-pound moldy cloak.

And I’d do some soul-searching there, too. I really would. I’d reconnect with the God of my choice. Maybe even two Gods, what the hell? The more, the merrier.

In the Bahamas, the constant chattering in my head would magically morph into gentle whispers and loving, Universal voices. I’d look at the people surrounding me with a sense of reverence and gratitude instead of my usual “Why do you exist, you humanoid annoyance?” mentality.

In the Bahamas, I’d let go of the grief that constantly haunts me, surrounding everyone from dead family members to dead friends to dead pets, all of whom I still miss every day and dream about too much at night.

In the Bahamas, I’d stop expecting genuine apologies (accompanied by flowers) from the 100+ people who owe them to me. I’d understand their shortcomings and disregard for my feelings and want to bitchslap them nevermore! Goodbye, anger! Goodbye, resentment! It’s been a long ride, but it’s time to release you via some contrived ritual that involves group hugs and crying salty tears into the outgoing tide, capped off by frothy pina coladas at sunset.

And I’d get off this godforsaken island at the Jersey shore for a little while. Granted, I’d go to another island but it would be a different island. A remote island made just for me. I’d be surrounded by like-minded people - not overly entitled middle-class, fat families with screaming children and oversized vehicles.

I’d get out of my old house that is often, quite literally, falling in on me – one I constantly try to fix but its disrepair outweighs my ability and finances.

I’d get away from my new neighbors, whose demonic child rides his effin’ Big Wheel in front of my window 482 times a day, purposefully trying to drive me off the deep end, I’m sure. "Either you go or I go, Mario Andretti. Either you go or I go," I say to him daily.

And most importantly, in the Bahamas, I’d laugh it up with my fellow dolphins, finding my joyful heart once again. I’d be renewed and supported and loved.

I'd be whole again, goddammit!

At home, as I tried on my newly purchased “I’m healed and all better now” bikini that will match perfectly with my new and improved mental health, my cell phone rang.

It was the healing ladies from NYC.

“Hello, Beth.” (They speak in this cooey, relaxing voice. Just their voices alone make me not want to impale myself on a white picket fence.)

“Do you have a few minutes?”

The cooey lady went on to explain that there’s been a little problem. That one of the facilitators dropped out of the trip and they had to cut a few people.

“We want to make sure there’s a safe circle for the women in the group and we can’t do that when there’s not enough facilitators.”

Feeling that old, familiar, icy blood feeling, I asked her what she was really trying to say.

“Unfortunately, since you were one of the last people we interviewed, we had to cut you from the trip. We’re really sorry.”

Swallowing hard, I asked how something like this could happen. If they were so focused on “women and healing," then why do I feel extremely traumatized? Can’t they get another facilitator?

“Beth, we’re a very tight organization here. Our team needs to be very familiar with one another. We couldn’t hire someone if we weren’t 100% sure of them and since the trip is only a month away…”

I remember uttering “but the dolphins” for some unknown reason. And then I felt the tears rising. I knew I could swallow them, like I do on a regular basis…you know, shove the pain in a little deeper like a well oiled emotionally constipated machine. But then I thought, “Fuck her. I’m crying!” And I did.

We’re really sorry, Beth. We do have a smaller retreat in October. You could…”

“Please, please, don’t talk to me about October.” I managed to say.

October, I thought. Fuck October. Perhaps you don’t understand, hip lady with tattoos, but my crazy is NOW! It doesn’t wait until October. Getting through a fucking day is a miracle sometimes, let alone months. October. I piss on your October.

“We’re really sorry, Beth,” said the cooey voice.

So there will be no dancing with the dolphins and delicious, healthy meals made especially for me. There will be no massage on the beach or naked swims at midnight, where the old, tired me would effortlessly wash off into the tropical healing waters. There will be no protective feminine circle surrounding me, caring about me and encouraging me to shine like the little star I am.

There will just be more of the same for now. Oh wait, more of the same PLUS some additional crushing disappointment. But hey, that’s life. Sometimes you’re offered a trip to the Bahamas so you can let go of decade’s worth of psychic baggage and then sometimes, an asbestos-laden ceiling tile falls on your head because your roof desperately needs repaired.

Sometimes it’s just a fucking Big Wheel, going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

A Semi-Scandalous Day at the Beach (in Pictures, Mostly)

Feeling a little under the weather last Sunday, I decided not to forgo surfing and shoot some photos of The Brothers on their long boards instead. I quickly realized that shooting surfers is not only difficult but slightly boring.

But here are two prerequisite shots of Kurt and Kyle surfing anyway:
































See? Not very thrilling. I mean, both guys are great surfers. I'm just not a surf photographer.

So I lay on the beach, basking in the new Spring sunlight and thought about an idea I have for a new series of photographs:

It's a scandalous idea, you see. I would exploit all the young surfer boys I hang out with by taking risque photographs of them. Not porn, per se...just a little edgy. It would make a great coffee table book! Mad wealth would ensue!

















I mean, listen - we've had it up to here (finger to neck gesture) with photos of hot, young chicks from a male's point of view. When do you see young men from a woman's point of view? A woman who, in some cases, is twice their age? Ah, just scandalous enough to work, Beth Mann.

But where to begin, where to begin?

As I roused from my sun-drenched semi-sleep, the answer was undressing right before my eyes. His name was....I don't know. But there he was. My first model, as if a sign from above!

















He quickly noticed as I began snapping shots of him and didn't seem to mind at all. Au contraire. I think he put on his shirt and took it off about four times.

I shall call him Mr. January (for my calendar series, soon after the coffee table book is published.)








































































(The real money shot, in my opinion)

Now, some may say this is a little distasteful. My God, I could be their mother! But guess what? I'm not. I'm not their mother. And at 42 years of age, I care less and less what people think. I'm not bedding these guys (and if I was, then what? Am I desperate? Pathetic? Should we burn the witch?), I'm just appreciating them in their steamy prime as I pine away at the Jersey shore. Is that so wrong? Wait. Don't answer. Cuz look! I'm not caring again!























(The look of me not caring)


Then I decided to take a few of my friend Eric the next day. Eric is the most poetic surfer of the bunch. He's a musician and really into death and Gothic romance. He's got a delicate, sweet quality to him that I just adore. He was tough to photograph because he's a little shy. But I think we're on to something. This was just a warm-up. I think I want to put him in a bathtub, naked, with a boa constrictor or something.



































(Sure he looks a little wary of me now. But throw a boa into the mix...)

You see, I'm a bit of a pariah down here. In a traditional suburban area, where a woman of my age is either unhappily married with four kids or divorced, raising said four kids on her own, or dead from a meth overdose, I often stand alone, like a 42-year-old single unicorn.


Sure, I hang out with married couples sometimes and usually want to stick my head in a bucket. Most seem so resigned, so discontent. The few that seem happy, well, I desperately long to have what they have...but I don't have it right now.

So I surf, a lot. And these are the boys I surf with - young, silly, strong, daring, awkward at times, just trying to find themselves.














(Clint, the oldest Brother)

Since I'm not much of a people lover, these young guys have been a real salve to my misanthropy and a boon to my spirits. I see them struggle to find themselves, their voice. They are still vulnerable and open and surprisingly gentle, for all of the testosterone coursing through their veins.

They open up their lives to me, without all the decades worth of protective guise and bullshit we layer upon ourselves. Simply put, they make the whole human process seems a little more dear to me. I like watching them unravel like pretty little manly flowers.

And I plan on making a scandalous calendar called, um...The Boys of Summer. No, Girl Gone Wild or I Gotta Get out of Jersey before they Arrest Me!

$21.99.

Just click here to purchase.

Thanks to Joe for his suggestion.

The Freudian Text Message

A Contemporary Cautionary Tale

(All the names in this story have been changed to protect my sorry ass.)

So I’m in the midst of April 1, 2009, multi-tasking at my desk like a mad woman, my laptop flaming hot under my wrists, responding to emails, writing content for a bunch of sites and responding to texts. My friend Rita sends me a text, asking me about my upcoming trip to New York.

New York. Sometimes the city seems like a million miles away when it’s only about an hour from my island. After living there for several years, I have to mentally prepare myself for the trip. This time, especially so.

My ex-boyfriend Robert, who lives in NYC, is dealing with a life-threatening illness. We had an extremely unhealthy relationship when we were together several years ago – though we did have our share of fun. Hanging out with the devil is, if nothing else, a good time. And Robert is the devil. Larger than life, wild, unbridled and dangerous. A night out with him won’t soon be forgotten though it probably should be. Debauchery and revelry in the form of a large, handsome man.













( Robert last Halloween, before the diagnosis)

But a relationship with Robert? Not so fun. Especially when you’re rarely “allowed” to stay at his apartment. Why? He has a child with another woman. They are not married (really – they are not) but she has keys to his place and pops by with the child frequently. He is afraid of her, of losing the chance to see his little boy, so he gives her nothing to get upset about. That nothing was me. I felt excluded and very hurt constantly.

After a year of this humiliating treatment, I cut my ties and freed myself of the diabolical yet innately sweet Robert. But when he became ill recently, things altered. No longer interested in romance, we began to rely on each other as friends. He was scared, perhaps for the first time in his life. And he needed support. The dynamic shifted.






















(Robert, last month)

Or had it? I made plans to stay with him in NYC when it occurred to me that he could easily tell me, at the last minute, that I couldn’t stay at his place, just like before! That would be enough to send me into a ballistic fit.

So when my good friend Rita texted me, she knew my dilemma and said, of course, I could stay with her and suggested I just visit with Robert for lunch or dinner. That would be easier. I agreed.
























(My friend Rita, busy with her flag)

Then suddenly I had an idea! I thought of the 24-year old lover I had in Brooklyn. Brandon. This young guy gives new meaning to “smoking hot.” Abercrombie and Fitch ads wilt in his presence. He makes my knees feel all funny...and that's just my knees. He’s certainly not boyfriend material due to his utter lack of sanity…but bedroom material? Hell yeah!

(Brandon, posing for an art class, thinking insane thoughts)

That’s when I decided to share my idea with Rita, right quick.

The text read:

“Fuck Robert! I should hook up with Crazy Brandon instead!”

I quickly searched for Rita’s name on my phone, scrolling, scrolling (I bet you see where this is going, don’t you?) I find Rita's name right before Robert’s name and hit SEND.

And off it went…to Robert, instead!

Let's look at the exact wording of the text again:

“Fuck Robert! I should hook up with Crazy Brandon instead!”





















(Me, as a 50’s blonde, freaking out in bedroom)


No!!!!!

I called Rita, frantic. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

It took us about ten minutes to come up with a barely viable excuse that went something like this:

“It was an April Fool’s Day joke, dummy.” (She thought “dummy” was critical. That way he might feel stupid for not getting it.) And then I was to quickly start talking about something else. (Come on, it was the best we could come up with considering the restrictions of my wording.) She made me practice my response several times with her until I had it down just so. (Insert "That's what Friends are For" tune here.)

Then a novel thought occurred to me. I could just tell him the truth:

“Listen. You’ve treated me like a mistress for years. It’s fucking humiliating. I’m trying to help you during a hard time but I’m scared you’ll resort to the same bullshit tactics of the past, with no regard for my feelings whatsoever. I love you, I care, but I’m done with that old crap. I'm nobody's secret.

Meanwhile, there’s a hottie in Brooklyn, with his door wide open to me and no baby’s momma issues breathing down my back. Which one would YOU choose, Robert? Which one?”

It's been 24 hours and Robert hasn’t responded to my mistake text yet, so we’ll see. Eh…I might just go with “It’s April Fool’s Day, dummy.”

Nights are Forever with You (or More Dead Men)

Funny, death. Even when it strikes people you don't know, it can still break you up a little. Dan Seals died a few days ago. England Dan and John Ford Coley - that Dan. (Not to be confused with the Seals of Seals and Crofts fame. That's his brother, Jim Seals.)

Anyway, sad. Cancer. 61 years old. Put my Paid Work aside and decided to have an indulgently teary eyed hour, reviewing his music and his brother's (who is still alive, but heck, they're related.) Just basked in the heart-heavy memories and music of yesteryear, when I'd play my sister's records over and over, and sing to the lyrics on the back of the album, until I had them down pat. I still know all of the words to Seals and Crofts "We May Never Pass this Way Again." (Funny - then I just knew the words and now I know the meaning.)

As the teary-eyed hour became a weepy morning, I kept asking myself why I was taking this so hard (and why I wasn't doing my Paid Work. Important, Beth! Dead Dan Seals is not paying for the ceiling repairs you desperately need.) I mean, come on. Never met the guy and its not like I'm a raging fan of England Dan & John Ford Coley!

I realized, after some thought, that when you hear the same music repeatedly since you were a little child, it embeds itself into your subconscious. I know this man's words and music and voice and feel as if I know him a little. I think I'm right. I think I do.

And of course, those older songs intricately connect with times past, when things seemed simple. Ha. Or perhaps just the opposite. Just the goddamn opposite. Those times didn't seem simple at all and music was a refuge, a comfort, a friend. These people, those songs, ushered me through very difficult times. They were my distant guides. How could I not cry?

When I found out Freddie Mercury died, for instance, I was down for the count for a full week. He was my hero, my mentor. He wasn't the world's most traditionally handsome rock star - but he carried himself like a King...or a Queen as the case may be. Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin can still bring tears to my eyes. He helped me believe in positivity again...pretty big, right?

Gosh, when Elton John dies, I may implode.

As the morning passed, I discovered that Dan Fogelberg had died too (well, he died a while ago apparently) and so did Paul Davis! I did not get the memo.

I finally gave up my Paid Work for the day and decided it was infinitely more important to fully submerge myself in dead singer nostalgia or perhaps, more accurately, my nostalgia. I needed to give death its due and Paid Work be damned.

(I mean, I still find it really weird that Robert Palmer is dead. Robert Palmer shouldn't be dead technically.)

Anyway, farewell, Dan Seals and your gentle soul.

His living brother Jim Seals with the equally living (I think?)
Dash Crofts. What perfectly precious video (except for the
stupid captions at the beginning...what were they thinking?):

Possibly one of the best voices in pop music, I do believe.
Dead man, John Denver:

I really, REALLY wanted to find Dan Seals singing the song
featured below. It's my favorite tune by him (and John Ford Coley.)
Instead I found this random guy singing it decently. I don't know who
he is or if he's dead but its not as good as Dan Seals singing it (sorry,
random guy!) Find this tune and listen. It's a really good song.

Paul Davis. Dead man. What a clean, simple voice.

Then I played this dead man's music, to snap me out of my
funk. This tune and video (one of my faves) is timeless and
effin' awesome. God, he was a Hottie.

(This post is for my sisters.)

Clint Called me a Slut

“I didn’t call you a slut. I’m just saying you might want to…to tone it down a bit," Clint mumbles into the phone.

He’s referring to my photos on MySpace and Facebook. I take them myself, of myself. They are only slightly scandalous. A solid PG-13, in my opinion.

“I’m just saying that you send the wrong messages to people when you put those kind of photos up. Guys get a bad impression. People like you and me, we're more…normal than that. Just accept that you’re normal.”

Funny, I don't feel particularly normal. I had called Clint because I was feeling very down this evening. I usually just ride it out on my own but every once in a while, I gamble and reach out.

Clint is the oldest of the brothers I hang out with at the Jersey shore. He’s sort of a James Dean meets Kurt Cobain type. He has trouble speaking what’s on his mind, fretting, frustrating himself then finally saying something he considers all wrong anyway. Lately, he's found God and thinks I need to trim a little of the excess evil out of my life.

“I mean…come on. What guy’s going to…take you…seriously. They are going to think, that you’re a…”

“A slut? Don't you have to have sex in order to be a slut? I think my monastic, incredibly dull life might stand in the way of me and total whoredom."

I wish I was a "slut", whatever the hell that stupid word means. I wish the rumors would fly up and down this dumb island, "Hey, there's Beth Mann. What a slut! She just won't stop fucking. Nobody can stop her. She's literally become a fucking machine." I'd walk by and switch my ass, and drink in all the disapproving looks, like a form of foreplay.














Instead, I'm at home watching Law & Order SVU and eating popcorn, with the painful realization that I need to feel very connected with someone in order to have sex at this point of my life. (Though I do keep hoping Christopher Meloni will jump out of the screen and put me in handcuffs one day. Sigh. That man is built to bang.)

I like taking pictures of myself, I explain to Clint. It’s the way I see how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, who I am. It’s the way I feel sexy without the sex, which seems to be in short supply.













"Any guy who sees you like that, he's not going to take you seriously."

Suddenly I found his shame sinking into my ear, worming its way through my brain. I go to my computer and begin reviewing my "scandalous" shots online. I delete a photograph. Then another.

“Clint, I’m an artist. I take chances. I’m not supposed to worry about people like you and what you think.”

“Well, then don’t. I just think, well, you're not supposed to broadcast those images to everybody.”

“Well who am I supposed to broadcast them to?”

“You reserve them. For your…your…”

“Your what? I don’t have a your, your.”

Delete, delete.

“Those surfboard photos, Beth. Come on. You don’t think they’re a bit…much?”

I bought a new surfboard several months ago and took a series of shots with them. In the nude. Rebel, they call me.

“They’re nudes, Clint. It’s not like I’m fucking the damn board or something!” Delete.














I knew when I entered the wide world of the Web, it could be a sneaky, gross and suspicious place. But I made a conscious choice to express myself my way, to use my name, to be me. Of course, there are times it feels awkward and vulnerable. Of course, it can feel self-exploitative and stupid and when I'm feeling down, it feels painful and embarrassing, revealing myself to some mass audience of god knows who. But I move past it. I try.

“Beth, those kind of photos are for stars, for artists…”

“Clint, you asshole, I am an artist. I've been an active artist for over 20 years.”

“Well...then how come you don’t have more money?”

"Hey, Clint. I have an idea. How about I drive to Philly and lie down in front of you so you can literally kick me when I'm down. It might be easier in the long run. And just so you know, I’m getting a lot of attention lately for my work and…and…”

“Well, when do you get paid for that attention?”

"Are you calling me a slut and a loser? I just want to clarify."

I find myself deleting a blog entry. It's one where I...it's just too much of myself.

I begin to choke up a bit. Shame is so terribly powerful. But Clint didn't introduce these ideas to me. They were already poking holes in my gut. Like I don't feel the discrepancy between my talents and my finances? Like I'm not painfully aware that my photos are really just "me on me" action?

“No, I don’t get paid for attention. Well, I do. I mean...I get paid for what I do creatively. I just don’t get paid a lot for it but I'm surviving. And what’s that have to do with my porn shots anyway?”

“We’re just regular people, that’s all I’m saying. Accept it.”

I prepare to delete one final item of the night: Clint.

I've been deleting a lot of friends as of late. As I spend more and more time alone, battling my inner demons and demigods, my friends' input has been falling short. Its as if they really don't know me anyway and their feedback seems woefully off-track. Clint is my friend and he's dear to me. He thinks he's helping or protecting me. He just doesn't know me. My friends don't seem to know me anymore.

"You know, Clint. Maybe these are your issues. You're feeling frustrated sexually, creatively. You'd like to break out of your normalcy rut. And you're just taking me down with you."

"Maybe you're right."

"Well, it worked."










Clint and I being normal

Get off of Wine's Back!

Good wine is a necessity of life for me.

- Thomas Jefferson







As we speak, I have a glass of wine next to me. It is a decent California zinfandel. It's fruity, bright and a little simple (just like its drinker.) My wine makes me happy, and as the bland pop song goes, “If it makes me happy, it can’t be that bad.”

Well, apparently, it is that bad. Even one damn glass is that bad. This is according to the recent study by Oxford University, where over 1 million women were studied over a 3-year period on the effects of alcohol and overall health.

Here are the results, in short:

A history of low or moderate alcohol consumption increased the risk of a half dozen types of cancer as well as total cancer. The risk was greatest for breast cancer, which increased by 11 cases per 1,000 to age 75 with every additional drink.

Now I’m no doctor (though I play one on my internal TV) but here’s my very non-medical and slightly intoxicated opinion on all of this:

1. The Brits are really unhealthy anyway. Why are we taking their word on this? They're the ones who created the pasty look. They eat jellied eel and Spotted Dick. Their country was literally built on a foundation of white sugar and clotted cream.

2. What? Stress is better? So now, because of this study, a substantial amount of women will forgo that one glass of wine after a busy day and drink a nice, hot cup of their own stress-induced cortisol in its place. Goodbye cancer, hello heart disease.

3. Can we deny ourselves of any more pleasure? I already cut out masturbation because it makes hair grow on the back of your hands (right?) No more…no more! I can’t be any gooder than this. This is, on several levels, is as good as I get.

4. We’re “study junkies” with spinning heads. Of course, we all remember when we were told wine was actually good for us, just a few years ago. We were happy. That was good news! Now a new study pops out, with totally divergent results and we're supposed to manically march like good little soldiers in a brand new direction.

5. Wine is natural. It’s grape. People have been drinking wine since the beginning of forever! So we’ll give up wine and drink what? Lime-flavored Gatorade? Caffeine-laden Red Bull? Aspartame-rich Diet Coke? Come on…wine is a lovingly crafted beverage made from natural ingredients. It’s not the bad guy, in the bigger scheme of things, unless you’re an alcoholic. (And please leave pesticide argument aside...we're already being bombarded by those.)

6. Look at the happiness in the woman’s face at the top of the page. Do you want to wipe that sexy, come hither grin off of her Chardonnay lovin’ face? I don’t want to deny this model of her happiness. Let's drink for the young lady above, if for no one else. Salud, lady.

7. Can't you see? They’re trying to make nuns of us! Listen to what this doctor had to say about the study:

In a related commentary, Dr. Michael S. Lauer and Dr. Paul Sorlie, from the National Institutes of Health, Bethesda, Maryland, wrote:

Despite its attractions, alcohol has been the proximate cause of a great deal of human misery, now with additional documentation by the elegant report of Allen et. al.

Human misery? What is this, the Prohibition? Are you the new preacher in town? Who asked for your moral judgment on booze, Dr. Lauer? And who calls reports “elegant” anyway? Reports aren't elegant. They're just not. They aren't racy or sexy either.

I love wine.

I gave up cigarettes a while back. I consume very little white sugar or white flour products. I make most, if not all, of my own food. I don’t litter or chew mint-explosive gum or use aerosol hair spray or permanent hair dyes. I wear SPF and use natural makeup. I drink one cup of coffee a day (okay maybe two.) I gave up toxic people and polluted environments. I recycle. I pray. I run on the beach and say sorry when I disturb a bunch of seagulls. I take deep breaths and cry to dispel pent-up emotions so they don’t eat me alive. I live to the best of my ability.

The wine stays.

And that’s that.









Me and Wine (on the left)


Come quickly! I am tasting stars!

- Dom Perignon (1638-1714) at his first sip of champagne

The Only Things I'm Not Addicted To

My friend Dea says she has an addictive personality and I smile slightly. Because she doesn’t. Only people with real addictive personalities know that wild, sick, consumptive burn that emanates from some fiery pit in your soul and wants to eat your charred skin for dinner.

Addictions are born from the balls of the devil. Addictions make you want to carve the word "Defile!" on your forehead with a rusty blade, while your mom is forced to watch, helplessly.

Addiction is not a word to bandy about. You either have one or you don’t. No grey area. And there are no cute addictions. You’re not addicted to your puppy or your sweet spouse of 25 years or the great outdoors.

Dea says that’s not true! She's hooked on coffee. I giggle and she is annoyed. Hooked on coffee…how quaint. Try being high on a pile of coke, smoking your 50th cigarette at 4 am, drinking straight vodka with a twist of lemon (for Vitamin C, of course!) and wanting to fuck an inanimate object just because you can.

Hooked on coffee…silly girl.

So when I thought about Open Salon’s question this week, I almost refrained from responding. The question more suited for my type is “What am I not addicted to?”

What I’m Not Addicted To:

Gambling: Nope. Nothing there. A real flat line. Don’t get it. Don’t get how people would be hooked on gambling. I understand it conceptually…just don’t have that streak. Yay for me!

Ice Cream: I hear stories where people in profound emotional distress resort to Ben and Jerry’s as a way to escape. That’s a cute one too. That’s a cute little addiction for babies and puppies. I don’t care about ice cream. I care about escaping my constantly chattering brain voices with non-dairy items like horse tranquilizers.

Heroin: Shew! Thank goodness I missed that gravy train, huh? As a matter of fact, I think it’s the only drug I haven’t tried. I’ve tried GHB, ketamine, peyote, mushrooms, acid and some fancy “boutique” marijuana called Purple Kush. But no junk in my trunk. Yay for me!

Work: Nope, not a problem. No workaholism coursing through these veins. I work for a bit until my 21-year-old friend comes over and says, “Hey, wannna smoke out and go surfing?” Next thing I know, a whole day went by and I’ve completed an hour’s worth of work but a day’s worth of solid surfing. Yay for me!

Phonics: I’m not hooked on phonics. I like phonics. But I’m not hooked on phonics. Actually, I don’t even know what phonics be. Yay!

Religion: Not hooked on God. I try to parlay my ragingly addictive personality into something positively spiritual but alas, God is dead and I stand alone, sipping my wine, staring off into the sunset wondering if I could bum a cigarette from the guy in the car who's looking at the sunset too.

Love: Might as well face it, I’m not addicted to love. I love love but I’m not hooked on love. I prefer rampant codendency, unavailable men and a constant longing that makes your insides rotate and twist on a daily basis. I choose basking in the glory of abandonment issues that keep you constantly wanting something you’ll never have. Love, shmove! Gimme some of that good ol’ fashioned emotional unavailability anyday! Yay for lovelessness!

But seriously folks, I’ve come a long way, baby. My addictions have died down as the years have passed. They softened and settled. I play with my addictive personality now like an old, bad ass friend. I’ve even named her. My addictive personality is named Sally. Sally Feed the Hole (sort of has a Native American feel, no?)

Sally, say good night to the people:

“Night, night.”

See? She’s not so bad. She just wants a little attention every once in a while.

My Wizard of Oz

The sign of a good movie? It changes your life. It changes the very fabric of who you are. The Wizard of Oz did that for me. It still does. It's a classic feminine myth that instills in me hope, innocence and belief in pure, raw magic. It guides and shapes me. It still provides me with answers to questions I can't even begin to verbalize. It goes straight to my subconscious and gets to work, mending me, making me whole and good again.

Judy Garland's portrayal of Dorothy has danced in my mind my entire life. Unknowingly, for the most part, I aspire to be like her: open, sweet, growing, changing, strong, loving and dare I say, deeply sexual. She is everything I consider beautiful.

Glinda the Good Witch also resides in my soul; a beacon of dazzling white goodness. She is all that sparkles and nurtures. I dream of her kissing my forehead, during hard times. And the Wicked Witch...ah, what a good, bad witch! She remains one of the most perfect bad witches of all time, no? She lives in me too. (Probably too much of the time!)

As a child, I lived for its airing, which it did once a year, some time around Easter. Hiding in a blanket fort with just the television and me, I'd transport myself somewhere over the rainbow. Somewhere far from my home, which was rather barren and bleak much of the time. Somewhere magic ruled and prevailed.

The Wizard of Oz smoothes out the mess for me. It shoots right to my center, right to a sweet spot in my soul. It provides hope to my hopelessness. Magic to my well-worn cynicism. Angels to my devils. It reminds me of who I am, somewhere deep, somewhere over a rainbow - that alternate, perfect universe where I am whole, strong, beautiful and deeply feminine. And magic abounds everywhere, just everywhere! There is no doubt in the land of Oz.

The Wizard of Oz heals the little girl in me, over and over again. Does that sound too corny? Oh good. I hope it does.

Surrender, Dorothy, I wrote on my mirror in lipstick.

I'm trying, I'm trying...every day!

I'll Never be in Godspell Again

I’ll never be in Godspell again. I’m sitting here, on a rainy afternoon at the Jersey shore, listening to Day by Day from the 1970’s musical Godspell and crying when I really should be working. I’m on my 5th listen.

I was in Godspell in college. It was my second or third play ever. I was ecstatic to be in it. It was a musical! I got to sing and dance! How much better does it get than that? And not only that, I was chosen to sing Day by Day! The best song in the show. The best one! (Though I secretly wanted to sing By My Side too.)

I sang Day by Day proudly, using sign language (for the two deaf people that showed up for the one month run of the show.) I still remember how to sign that damn song. Whenever I meet someone deaf or even hearing impaired, apropos of nothing, I start signing Day by Day, Oh dear Lord, three things I pray” and they think I’m a religious fanatic or just a nut.

The only thing that marred my joyous little performance was a run-in I had with Jesus. Glenn. Glenn Funkhauser. Yep. That was his name. I haven’t thought about that name in years. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning but I remember Glenn Funkhauser’s name…interesting. Anyway, he played Jesus and he was a haughty, self-involved diva of a Jesus. He gave a Jesus a bad name.

At the end of each show, we re-enacted the Last Supper, where we said goodbye to our fair leader. It was a very teary climax and we just loved it. As college kids studying theater, we were just teeming with emotion, so earnest. Our emotional cup runneth over.

So Jesus would walk up to each one of us, tap us on the back, we’d rise and have our own personal heartfelt goodbye with the Lord Jesus Christ, Glenn Funkhauser.

On one particularly emotional night, I leapt up and hugged him with all of my might, crying my little eyes out. He whispered in my ear, “Don’t anticipate. You got up before I tapped you on the shoulder.”

I could have died. Jesus just critiqued me during my most vulnerable moment ever! I wanted to deck the Lord right then and there. How dare he direct me in the middle of a show?! Who did he think he was? God?

After the show, I went up to Glenn “Jesus” Funkhauser and told him to kiss my ass hard. I was livid! I felt spiritually violated.

But other than that, Godspell was a sweet memory during a sweet time. And I’ll never be in it again. I’ll never sing Day by Day again in front of a restless audience. (If you say I could be in the show again if I wanted, you’re missing the point. It was that time, that energy, that opportunity, those people - even that diva of a Jesus. It was that beautiful little glory.)

One actor came up to me after a show one night and said something about “goose bumps” when I sang my song. I thought he meant I gave him goose bumps but he clarified before I gushed too much. He said, “No, you give yourself goose bumps when you sing that song. I can see them all over your arms. I’m standing right next to you.” I wasn’t as flattered but I knew he was right. It’s not every day you get to sing to God so simply, with all of your heart. Oh, time is so stupidly precious.

Time for a 6th listen. I haven’t sobbed the memory out of me yet. I don’t get paid for this melancholy, man.

To Glenn Funkhauser, wherever you are: I hope you know that I'm a practicing Satanist because of you. I eat kittens now, Glenn, kittens!

Day by Day
Day by Day
Oh Dear Lord, three things I pray
To see thee more clearly
Love thee more dearly
Follow thee more nearly
Day by Day

Many of the original cast members, with Robin Lamont singing (4 of the 10 have died):



Cilla Black (she's great but I like Lamont better for this song.)

The Only New Year's Resolution that Stuck

It's kind of late to be writing about New Year's resolutions but my resolution to stop procrastinating never stuck, so here we are, a month later.

Anyway, there's only one New Year's resolution that's made a difference in my life, one I made many years ago. It was simply to touch people more. Physically touch them.

I was raised in a family of Germanic descent - not the most touchy, feely type. My brothers still hug me more awkwardly then anyone I know. It can't even be called a hug technically. Its this weird physical action that actually manages to push you away instead of pulling you toward them. It seems like a physical impossibility but they manage it.

I didn't want to be like that so I decided to touch people more. Everybody secretly loves it. I love it. It's natural but we've quite literally lost our touch. We'd rather text a hug these days.

I've also taken to kissing people on the lips more. Men, women, children, small farm animals...I don't care. I gave the local bartender a big, fat kiss on the lips last week and he was slightly shocked. He just muttered, "lips" and walked away, disoriented. Gave him something to think about for the night, I figured.

At a restaurant not too long ago, I saw these two women, old friends apparently, who seemed like they were having such a fun time. Laughing, telling bawdy jokes. I watched them from afar, admiring their deep kinship. When I walked by them to go to the restroom, I stopped and put a hand on each of their shoulders. I squeezed and smiled. One woman asked, "Do we know you?" I said no you don't. And kept walking...okay, so maybe that was a little much.

There was a girl in college...what was her name...Carolyn Carpenter! She and I liked to slap each other in the face at the same time. We did it for years. Not sure why. We just did. It became our thing, unison face slapping, on the count of three. We'd slap each other so hard, sometimes one of us would lose our footing. Ah, the good old days of slapping Carolyn. "If I could turn back time," Cher sings in my mind.

I also like to tell people I love them more - the ultimate verbal touch. It's strange how we covet "I love you." There's some arbitrary time limit before it can be uttered. It's just not acceptable to say those words until one year of knowing someone or some nonsense like that. But we all know whom we love, don't we? When you're in their presence, it radiates from your heart, rather effortlessly. Love rings as clear as a bell, regardless of time logged.

Years ago, when my mother was very sick, my ex-boyfriend's family invited her to their home in Philadelphia for a visit. They fussed and fawned over her - just what she needed in her beleaguered state. After one day, one day, of knowing my mother, my ex's aunt said to her, during a parting hug, "Randee, I love you." I'll never forget that. She wasn't lying and my mother was deeply touched.

Someone from my online writing group told me she loved me the other day and I believe her. How kind to say that. And how simple. Even online, love can develop. That's sometimes hard to believe and often easy to dismiss. But perhaps online we get a deeper sense of another. In person, we tend to clam up, fidget, become guarded and weird. Online, its our pure mental energy meeting, like some science fiction love story.

Or perhaps love needs physical presence to truly expand. I'm just not sure.

There's a man, a wonderful musician, I've "talked" with online for years. Sometimes when I sign off, after a long night of chatting, joking, flirting and sharing, I can feel him around me, like a mystical vapor. And I wonder whether it would be drastically different if we met in "person." Some would say yes, it could be very different. But I feel his essence, rather viscerally, nonetheless. I feel his touch.

There was no New Year's resolution for me this year. This resolution seems to have sufficed for years to come, I do believe. It continues to grow. It's the best one ever.

The Black Knights of Brooklyn

You’re arguing with one of your closest friends and you never argue. After 15 years of friendship, you rarely even debate. But there you are, several years ago, on an icy night in Brooklyn, at the doorway of her apartment building, yelling. You won’t remember about what.

Perhaps she is starting to feel the pressure of your move to her hometown of New York City. She didn’t realize how much help you would need and her charitable seams are beginning to break. You head home, tears streaking down your cold face, wondering how much more of this city you can take.

Sometimes in life, you make a move, a big move, and you wonder why the fuck you did it. You realize the irreversibility of your action and silently scream. But the damage is done and the move has been made and move on, you must.

My move to New York City was a big, fat silent scream. Most recently living in the green and gracious hills of San Francisco, New York City was royal bitch slap to my sensibilities. Overpriced, dangerous, dirty and yelling at me all the time. The neighborhoods I could afford to live in gave "seedy" a whole new meaning. The post Dot-com jobs were scarce and underpaying. My social life, nil, as my focus became primarily on my survival.

I moved in with my ex-boyfriend (well, hello, mistake…how are you doing today?) We thought enough time had passed since our break-up 10 years prior. We had no romantic feelings for one another. They had long since disintegrated after years of constant fighting. We’re friends and we can navigate these new, grown-up waters, we proclaimed proudly.

Besides, there wasn't much of a choice, was there? Sometimes New York City makes strange bedfellows of us all. You do things in New York City you wouldn’t think of doing elsewhere, for survival.

Prior to moving in with you ex, you do look at other places. You see one apartment where there’s not enough headroom to fully stand and the tenants have just learned to adjust. So their necks hurt all the time but heck, they live in New York City and that’s all that matters.

You check out an apartment where the toilet resides smack dab in the middle of the kitchen with a little curtain in front of it (for privacy, of course.) So moving in with an ex seems like a small sacrifice in comparison with not being able to stand upright in your own home or peeing in the kitchen.

Money dries up as quickly as a raindrop on hot cement. Sporadic temp jobs become your sole source of income. You go home from a long day of being underpaid to a home in the middle of a noisy, dangerous Jamaican neighborhood. You think frequently about that line in New York, New York about the city never sleeping and you swear its based solely based on your neighborhood. You imagine Frank Sinatra singing it on the corner and getting clipped by the local boys with gold teeth.

But I digress. Back to your big night. So after the fight with your good friend, you do your traditional run to your apartment. This run is not for exercise or catharsis. It’s for the sole purpose of getting home safely. The whole “moving objects” theory.

Arriving home, you see your ex and feel relieved that he’s there, even though he can be notoriously cold comfort. He sees your tears and says, “What is it this time?”

You try to overlook the obvious rudeness of the question and tell him that you had a fight with your good friend and you have hit a limit. You are past the point of tired. Your soul feels shattered, trashed. Your nervous system feels rattled and worn. You’re worried about yourself, that you might…need...help.

He responds by getting up and walking away from you to enter his bedroom, with an “I don’t know what to say anymore. You’re just a constant complaint.” You stand at his bedroom doorway, shocked and hurt. He closes the door on you. There may be nothing worse, you think at that second, then the feeling of a door being closed on you. You think of the game “Don’t Spill the Beans” and that door closing was that last pivotal bean. Your pot just tipped. The game is done.

And you’re done. It’s on. You’re gone. You’re off.

You pick up your witch’s broom (which has done a lousy job of protecting you as of late, by the way) and begin to trash the living room. You’ve never done anything like this before in your life. You watch yourself from a distance as you slam your stereo, your vase, the little glass doll your grandmother gave you when you were 8 years old. You move into the kitchen and smash dishes and glasses. You hear the cat furiously digging its claws into the wooden floor, racing to find a hiding place.

Screaming at the top of your lungs, you say, “What does it take to get some fucking help around here?” You hear your ex yelling from the bedroom that he’s calling the police. “Call ‘em, you mother fucker! Maybe they give a shit!” Slam, crash, bang, smash.

You flash back to the early years with this man; how he’d have these tirade and trash the joint, your joint, his joint. How scared you used to be. How dutifully you picked up the pieces afterwards. How stupid you were to stay.

“Hey, asshole! You used to do this shit all the time, remember? How’s it feel now, you jerk! It’s your turn. YOU pick up the pieces for once!”

You have just figuratively then literally turned the table. Something in your mind slips, like a spool quickly unraveling. It is both freeing and truly, truly terrifying. You have no doubt that this is what lands people in loony bins. You pick up the sharpest piece of glass from the floor and stare at it for too long.

A loud knock at the door stops you from thinking any farther. You know it’s the cops. You really don’t care. And you really should.

You open the door and there stands a vision you will never forget for the rest of your life: two of the largest, most imposing cops you have ever seen. Both pitch black in skin color, one man, one woman. Both easily standing 6”6. Both shoulder-to-shoulder, making them appear like one massive crazy girl stopper. A virtual wall of cop. You drop the shard of glass.

You look into their eyes, frantic, scared and as broken as the vandalized pay phone on the corner. You fall slightly forward and the male cop catches you, picks you up like a rag doll and walks you to the couch, where both sit on either side of you. Their four massive arms encircle you like truck tires. You begin to let out a cry that you didn’t know existed in you. It’s more of a howl, like a trapped animal. Or an unwanted baby, left alone in a room for too, too long.

You look up at their big, warm eyes and say, “I can’t, I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. Nobody’s there. I'm all...nobody.” They hug you even tighter and suddenly you feel transported, as if to a womb. They say reassuring words. “It’s alright. We’re here now. We care. You have somebody now.”

It’s as if they know you. It’s as if, clearly, clearly, they are not cops but angels.

You tell them how sorry you are and the man says, “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s all right to lose it. It’s all right to break your stuff sometimes.” You can’t believe someone just gave you that kind of permission. No one in your life has given you permission to let the darkness pour out of you like a sick, black flood. You also begin to realize everything you broke was yours, only adding insult to injury.

“Do you have any friends here, sweetheart?” the woman asks. You thought you did, you tell her. But everyone is annoyed or too busy. She tells me that she’s not too busy.

They sit there with you, wrapped around you tightly, for what feels like an hour. At one point, you laugh. You laugh at the thought that all this shit goes down in this neighborhood – the drug deals, the rapes, the murders - but tonight, you are the criminal, you are the main event. They laugh with you in agreement when you tell them this.

Your ex never leaves the bedroom. The cops gently place you in your bed with a glass of water and kind touches and almost imperceptible words of kindness. They leave and you realize you have just experienced something Divine. Grace, pure and simple. Two strangers, two magical strangers, just saved your life and your mind.

Months later, as you take steps toward leaving New York City and being able to breathe again, you write the 76th precinct a letter. You tell them how, in your wildest dreams, you never thought police could offer the kind of help they did that night. And that you never met such gentle, wonderful souls and you will never forget them and you will eternally be grateful to them.

Before leaving Babylon, you receive a letter back from the precinct, telling you that they hung the letter up on the wall. And that the cops were very, very proud to receive it. And that yes, cops do all sorts of things that one can’t imagine.

You leave New York City months afterwards, with renewed hope. You realize that friends can be truly wonderful and occasionally, painfully not there, just like you. You begin to believe again that there is some magical force that runs this whole operation. And that faith alone allows you to leave the city with an open heart and an open mind and the ability to start again.

Special thanks to my friends Joe and Elena who constantly remind me that I don’t ask for too much. To my friends mentioned in this story, you mean far more to me than the constraints of this story and I hope you understand.

Turn it on Again

I watched a video by the White Stripes a few days ago at a friend's house. Some hotshot director made it. Lots of fast cuts and random images and money behind it…a very busy video. I couldn’t even hear the song, the visuals were trying so hard to dazzle me. It was creative masturbation at its finest. Video overkill. It was as if everyone forgot that the basis of the video was actually a song.

I hearkened back to the days of yore, when videos were simple. Maybe they weren’t great, but they did their job and understated the song. The band members also seemed more capable of performing the song, not reliant on computer generated effects to do the work. Then sometimes, it was nice to see their vulnerability (see Red Rider below) in front of a camera, not quite knowing what to do. They seemed human and sweetly imperfect.

Video Concert Hall was the first video show I ever witnessed, pre-MTV. I couldn't find the opening of the program but this was the theme song:


Led Zeppelin, Carouselambra


Video Concert Hall came on at 3 pm and my friends and I would race from school to my house to watch it. My mother worked until 5, so we could smoke our cigs and be little bad asses in peace; wide-eyed and glued to the first visuals of our rock stars.

This was the first video I ever saw on Video Concert Hall and to this day, it remains one of my favorite videos (as well as one of my favorite songs.) Not a lot of rapid cuts, or people morphing into animals or the sky raining drops of blood. No visual mindfucks or editing overkills. Just a great song, a great band (at the time) and a video of it.


Genesis, not being fancy with Turn it on Again


Here's a few other Video Concert Hall faves. Make sure you get to the end, where The Who display how effective a simple video can be (even though John Entwistle may already be dead in Who are You, I don't know.)


Nazareth, Holiday


Pete Townshend, Keep on Working Pete keeps it so simple, he doesn't even get out of his ratty robe. Viva la Pete Townshend!


Iggy Pop is Bored, Chairman of the Bored


The Pretenders being one of the most well-rounded bands


Herb Albert, Rise (aka Luke and Laura's Rape Song)


Red Rider, Lunatic Fringe


Split Enz with the ever lovely Neil Finn


The Who being the best band ever. If Keith Moon hadn't become a drummer, he would have exploded, I do believe. Perhaps he did...


Okay, actually this is the only Who video I remember on VCH. I want to grow up and be Pete Townshend. I love Pete in this, shaking his cute little ass. Nothing hotter than when a man knows his ass looks good...yep, nothing. (Stop talking about asses Beth. Its totally irrelevant to this blog post. No, you stop talking about asses...shhh, both of you.)

And to prove that I'm not living in the Dark Ages, I like the simplicity of this video (though I guess its got simple built-in, since it just a video recording of a studio session.)


Silversun Pickups, Lazy Eye. Is this guy's voice wild or what?

This post dedicated to Krissie, who sang every song with me.

EXTRA BONUS VIDEO:

My friend from Open Salon preferred this version of Turn It On Again, and I must confess, it's wonderful. It's great to see Phil so energetic:

I Want to be Micromanaged by Tom Cruise

I don’t have the movie star hots for Tom Cruise. I don’t even like him much as actor. He seems like a shiny little alien on Scientology overdrive. But while in a crowded line at the grocery store, I read about his controlling, obsessive behavior toward his wife Katie Holmes and I begin to wonder if Tom Cruise would mind micromanaging me as well.

The headlines claim that Katie (or Kate, as Tom would have her called now, since she’s a “child-bearing woman”) is stuck in a Cruisian prison. As I struggle to manage my many bags of groceries, I wondered how I could become a fellow inmate with Kate.

I bet you I wouldn’t have to fumble with all these bags if I was stuck in a Cruisian prison. I wouldn’t have to break out in a cold sweat as the cashier processed a credit card that’s just about maxed.

It’s easy street with Tom and me. He tells me what to eat and how many bites to take, when to bathe, what to wear, how to wear my hair. He tells me how long to sleep, who I can talk to and where I can go. When Katie, I mean Kate, pulls me aside to plan our great escape, I break free of her bony grip and run back to Tom, asking him what he wants me to do next.

He tells me firmly and with authority how to manage a number of situations in my life, like my health insurance denying my recent claims and my molar needing fixed and my car desperately requiring repair (it’s making some weird whistling sound that gets louder each day.) I ask him how I should handle the juggling act of my credit cards and overdue bills and unreliable cash flow. Tom would have the answers. Tom Cruise would know.

Of course, there’s the Scientology issue. That would be problematic. There is nothing I find more abhorrent than having some whacked religion shoved down my throat. But Tom would like the challenge. Everyday, he’d try to convert me and every day, I’d be this close to letting him. Then I’d say, “Let me think about it.” He’d remind me that he thinks for me now. Okay, fine. So I convert to Scientology. Egad. It’s what he wants! Whaddya want me to do? Who am I to question the ways of Tom Cruise?

I purposefully do things to upset him, like wearing scantily clad outfits and acting garish in public. He feels the need to lecture and punish me. Heck, maybe he even grounds me. I’ve never been grounded in my life. I think it’s high time I was grounded for a couple of weeks. Put me in my place. Give me time to think about my behavior.

Of course, I’d love this controlling behavior to translate into kinky sex, but unfortunately, it doesn’t. He withholds sex. It’s part of his master plan for me (and his whole sexuality issue…shh.) I beg, plead, cajole…but alas, I secretly have sex with my somewhat militant Cuban personal trainer Paulo instead (I have my needs!)

Tom catches me in the act and I’m back to being grounded again, this time for a whole month. I lay poolside, crying every time Tom walks by. “I’m sorry, Tom Cruise,” I sob. “I’m sorry!” He walks away abruptly and I pull out the margarita I have stashed under my lounge chair. It’s a peach margarita. Made with real peaches! My personal chef Kenneth makes them for me on the sly.

My well-managed fantasy life is ruthlessly cut short by one of my over-packed grocery bags breaking open as I leave the grocery store. The contents spill all over the icy cement. Of course, the effin’ eggs have to be in that bag.

As I chase rolling eggs around the parking lot, I look up to the heavens and whisper, “Tom Cruise, help me now. Please!” And you know what? He appears by my rusty 1990 Toyota truck with that eerily dazzling smile of his. I begin to cry with relief. He says, “It’s over. The struggle is over. I’m here now.”

A bodyguard grabs the bags from my arms and leads me into the passenger seat. Tom takes the keys from my coat pocket and starts the car. The whistling sound is gone. It’s gone! Tom Cruise’s mere presence has fixed my car. As we drive home, he tells me to cross my legs. I look like a slut, he says.

My pleasure, Tom Cruise. My pleasure.

Slipping into Toothlessness

It's midwinter, you're at the desolate Jersey shore and you're quietly slipping into toothlessness.

It all starts with a missed shower or two. Its just too cold to take off all those layers of clothes. Besides, you're not going to see anyone anyway.

Then shaving your legs strikes you as just silly. I mean, you do it every once in a while since its another excuse to touch yourself but really, what a waste of time, when you could be hanging out with the locals at the watering hole up the street, talking about shooting grouse (whatever the heck they are.)

You have 3 robes, all with different purposes. One is fuzzy but so matronly that your grandmother wouldn't be caught dead wearing it. The other is practical because its absorbent and serves as a towel when you get out of that occasional shower. The last one is your fancy, dress-up robe, for when friends stop by (which they don't because its the heart of winter and no one wants to come to your cold ass house.)

Pajamas slip effortlessly into daywear slip into pajamas again. You start thinking you could wear thermal underwear and high heels to Happy Hour. Which is wrong, just wrong. Though you know no one would care, except the little fashion police in your head.

Going to sleep at 9:30 is not unheard of.

You start considering matched socks a "luxury item."

You'd pay someone $5 to brush your teeth for you.

Pink Floyd starts sounding a little too happy-go-lucky for your tastes.

You stare at the UPS man in a way that makes him uncomfortable. It's not even a sexy look, it's more lascivious and drooly. Well, maybe he should think twice before dressing like such a teasing little slut.

You figure out a way to pee like a guy so you don't have to sit on a cold toilet seat. After many unsuccessful attempts, you think you've nailed it!

You sweep the front step (in your grandma robe) while having a full-blown conversation with yourselves. The local cops drive by and wave awkwardly, including the cute one who looks like Father Karras from The Exorcist. You shout "Hey, you wanna stop over for some coffee? I'll put on my fancy robe!" But they keep driving.

You keep a bag of dark chocolate chips at your bedside just in case. Whilst changing your sheets (a Herculean effort by the way), you realize you have been sleeping with several of said chips for quite some time. You eat one because no one is looking and no one cares.

You were this close to baying at a full moon a few nights ago.

There is always sand on you, somewhere, somehow. Always.

Your hair grows longer like the nights, you'd go shopping in your slippers if the one didn't have a hole in it and you fear the worst: you'll lose a front tooth and say "Ah, whatever. I got others."


My Homeless Chic Look

Cookie Day 2008

My friend Marianne invited me to her home for Cookie Day 2008. Sure, sure, I’ll go. Christmas cheer, whether I like it or not.

Marianne was one of my sweetest classmates in high school. Always friendly, always trying, always smart, always pretty. But I was always partying, always cool, always disconnected and didn’t foster our friendship. Over the years, I realized my coolness is vastly overrated and I’m happy to be in her company once again. I sat there, watching her bake dozens of cookies in her kitchen and smiled, now able to really appreciate her.

I almost left Cookie Day 2008 at first. Too many kids, too much commotion, too many strangers. But because of my often-solitary lifestyle, I felt like it was time to try a little. Bit by bit, my armor fell down. I jumped in, started helping with the cookies, kids crawling all over me. It feels quite nice to be out of your element sometimes.

As the day progressed and we were on our millionth cookie, we broke out some wine and turned off the holiday music that was beginning to drive us all mad. We replaced it with, of all things, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I attempted to teach the kids a few key lyrics and we danced about the place. Long Live Cookie Day 2008!

My phone rang in my back pocket and I saw it was Richard, my ex-boyfriend from a few years ago, when I lived in New York City. We just started talking again this year – not to reconcile, but to reconnect, as friends.

How does one describe Richard? He’s larger than life. A crazy, wild cowboy of a man – tall, dark hair, piercing blue eyes. He’s extremely hedonistic and if he lived in ancient times, he’d undoubtedly be a practicing Bacchanalian. But amidst the New York City posing and ultra-coolness, I found Richard to be a breath of fresh air. Unapologetic, fun loving, genuine. A real rebel.

He owns a beautiful wine store in Manhattan, which is where we met, at a wine tasting. I learned that night that he used to be a Navy Seal. He was also in the Secret Service. He’s an expert marksman and sports a scar on his temple where he was grazed by a bullet during his time in Grenada. He’s a dangerous man, in his own right.

You’d never know it, though. He’s comes across as a big, sweet Southern guy who just loves having a good time. Too good of a time. He could never handle me emotionally. He can’t handle himself emotionally. He never invited me into his life the way I wanted. He protected his bachelor lifestyle like a pit bull and I tire of men who have commitment issues when I’m not even asking for one.

I couldn’t talk to Richard for a long while. Too many hard feelings. But with the passing of a good female friend this year, I wanted to reconnect with him and let go, move on. And he was happy to. He loves my company and loves me.

So why was Richard calling on Cookie Day 2008?

Undoubtedly to try to hook up with me again, I’m guessing.

“Which is not going to happen, Richard.”

“I’m just calling to say hi. See how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine. I’m making cookies at a party.”

“Good. You need to be out more. You need to have more fun.”

“Said by a true professional.”

We chatted about this and that but cookies were baking and it was time to get back to some Floyd and wine.

“You go back to your friends, Beth. You have fun tonite.”

“What’s the matter Richard?”

“Ah…nothing. Nothing. They just…forget it.”

“They just what?!”

My blood started running cold. Something was wrong.

“They found cancer. I have malignant cancer. It’s in my lungs.”

The floor started slipping from underneath me. I ran to the bathroom and shut the door.

“Stop it. Stop it, Richard. Stop your lying!”

Richard is also a professional liar. He lies without knowing he lies, he lies so much. It’s taking me years to not take it personally. To realize he never means harm by it. He just wants to avoid trouble, pain and anger - anything negative. Thing is, I’m a professional lie detector and I always felt the sting of his untruth.

“Please tell me you’re lying!” I screamed. Suddenly I heard the party get quiet. I brought my voice down.

“Please, Richard,” I whispered.

“Sweetie, I wish I could tell you I was. I’d lie to get in your pants and since you’re not here, it would be a worthless lie.”

Perhaps the most honest thing I’ve ever heard Richard say.

“They think it’s from the pancreas. They don’t know. I’ll get the scan results back tomorrow.”

“That’s a bad cancer, Richard. A really bad cancer.”

“If it is, I have 2 years with treatment and 9 months without…I’m not doing any treatment. I don’t want my little boy to see me like that.”

Richard has a little boy from a previous relationship. He’s 5 years old.

The pain I began experiencing was incredible. All the times I’ve wanted to kill Richard, all the times I thought I wouldn’t care if a Mack truck plowed him down…and suddenly I couldn’t get close enough to him, I couldn’t reach out enough. Funny how quickly that anger just melts and your left with unadulterated love.

“God, no. No. No. No.” I started sobbing uncontrollably.

The party got quieter again. I huddled next to the toilet, shaking.

“It’s been a good run. I got to meet you. You’ve always been such an angel to me. The first time I saw you, I said, ‘She’s a real, live angel.’ Did you know that? Did you know I’ve always thought that about you? You always seem so good, so pure.”

“Stop. Stop Richard!”

He was drunk, waxing nostalgic. It was too painful to hear.

“Do you remember the night of the dare?”

“Of course.”

Richard and I sat in his wine cellar underneath his store one evening. It was one of our favorite places to hang out. Grand, gothic wine cellar; giant mahogany table, monster-sized leather chairs, candles burning, jazz playing. A real hedonist’s dream.

He dared me to go upstairs naked and ask his employee for the best Cab in the house. I disrobed, walked upstairs and asked for it, as casually as I could. The poor gay man was shocked. Luckily for me, no one else was in the store. I grabbed the $350 Cab, ran to the basement and Richard and I drank it, laughing for hours. It was one of the best nights I had in NYC. It was definitely one of the best bottles of wine I’ve ever had. You see, shocking Richard is next to impossible. The man has seen literally seen it all. And I achieved it.

“That was a great night.” I said.

“Hey, does this mean we can have sex again?” Richard asked, out of left field for anyone, except him.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Even with the whole death…”

“No.”

“Damn.”

“Richard. I’m scared.”

“Go back to your party, Beth. Go have fun. You don’t have enough fun. You’re too sad.”

“I don’t want you to go,” I sobbed.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“Yes, lets get results back first okay?”

“Yes, results,” he said quietly.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay…oh and remember this, Beth: the stars we could reach were just starfish on the beach.”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

As I finished asking the question, I knew. He was quoting from an awful 70’s song, “Seasons in the Sun.”

“Funny,” Richard said, “that song keeps playing over and over in my mind.”

“For that, I am truly sorry.”

We both started laughing. Then crying.

A moment of silence.

“How do you feel, Richard

“I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s...alright.”

“This is anything but alright. But okay, I figured I’d ask anyway. I knew you wouldn’t really answer me.”

I hung up the phone and opened the door. Marianne was standing there, flour on her chin, looking very concerned. I explained to her what happened and soon afterwards, left for a welcome drive home. Dark roads through the woods. Freedom. My mind, trying, trying to clear. Thoughts of the speed of life.

When I got home, I saw that Richard had sent me a text:

“I’m scared out of my mind.”

I am too, my friend.

Family Matters

I stood there, in full fighting stance, watching my brother intently. If he took one more step toward me, I’d hit him. After years of martial arts training, I had no intention of letting my 58-year old brother, who is my size, lay one bloody hand on me.

Funny, the thoughts that run through your head during such enormously stressful times. I kept thinking, “Why don’t they teach you how to handle these situations in high school?” They taught me how to make snicker doodles. They taught me how to make a lamp from a log. But they never taught me how to handle an angry sibling who believed you were an intruder in his house.

This was several years ago. When I first moved to the Jersey shore, it was out of sheer mental necessity. I had lived in New York City for the better part of three years and was burnt out beyond belief. I couldn’t keep up financially and lived in sketchy neighborhoods and, well, I never really liked the damn place. Once I noticed my hands constantly shaking, I knew I needed out. I needed to recoup or I was sure I’d be another Brooklyn Bridge statistic.

I have been a part owner of a house at the Jersey shore since my mother died in 1996, though I’ve rarely visited since her passing. My brother had been living there for some time and it began to seem like his house by default, even though it wasn’t. Of course, when my mother was alive, it seemed like a family house. Some of my most pleasant and few good familial memories occurred in this big, old house.

So why was I ready to drop kick my brother in the head? After several months of being there, I had intended to rent out one of the rooms (something he had been doing for years) and use the additional income for my needs, for once. This sent my brother into a fit of rage. This was his house after all. How dare I be so presumptuous? He called me every name in the book and ranted and raged, slamming this and that. I stood there, calmly and somewhat amused at first. He seemed like a big baby having a tantrum.

Then he came closer to me, fuming, irate, spitting mad. That’s when the “they don’t teach you this in high school” thoughts floated through my head. If they did, there would be a class on what I did next. The class would be called “Outcrazy the Crazy 101.”

I’ve had to use this particular self-taught lesson many a time in my life. The gist of it? At some point, when someone becomes a real threat, you have to act crazier than him or her. Now, there’s no ironclad rule here. There are times – perhaps most – where maintaining your cool is exactly what you need to do.

But I saw my brother’s anger escalating. He was taking more liberties. I dropped back into my fighting stance and told him to back off. He laughed at first. “Oh that’s right, you’re a black belt. Ha.” I stood there silently and intently watching his chin. I knew if he took one more step toward me, I’d front kick him and break it. Suddenly, he punched the wall, only bloodying his fists. “Is this what you were you trying to do?” I asked. It was then I planted a roundhouse kick that busted a hole through our sad, little walls. (Later on, I would apologize to the walls. I feel sad for the house itself sometimes. I know it hurts, like I do. I know it remembers better times.)

I wasn’t trying to show off when I kicked the wall. I needed him to know I was a physical and unpredictable threat or I could be hurt. And that was not going to happen. “I swear, I’ll knock you out,” he said, taking a definite step back. “You’d better because if not, I’ll kill you,” I hissed.

I remember an apartment I lived in long ago, with a boyfriend of mine. There was a crazy guy who lived in an efficiency below. He looked like the spare member of ZZ Top - big, gruff and with a long, crazy beard. He heard voices in his head – specifically mine. He would call our apartment and ask to talk to me. He heard me talking about him again, he’d shout, and it had better stop or he’ll send the FBI and the aliens after me.

One day, he entered our unlocked apartment and started shouting. Terrified, I grabbed my boyfriend who proceeded to disengage from me and run upstairs to “call the cops,” leaving me alone with loony (ah, my knight!) That’s when I remembered Outcrazy the Crazy 101. I ran right up to this hulking menace and started screeching crazy gibberish that included mentions of Mars, my mother, cake and little teeny razors that haunt me from the inside. He stood there, stunned. Finally, he said, “You’re nuts, man.” And walked out. Outcrazy the Crazy 101. They do not teach you this shit in high school.

My brother and I never really came to serious blows that day but that’s because I dropped my passive, amused mode and became something unpredictable.

Today, we co-exist. There is no real love there. I don’t think either of us even likes calling the other “brother” or “sister.” He’s more of a “biological happenstance,” as I am to him but that doesn’t go over well during introductions. The house has become less of a political hotspot as he realizes I am no threat to his existence and I have every right to be here. We try to improve the house together now, though its in serious disrepair. Just as we are.

No, we don’t love one another but we manage. I broke a mug of mine a few weeks ago. It was my favorite mug. It has big strawberries painted all over it and it makes me feel sweet, special. I use it every day for my tea or coffee. When your life hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park, those simple things become so precious. My friend Laura gave me a giant, purple furry blanket that makes me feel that way. I also have sparkly, black high heels that make me feel like a darker version of Dorothy. Stuff that softens the edges. I cried when I broke that mug, throwing it in the trash. The next day, I saw it in the dish rack. My brother had repaired it. For us, that’s about as good as it gets.

It always hurts me when people go on and on about the importance of family, above all else. More than hurt, I find it discriminatory. “It’s family that matters the most,” said in a Sopranosesque tone. And everyone nods heads in collective agreement. So what does that mean to the people who don’t feel like they have a family? Or literally don’t? I mean, my situation isn’t so dire. I do have a connection with some family members. But what kind of message does that send to the people who feel really marginalized or alone?

To me, that philosophy is akin to saying, “As long as you have your health, nothing else matters.” What if you don’t have your health? I guess you’re just in the Royally Screwed Club then.

My closest friend didn’t have her health. I’ve known her since I was six. She knows everything about me. Everything. She and I have the same mannerisms at this point; we speak and move the same way. We have endured deaths, triumphs, financial upheaval, pregnancies, drug addictions, rock concerts, tear-filled departures, joyous reunions, summer-long road trips, accidents, abusive relationships, pets dying in our hands, countless meals cooked together, countless bottles of wine drunk, silly in-jokes, heated debates, bad haircuts, cigarettes, joints, birthday upon birthday upon birthday…SHE is my family. She died from breast cancer a few months ago.

My brother knew her quite well (I think he always preferred her to me actually) and meekly knocked at my bedroom door the day it happened. I opened it, shaking and sobbing. He stood there, not knowing what to say. “Damn cancer” or something like that. I closed the door and went back to my bed, where I lost all hope that anything would be good again.

When my brother and I finished our standoff that day, several years ago, I went into the backyard, trembling, trying to catch my breath. As if by fate, my local friend Ed suddenly appeared.

I’ve known Ed since I was a child. He dated my oldest sister for years and years. He’s a good, old hippie, still sporting his long hair and Jesus-like looks. Ed fixes things for me that I can’t fix. And he shows me how to understand the weather by looking at the clouds and how to be a better surfer. As a child, he showed me a meteorite shower and that still remains one of my favorite memories of all time. I thought that the world was wildly magical that night. I still believe in magic because of that very night. I thought, “Oh, this is what a brother does. Doesn’t this feel nice?”

Ed and I don’t speak much anymore because his wife became jealous, for absolutely no reason. Someone’s needless insecurities robbed me of someone I call “family.” I sometimes want to yell at her for being such a child. That’s family, I ask myself? That? Is she one of the people nodding her head?

When Ed saw me, standing by the clothesline that fateful day, I could barely speak. “Help,” I uttered. He came over, put his arm around my shoulder and walked me to the beach, just as he had when I was a child. We sat there for quite some time. He showed me how you can tell the wind direction from letting a handful of sand slip through your fingers. I tried to do it myself. I noticed my hands shaking again. The wind was blowing west.

Only Friends

I called Amanda a few days ago, crying. The holidays and midwinter depression were already getting the best of me, on top of life sucking for a myriad of other reasons for which I shall not bore you. (Well, maybe I will but not right this second.)

She was in the middle of making soup for dinner. It required the use of a blender. She somehow juggled my breakdown and the preparation of her dinner, as if it was just another task to perform. We even decided that I could cry extra hard when she was blending, since the sound would drown me out anyway. I timed my bigger outbursts during the puree cycle.

In the middle of her second blending, I told her to stop. She did. Through my sobs, I managed to tell her that I thought she was over-blending her soup and it would turn out like baby mush. She appreciated the culinary concern amid my meltdown and we both started laughing.

Friends do things like this.

Toys in the Attic, etc.

My friend Tim sent out a group email this morning that read the following:

"When the sun goes down tonight, step outside and look south. Beaming through the twilight is one of the prettiest things you'll ever see: a tight three-way conjunction of Venus, Jupiter and the crescent Moon. It's definitely worth checking out."

I responded:

"Kiss my ass."

This has made me laugh throughout the entire morning. I can't stop laughing, actually. I don't know why. I guess it just seemed like such a delightfully inappropriate response, considering the subject matter.

Perhaps the screws are finally loosening.

Good. It feels better that way.

Three way this, Tim! Three way this!

"It's Not All About You"

I was thinking about that comeback over my stale granola this morning. Such a strange thing to say. "It's not all about you, you know!"

An angry family member who shall remain nameless said that to me once when I refused a family gathering because my friend had recently died. I replied, "Actually, I think it is all about me right now but I could be wrong."


Who REALLY thinks its all about them? I mean, most of us have sucky, sagging self-esteem in the first place, so who does this phrase address? I guess you could say it to Madonna or Hitler. "It's not all about you, Hitler."

And its always said in that snide tone.

"It's not all about you, you know."

Oh really. I could have sworn it was. What with all the people constantly doing everything for me and stuff. Why would I think otherwise? All the indicators are there.

I think the problem is, most of us RARELY think it's all about us.

I'd like to know that it's even occasionally "all about me."

Ventura Highway Plays in My Head When I'm Sick

Down for the count today. Ear infection from cold water surfing, high fever. As a slightly addictive personality type, I always relish in the cheap high a fever brings - that surreal "I'm a balloon!" feeling.

I went to see the band America many years ago. They were past their prime and playing with Three Dog Night at a football stadium during halftime. I was very sick with a flu but insisted on going with my friend.

They came out and stood at the sidelines, waiting to go on. I recognized the one guy and said, "Hey, will you play Ventura Highway for me?" He said sure. Several songs into their set, the singer announced, "This song is for the girl in the pink pajamas." (I was wearing pink pajamas because I was too sick to change that morning.) Then they played the song and I felt so spacey and special.

That night, as I lie awake with a very high fever, I heard the opening chords of that song play over and over in my head, like a sickly broken record. What a trippy and peaceful feeling! To this day, the beginning of that song makes me feel essentially content, like everything will be alright, like the fever will break, eventually.



They don't make guys like this anymore, do they? So sincere.

Looks like Domestically Abused Gypsy Again

I consider myself a creative sort. But when it comes to Halloween costumes, I tend to feel pretty ill-equipped and uninspired. As I child, I was a ghost, year after year, because it was easy, spooky and warm. One time, my sister put sparkles and stars on my sheet and told me that this year, I was a "space ghost." So then I was a space ghost for a few years after that.

As I got older, I pretty much grabbed anything in my closet and called it a costume. My regular clothes with a cowboy hat? A cowgirl. All black dress, with a broom in hand - a witch. See...not really that creative. And of course, tonight, I will go with my old standby: a domestically abused gypsy.

It's easy enough to do, especially if you're me and have lots of scarves and flowing clothes and stuff. You "gypsy up" and then you blacken up one eye. Voila! Domestically abused gypsy. If a man approaches you, raise your arms in a blocking motion and say "I didn't do it. I didn't do it!"

Politically correct? Not at all.

Easy? Hell yeah. ..


The Calm before the Storm

How Chowderfest 2008 Made Me Gay

The Other Beth called me last Saturday night and asked if I’d like to volunteer for Chowderfest 2008 the next morning. What is Chowderfest, you ask? Chowderfest is where many of the restaurants on the island dole out their chowder in little plastic cups and 15,000 people vote on their clammy goodness.

Of course, I said god, no…for a number of reasons. Being surrounded by throngs of Joe Public can render me speechless, doing free work is never my idea of fun and well, it’s called Chowderfest. I don’t go to things called Chowderfest, just as a rule.

But there I am, 9 o’clock the next morning.

“Oh what the hell,” I thought. “It’s not going to kill me, right?”

Well, whilst it wouldn’t kill me, little did I know, it would change me…forever.

I will walk you through the rest of the events in pictures:















At first, I’m horribly overwhelmed when the gates are opened and thousands of people come swarming to our little table.


After a while, I start relaxing – mainly because I let Beth do most of the work while I play around with my camera and take shots of the madness.















If you look closely at the photo, you’ll notice a slight look of annoyance in her eyes.

Maybe Chowderfest isn’t going to be so bad after all. Oh and the German cook is kinda sweet. His name is Marco. He likes me because my last name is Mann. Germans always feel better around fellow Germans.















Everything seemed fine for a while. Lots of people, dead clams in broth, happy together. I run around the whole place and try 20 different chowders and proudly know who the winners will be in both the white and red category (red, of course, being the only real chowder in my opinion.) And guess what? I picked BOTH winners!















I come back to our camp, where Beth is diligently doing both of our jobs. One of the people running our camp comes up to me, as I sit by myself on a cooler with a beer in one hand and my camera in the other. He says, in a bold, Italian manner:

“Hey, you. Why don’t you do something – even if it’s wrong!?”

Man, I thought, those are some real words of wisdom. Really, think about it: how many times in life are we seized with indecision when we can choose ANYTHING and it will at the very least change the course of things – thereby eliminating the idea of “right” or “wrong” altogether.

I really appreciated him for saying that. So I start taking pictures of him instead of The Other Beth (since she was looking pretty overworked and angry at this point.) I forget his name but I liked his brassy attitude:















“Do something…even if it’s wrong!”

After several shots of bold Italian dude, I begin taking photos of the crowd. I pan across the tent and that’s when I see him standing there, looking in our direction, poised to change my life forever. Oh god. Please don’t come over, I mentally plead. Please.

He starts walking toward me, on a mission…a mission to disturb the hell out of me and possibly change my sexuality from this point onward. He somehow knew he encompassed everything I consider wrong with the average “Joe Six-pack” (as that nut job from Alaska refers to them), one of the reasons I don’t attend things called “Chowderfest” in the first place.

Do you remember when Brad Pitt went “scruffy?” That really pissed me off, for instance. We have enough men in this country looking scruffy au natural. We don’t need one of the hottest men in America purposefully going for a look that I see all too often. Just do your job, shut up and be hot.

But I digress. This isn’t about Brad Pitt…at all. This is about a man who would end up hanging in front of our camp for at least 20 minutes, basking in the discomfort that I and The Other Beth were soon to experience.

This man, walked out of his house this morning, purposefully and willfully looking like this:















Please note the teenager in the background with the spoon in her mouth, equally amazed and aghast. I think the guy in the sunglasses is stunned too but its hard to tell.

At first, I look away, as if witnessing a crime scene or road kill. But then, I keep looking back, staring, stunned. The Other Beth, reading my mind, mutters:

“Why won’t he leave? Why won’t he just leave?”

I move past my shock and start snapping away. I need evidence. I need something to look at in the future, on a night when I want sex so badly, I could crawl out of my fevered skin. I need the photographic equivalent of a cold shower.

I betcha you could chop up that belly of his and make enough chowder to feed all the people at the Chowderfest and none of them would be the wiser. A 2008 clammy version of Soylent Green.

Luckily enough, I even got a shot of his “fancy footwear”:






















People wearing this shoe/sock combo should be lined up against a wall with a last cigarette.

When he finally leaves, The Other Beth and I stand there, in shock. “I’m traumatized,” I confess to her. “Let’s not talk about it.” “Fine, let’s forget all about it.”

I go back to work…well, The Other Beth goes to work and I begin watching her as she marches around, serving her cute little cups of Manhattan clam chowder to the public, her long, silky brown hair flowing in the wind, her smile dancing across her face. I never thought of Beth this way, never before this day – I swear.

My final picture that day:















Note eyes as blue as the heavenly skies.

The Night Connie Francis Came Home with Me

As I sat at the bar eating spaetzle at the only German restaurant in New Jersey, I thought of the song “Lipstick on my Collar.” Hmmm…why did he have lipstick on his collar? Was the traitorous woman making out with Connie’s boyfriend’s collar? Wouldn’t that be a strange moment, looking down and seeing some girl grooving on your shirt and not on you? Or maybe he wiped his mouth on his collar when he was done. Oh. I guess that sounds about right...and a little gross.

Speaking of collars (smooth segue, Beth), I had an interesting collar-related experience this week. (How many times do you get to say that?)

I’ve been trying really hard (read: barely) to date during my time on this lonely island. Because I’ve convinced myself that it’s “good for me” even though my heart belongs faithfully and hopelessly to someone I can’t really have. So I went out with a surfer guy last week.

We went out to eat and then played some pool at the local pub. I was having one of those drunken idiot savant moments - you know, where you can’t walk a straight line to save your life but somehow you manage to sink a series of ceramic balls on a pool table and everyone is wowed, including yourself, because you have no clue how to play pool - one of those moments.

Anyway, this guy was really nice. And pretty sweet-looking. I knew I wasn’t wildly attracted to him but I figured I’d use the night to hone my fine seduction skills. So between my staggering (figuratively and literally) shots at the pool table, I’d saunter up to him and make out with him. Sometimes, I’d let him show me how to hold the pool stick while standing ridiculously close behind me, grinding myself ever so slightly into the groove of his arched body. Or I’d bend over the pool table wearing a rather short skirt. I was getting my slut on a little. Which is a good thing. Trust me.

After completing my finishing eight ball shot with utter finesse, I walked up to him and pulled him toward me, gently grabbing the collar of his shirt (which may have had lipstick on it at that point but only because I bumped into him repeatedly - not like the Connie Francis song) and kissed him hard and good. When I was done, he looked down at his shirt.

“Is something the matter?” I queried.

“Oh, it’s nothing. You just kinda pulled at the collar of my shirt and I don’t want it to get stretched out.”

And with that I kissed him on the cheek, grabbed my pocketbook and left. He followed after me, repeatedly saying, “I don’t care. Really. Pull away!” But it was too late. The damage was done. I walked home by myself singing Connie Francis and wondering why I was such a hardliner.

I mean, really…it’s not that big of a deal. But wait a second. Maybe it is. In my opinion, if some hot (and humble) chick is making out with you with even the possibility of going home with you in the air, the last concern you should have as a red-blooded male is your fucking $18 long-sleeved t-shirt collar.

But wait Beth…what if he had on a fine, silk shirt? Well, guess what? Same applies. First off, I’m not that aggressive. I’m not some dominatrix with a whip in one hand and your ripped-off shirt collar in the other, laughing demoniacally. Secondly, I’ve had clothes torn off of me at several points in my life. Maybe it bothered me after the fact, but at that heart-racing moment, the last thing I thought of was the state of my clothing!

His concern about that collar showed he lacked a certain primal drive that would no doubt showcase itself in bed.

What are you trying to say, Beth? Speak your mind!

I thought it was a real pussy move…there I said it. I mean, where's your beast, man?

This same principle applies to the bass player I dated in college. He didn’t like when I would grab his long, pretty hair while making love. Pussy. And the same holds true with scratches or bite marks. Just shut up and be man about it. Buck up and take it. Take a bite, a scratch, a slap, a pull. And don’t be a pussy.

I don’t really like saying pussy repeatedly. I don’t. It’s gauche. But my point is…don’t be a pussy.

Waves of Defeat

As my surfing improves, the brothers encourage me to visit the “big boy” locations on the island. I do so begrudgingly because by the time the session is over, I’m usually pretty shaken up. Yesterday was no exception.

Holyoke is the pinnacle of “big boy” surf spots on the Island. It’s a small, crowded location where the waves are big and the male egos often bigger. Pro and semi-pro surfers try to impress one another, like gay sea-bound peacocks (I don’t know if that analogy is going to cut it but oh well.)

The brothers give me the lowdown before I enter the water:

“Grab a wave or two within the first 10 minutes and they’ll give you some respect. If you don’t, they’re going to plow you down.”

“Okay…I guess. But what if…”

“Just do it.”

We paddle out and I’m shaking already. The waves are towering and nobody is friendly. I toss around a few “good mornings” and “hey theres” but hardly anyone responds. I see a wave coming in my direction and set myself up. Paddling for it as hard as I can, I miss it. Everyone sees it. And the brothers are right. This is sensed as weakness. The next wave I attempt to ride, someone “drops in” on me.

A quick side note on surfing: dropping in on a surfer is akin to cutting in front of someone in line. It’s a major sea faux pas and has lead to bloody fistfights in the water. But it will happen if your fellow surfers aren’t taking you seriously.

I see a woman paddling out to our tight-knit little group. This increases my jitters. Is she better than me? Will I look even lamer in comparison? Oh well. I smile and say hi to her. She barely nods in my direction.

Another wave heads in my direction. I start paddling and I see the woman next to me, trying to get the same wave. She technically has the right of way, but she’s so far behind me, I know she won’t get it. I’m set up in a better position, so I continue to paddle.

I miss the wave. And she misses the wave. And she’s pissed. She swings her board around abruptly, the nose of it almost grazing my face. I grab the nose of her board and push it away from me, so I don’t get hit.

The rest of the session was a blur. I was shaken and trying hard to focus. I got several waves to save some face but for the most part, I kinda bombed.

On the drive back home, the brothers begin lecturing me on what I did wrong. I sit in between the two of them, shivering, hungry yet trying to stay open.

“You don’t push away the nose of someone’s board…ever. It’s a sign of aggression.”

“Aggression? EVERYBODY was aggressive out there. I moved her board away so it wouldn’t hit me. Was I supposed to let her hit me as a sign of respect or something? Sorry but that’s an act I reserve only for a very select few.”

“But you dropped in on her. It was her wave.”

“But she wasn’t going to make it! You guys do that same thing to ME all the time. You paddle next to me and if you see I’m not going to get a wave, you take it.”

“But you don’t know these people. It’s different.”

“Well, how did I know? You know, the one time I do something aggressive, it’s a big deal. The rest of the time, I was being friendly and looking forward to meeting new people and no one was nice to me…and I even know some of those people!”

“It’s surfing, Beth. It’s not about being nice.”

“But I don’t really have much of a…community…here and...”

Oh shit, I feel it coming.

“Why are people so goddamn mean?”

And with that, I start sobbing. In the front seat of a car with two young guys on either side of me, painfully unsure of what to do next. The youngest brother starts awkwardly patting my shoulder.

“Beth, fuck them. They’re nobody. You’re just trying to get better. Don’t focus on them. That scrawny-assed blond chick, you’re so much better than her. You’re learning.”

His words feel like a blanket around my shivering body. Again, they remind me of what real brothers would say. Words of comfort, assurance. It takes so few words to make someone feel better. Truth is, she may have been better than me but it was nice to hear anyway. And it was also true, the part about her scrawny ass.

I don’t know if I want to surf competitively. Surfing has always been calming and fun and spiritual to me, like singing. I never cared much about how good I became. I just did it for me, to make me smile. But how do you know when you’re supposed to push yourself and go up against the big boys, just to strengthen your mettle? If you don’t jump into the hot seat sometimes, your little kid fears can trap you indefinitely.

I can’t imagine what Olympic competitors must feel like at the end of the day. Do they cry in cars, wondering why people are so mean? Do they even enjoy their sport anymore? Maybe I don’t feel like winning in general. Maybe the best days are spent drinking pink lemonade, smoking a little weed, going to yard sales, downloading music, making pies, making out and surfing with friends - real simple-like.

The boys drop me off, with a sympathetic yet slightly traumatized look on their faces. As I continue my sobbing in a hot shower, I slowly start to…touch myself. No, I don’t. I actually wash my hair and use this really good deep conditioner afterwards, the kind you leave in your hair for a few minutes. My ego bruised but my hair - silky smooth.

Thoughts of my childhood float through the steam, when you could fearlessly walk up to some kid and say, “Hey, you…you wanna be my friend? You wanna play?” It was that simple. My parents taught me to be kind at all costs, even when people aren’t being kind in return. It was your spiritual duty and I believe in it. I try, I fail, people try, people fail. And it can hurt sometimes, the whole sticky human process.

And that’s when I actually do touch myself. You know, just to forget about the whole damn thing.

I Know What I Did Last Summer (or Statutory, Smatchatory)

While sitting on my countertop last summer, legs wide open, carrot peels flung everywhere and an 18-year-old boy’s head between my legs, I had to ask myself, “Whose life is this anyway?”

It’s a blonde head of a tall, strong boy I surf with, named Kevin. He looks so all-American, you feel like you could bake an apple pie and then eat it off of his face. I’d always catch him staring at me while we were in the water but I attributed it to admiration, surfing with a woman considerably older who could surf as well as he did.

But when my handsome gay friend Kenneth came to visit my house at the Jersey shore last June, he had a different take.

“Behhth,” (that’s Kenneth’s sleepy southern accent) “That boy lahks you!”

“What are you talking about? He has a gaggle of young girls following him around. I highly doubt…”

“Oh shut up. He lahks you.”

“Well, that’s his problem. I’m not going near a 17-year old boy. I do have some standards, Kenneth. 24 is as young as I go. And besides, I’m not even attracted…no!”

One night during Kenneth’s visit, Kevin came over to fix a ding in my surfboard. Kenneth insisted on Kevin staying for dinner. Kenneth was up to something.
As Kenneth and I started chopping vegetables at the counter, Kevin sat at the kitchen table and small talk ensued. Usually Kenneth and I would talk about any old raunchy thing but I didn’t want to hurt Kevin’s delicate young ears, so I kept it safe.

“Kevin, that girl you were surfing with today. Boy, she’s cute. She looks just like Alyssa Milano.” I say, with my back to him.

“Yeah, she’s alright. I’ve known her since I was a kid.”

Which you still are, I think. I turn around and his eyes are decidedly fixed on me. On my ass, I think, specifically at that point. I quickly face the counter and go back to peeling carrots.

Kenneth begins to dig for facts, as he marinates next to me:

“So how old are you, Kehvin?”

“18.”

“Oh, really! That’s nice. 18. Behth thought you were only 17. I told her you looked older than that. Didn’t I, Beth?”

I sneak a look over and Kenneth starts smiling. I’m afraid I’m going to erupt in awkward laughter and shove some celery in my mouth to stop it.

“Hey, Behth. I’m think I’m gonna go pick up some more wine at the store. You want anything, Sug?”

“We don’t need anymore wine, Kenneth.”

Now I know what he’s up to.

“Really, Kenneth - a bottle is fine for us. And Kevin can’t drink. He’s not legal…if you get my drift!”

“Well, I want some white wine. I don’t lahk red. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Damn him. I continue to peel carrots furiously, with my back to Kevin.

“Kevin, you don’t have to stay. I mean, your friends are going out surfing again, aren’t they?”

“I want to stay. I wanted to see you.”

“Oh. I’m not meaning, um…you should leave but…”

He gets up from the table and starts walking towards me. Shit. Shit. My carrots are getting pointy from over peeling.

“Do you need some help?” he says, as he stands directly behind me, breathing near my ear.

“Absolutely not. I’m fine. I’m really good at carrots.”

He pulls my hair away from my neck and starts kissing it. Oh such a weak point. I’ve always loved Dracula for this very reason. He cuts right to the sensual chase. Except Dracula is like 2 thousand years old and this guy’s 18!

“Kevin…really. This…we shouldn’t…” The peeler drops from my hand. Shit!

In no time flat, his hands are all over and under me. Wearing a little sun dress proved to be my undoing. Sometimes a girl needs to be wearing tight-fitting, hard-to-get-off jeans.

The next thing I know, he picks me up in his arms and flips me onto the counter, in a sitting position. He spreads my legs, pulls me forward and proceeds to go down on me.

While sitting on my countertop