Beth's Urban Tales of Wonder and Decay

Drug Dust Fairies and Fizzy Blue Seas

2012-01-27T12:34:00.008-05:00

I walk by the house on my way to the beach every day. It's a massive, faceless house...but it's on the beach. And here, that means everything.

Last week, I noticed several cars parked in the driveway. Very nice cars. Black, sleek, with tinted windows. For diplomats and rock stars. During the middle of winter? Strange. It's usually empty on this island. Perhaps its just a realtor or a home owner checking in on things.

But as the days passed, the cars remained. Something was going on in there. My curiosity was piqued and my imagination roamed too far, as you'll soon find out.

You see, I run on the beach every day; a grueling daily chore that I do for my health, etc. But one afternoon, only half of me went running. The other half knocked on the door of that faceless house on the beach and experienced an adventure that she won't soon forget.

A tall man opened the door, dressed in a shimmering blue tux. A servant of some sort? Very young and handsome. Tousled blonde hair and massive blue eyes. Or green. Or purple? They seemed to change a little every second. His voice, deep and resonant spoke:

"Can I help you?"

"Is the party here?"

"What's the password?"

"Revelry?" I guessed.

He gestured grandly, "Miss Beth, enter. We've been waiting for you."

Who has been waiting for me, I wondered? No one waits for me, just as a rule.

As Bion lead me upstairs (he whispered his name into my ear when he closed the door. I shuddered with pleasure), I wondered why I didn't hear any "party sounds." It was dead quiet, just the thud of our footsteps, in sync with one another. And the stairway never seemed to end. We just kept climbing and climbing, Bion in the lead.

Finally, at the top of the stairs, he stopped and turned around.

"Are you ready, Miss Beth?"

"Yes, very much so. I've been so curious. What goes on here?"

He opened a white door and boom! The music began, loudly. Glasses clinking, flirtatious laughter, corks popping, pianos playing, voices, voices, voices...many of them. I was suddenly in the middle of a grand room, made up almost entirely of glass, overlooking the ocean. And even though it was sunny out when I arrived, the sky had turned threatening. Everyone stood at the massive window, oohing and ahhing as the storm rolled in. Some were clothed, some naked. No one really seemed to care.

A man walked up to me. I knew him from...somewhere, I don't know where. He had long dark hair and the same piercing, ever-changing eyes as the servant. He had a look of madness to him, but not overcome by it. As if he quietly embraced it. I couldn't pinpoint his age; it didn't matter.

"Beth, my love. You are here, you are here!"

He kissed me on the lips and I pulled back, unaccustomed to such behavior from someone I hardly knew. This did not deter him.

"Relax. Now."

And I did as he commanded. I opened my mouth slightly and he kissed me again, for what seemed like forever, our tongues desperately entwined. I remember dreaming at one point during the kiss; that's how long it was. When we stopped, he was gone. I was kissing the air. Embarrassingly, I pulled myself together and took a better look around.

Drugs were everywhere. White powder, blue powder, red pills, green liquor. Bion brought me a drink "especially made for me. His orders." He handed me an overflowing glass - almost the size of a small fish tank - full of bubbling blue liquid. I took a sip without question. It was made especially for me, afterall.

"Bion, who is the host? What is his name?"

"I call him Sir. But you can call him what you please. He's yours afterall."

Dazed, I wandered over to the window. Oh my...there I was, running on the beach! I knocked on the glass, hoping I could hear me. But she just kept running, looking so determined. I felt badly for her. She works so hard to be good. She stays at home and watches television, she talks to girlfriends about boyfriends that will never really matter, she takes showers, makes teas, cleans dust off of things.

I, on the other hand, was living. I took a drag from the long cigarette that suddenly appeared between my fingers. The smoke came out a crimson red.

Sir was suddenly standing behind me, watching me run on the beach.

"Sad, isn't it? All that good intention. And what does it get her? Are you enjoying your drink, my dear woman? Shall I get you another?"

I looked down and my drink was almost gone. How was that possible?

"Yes, please. I want to drink as much as I can."

"That's the spirit!" said Sir.

I proceeded to mingle with the beautiful people. They looked as if they walked out of a magazine. But so did I. Bion had dressed me on the steps - I remember now. He zippered my new red dress, he put on my shoes, he kissed my neck, he applied glossy lipstick oh so lovingly and powdered my nose. I looked amazing and felt even better.

These people couldn't keep their hands off of me! My dress was made of material that felt like kittens and smelled liked raspberries. My skin glowed, my eyes dazzled. Women, men, (and some, in-between) were attracted to me like bees to honey and I to them. We kissed, we hugged, we danced, we dipped, we molded into one another. We were one, this group and I. I couldn't imagine better friends. They knew all of my darkest thoughts and liked me anyway.

Things got blurry after the second fishbowl of bubbling liquid. But I didn't mind. The powders and the pills cleared my head. I'd sink, I'd fall, I'd come back to life, over and over again. We all danced this dance for days it seemed. Our thorny, perverted sickness was so beautiful, I couldn't dislodge myself. The highness was staggering.

Sir and I would sporadically run off to his blood red bedroom and do such unspeakable things to one another. It was so splendid and dark that I now can't remember it; my mind won't let me. At one point, the energy we created raised us off of the bed, that I recall. I was scared but thrilled. This was beyond fucking; it was pure transcendence. Or was it decadent and sick transendence? Who cared? I didn't.

Afterward, we whispered warm and wicked things to one another, cleansed from the shamelessness of our wanton acts. These words I can no longer speak; it was an eternal language created from the most profane place in our souls. We fell asleep and continued speaking in our dreams. We were dying in our own way, and it was absolutely perfect.

Then Bion ruined everything. Everything.

"Miss Beth, she is here to pick you up."

"Who?"

"The one who runs on the beach."

Sir began crying. I'd never seem him cry before. So sad, so beautiful.

"I can't live without you. You simply must stay."

"There are many pretty women who love you, Sir. They are waiting."

And truly, they were. I looked around the bed and we were surrounded by the most stunning women I'd seen, naked and in wait. They already began petting and pawing Sir, knowing my departure was near. Damn beautiful vultures.

As I climbed out of the bed, Sir grabbed me, his hand squeezing mine so tight, I began to bleed.

"Will you come back? Please. You know she'll just ruin you. She'll bore you to death...you know that, right? She will bore you to death!"

"I know, but she's all I have here." And I began crying too.

Sir and I kissed once more, then the vultures attacked him. He screamed in pleasure at first, then in agony. Looking back, I could no longer see him, just bodies writhing, biting, eating, melting.

Bion showed me to the door, where she stood, drenched in sweat and rain. She had a look of pleading in her eyes. I hated her. For just one moment, I hated her.

"Why can't you let me have fun? I've been waiting for this."

She just held out her hand, knowingly, like a mother.

I slowly reached for it.

"I liked him. I really did."

"I know," she said. "He'll come back for you again. When it's dark. But right now, we have to go home."

I took her hand and she lead me home. I looked down and my dress was gone. I was ugly again, old clothes, drenched. The party was over, at least for me. I had books to read, clothes to clean, gardens to tend, vitamins to eat, checks to write, problems to solve, help to offer, blood to bleed.

Lowlifes and Hotsprings

2012-01-27T12:27:00.002-05:00

A final blow to the head and he was out cold, face down, glistening drool seeping from his cracked, nicotine-stained lips. And I was the one who did it. I warned him that I would. That I could. But he didn't listen. He should have.

When we arrived at the hot springs in the Nevada desert, we were dusty and fatigued. My friend Amanda, her teenage daughter and I had planned this 6-hour road trip months ago. Recovering from a particularly hard break-up, I was emotionally vacant and wasted, like a burnt-out building. This hot spring was to be my rebirth, my scalding baptism.

When we completed the mile-long trek to the hot spring, I dropped by backpack and almost gasped with joy. What beauty. Several sizable hot springs, all adjoining. A majestic view. Yes! This will do the trick. It has to.

There were a few others who had made the journey, but no matter. Of course, I wanted the springs entirely to my friends and myself, but I knew that others needed their spiritual cleansing too. We'd share in the experience together.

My friend and her daughter quickly undressed and made their way into the magical waters. I took my time, drinking in the ritual to its fullest. I undressed and with each article of clothing I dropped, I felt as if I was letting go of another "drag me down" element in my life.

When I finally placed my foot in the hot liquid, I felt instantly changed, as if the magic flew through my foot and up my naked body. As I submerged, it was all I could do not to cry. The goodness hurt my poor, aching heart. I closed my eyes and let the healing begin.

Then I heard him. A gruff, asthmatic laugh.

I opened my eyes and saw a man on the other side of the pool, staring at me in that unwanted, lascivious way. No, no...not this now. Please, God, not this now.

I returned his stare aggressively, as if to say, "Stop. Leave me the fuck alone." But he wouldn't be dissuaded. I couldn't let him ruin this for me. Closing my eyes again, I tried desperately to block him out but every time I'd open them, his stare burned my flesh.

"Can you stop staring at me?"

"What?"

"I said stop staring at me."

"Fuck you. I'll stare at what I want."

I looked over at my friend and her daughter. Their look of relaxation had turned into concern.

"It's just rude and I'm trying to relax."

"That's your problem."

"She's got a hot body, man. I can't help it," he jokingly tells his friend.

What a scrawny fuck of a man. Yellowed teeth, jacked up face, greasy hair, glossy red eyes. I could smell the stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze emanating from the steam and drifting my way. I approximated his size so I could make my decision. He was at least an inch or two smaller than me.

I'm a woman who fights. I studied martial arts for years and have sparred men considerably bigger than me. This guy was an easy take-down, especially because he was drunk. For years, I've argued with men (predominantly) who insist that a woman can never beat a man in any physical altercation. Well, I have. But obviously, many factors come into play.

The most pressing concern is size. If a man is much bigger than me, then yes, there's a good chance he'll beat me. (Or honestly, I'd get out of the situation before I'd allow that to happen. One good disarming hit and I'd run.) But if a man is my size or smaller, then the odds shift. I stand a chance. After years of fighting in competitions, I stand a better chance.

But it's not just size; it's mindset. If someone is really angry, for instance, and you are not, you could be at a serious disadvantage, regardless of the size. They have the force of their rage coming at you and you're not at their pitch level of volatility yet.

In the same breath, if you're a practiced fighter, calm serves you. A relaxed, focused fighter can always beat an angry one, who tends to be wild and sloppy.

I could have taken him. In my mind, when I go back in time, I do. I ask him to step outside of the pool. I put on my clothes and kick his ass resoundingly. He lie face-down in a puddle of his own blood and spit while I grab my friends and leave.

But I can't go back. And that's not what I did. Instead I got up and went to an adjacent pool and fumed instead of "cleansed." And the rest of the trip was slightly tainted by this man's need to dominate me with visual harassment.

I hope that little runt of a methhead is dead, rotting in a worm-ridden cardboard box somewhere. I hope no one shed a tear for him. I hope that men everywhere realize that unwanted stares can feel as invasive as an unwanted touch. I hope my friend's daughter sees a woman check a man like that so thoroughly that she vows to never tolerate such harassment, in any form.

This wasn't some horny lowlife, but a violent man. Those stares weren't sexual; they were a form of dominance and aggression. He spit on my spirit during a time when I desperately needed the world to envelop and comfort me. And of course, this kind of thing goes on all the time. A sick man's desire to invade trumps a woman's need for peace of mind. And it's a spiritual crime, one that can't be undone, ever.

In my mind, I still go back to those hot springs and hurt that man. Badly. Oh, you did the right thing, everyone says. Fuck right things. I still live with that experience. I should have kicked his ass or died trying.

There was no justice that day. There was no baptism.

Unhinging the Bitch

2012-01-06T11:38:00.011-05:00

“Are you calling me a liar?” I asked the stone-faced 20-something cashier.

“No, I’m just saying that lots of customers tell us a price is cheaper than it is."

“So you are calling me a liar. The cabbage is 69 cents a pound. Check it if you don’t believe me. But don’t question my honesty.”

“I can have someone check the…”

“No. It’s frigging cabbage. I’ll live without it.”

He removes it from my tab. As I finish bagging my groceries, the raging goes on inside my head. I decide to let the words fall out of my mouth instead - and rather loudly, surprising even me:

“Seriously, in all of the years I’ve come to this grocery megahell, do you think I’ve ever been undercharged for anything?

At this point, other cashiers and shoppers are staring at me. My face reddens but instead of looking down, I look back at them. Everyone quickly looks away, one at a time.

"This corporate system is designed to overcharge me. Hence why I know the price of the damn cabbage in the first place.”

I walk out, head up. But in my car, it’s a different story. My hands are shaking and I’m on the verge of tears. I begin to feel badly for the cashier, who was a clueless recipient of my ire.

Apologize. I should apologize.

Ah, that tired, old mantra. As a woman and recovering ex-Catholic, I’ve apologized well beyond my fair share. And if I didn’t apologize, I experienced the wrath of its ugly stepsister: guilt.

What if I lived unapologetically? What if I transformed into a full-fledged, raging hot bitch?

I reflect back on the supermarket scene. It certainly did feel good to simply raise my voice. To be loud.

It also felt decadently defiant to look back into the eyes of everyone staring at me, as if to say, “Back off with your critical stares or you’re next, bitches.” I had a Clint Eastwood moment.

What if unhinged the bitch even more? What if I truly spoke my mind?

Just what we need, right? Another rude, uncaring, entitled person in this world thinking the world should accommodate them. With some thought, I began to realize that wasn’t possible. Why? Because I am a caring and sensitive person. But could I be a caring and sensitive bitch?

My gal friend is upset that her family didn’t contact her over the holidays. I ask her how she conveyed that to them. Her phonecall went something like this:

“Wow, you guys must have been really busy over Christmas. I didn’t hear from you and I thought something might be wrong. Then I figured you just must have been busy. It’s the holidays, afterall.”

This is how she told it to me, over a few drinks:

“Do I fucking exist or what? They couldn’t show me the goddamn respect to connect with me for once? I’m the only living daughter on my side of the family. Why do I have to do all the reaching out? I’m sick of it. I’m fucking sick of it.”

A substantial difference in tone, you'll note. Should she have opted for version 2? Not necessarily. But version 1 is much more nefarious and soul-sucking - and that’s the one “good women” often choose.

Does unleashing ever have its place?

As women, we do the opposite of unleashing. We internalize. It’s shocking how many times we question and admonish ourselves, over the slightest “infractions.” Many feminist theories postulate that those socially-induced insecurities are meant to keep our mouths shut and our feet in cement. We’re too busy yelling at ourselves to yell at others. Too busy internally debating to take a step forward.

Like many others, several people close to me have died of cancer. I have no damn clue whether internalized anger manifests itself in the form of cancer. But I’ll take my stab in the dark and say that it sure doesn’t help.

In their honor, I continue to unhinge the bitch. More frequently, I let her roam free, express herself and breathe a little easier. She gets to laugh in the face of a difficult situation, instead of caving in on herself like a house of cards.

Could I ever utter the following?

“I don’t like talking to you. I wish you’d go away.”

“Don’t ignore me. I don’t appreciate it.”

“Stop interrupting. I’m speaking right now.”

“I think you’re lying.”

"Stop staring at me. I find it invasive."

“You’re being controlling and I’m a big girl so knock it the hell off.”
"I wasn't asking your opinion."
“You sound like a baby. It’s annoying.”

“Your constant need for attention is tiresome.”

“Your emotionally avoidant behavior leaves me utterly unfulfilled.”

“You’re interrupting us. How about you wait a second?”

Well, I have. And not just to those close to me (whom we all can unleash on – and how fair is that? Spread your bitchiness around so your loved ones get more love.)

One could argue that these utterances are cruel or could be delivered in a better fashion. And one would be right! But what if I don’t feel like being right? I’ve been right for decades now and still feel wrong entirely too much of the time. Being right and good is a never-ending battle which women are predetermined losers.

A bitch is a female dog, right? A dog is an animal. And when I become a bitch, I'm closer to my animal self. And I like it. It feels impulsive, raw and primal. Fight-ready and messy. Sexual and unbridled.

Two of the biggest insults that can be hurled at women? "You're a whore" or "You're a crazy bitch." I've yet to figure out what a whore is (other than a perfectly reasonable profession where women get paid more than men for once.)

You're a crazy bitch then! The underlying message: Stay tame. Shut up. Don't act wild. You might be a force to be reckoned with. You might get somewhere. The last time it was hurled my way, I responded, "You ain't see nothing yet." And they hadn't. Because I haven't. She's evolving. She's new.

At heart, I will always be a kind person. I know no other way. But there’s more to me than kindness. And this seemingly backward path to transformation fits me well, like a coat of fur, or a set of fangs. Like ragged claws or a gutteral growl. Like a bite.

2011-12-29T10:49:00.004-05:00

To Touch You More

2011-12-22T09:11:00.011-05:00

_{My good friend Peter and I}

My New Year's resolution made over a decade ago was to touch people more. To break that social wall that keeps our hands and bodies a safe distance from one other. To connect more physically.

I'm speaking of the non-sexual variety of contact. We all know when someone is touching us with sexual undertones. That may or may not be welcome. I wanted to offer the kind of touch that wouldn't be misconstrued.

This was not easy at first. Not because people weren't receptive; they were. People generally love touch. They bask in it. They appreciate it on a cellular level.

It was a challenge because I wasn't sure how to do it. My German family is not the touchy-feely sort. Stiff, awkward hugs. Overly firm pats on the back. Touching others freely hadn't been habituated into me, so it took some training.

But soon, my hands and body reached out to anyone in my world, whether it was via handholding or a quick massage or a touch on the cheek or a full-body hug or a head on a shoulder. Or I'd simply stand closer to people, trying not to invade, but simply enter, their space. I even began kissing some of my closest friends on the lips, which is incredibly sweet and rewarding.

How did people react? Shoulders would drop, breathing would deepen, gentle smiles would appear - people relaxed almost instantly. We so desperately crave human contact, but often aren't even aware how hungry we are for it. And giving touch is akin to receiving it. I feel touched as well. Cosmic win/win.

Last month, while taking a bus from the Jersey shore to New York City, an older, fragile Indian man sitting across the aisle from me suddenly handed me his cellphone. I accepted it, confused and slightly nervous.

"Um...hello?"

"Hello, my uncle may be having a heart attack. He needs help. He doesn't speak any English."

I looked over at the older gentleman and he was grasping his chest and moaning. I went to the bus driver and explained what was happening. As I returned to my seat, the man had fallen to the floor, in the aisle.

The bus pulled over. Emergency help was contacted. Several passengers made suggestions but few had any medical training, myself included. So I resorted to my New Year's resolution. I placed both of my hands gently on his face and began whispering in his ear, "Calm down. Calm down. Calm down."

I then unbuttoned his shirt and placed my hands on his chest. He was very agitated and his heartbeat was frighteningly rapid, so it took some time, but finally his breathing resumed to somewhat normal. At one point, he opened his eyes to look at me and they were filled with gratitude. No clumsy words needed.

When the police finally arrived, they instructed everyone off of the bus. (Another was waiting to take us to our destination.) I was afraid if my hands left his body, he would become unwell again. The cop didn't really want to hear my spiritual take on the situation, so I got up to leave.

Almost immediately, the man's breathing became erratic and his eyes glazed over and looked filmy. I left the bus feeling a sense of peace regardless. Strangely, I could feel his essence on me for quite some time, like an energetic imprint of some sort.

Fortunately, the man was fine. (His relatives left me a lovely message the next day.) But it was then I realized that touching was something beyond "feel good." We live for it. I live for it.

So that is my first (and only) working New Year's resolution - one that would change my life on a level beyond words.

"I Have The Touch" - Peter Gabriel

The time I like is the rush hour, cos I like the rush
The pushing of the people - I like it all so much
Such a mass of motion - do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and ... I have the touch

I'm waiting for ignition, I'm looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch

Wanting contact
I'm wanting contact
I'm wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Any social occasion, it's hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and ... I have the touch

Wanting contact
I'm wanting contact
I'm wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back - but nothing seems
to please

I need contact
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact

The REAL Jersey Girls

2011-12-10T15:16:00.023-05:00

Click on funny NJ map to enlarge.

Jersey. Whatever with this damn state. People staring at you all the time. Surprised by so little. Beige people in beige houses busy being dull and devoid of personality and looking at me funny? The nerve.

Jersey. No, not like the show The Jersey Shore. That bears no resemblance to the South Jersey existence I'm tethered to. Mine is the Jersey shore that's entering a long winter, where a handful of weathered locals sit at dimly lit bars, drinking Coors Light, talking about bait, football and plumbing.

Jersey. Bad accents. Really bad ones. Now that I'm living here again, I can hear that nasally vowel-dragging suburban twang returning to my speech after years of trying to get rid of it. Makes me want to sew my lips shut.

Jersey. I was born here. So I guess that makes me a "Jersey girl." I fit the bill, I suppose. I’m not thrilled about it, but its my simple, inescapable fate. I would have preferred London or Madrid, but New Jersey it is.

Though there are some qualities I do appreciate about being a Jersey girl.

Qualities of your Average Jersey Girl

She “parties” in one form or the other and has for a long time; its simply a way of life now.

She keeps it real; no bullshit. Definitely not prissy.

She probably lost her virginity pretty early on. In a fast car with orange flames painted on it. He kept his leather jacket on. The smell of leather will turn her on from that point forward.

She smoked cigarettes in high school bathrooms, where you had to say, "It's alright" before entering, so the other girls knew you weren't a teacher, trying to bust you. If you forgot, and cigarettes were tossed in the toilets, those girls got pissed.

She attended many a keg party. She rolled down hills while going to pee with her friends. They laughed hysterically until they realized they couldn't climb back up the hill because they were too drunk.

She most probably had brushes with the law. Maybe involving Quaaludes.

She’s definitely tripped on acid before. Something wildly disastrous happened that is still talked about to this day. She can laugh about it now, finally - but it took a while.

She may have jumped over fences while being chased by the cops. And tore her jeans while doing so. She wore those jeans for years after, until the bottom finally ripped. Then she had to throw them away. She may have sighed.

She thinks an occasional fistfight is a perfectly acceptable way to handle disputes.

Yes, she's eaten hoagies.

She has never said "Joisey" or anything remotely like that. Has no clue where that came from. Also doesn't joke about "What exit are you?"

She’s roller-skated in her past. Bubble gum and strawberry lip gloss. She carried a comb in the back of her pocket and compulsively ran it through her feathered hair so Alan Gantowski would maybe, just maybe, ask her to join him during "Couples Skate." He never did.

She has the mouth of sailor but can be soft and sweet in demeanor at the very same time. Its a delightful paradox, at least to her.

She knows lots of "dudes." Not quite boys, not quite men. Just straight-up dudes.

She's humble. She had to be or she'd get checked by a group of friends that didn't tolerate snobbery of any sort. She could stand to be less humble at this point of her life.

She acts a little Italian, whether she is or not.

Yes, she has a strong affinity for Bruce Springsteen. (She does not feel this way about Bon Jovi.)

She learned French kissing from friends in the back of a school bus. She mastered the art over the years and enjoys it as much as sex. (Well, almost.)

She will moon people if she's provoked. She will not feel embarrassed about it the next day.

Friends are her family.

She's worked hard. Often too hard for too little. She gets weary; the kind of weary that Otis Redding sang about. She now awaits tenderness. Waits, waits. It comes in dribs and drabs when she needs buckets of it poured over her naked body.

She didn't dream as big as she'd liked. Everyone around her, well, no one was that inspired to break out the suburban trap that was South Jersey...eh, or maybe dreams are overrated.

She likes flannel shirts.

She will always love classic rock.

She is a survivor.

Yes, living in New Jersey has shaped me. When I go other places, I realize I'm from this state. There's a "keeping it real" aspect that made moving to California a little difficult at first, for instance. Now, to get the hell out here.

Because as Bruce so aptly puts it:

"Baby this town rips the bones from your back. It's a deathtrap. It's a suicide rap. You gotta get out while you're young. Cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run."

The Evolution of a Rock Star Dream - An Online Love Story

2011-11-19T14:04:00.026-05:00

This piece was written for Red Room's Blog Topic of the Week: Your Favorite Love Story.

And maybe there are seasons. And maybe they change. And maybe to love is not so strange. - Dan Fogelberg, To the Morning

I'm going to give away the punchline: I fell in love with a rock star after developing a long-term online relationship. Why beat around the bush? Better to just blurt it out now and spare myself the embarrassment of having to admit it later on. His name is (fill in the blank) from this point on. You may not have heard of him anyway, so who cares, right?

I added him as a MySpace friend over 6 years ago (when that was our social meeting place, remember?). And much to my surprise, he wrote a personal message back. I asked him if he was an imposter, you know, some bespeckled geek, hanging out in his parent's basement, acting the part of this well-known musician.

His response? "I've been playing the role of (fill in the blank) since 1965." That's when I knew it was him, for some reason. I was floored. He emailed me? He joked with me? I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, teeming with girlish glee.

Over the next few years, we communicated sporadically, but incrementally, more and more. We moved over to instant messaging, which was a first for me. His little face would suddenly pop up on my screen, out of the blue. Wow. He's kind of in my bedroom now. Our little virtual world seemed so intimate and magical.

We would chat for hours on end, exchanging songs, jokes, links, stories, photos, struggles, heartfelt compliments, sarcastic zingers and mild flirtations. Sometimes we'd type the same thought at once. Or send the same song to one another. It was uncanny. I felt as if I'd finally met my soul mate, as painfully corny as that sounds.

One night, after excessive typing and wine drinking (he drank vodka. He was bipolar and often self-medicated in some not so healthy ways), he suggested calling me to give my hands a break. On the phone!? Mother of god, this is getting real.

When my phone rang, I felt so small and scared suddenly. Why was this amazing man interested in a little nobody stranded at the Jersey shore? Well, I don't think I'm a nobody per se; it's just that when a romantic dream unfurls before you, you feel humbled by it. It almost hurts. Am I worthy?

Yes, I am. Indeed I am. So I answered the phone.

And I heard his sweet voice for the first time. We talked and laughed as if we'd known each other for thousands of years. He even sang to me that night - yes, he did. He played his guitar and sang one of his popular songs to me over the phone. And I sang with him, nervous, elated.

From that point forward, I fantasized about us living in a home on the beach in California. He'd play his music for me or ask me to sing a section of a song, so he could work out a glitch. We'd be very musical together and fuck a lot - that was my dream life with him.

Phone sex erupted in the middle of our 4-hour long conversation (shocker, right?). He lead the way. Quick and wildly creative, he could spin these wonderfully steamy stories, as if he knew all of my private little kinks.

He tucked me in that night, thousands of miles away. He told me to get under my covers. He whispered in my ear for some time and then said good-night at the just the very moment I drifted off. I hung up the phone and floated up to the heavens.

The next day, he instant messaged me with the news I secretly suspected: he was married. The "kids" part was a surprise though. Wasn't expecting that. Young kids. Fuck. How could you? He apologized and explained to me their situation: he and his wife haven't slept in the same bed for years, he lives in an in-law on their property now. They stay together for the kids. Lots of animosity.

I felt shattered and told him to leave me alone for a while, or permanently - whatever sticks.

Torturous weeks went by and he either contacted me or I contacted him. "I miss you desperately" was the theme. And our strange, other-worldly relationship resumed without missing a beat. We jumped back in like two lovelorn idiots.

His bipolar disorder became more of an issue as we progressed. He was deeply struggling. Yet so was I, mentally as well as financially. I was desperately alone in an old, decrepit family house on a desolate island. He went on meds. He became my medication, my happy pill amidst profound loneliness. His moods changed quickly and radically. I'd hear from him, then nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then he'd flood back in torrents, all over me. Until he was gone again.

A quick aside on abandonment issues: when you have them and your love interests show up/don't show up, you're in a constant state of pins and needles. Anxious and preoccupied all the time, you can't focus, you can't work optimally, you can't even take a deep breath. His departures wreaked havoc in my life. But our times together were transcendent and blissful.

Did we ever make plans to meet? We talked about it during our sexual and fantastical exchanges. Hotel rooms. Waiting for me in hotel rooms. What he would do to me. How he would do it to me. How long he would do it to me. And how shopping and dining would be involved beforehand. (It was often a full-day fantasy. We wanted as much time together as possible.)

But did he ever really plan on meeting me? No, probably not. That's hard to write, to admit.

Would we be attracted one another, if we had met? I wondered that for some time. Maybe it would be deeply disillusioning if we broke that fourth e-wall. Maybe he would be a 4 foot boil-covered troll of a man. Or we just wouldn't have that "thing" in the real world. But after years of our strange intimacy, I worried less and less about that. We were already deeply attracted to one another on a level few could understand, including ourselves.

I loved an introverted, troubled and highly creative man I never met who sang and played in a popular band in the 90's. And I believe he loved me too. A strange, beautiful and ether-like love. One that couldn't last unless we met, which wasn't going to happen. I began to hear from him less and less. Then not at all. My self-esteem plummeted and I found it harder to reach out, for fear he wouldn't respond.

He also made sure he covered his ass. I had no phone number or address, just his email. When someone left vaguely threatening comments on a blog post of mine, I emailed him immediately. We had already drifted apart, but the comments mentioned his name specifically. I felt scared and vulnerable.

At first I thought it was his wife - which was surprising, because she didn't seem very involved in his life. Then I thought it was some hateful side of him during a manic episode. I'll never really know, but they were scathing words which I've long since locked in a metal box in my head.

After several weeks, he emailed me back and claimed no knowledge of the comments. That he had found God. He was deeply sorry for what he put me through. He lives with the guilt and the pain and blah. But thanks to Him (yes - a capital "H"), he is back on his path. How tidy. God in a box, Hollywood style.

Eh, I'm being sarcastic and mean. Neither of us killed ourselves, which I consider a definite perk of our time together - and trust me, we were within spitting distance a few times. Let him have his God. Let me have the Goddess he made feel like. All is forgiven, ultimately. It has to be or the pain could gnaw at me.

And what he did to my confidence alone - I wrote like a mad woman during our time together - was worthy of gratitude. He read all of my material and constantly gave me glowing feedback. This amazing and complex musician was my muse. I was the star of the star's eye - the princess at a ball, even though my prince was troubled, married and electronic.

I miss him. To this day. When someone parts ways with you so poorly, the recovery time is rocky and protracted. When you never had the chance to meet that person, its as if they never really existed, making the grief that much more complicated

I did my best to digest the loss by sending him emails, expressing my pain, my love. I knew he wouldn't respond, but I did it for myself, to purge and move on. Eventually my need to contact him lessened to once in a blue moon. And then, I'd simply keep him posted on my life or send him a song he might like. He had a become a distant pen pal and I was dating others, slowly getting back to real life again.

Last month, an email I sent him was returned; his account has been disabled. He slowly but very surely shut a large, immovable door on me. I had no choice but to let go completely.

"The email account? You couldn't let me hang on to that puny little thread? I'll let go when I'm good and ready, not a moment sooner. In the face of such dismissiveness, it's the least you could do. Or hell, would flowers have been so hard? Or a phone call? Anything? I am a human, afterall. A human."

Sometimes I fantasize about bumping into one another in some random hotel lobby in NYC. I'd recognize him and speak his name simply and he'd turn around slowly. I'd see his face for the first time.

Ha...what would we do? We would both cry, I guess. And hug. Then I'd slap him hard across the face and he'd be stunned and then laugh. Then I would punch him in the gut. This wouldn't be so funny. He'd have to sit down after that one. And I wouldn't apologize. I'd wait until he caught his breath and....

No, I could never hurt him. Nor would I name him. He knows that because he knows me. No matter how much he hurt me or denied me the chance of respectful closure or a physical meeting, I'd never do anything to harm him. I wish I could say he did the same for me. He was kind of a bratty, narcissistic jerk, right? But it's not that simple. It never is.

He was one of the best things that ever happened to me and one of the most amazing men I've never met.

It's taken me a while to get over him and I still have my heart-stabbing moments. Though most of the time he's just a pale ghost drifting around my heart, bumping into things occasionally.

It's just accepting the bitter fact that we will never meet. I will probably go to my grave never seeing him in person. And that's the thing...that's the thing....then I just can't seem to let go....completely....

Dirty Little Fairy Tales

2011-11-14T20:03:00.010-05:00

Once upon a time, I nursed a horrible heartbreak like a sickly blue baby. I kept it alive at all costs and let it burn a never-ending hole in me. The man I love had left me, passively but decidedly, until he became a flickering ghost whom I could barely remember but constantly longed for.

Work during this time was the ultimate insult to injury. On top of being profoundly bereft, I was forced to endure mindless tasks that would have insulted a drugged monkey. The man in charge of the dismal warehouse office was a lecherous, asthmatic sort. I'd catch him staring at me through the glass that separated us, occasionally licking his cracked lips. He disgusted me.

Yet somehow, so desperate for attention, I'd allow his loathsome advances. Sometimes I'd even encourage them by dressing scantily and bending over slowly in front of him to pick up a dropped paper. I could feel his eyes trail up the back my legs and hear his raspy breathing, labored and slow.

At home, I'd undress and slip between my sheets, hugging an old pillow and mindlessly kissing it, wrapping my legs around the blankets, like a teenager in practice for an upcoming date. There was no one to give my wild, broken-hearted love to, so it was given to objects, to dirty bosses, and to myself, in bed, time and time again, until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

On Tuesday nights, I frequented a dive bar. Shadowed men would occasionally look my way but I wanted to be left alone to make love to my chilled vodka, suck deeply on my cigarette, and burn an endless stare into the dirty mirror behind the bar.

One fateful evening there, while drifting into an alcohol-induced unconsciousness, I was hit from behind. A tall, delicate man with glasses had tripped and fell into me, sending me and my drink flying. I'd seen him there before: he sat at the end of the bar and read newspapers furiously, raking his fingers through his tousled hair. He never looked my way. Now he was practically in my lap.

"I'm sorry. So clumsy...are you alright?"

"I'm fine. But my drink isn't."

"Let me buy you one. Please. Sorry, terribly sorry. It's so dark in here and I'm...sorry."

"I get it, you're sorry. Buy me a drink and we'll call it even." I said curtly.

He picked up his papers from the sticky floor, laughing nervously. I perched myself back on the squeaky bar stool and continued my stare into nowhere.

"You come here often." I heard him mutter.

"Seriously? Did you just ask me that? Just buy me a drink and go, please. Really...do I come here often? Fuck. Work on some better pick-up lines."

"Oh no, it wasn't a pick up line. I recognize you. Or at least I think I do. You've been in here before."

For the first time, I bothered to make eye contact with him. He looked gentle and sincere. My face flushed with shame. He wasn't trying to make a move on me. He was not another big bad wolf. He was simply reaching out.

"Do you want to sit down and have a drink with me?" The question hurt coming out of my mouth, like kindness had rusted in my gut and cut on its way up.

"Yes," he stuttered nervously. "That would be nice."

We spent the next few hours talking, laughing. He was a kind, sensitive man, in need of the same attention as me. Giving it to him warmed us both, melting my pain and his shyness. As the night wore on, I found myself moving closer to him. (Or was he moving closer to me?) As he began to ask me a question, I kissed him. The question was forgotten and we sat in silence, staring at one another for what seemed like a hundred years.

"Do you want to come home with me?" he asked in a bare whisper.

"No...no. That would be too much. Um. I just...I broke up with someone and...yes. Yes, I'd like to."

We walked in silence back to his walk-up apartment on that starless night, holding hands nervously. As we climbed the stairs, I stopped.

"I can't do this. I can't." The waning love of another kept me fixated; it felt physically impossible to allow my guard down for another.

"Turn around," he demanded. His voice was suddenly deeper suddenly.

"Why?"

"Just turn around. Close your eyes."

I dropped my bag and faced the wall.

"Put your hands on the wall and do what I tell you."

I could have been scared. Or threatened. Or resistant. But I had nothing to lose. I relinquished my power to him and turned around.

He pressed himself into me, suddenly confident and assured. His hand ran up my bare legs slowly, methodically. His mouth reached my ear. "I want to fuck you. And you're going to let me. Okay?"

I nodded, as he pulled down my panties and proceeded to fuck me in the staircase, my face pressed up against the cold cement wall. The pleasure was excruciating and divine. I let out a moan.

"Be quiet. Just be quiet and take it," he said, covering my mouth. And that's just what I did. I took it until I could take no more. I came and collapsed in his arms. He kissed my neck and whispered in my ear, "It's better now. It's all better now."

He was right. The spell was shattered by sordid sex with a stranger in a cold staircase one evening of my life.

Open Salon Meet-up and Beth's Power Birthday - The Photos!

2011-11-13T10:09:00.026-05:00

_{Ruby Lawrence, one of my closest friends and co-host to 11/11/11 party.}

I met Open Salon's Cartouche last year. It was as natural as the breeze. We hugged and proceeded to spend a glorious weekend in Florida together, as if I'd known her my whole life.

So strange, isn't it? The bonds we've formed here on OS. I don't know about you, but I've never experienced anything like it. There are few online communities that could compare with us. We are strangely and deeply familiar with one another. Our work together has created this wonderous ripple effect. It's profound and touching.

When Nikki Stern walked into the restaurant before Friday night's NYC's OS meet-up party, I hugged her and experienced that instant sense of intimacy and familiarity. She's beautiful and radiates as much as I imagined she would.

The rest of the night was full of that same OS magic. I couldn't help but think that we need to come together like this, especially now. Maybe a new friendship connection or a great business opportunity or an idea moved closer to fruition - or whatever! - the sky is the limit, isn't it? This night will have long-term, positive implications, I hope.

I'll let Les Stone's photos (please check out his website and see the serious work this guy does) do the rest of the talking, but it was a magical night, with energy streaking across the room, as you'll see in these photos.

Actors, writers, business owners, photographers, graphic designers, directors, reporters - super sharp, smart, creative people - together at an Australian Bar called Eight Mile Creek in Soho, exchanging ideas, connections, jokes, play, hugs, kisses (some really great kisses actually...wow), beer, New Zealand wine...doing our thing.

We're creative and grew our powers together on a special day: 11/11/11

(Click on photos for the "big picture.")

Group shot - Open Salon friends and other dear friends.

Neil Paul, Cranky Cuss, Beth Mann, Nikki Stern, Frank Apisa and Designanator. Love this shot.

Nikki Stern and Joe Nation, looking like a superhero unveiled.

JohannaLG and Cranky Cuss. Cranky Cuss is the sweetest, warmest man who gave me a lovely mug (photo at end of post).

Neil Paul, Cranky Cuss, Beth Mann, Nikki Stern, Frank Apisa and Designanator, a kind, gentle man with a busy camera.

Frank, Beth Mann, Neil Paul. God, what's there to say about Neil Paul? He's a genius, I'm guessing. He's so smart, you have to be sharp to follow him. He thinks on 3 levels at once and you just need to keep up with him.

The strikingly beautiful Autumn Whitefield-Madrano and Frank Apisa. Frank is accessible and relaxed and a chill dude with substantial "cool" cache. He's good at living, I think.

The shining Nikki Stern, dear friend Ruby Lawrence, Beth Mann - rock trio in formation. Or maybe a pop trio...I'd prefer that, I think. It's sillier with better costumes.

JohannaLG and Frank Apisa. Johanna thinks I'm a little weird because I wanted to take photos of her and hugged her maybe a little too much. That's because she's beautiful and smart with these intense, laser-focused eyes and you just want to stand close to her.

See? Neil Paul, Beth Mann, JohannaLG.

Friend Peter Herbst - one of my wittiest friends - and Nikki. These two just naturally got along, I think.

Wall Street Journal writer Jon and Beth Mann. Total stranger at beginning of night, friends by end of it. Just a sweetie.

Long Beach Island friends who came to NYC for this event! This is my family at the Jersey shore. The uber-smart and sweet Peter and Danielle Morris.

Me and Jon, who gave me his coat when it got cold.

One of my dearest old friends, actor/director Kevin Augustine. One of the most deeply creative people I know whom I've known him a long, long time. I told him before he left, "I love you from the bottom of my heart." I don't know if I've ever uttered those exact words to anyone before.

It's a shame that cigarettes look so cool.

Frank and Kevin Augustine

Peter Herbst, Ruby Lawrence and myself. This is what fun looks like.

Me with the inimitable actress Toni Silver. Toni Silver is a fiery, fiesty and fierce woman. She's a creative powerhouse and makes me proud to be a woman.

Dear friend actor/director Joseph Shahadi with the Autumn Whitefield-Madrano, whom I want to be my best friend. I will pay her, if necessary. (With a face like this, she should use a photo for her avatar, if I may be so bold.)

Joe Shahadi and I know each other very well and for years and years. We've done absurdist theater together - that bonds people like nothing else, trust me! Also a ridiculously creative and smart man.

Good friends actor and comedian Anthony Devito and business owner/bon vivant of NYC Ruby Lawrence.

Anthony has that old school, shimmery movie star charm. And funny as HELL. Next to him Ruby Lawrence, as FUNNY AS HELL, and one of my closest friends. I've often dreamt that these two take over the world with their cleverness.

Hugging my dear friend Peter Herbst. One of my fave photos of the night. Just makes me cry. I miss my friends. I live at the often-isolating Jersey shore and I miss being around sharp, witty people who love me.

When I came back home, I walked on the beach and looked at the ocean. I said, wagging my finger at it, "It's for you, I come back. It's for you!" So the "after party" was had with a large body of water that often shapes my decisions. I sighed a lot, wondering about the bigger trade-offs we make in life.

^{Filled with hot chai as I write this.}

To keep the ball rolling, check out a few links in the post above, friend people on Facebook, read their blogs, follow them on Twitter, fall in love with them, whatever. Join the party a few days after the fact.

Ghosts of Broken Glass

2011-10-21T09:42:00.010-04:00

The dollhouse? He broke my dollhouse too?

In my early 20’s, I naively thought someone had to hit you to constitute an abusive relationship. I didn’t know that breaking all of your shit was also a form of abuse. And that’s what Bill did. He broke all of my shit.

Looking around the old house we lived in at the time, I saw that he had also broken the television, a coffee table and a chair. He had given me the dollhouse last Christmas – a childhood dream of mine, to own one. I perched it on a stand in the corner, where bit by bit, I added pieces to it. Now, just like our miserable relationship, it was trashed, in pieces.

As I cleaned up the mess, the old house watched me quietly. The walls absorbed the psychic pain. Some places feel inhabited by ghosts, but it’s a strangely comforting sensation to me. That house, where I lived with Bill, had a more ominous feel. It was never easy being alone there. Even though I despised Bill at this point, I was always slightly relieved when he would return.

To this day, I often dream of that place. I’m locked in and I can’t get out. The house is breathing and groaning, as if it’s trying to come to life. I run down the stairs to escape, but the stairs never end. The walls slowly move inward, in an attempt to touch me. I usually wake up startled, sometimes screaming. Perhaps it’s a form of PTSD from that awful relationship.

Or perhaps that house still remembers me, still reaches out to me from time to time.

One of the evenings there, as I slept next to Bill, I woke up suddenly. I had been sleeping on my arm and it had pins and needles. I shook out my arm for a moment, hazy with sleep. Then I felt something move toward my bedside: a cold, airy presence. It stood above me for a moment then seemed to bend down, near my face. I turned my head away from it, in weak defense.

“Beth!” it whispered loudly, inches from my face. It spoke my name.

I let out an ear-piercing scream. Bill woke up and immediately began yelling. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Someone is in this room. Turn on the light!” I pleaded.

He did, and of course, no one was there. He berated me then went back to bed. I stayed awake the rest of the night. I just had a brush with the supernatural and sleep wasn’t remotely possible.

The next day, I felt like a zombie. I tried to explain to a friend what had happened, but mere words couldn’t convey the sensation, that dark, icy presence. Or the voice - not quite male, not quite female. That harsh whisper.

“You have to get out, Beth. That house, that relationship...just get out,” she warned. “You’re under a lot of stress there. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

Sleeping was difficult for the next few months. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was instantly terrified. When would it return? Why did it feel so cold? Why couldn't it be warm and welcoming? Did it want to hurt me?

The relationship with Bill worsened. The fights escalated, police were involved. When Bill wasn’t home, I packed my bags and hid them in my closet. My escape was forming though I had no clue where to go.

During my last week there, I remained as quiet as possible, just biding my time. A fight erupted nonetheless.

Slam. Boom. Things began flying. What was there left to break?

“I know you’ve been packing your shit. It’s all in your closet. You think I'm stupid?”

He headed down the steps to the bedroom. I knew what he planning to do: destroy the contents of my closet, which included a newly purchased stereo and my mom’s jewelry box.

I grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and followed him downstairs to the bedroom.

“Touch that closet door and I’ll kill you.” I hissed.

I raised the knife over my head to reinforce the point. He laughed nervously. I charged him. He grabbed a large pillow off of the bed and used it to protect himself. I stabbed at it repeatedly. At one point, I saw his face peek from behind. The look will stay with me until my dying day. He was terrified and it felt good. My breaking point had been reached. I had become the malevolent force in that house for once.

The police carted us off. Since I had called about him in the past, I was permitted to place a restraining order on him. He moved out and I was left in the house alone. My bags were packed and out in the open. I was ready to go. I had so little left to take with me. It had all been broken. But I was taking me with me.

One of the last nights there, I woke up to go the bathroom. When I returned, I hurried under the covers and demanded my brain to drift instantly off to sleep. But before I could, that cold presence was by my side once again. The voice wasn’t as distinct as the first time. It whispered hurriedly to me:

“Beth. Hi.”

I did not scream this time. I did not lie awake frightened all night. This entity knew I was scared, I believe. It said something as quickly as possible that would convey some form of friendliness. Hi. A ghost said hi to me. And in a few days, I said goodbye to that house and one of the most difficult phases of my life.

Though I don’t know if that house has ever completely said goodbye to me.

Why I Don't Wear Pink Ribbons

2011-10-19T11:52:00.018-04:00

I was suspicious of them early on, though I wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps its that pervasive and cloying "pink means female" message. We suffer from a "cute" femmy disease and wear sweet little ribbons to prove it. Barbie should wear one!

After watching several friends and relatives die from the disease, I distanced myself even more from the pink parade. My loved ones weren't simply ravaged by cancer; they were ravaged by the treatments for cancer, which seemed hoisted upon them by an all-knowing healthcare industry, for whom I was growing increasingly skeptical. Why find a cure for something when you're making so much damn money from it? Wear a pink ribbon instead.

And there was the convenience factor. Buying a box of Lean Cuisine or a bucket of chicken with a pink ribbon on it hardly seemed like a good deed for the day. "Pinkwashing" became the name of the game, where companies hijacked a cause for profit and PR.

Because sodium-laded soup only causes heart disease.

But the ribbons, they're about awareness, I've heard repeatedly. Have people not heard of the disease? Oh yes, we should perform self-examinations. And we should get our routine mammograms (where radiation may contribute to the problem) and we should, well, just be aware! Look, the football players are aware!

My agent told me to wear it!

Unfortunately, awareness hasn't necessarily equated with action or success. Incidence rates are higher than they were 30 years ago. Awareness also hasn't included outing companies that flagrantly use cancer-causing agents in their products. Or our meat and dairy pumped with hormones and antibiotics. Or genetically modified foods. Or polluted air and water. Awareness hasn't included any alternative treatments for cancer, which are barely recognized because Big Pharma makes sure they keep their traps permanently and legally shut.

Smith & Wesson's Pink Breast Cancer Awareness 9 mm pistol, when ribbons just aren't cutting it.

Instead, breast cancer awareness includes yogurt, Tupperware parties and cosmetics (again, possibly the cause, not the cure). Noble folks "race for cures," raise substantial funds, and then promptly hand it over (potentially) to the corporations benefiting the most from keeping us sick.

Eat the cancer-causing hormones in the yogurt and donate to finding a cure to your own disease.

Wow. No sarcastic caption needed.

When I stumbled across Think Before you Pink, my concerns were validated and more clearly defined. They do a much better job of describing the potential damage of the pink ribbon campaign.

Their mission:

"Think Before You Pink™, a project of Breast Cancer Action, launched in 2002 in response to the growing concern about the number of pink ribbon products on the market. The campaign calls for more transparency and accountability by companies that take part in breast cancer fundraising, and encourages consumers to ask critical questions about pink ribbon promotions."

Have lives been saved by supporting the pink ribbon campaign? Undoubtedly, indirectly or directly. Awareness (and millions) have been raised.

Now to step it up a notch and see who is behind this research, where your donations are going, what's really making us sick, and how people benefit from keeping you that way.

Oh...and Barbie does wear pink ribbons. I should have known.

A fictitious ad, but drives home the point.

Stop Blaming your Age Already!

2011-10-09T17:15:00.022-04:00

Years ago, I had the pleasure of watching Kazuo Ohno perform. Kazuo Ohno is one of the founders of Butoh, a distinctive, evocative and often disturbing dance form born out of the horrors of wartime bombing in Japan.

When I saw him perform, he was in his 80's. He was beyond mesmerizing. Tears rolled down all of our faces, watching this precious and agile man move. After shaking his hand at the end of the show (which I'll never forget - that man radiated something so powerful), I thought: I will not burden myself with the limitations of age - not after watching you.

My mother helped out in that realm as well (though trust me, I could write a book on the ways she hindered). When it came to age, my mother could care less. She was from "hearty stock" as they say. I saw her remove an entire tree from our backyard in her 60's. She would swim in the ocean for hours at a time. Life was about being physical and vital.

Yet I battle the constant refrain of so many (some who are turning a mere 30!) complaining about the effects of aging:

"Yeah, you just kind of fall apart when you hit 30, 40, 50."

"Back hurts again. I'm not getting any younger, you know."

"Oh I could do that when I was 20. Not now."

It's the most accepted form of negative talk out there. We're allowed to bitch endlessly about our age. And if you're a woman, you get the added bonus of hearing blow by blow details of physical deterioration, since our worth is tied into our look.

I remember speaking with one woman at a party who told me repeatedly, "Wait until you hit [fill in the blank], it all goes downhill. Trust me. You'll notice one thing after the other. Just wait. You'll be horrified. I was." What damning talk.

It reminded me of a scene from My Dinner with Andre where Wally Shawn's character tells his friend Andre the story of an experience he had right before he was ready to go on stage, donning a theatrical mask. A fellow actor whispered to him, "Good luck with that mask. Last time I wore one, I nearly passed out." Shawn goes on to wonder what people are thinking of, spreading their negativity so mindlessly, carelessly.

But back to the age bitchers, a few points:

Stop blaming your age when its your health. You eat like crap and sit on your ass for decades and you expect your body to repeatedly bounce back? It doesn't.

Get up, do something. There is no excuse to not exercise every day. It's abnormal to be so sedentary. We're built to move. Even if its a 15-minute walk. Or a dance in your bedroom. Stop reading this. Get up, go!

Take supplements. I don't care how many people tell you that your diet should supply all the vitamins and minerals you need. It's not remotely true. We live in a highly toxic world, we eat crappy food and we're stressed. Antioxidants protect from free radical damage, so why wouldn't you take something to protect you?

Get off the dolls. We are a nation of pill poppers, making evil pharmaceutical companies quite wealthy. Don't believe the hype. Just because a doctor prescribed you something doesn't mean you have to take it. Or if you do, research it. Know it. Own your health.

Tune in. Most people are amazingly disconnected with their bodies. Stop acting like its a vehicle to get you about town. Inhabit it, feel it. Can you touch your toes? You should be able to. How about a spinal twist? (Keeping your spine flexible is key to good health.)

Take some deep breaths and simply be present, in your body. Recognize signs of stress in your body and do counter measures. Most of us just accept stress as a way of life. Some even think its a sign of productivity. It's not; it's deadly.

Below is my movement teacher and mentor, Manfred Fischbeck (and his daughter, Laina). He is a professor at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. He taught me about inhabiting my body years ago. It's sounds like some esoteric, artsy concept, but its how we were born. We just grow away from it.

You didn't have to dance professionally to work with Manfred (though many did). You simply needed to move and express and free yourself.

Watch your mouth. If you're going on and on about aging and how its destroying you, guess what? You're right. Just keep saying negative stuff until its drilled into your subconscious and your body will fall apart in agreement. And recognize the effect you have on others when you talk in that manner.

For me, I was a physical wreck in my 20's. I did drugs, weighed next to nothing and the only lifting I did was a cigarette to my lips. Now I feel pretty darn strong. But more importantly, I feel at home in my body. The sad part? I live in a culture where I'm supposed to believe that this is my time to fall apart!

Getting older, for me, has meant simply upping the level of maintenance. I eat better, take supplements, exercise every day. I watch stress carefully. I also drink copious amounts of wine and eat chocolate. I smoked a cigarette last week because I was in the mood. So I'm hardly a purist.

But mainly, like my mother, Manfred and Kazuo Ohno, I don't believe the age hype.

Kazuo Ohno lived until he was 103. He was 43 when he started his dance career. This is some of footage of him in his later years when he had difficulty standing.

Me, when I started surfing more seriously at 40

Me at 43:

I'm Having a "Dust in the Wind" Moment

2011-09-19T16:12:00.044-04:00

Fall descends upon the Jersey shore. The tourists have scuttered back to their suburban box homes with their whining offspring in tow. Quiet stands a chance once again. And although this season ushers in some much needed peace, it also fills me with a sense of "Oh my god, how the fuck am I going to make it through another winter" syndrome.

Life isn't so easy here in the winter. Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining:

And I've had to say goodbye to a few of my favorite people here the last few months:

1. Paulina

Paulina is a friend success story. She is from Poland but grew up in Virginia. She is a geologist and one of the only female drillers from her area. Strong, sassy, kind-hearted, with the mouth of a sailor.

Well, she moved up here for some hot-headed dude six years ago, found herself a job and figured this would be her new home. Until the relationship started going south. Like hell south.

You know the deal: Determined to make a fatally flawed relationship work, you try and try while the "significant" other tries very little and calls it a lot. Constant bickering ensues. Self-esteem spirals. Years go by. Then you can't leave. Stuck in a relationship glue trap in New Jersey. Hello, hell.

With some coaxing and cojones, Paulina left for Florida several months ago, to break free, to start anew. She got a job on a boat because she didn't want to lock herself into another full-time job right away. She wanted a hands-on experiences. Well, she got it. And bit by bit, she got her self-esteem back.

She went back to Poland for a family wedding and met a man who doesn't make her feel like a piece of kurwa (Polish for shit, I think). She's looking for a job closer to him, happier and finally free of a repetitively sick relationship. So I'm happy/sad she's gone.

(Go, Paulina, go!)

2. Clint

What's there to say about Clint that I haven't written about many times? He's the oldest of the brothers who live up the street from me here. All vastly different from one another, they each serve as real brothers to me. (Apparently, brothers can be immensely annoying but difficult to live without.)

(The Brothers and I)

Clint is slow. Smart, but slow. If you ask him a simple question, he'll mull over it for a bit and then, like molasses, say, "No, I don't want any more coffee." The beat of a different drummer guy who doesn't feel "made for these times." He's very pretty, Kurt Cobain-style. This helps me not want to kill him so much when he says idiotic things.

Clint joined the effin' Navy! What? Nobody is sure what that's about. He's hardly the type to follow rules or, hell, simply respond when spoken to. But he was feeling stymied here. He worked for his family business for years and wanted to break free, learn, expand, travel.

The night before he left for boot camp, I made him a nice dinner. I started getting choked up a few times until he acted like a jerk, as he can so well. Then I hugged him and told him to get the hell out of my house. No tears spilled yet. But they'll come. He and I know each pretty damn well.

(Our last night together.)

(The sunscreen incident of 2011.)

(Clint saying something sexist and ridiculous.)

3. George

George is the grandfather of the brothers. At 80, he was doing fine: active, sharp and very fun. He taught me about gardening and the importance of drinking wine with fresh peaches, among a slew of other things.

Well, after a relatively minor medical procedure, he started showing signs of dementia. And it grew and grew and took him over so quickly, it was stunning. I'd leave his house shell-shocked, come home and curl into a fetal position. Very scary and sad to see someone you know so well not remember your name. (That's alright, George. Your smile said it all. I don't remember names either.)

Goodbyes. And they are goodbyes. Paulina had to go. So did Clint. George was too much of a fiery spirit to be held down by dementia. I ushered them along as best I could.

Yet I remain. My life is fueled by helping others on their paths, but I don't always know mine. My third year running my online business and I love it, but it just about pays the bills, nothing more.

And everyone seems to have their lives so settled: 2.5 kids, house, dog, cars, matching silverware. Its like there was a big game of Life Musical Chairs and no one informed me. Everyone grabbed their seats while I sat in the corner, listening to the music, wondering why it stops so suddenly.

So here I am. Stuck in a cold, old house that my long-gone parents used to own. Trying to be grateful for what I have but quite aware something must shift. Three years have gone by on this island and I'm ready to move on.

Or am I? Apathy weighs you down and wearies your soul. Soon, you don't want to do anything. And that's potentially the scariest state of all. Like Dorothy, falling asleep in a field of poppies. Wake up, Dorothy! Wake up!

My brother is supposed to buy my portion of this house from me but the economy and familial lethargy have slowed down the process. There's no perfect plan in place after I leave anyway, so I don't push it along the way I probably should. A beautiful ocean graces my existence and blurs my ability to realize how horribly stagnant it can be here.

So hence my "Dust in the Wind" moment. It keeps playing in my head the colder it gets. I don't even like the stupid song, which makes matters worse.

I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment's gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes a curiosity
Dust in the wind
All they are is dust in the wind
Same old song
Just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do...oh you get the drift.

I like this song about endings better.

Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes, I'm afraid, it's time for goodbye again.

Cell Phone Etiquette for Morons

2011-09-11T16:32:00.012-04:00

So you have a cell phone? Okay, well good for you. I do too! Fancy, isn't it? But remember, there are some rules to remember when using that spiffy telecommunication device of yours in public:

1. You're not special because you have a cell phone. Small children and homeless people have cell phones. There are probably pets out there with cellular devices. Remember that when you're walking down the street barking orders like you're Donald Trump and thinking people are impressed. We're not.

2. Using a cell phone in a theater is the height of rudeness. Don't even dare convince yourself otherwise just because other people are doing it. People also pick their nose and urinate in their pants in public. Wanna follow that lead too?

That glow from your cellphone is extremely distracting to those around you. God forbid you simply try to be present and enjoy the show instead of recording crappy video that no one will watch.

3. Using your cell phone excessively in the following places is also rude, rude, rude:
Public transportation
Restaurants
Libraries (Come on...are you serious?)
Church
In a grocery store line (You're too close to me. I can't run from your inanity.)
The beach (Is anything sacred? Can you just be in nature for ten damn minutes without a phone glued to your face?)
4. Annoying cell phone rings showcase your shallow personality. Just go with something simple. No one needs to know about your love of Rhianna's Umbrella, you know what I mean? Keep that a secret. And don't let it ring incessantly if you're not prepared to answer it. Turn the damn thing off and spare us Toby Keith or whatever weird shit you're into.

5. It's a cell phone, not a walkie talkie. That means stop screaming or speaking unnaturally into it. Hearing your one-sided conversation is annoying enough; to hear it at high volume makes others want to pack their ears with broken glass.

6. Stop acting like your cell phone is your lifeline. Just because you have children does not mean you need your cellular device on 24/7 to prove your uber-protective parenting skills. Kids made it to adulthood prior to cell phones. If you turn off your phone for a blooming hour, the world will continue to turn and your spawn will continue to spawn, I promise.

The same applies to students in school who are encouraged to have their cell phones on during class "just in case of emergency." No, just learn for once in your one-dimensional life. Focus for a bloody second on something other than your gadget, you little techno-junkie.

7. If you're a chick in your 20's, give the human race a reason to believe in you. When you're in "Like, oh my god, I can't believe he sexted me last night!" high-pitch mode, you become a Barbie caricature of yourself and make us wonder what good you're serving on this planet. Chill out, reign in and experiment with the idea of something called depth.

8. Most of what you say is dull or ridiculous. Really. Nobody wants to hear your inane conversation about your little life. You think it's important, but that's because it's your little life. To the rest of us, its trivial overshare. "When Harry's prostate was enlarged, they put him on Flomax." What am I supposed to do with that little tidbit?

9. Stop carrying your cellphone near your balls. Seriously. Did you ever walk by a radio or computer with a cellphone in your hand? Do you hear how they pick up the electromagnetic... whatever? Do you want those cancer-causing waves radiating on your testicles or ovaries? Or the glands in your neck? Come on. Soon enough, they'll be called "cancer cell phones."

10. Shut up. Just shut up. Do you know how to be quiet sometimes? You know, where you just exist in the moment and keep your trap shut? Where the endless chatter inside your mind doesn't pour out of your mouth like a spewing sewage pipe? Try silence, just for kicks.

So there you go. A cold, hard post about the apparent that I never thought I'd have to write because, heck, I think people should naturally know this stuff. (I know, silly me.) But like the woman pictured at the top of the post (who was on her phone about 75% of the time during a live show I recently attended), apparently we all need to revisit the obvious.

So go forth. And shut up.

My Own Private Hurricane

2011-08-27T23:10:00.014-04:00

I’m looting my neighbor’s garden. Looting light, I would call it. Everyone has been evacuated and I’m one of the few remaining at the Jersey shore during Hurricane Irene. I grab a few ripe tomatoes, a batch of heady oregano. It’s all going to drown tomorrow anyway.

God, it’s so quiet and peopleless here! I’m reminded of my childhood on this island when time seemed slow and sleepy, like it does now. You could actually feel the place, the pulse, you know?

The tourists and most of the locals have left. Their hectic, greedy energy is no longer bouncing all over the joint, smacking me repeatedly in the face. Right now, all is still, all is mine. Tonight, when the storm hits, it will be another animal, no doubt. But for the present, I can think for once in a long time. Maybe I'm looting some much needed peace of mind.

After my garden thefts, I come home and sing really loudly in my room. This is nothing unusual: I sing any old time. But often I suppress my voice just a little when singing in this house, in this neighborhood. I know neighbors can hear me, or the people I live with. Today, truly alone, I set my voice free, like a dog unleashed on a sunny beach.

Walk around naked for a bit. That’s a given. Nudity is good and right. I don’t know what else to say other than that. Oh, and I found good porn today – not the crappy stuff that kind of turns you on but part of you is like “Yeah, right. You’re horrible actors” but you make do anyway. For my particular fantasy mindset, this porn fit just so.

My people, all the people, they keep contacting me and offering up their homes. Frustrated, I relay to them that I have lots of places to go thank you, but possibly not a place to return to. That's my concern.

Yet some friends have such earnest tones to their voice, it almost brings me to tears: a young surfer dude whom I didn't expect to be so worried. Or an old friend who keeps calling, even though we haven’t spoke in over a year. Strange, that they care so much. And don’t say, “Well, of course they do!” Because it’s not that simple. People care sometimes, and sometimes they don't.

Like this guy on the mainland that I've been seeing on and off, whom I didn’t hear from at all today. He checked in yesterday, via text, and asked me to keep him posted. An old, tired voice played in my head: “If you really cared, you'd call.” Like, fuck – if you don’t worry about me during a natural disaster, when would you, dumb loser face.

And enough with the texts already. Like when I'm being swept off to sea, I'll miraculously manage to shoot off the last text of my life:

Hey. I'm drowning. Need help asap. Phone not waterproof. : (

But yeah, whatever, fuck it. The perk of a natural disaster is that relationship minutia doesn’t have as much holding power. Something more primal is trumping it. And you're quietly grateful because that old bullshit teenager-level worry has been wasted too much space in your brain anyway.

Now I’m blaring some Led Zeppelin in my room. I ate a nice, fatty meal. I’m ready for disaster. Fattened up, rocked out, drunk and ready. (No, I’m not drinking that much wine and I resent your implications. I’m drinking just enough wine. Hurricane level wine.)

Hey, wait. Don't go. Yesterday, I pulled the veggies from my little garden so they wouldn’t go to waste. One small pepper plant had struggled all summer to stay alive. Teeny, meek little thing - the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of pepper plants. I thought she was a goner last month but somehow she managed to spruce up and eek out one small hot red pepper. I tried to pluck it but she wouldn’t let me; she wasn’t ready and I didn't want to hurt her.

Today, I plucked her puny pepper anyway. Ah, so sad. Man, like this summer wasn’t hard enough on her: she barely lives and finally manages to produce this little runt of a vegetable and now she’s going to drown. Poor, poor fucking hot pepper plant.

Can you hear it? The wind is shaking my walls. It’s about 40 mph and soon will be 70 mph. I hope the glass in the windows doesn’t break. Because that will be scary. Because then the weather comes in and you can’t hide from it. It’s at your feet, in your face, bitches.

Wait, before you go...wanna hear a scary story? About an hour ago when the wind started kicking up, I ran around the living room, pulling furniture away from the window. Out of the blue (or the black), the doorbell starts ringing. And ringing. I direly hoped some brave soul was stopping by.

I ran to the door and peeked out; there was no one there. The bell kept ringing. The wind was blowing so hard, it rang the damn doorbell. How perfectly spooky, like the hurricane was paying me a visit, all proper like, but with a definite sense of urgency.

It’s going to be a long night. One of many long nights in this woman’s life. Peppers are spicy and glass is sharp. Looting is wrong, unless you’re in the mood and the pickings are easy. People show up, people let down. Tailormade porn and wine can be fun when you’re all alone. And sometimes storms literally come knocking on your door. That’s what I’m saying.

PHOTOS - THE DAY AFTER IRENE (Click on the enlarge.)

A Stillness to this Place

2011-08-18T21:06:00.004-04:00

This town is so empty. Even the breeze feels empty. A dead, lukewarm breeze.

Walking down the bleak, sun bleached streets, I wonder if there’s any life here at all. A few people peek through windows, then quickly draw their curtains.

Why did I come here? Because I had to, I remind myself. This place might ring hollow right now, but eventually I’ll fit in.

The town I left held very little opportunity for me. My husband was a cold man, barely there. I could punch a hole through him. He resented like hell when I hugged him. Sometimes I feared he would hit me after an embrace. But desperate for closeness, I couldn’t help but try.

My friends were store-bought. They kept me company, nodded when I spoke, but never really heard me. Whenever I would get upset or angry, their faces would instantly become flat and emotionless, as if I pulled a plug out of their backs. They could only handle me in neutral.

My home was a house with things in it - that's all. There was a cheap little hanging in the kitchen that read “Home” and for years, I fantasized about smashing it into bits. The day I left, I pulverized it, then walked out, never to return.

When I first arrived here, I knew I’d have to pay a price for leaving the way I did. I didn’t go outside much, just slept. Or something like sleep. Now I feel awake again. Yes, this new place feels foreign, but soon it will be filled with love and community. It has to be.

I arrive at a small corner store and slip inside. It looks as if it came right out of the 50’s, dusty, filled with sunlight. An old bespeckled man stands behind the counter, wearing a faint smile and an weathered flannel shirt. He seems wary of me, like the others.

“How can I help you?”

“I just moved here. I guess I’ll need some supplies.”

“You don’t need anything right now. Just go home. Relax.”

“May I look around anyway?”

“Sure, sure,” he says, though I can tell he’d rather me leave.

The cans in this store have no labels. Neither do the boxes. There are burlap bags lining the perimeter of the store but I can’t tell what’s in them. It’s as if the store is posing to be a store. Like a movie set.

As I leave, the bell on the door jingles. The sound rings down the empty street and develops a strange life of its own, bouncing off the treetops, reaching toward the clouds. It’s an enchanting, hypnotic sound that reminds me I’ve done the right thing. Because magic only happens when you've done the right thing.

When I enter my house, I'm reminded of its utter emptiness. There is no bristling husband, no cardboard friends, no meaningless decor. Just fresh, new emptiness. It overwhelms me.

What am I supposed to do next? If I’ve made a mistake, it’s too late to go back now. No, this is right. I’d rather have nothing than what I had before. Empty is better than emptiness. No one is better than loneliness. Lack of appetite is better than constant craving.

I sit in the middle of the living room, on an old wooden floor, bathed in sunlight. I try to cry but no tears come. It’s as if my emotions have dried up. I’m empty now too. And it feels good.

The sunlight on me becomes warmer and, just like that bell at the corner store, comes to life. It begins playing with me. When I smile, it grows and swirls and encircles me. Suddenly I feel less alone here. I may never fill this place with furniture. The sunlight might be enough.

Suddenly, I hear an old piano begin to play. It’s coming from my empty kitchen. The light lifts me up a foot above the ground and carries me down the long, dark hallway. I begin to laugh from the glory of it all. My laughter becomes little stars falling from my mouth. I can’t believe what I’m seeing! I try to catch them but they slip through my hands and spill across the floor.

As I land in the kitchen, I spot an unplugged radio playing the piano music. Perhaps my home is haunted…good! Ghosts will watch over me when I sleep, if I sleep. They’ll fly up and down the staircase and play in the yard. They’ll greet me at the door when I come home. We will speak a secret language that only ghosts know.

The radio plays louder and the music begins to touch me, like a man I've known forever. I sway back and forth, imagining my dance partner, full of grace, full of love. He’ll come to me eventually, I’m sure. After I’m forgiven. For what I did.

When I decided to buy the gun, I felt focused for the first time in my life. My existence had become weighted by crippling indecision and for once, I felt confident, strong. For months, I trained at a gun range, without anyone knowing. With every shot fired out of its shiny silver barrel, I felt a surge of power enter my body. My aim was sharp. My mission, clear.

My gun was my ticket to freedom and there was no reason to grieve and every reason to celebrate. When I walked into the woods behind our house my final morning, I felt like an explorer in the wild, an astronaut on a mission. Not a woman killing herself. My note simply read, “I'm ready to move on.”

Yes, my new house is empty. And they haven’t welcomed me yet. But they have to accept me eventually. And then I’ll be home. Because magic only happens when you’re home.

Jaded Sex Advice for the Youth of America

2011-06-29T12:44:00.009-04:00

As a single American female in my 40's, I feel it my duty to impart sagely advice to as many young men as possible. As a surfer, I am provided that opportunity. Many young men have approached me with pleas of guidance. And I’m happy to impart.

23-year old Derek has a new girlfriend, he explains to me out in the Jersey waters one steamy morning last week. I congratulate him. He takes a big wave fearlessly and effortlessly. He paddles back and takes a big sigh. I know what’s coming next.

“I’m not so sure about the…sex.”

I take an even bigger sigh.

“What about the…sex.”

“I’m…I’m just not sure she’s having an orgasm.”

“Well, she’s probably not. She’s probably faking it.”

“She said she's having them, but I don’t think she is. She just kinda screams the same way each time and, well…it doesn’t sound very real.”

I ask him to replicate the sound she makes. He does. I ask him to do it again. He does. I’m tempted to ask a third time, but don't want to tempt the gods of funny.

“Hmmm…maybe your technique is lacking. Are you just fucking her mindlessly like a rabbit, without really figuring out what pleases her?”

“Well, not like a rabbit but…”

“Do you go down on her?”

“I did. Once.”

“Wow. Once, huh? What was it, a Christmas present or something?”

“It’s just…I don’t know.” He starts playing with the wax on his board.

“Are you gay?”

Derek stammers and tries to spit out a response, but he’s too aghast. I take a wave and take my time paddling back out to him. He needs to sit with that one for a minute.

“NO! I’M NOT GAY!” he screams at me from afar. Other surfers look his way.

“Then I don’t know why you wouldn’t go down on her. If I were a straight man, you couldn’t keep me away. Is it a hygiene issue?”

“No…no. I just figured, well…I’m doing enough!”

A case of sexual laziness at the ripe old age of 23. Nice.

“Listen, most women take longer to orgasm than men. You have to seduce her, take your time. You have to see what pleases her. And I can almost guarantee you that going down on her pleases her. Trust me. Does she go down on you?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” he responds proudly.

“Well, she’s not your sexual workhorse. Get busy, man.”

Derek looks deeply into the sparkling waters, concern shrouding his face. I’ve shaken him up a little, I know. It’s been a long week. Had a costly car repair, dealt with a major tax issue and barely talked my way out of a speeding ticket. I wasn’t done imparting my wisdom yet.

“Have you ever thought of a little S & M?”

“What? Like hitting her?”

“Yep. Hitting her.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. You usually start with the ass. You can move on from there.”

“What if she doesn’t like it?”

“Then slap her harder. Make her like it. Show her whose boss. And try talking dirty to her.”

“What should I say?”

“You want some of this, bitch? Then beg me for it, you filthy little slut….that kind of thing.”

Derek’s jaw is dropped. An incoming wave almost knocks him off of his board.

“Okay, okay. Maybe that’s a little too extreme. Sorry. Just whisper in her ear, ‘You want me to fuck you harder, baby? Is that what you want? Say it.Yeah, baby. There you go. Just take it. Take it, like a good girl.'”

I do this in my breathiest, perviest voice possible.

Derek is wide-eyed and speechless.

“You’re crazy.”

"Like a fox, my friend."

He goes for a wave. For a second, I think he’s going to exit the water. But I know he’ll be back for more. He wants it. Bad.

He paddles back out to me.

“Derek, I just want you to improve your game. There are a lot of surfers out here who’d happily go down on your girlfriend. She’s a hottie. You don’t want to lose her.”

“Well, she’s not going to leave me because I’m not going down on her.”

“I would.”

He looks wounded, angry.

"I mean, not right away. She'll stick around for a while. But ultimately, it's grounds for dismissal."

“Okay, fine. I will.” He folds his arms tightly against his tanned hairless chest, exasperated.

“Listen, go down on her because you want to, not because you’re supposed to. A woman can tell the difference. It’s not like I asked you to mow the damn lawn or something. And don’t worry about the orgasm thing. It will come when it comes...ha! That’s a joke. Get it?”

“Ha. Ha.”

He takes a small wave in and wipes out for some strange reason. He starts heading back to the beach.

"And Derek!"

"What?" he turns around, annoyed.

"Fix something for her. That's always sexy."

He grumbles something.

“Next week, we’ll talk anal!” I shout cheerfully. The other surfers glance over at me.

I look around me at the vastness of the ocean, thoughtfully. Tonight, I will bring some young woman a little closer to an orgasm. It’s a small contribution to the world, I know. But I feel pleased nonetheless.

"Anal." I repeat and smile.

Depression and Weed - A Girl's Story

2011-05-30T14:09:00.015-04:00

I was ten years old and living at the Jersey shore when I heard the song “Someone Saved my Life Tonight” by Elton John. I curled up on my bedroom floor and cried my eyes out. For a long, long time. Too long for a little girl who didn’t even understand the gravity of the lyrics. I knew, even then, something was wrong.

Due to the passing of my father several years before, I also became obsessed with death and the supernatural, thinking ghosts were constantly around me. Darkness was terrifying, so I slept with the lights on until I was a teen. I was perpetually afraid of being left, in any manner. Bleak thoughts seemed to chase after me like hungry dogs.

It was the beginnings of depression.

You almost had your hooks in me, didn't you dear?
You nearly had me roped and tied

As a young adult, I tried several anti-depressants. I desperately wanted to live a normal life and thought that was the path. I experimented with four different kinds in total, each with their own specific insidious side effects (including one that caused my face to twitch when I discontinued it. Fun stuff.)

Sure, on some levels, I felt better on them – but I didn’t feel like me. Instead, I felt like a cartoon version of myself, existing about a foot above the earth. When I found out that my happy pills could affect my sex drive, I parted ways with them. My sex drive defines who I am. I refused to live life without it..or even have it altered in any way.

So instead, in my twenties, I self-medicated and disassociated with the best of them, via hard drugs and alcohol. I was surviving, not thriving. Marijuana had been in my life since my early teens so I can’t say I used it effectively to treat depression. It simply helped in the numbing out process.

Sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair
And it's one more beer and I don't hear you anymore

It took some time (and therapy) until I figured out ways in which marijuana could help my depression. (I stress “my” for a reason: I don’t think it’s a solution for everyone.) I suffer from anxiety-based depression, where I can get stuck in “thought loops” as I call them. These loops can leave me standing in the middle of a room, unable to take a single step forward for fear that I’m going to do the wrong thing. (Crippling indecision is a nasty and often under-discussed aspect of depression.)

After a particularly bad break-up about 10 years ago, the thought loops were growing worse. Just as some people envision a warm beach to relax, I pictured a shiny gun in my mouth. Seriously. That's what I did to relax. Something had to change.

I never realized the passing hours of evening showers
A slip noose hanging in my darkest dreams

I still remember the afternoon I used marijuana - not to escape, not to “party” – but to help me.

I lived in San Francisco at the time, a beautiful city. I smoked some weed and forced myself outdoors. The sun was crystalline bright, the breeze so light. Everyone was bustling about Castro Street. I couldn’t help but smile, something I hadn’t done in months.

Then I hit the yard sales. (I love yard sales – a therapy in and of itself. Another blog entry.) Soon, I found myself chatting it up with my neighbors, laughing, telling jokes. When I came back home, loaded with bags of who-knows-what, I let out a deep and profound sigh of relief. The spell had been broken. The loops had stopped. I actually enjoyed my afternoon!

I don’t advocate weed for everyone’s depression. As a matter of fact, I think there is a tendency to use it too much as a form of escape from pain or an inability to sit with one's "ugly" emotions. I’ve worked hard, via traditional routes, to move past depression: therapy, creative expression, meditation, exercise, nutrition, etc. They all work. (As an aside, I'm constantly shocked by people's resistance to therapy in this day and age. It's just weird that there is still such a stigma attached to it.)

And I don’t smoke weed every day. It’s very important for me to spend time just “as is,” with the loops, the sadness, the dark and heavy thoughts. On those days, I cry as I did when I was a little girl, hearing that song. My life has not been easy and it deserves its due. It deserves tears and grief occasionally. It deserves some sobriety.

But I won’t suffer needlessly either. If I find myself spiraling, I will smoke pot to stop the cycle. Suddenly, instead of worrying, aching, dreading, I simply notice the clouds. Or that cheerful, focused way a dog walks. Or the rustling of leaves on a gray day. I can live in the moment and feel relieved of depression. My mind and body are given a break. And when I do feel depressed, I have a little more perspective, because I remember what its like not to feel that way. But that's just my story.

You're a butterfly
And butterflies are free to fly
Fly away, high away, bye bye

Someone Saved my Life Tonight - Elton John

Beth Mann is a popular blogger and writer for Open Salon and Salon. She is also an accomplished actor and director with over 15 years of experience, as well as the president of Hot Buttered Media. She currently resides at the Jersey shore where she can often be seen surfing or singing karaoke at the local dive bar.

Other blogs:

Opensalon.com

Silly Lists of Nothingness

The Most Boring Blog Ever

Patti Davis is Naked and I'm Tired

2011-05-24T12:37:00.009-04:00

When I read Patti Davis’s recent article in More magazine, where she “bares all” at 58, I was poised in my seat, prepared to feel inspired.

My body, like hers, has been built from scratch. I too have a chemically-laden past from which I’ve broken free. I too found my physical strength later in life and now surf in competitions in addition to being a recommended black belt in Taekwondo. I love exercise. I love competition.

Then why did I feel irked by her article instead?

Perhaps the media play-up was annoying: “Oh my god. Can you believe she’s posing nude at 58?” Is that really what we find so incredulous in this day and age? What did you think she had going on underneath those fine designer clothes of hers? Dusty skeletal remains? She’s 58, not 402.

Or maybe it was the “Yeah, if I worked with a team of personal trainers, nutritionists and chefs, I’d look pretty damn good too” voice playing in this jaded middle class head of mine. Money can obviously buy you a toned body, whether it’s real or manufactured or both. So she writes check well?

And finally, where is the victory in showing another woman with an uber-fit body? Doesn’t the real problem lie with the rest of the bodies that we don’t find acceptable? Namely, the other 95% of the female populace? The message remains the same: look like you're 20-something and you win. Eternal youthfulness is the unrealistic gold standard by which we all must dutifully adhere.

Then it was her elbow comment; Patti Davis doesn’t like them apparently. They look old to her. This is when I feel considerably less inspired. That never-ending magnifying and micro-managing that most women do with their bodies has reduced us to such petty creatures. So she’s got a smoking hot bod at 58, but those elbows of hers keep haunting her. (Elbows shouldn’t haunt you. Just as a rule.)

Last week, I had a young man in my outdoor shower (a long but beautifully sordid story). He pushed the wet hair back from my forehead. I saw him examining the gray hairs that I’ve let grow in as of late. The painful self-consciousness I felt was overwhelming. I turned away from him, feeling once again flawed, wrong.

Yet an equal part of me wanted to turn around and shout: “Yes, they’re fucking gray hairs. I’m 44 years old. If you don’t like them, go find someone else who has the energy to fight the tide of time better than me!”

God, who can keep up? Who wants to?

Ultimately, Patti Davis is still an inspiration. (And I still had amazing sex in the shower, in spite of my "glaring imperfections.") She has a good, healthy take on her body and what it means to her. I’m not discounting that. I do admire her.

But the messaging underneath remains insidious and tedious: look young at all costs. Society will give you props for turning back time. Thing is, time only has one direction. For all of us. (Shhh...don't tell anyone. It's a secret.)

Kristen LaBrie – Child Killer or Political Scapegoat?

2011-04-17T16:02:00.013-04:00

I’m not defending Kristen LaBrie. Her case is hardly clear-cut. This single mother was convicted of attempted murder, among other charges, for ceasing to give chemotherapy to her 9-year old autistic and cancer-stricken son. He eventually died and she will spend 8 - 10 years behind bars.

1. If LaBrie is guilty of withholding treatment, can insurance companies be guilty of withholding treatment as well? Or how about the doctors with a financially vested interest in chemotherapy? Can they be held legally responsible? Or the pharmaceutical companies who mass produce these “wonder drugs” with notoriously dismal success rates?

If these corporate giants were convicted, would their actions be shamed by a sanctimonious judge, as LaBrie's were, and deemed “extended, secretive, and calculated…acts that really do chill one’s soul.”

Big pharma and the healthcare industry have been chilling my soul for many years now. Extended, secretive and calculated? Check, check and check.

Like LaBrie, insurance companies have withheld treatment from my family members, friends and myself. When is my court date? Oh that’s right. They’d legally wallop a little nobody like me. Hell, I might get a “cease and decease or we’ll eviscerate you” by the time you finish reading this piece.

2. Why do we sound so judgmental when it comes to crimes involving mothers? I get it. It’s supposedly the worst of the worst, a mother harming her child. But why do these trials and the public reaction to them seem reminiscent of a witch burning or some Victorian-era public scolding?

I can’t help but think if the father were on trial, the tone would be remarkably different (in this case, the father died in a motorcycle accident several years ago. You will not read much about him. He’s an invisible part of this story now.)

We’ve grown entirely too accustomed to expecting single mothers to successfully raise children. There is little to no allowance for the stress any single mother is under, let alone one raising a child with an illness or handicap. Mothers are not the only caretakers of our children! We should expect no more or no less from them than fathers.

3. While we focus on LaBrie, are more of our rights quietly slipping away?

While the media and public morally toss stones at LaBrie, our civil rights continue to slowly erode. Yes, a child has rights too, but so do the parents. Whether you agree with it or not, LaBrie made a choice that countered the medical establishment. She broke free from a highly flawed and corrupt system and made her own choice; unfortunately, one based in enormous stress, fear and financial hardship.

We're often forced to agree with a healthcare system that leaves us little freedom to decide. And the decision is not based on what is best for you, but what your company will allow you to do. If you don’t buy into the protracted and questionable go-to "answer" that is chemotherapy, you are considered some sort of heretic.

On top of that, many of us hopelessly suffer from “Doctor is God” complex. What he or she instructs is the gospel according to Western medicine. What would you know about your own health, stupid?

“But her child could have survived!”, everyone shouts. “His cancer had a 80% – 90% success rate with chemo treatment!” So the doctors say. A friend of mine had these same “optimistic” statistics and died a few months ago – not from the cancer, but from the effects of grueling chemo treatment. LaBrie's son, Jeremy, may have survived. But we all know it's not as simple as that.

Many people die from the cancer treatment, not the cancer itself. “White House spokesman
Tony Snow succumbed to colon cancer” we read in the news, when he died of complications surrounding his treatment.

And hopefully, by now, we understand what is meant by “success rate”: If you're still alive after 5 years of treatment, you’re a success. If you die by year 6, you’re still considered a success! Congratulations.

The cancer industry is for-profit. It makes money by treating cancer, not by curing it or preventing it. Don’t expect honest answers from them. Or, frankly, from your doctors. It's time to be your own health advocate and learn more about alternative treatments - many purposefully hidden from view by these greedy giants.

What would you do if you were Kristen LaBrie? Most of us don’t know the answer to that question, thankfully. Yet we’ll judge someone as if we personally experienced the enormous stress and strain of one parent raising an autistic child with cancer. We'll overlook the real monsters and cast our critical eye on a mother who may have just broken under the strain.

You don’t know what you would do in her situation, even though you’d love to imagine yourself doing just the right thing. It’s called moral superiority and it’s dangerous. And unfortunately, it doesn’t address the darker and far-reaching implications of this case.

Thanks for Finding my Dead Father, Peg!

2011-04-05T10:14:00.014-04:00

_{My father left me to be with this family.}

When you discovered my dead father last weekend, Peg, it went beyond the boundaries of friendship. I was ready to leave his body behind...but no, not you. You were determined, even after the tranquilizers set in.

When I went back to my hometown to visit you, old friend, going to a cemetery was last on my list. But you and several others have wondered why I've never visited the place where my father was "laid to rest."

Well, you know the reasons:

1. My father has no tombstone. Are they still called tombstones? That sounds old-school and ghoulish. Grave marker? Well, whatever...he doesn't have one.

Why?

I have no effin' clue. Do any of us understand the dysfunctional workings of our families? It wouldn't be dysfunctional if they did the "normal" thing, right? When my dad died in 1973, my mom fell into a depressive stupor that lasted about, oh...her whole fucking life! A gravestone for the "man that abandoned her" was last on her list.

"I was busy raising five children. That's why! Have you tried raising five children on a secretary's salary? Have you? Did you want a fancy stone for your father's grave or dinner? Huh? Which one? You pick! Ungrateful, little...

- My Mother, from the Other Side

2. I don't do cemeteries. I'm not into the "business" of dying. You'll be able to reference this when I croak. I don't want a stupid casket. Or a funeral. Or a fancy urn for my ashes. Just stick some dynamite in my orifices, light them and throw me off a cliff over the ocean, for the fish to feast on.

3. My father didn't die. I wasn't allowed to see him in the hospital and didn't go to the funeral because I was only six. I figured he skipped town to be with a better family (pictured above) with better little girls. While I now know this is silly, my little girl brain works differently. When people leave me, on any level, I feel too hurt for too long.

When we drove into the cemetery, my hands started shaking a little and you noticed. You offered me a cherry flavored, fast-dissolve Klonopin. Ah, what a friend! Tranquilizer candy! I didn't consciously find this situation upsetting, but I can disassociate with the best of them. So while I felt alright, your cherry flavored, fast-dissolve Klonopin made me feel...alrighter.

Cemeteries are hard to navigate - a virtual maze of death. How do grief-stricken people ever track down their loved ones? It's "Section this, Lot that, Lane whatever, Row something." Perhaps they are laid out in such a way where you walk your grief off.

My father, according to the directions we were given, was between "Griffin" and "Fario". If we found those two, he would be the "blank spot in the middle." I cringed when the office told me that. Ah, the bloody symbolism of it all.

Our search began.

Plastic flowers blew everywhere this windy, cold Spring day. I gathered them into mini-bouquets and began putting them on several unmarked graves, having no luck finding Griffin or Fario.

Meanwhile, Peg, you kept looking as if your life depended on it. Why were you so concerned? Ah yes...long-standing friends know better. They've watched me operate from that little girl's mind for far too long. They want change for me, sometimes more than I want it.

But even you tired of the search, Peg. We just couldn't find him! (You'd think we would have found a goddamn Griffin, at least, just by default!) We got back in your car. You were more disappointed than me.

"Peg, I don't care. Really. This doesn't mean anything to me."

We started driving and after a moment, you slammed on the brakes. "Oh shit! Section H is on this side too!"

"Peg, really."

"No. We came this far."

We got out of the car and looked again.

At this point I had no flowers left. A plastic red poppy blew by me and I grabbed it, just in case. As I looked halfheartedly for Griffin, I Klonopin-mulled over the effects of being fatherless:

To a little girl, your father is your prince. Your saviour. Without him, you feel like a perpetual Cinderella, too ugly and wrong to go to any ball. Or the last one at a party, hoping that special man will arrive and take you home. But he doesn't, so you stand there in the cold, waiting. Years go by, waiting. A fucking lifetime could go by, waiting. I don't want a lifetime to go by, Peg.

"Griffin!" you suddenly yell. "GRIFFIN!!!"

My heart and time stops. I turn toward you slowly and you're standing there, with such a look on your face; scared, pleased, relieved, concerned. This image of you will remain with me until the end of my days, this I'm sure. I stand there, with one plastic red poppy in my hand, feeling 6 again. Tears fall. Hands shake. I walk toward you. Toward my father.

When I reach you, we hug 6 feet directly above my dad. It's a true friend hug. Big, mighty and safe.

"Your father is right here, Beth. Below me. He's not with some better family. He's right here."

"Thank you. You've...you've gone beyond friendship, Peg."

You insist I sit there for 10 minutes and grieve, damnit. And I do. I place the plastic red poppy where a marker should be. I rather like it. The surrounding tombstones all look the same. My father has a single red poppy instead, because he's special. He's not a blank spot anymore.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peggie and I on beach, years ago:

"Peg, it will come back to you"

My dad with his original family:

Those cards...whatever they're called:

Rap as Performed by Average White Chick from Jersey

2011-03-25T16:27:00.003-04:00

It's been a long winter. They're all long winters here at the Jersey shore. You try to keep yourself entertained in any way possible. For kicks, I taught myself the lyrics to Eminem's Lose Yourself, the popular hit from his movie 8 Miles.

Well, it was no easy feat for a number of reasons:
A. I'm a classic rock chick. I have Boston in my blood and Genesis in my genes. I don't even know that many rap tunes.
B. You need to be angry to sing rap. I find myself to be very angry - bordering on the rageful at times. But I'm not rap angry.
C. There's a lot of effin' words to rap! My god...how do they breathe? I've done Shakespeare monologues that were easier than learning this tune.

So for your viewing pleasure (or displeasure, or comic relief, as the case may be), here are my two bedroom stabs at rap.

1. Lose Yourself - The Standard Version

2. Lose Yourself - The Teary Version

3. Eminem singing Lose Yourself

The Rise and Fall of Dumb Love

2011-03-18T11:43:00.008-04:00

They didn’t even know I was still in the room, they were so drunk, so wrapped up in one another. I couldn’t help but stay. Emotional train wrecks are awkward, sure, but fascinating to watch.

These two have been going at it for years. They break up, but keep coming back for more, like two bleary-eyed boxers. I’ve tried to convince her to stop contacting him. And she does, for long periods of time. But then a text message leads to a phone call leads to a lunch date…then leads to this mess!

She’s screaming at him. He has to go home, take his kid to school in the morning. The “baby’s momma” and he split the caretaking of the child and tomorrow is his turn. He needs to leave, he tells her. She knows, she screams. “So then go! Leave!”

He never understands when she gets like this. It's hard for her to admit what she can’t even admit to herself: she’s jealous of his child. She’s jealous of how deeply attentive he is of his little boy and how easily she falls by the wayside.

She also can’t stand how much control the baby’s momma has over his life. They aren’t married but they might as well be. She’s neurotic and overbearing, calling every few hours. She cleans his house all the time, like a dutiful maid, like a dog pissing on a hydrant. She buys him food and takes care of him, like a well-heeled nurse. And he lets her because…why not? Would you give up a perfectly good servant?

My friend is lonely. She doesn’t date anyone on this bleak lifeless island she calls home. She tries, but not hard. She’s too lazy for love, she tells me. Drinking too much and working too hard, she finds herself falling further down an emotional black hole. He’s “easy” she says. That's not easy, I tell her. He does more damage than good. But who am I to judge? I've been there. We've all been there.

So here I sit, in her bedroom, watching them fight at the end of a long, drunken night that we've spent together. They don’t even notice me suddenly.

“My boy…I have to take my boy to school tomorrow. Please!” He doesn’t understand that that only incites her more.

“I’m just a fucking bootleg mistress!” she screams. “Go. Go! Go...do things for others!”

Normally he would have left on the first “Go!” Both are proud and defiant sorts. But something is different this time. You see, he is sick. They may not have many more times together.

Somewhere in the recesses of her drunken mind, she is reminded of father who died when she was 6. Her family thought she was too young to go to the funeral. She didn’t comprehend “death.” She thought he just left her to be with a better family with better little girls.

Somewhere in the recesses of his drunken mind, he’s reminded of his volatile one-legged father, a Vietnam vet, who used to beat the shit out of him repeatedly. One day he would grow bigger and stronger than his father and pin him up against a wall, choking him with his sizable forearm. He would say, “Never again, you fucking asshole. Never again.”

But a little boy would remain in that big, strong body of his. A little boy who cowered in the face of confrontation. Who would have left on the first "Go!"

Why do these two bother, I think, watching in amazement. More of the walking wounded, trying desperately to reach across an endless abyss of damage. Why not walk to the moon? Why not dig a hole to China?

“Go! Leave!” she bellows, with a voice that shocks me. Masculine, demonic. Her eyes, wild with rage.

Then the strangest thing happens: this big man dropps to his knees and moves toward her, as she sits poised on her bed, a loaded gun. (I can't leave now! The show is too good!) She threatens to hit him if he comes any closer. I wouldn’t go near her.

But he takes a chance. He crawls clumsily over the great divide of mutually combined sickness, dangerously close to the epicenter of her rage. She is confused and diffused by his actions. She twitches and recoils, as if to hit. He suddenly lies on top of her, diffusing her little girl rage, putting a blanket over her fire. She convulses in sobs.

“I just don’t want you to leave,” she cries like a little girl. “I know I don’t matter to you. I know I’m nothing in your life and everybody else matters more to you than me.”

“I came her to see you. You do matter to me. I just can’t show up the way you want me to.”

“Yes, you can. It's a choice. You just don’t try.”

“I tried today.”

“Please, please don't die. I can't...I can't...”

They both hug and I think he might be crying too. I slowly get up and begin to leave the room. I shouldn't have stayed that long, I know. I'll tell her later that I stayed just in case "things got ugly." But I guess that's too late.

They are a tragedy. A ridiculous excuse for a relationship. But somewhere amidst their carnage is a white rag of love, dancing above them like a tattered flag.

Outside the door, I hear them laughing. It’s the laugh of two lovers who have conquered the sickness, at least for now. Soon, he will go back to his life and forget about her (or so she thinks) and she'll feel even lonelier than before. He'll think she's better off without him (or so he thinks) and do nothing to reach out.

Ah, we’re all so broken, I think. Broken records, stuck in dead-end grooves. But I guess even a broken record plays a little music.

How did they not even see me? I was right there! Maybe they weren’t bothered by my presence. Maybe someone needed to bear witness to their love and mess. Maybe they didn’t see me because I was one of them.

Listen!

The Look of Sun Deprivation [VIDEO]

2011-02-13T17:19:00.014-05:00

She got down but she never got tired
She's gonna make it through the night

I pulled over to the side of road to drink in some fading winter sunlight, sparkling on the bay. Coincidentally "Blinded by the Light" was playing on the radio. When I finally calmed my restless spirit, I felt at peace.

Like this is how death must feel.

Like you gently fade away into a radiant pool of light.

While Manfred Mann plays in the background.

(Though you'd think heaven might play the original Springsteen version, for purity's sake.)

I hastily put together a video, in an attempt to convey this sensation.

Listen!

Mama always told me not to look into the sights of the sun
Oh, but mama that's where the fun is!

Dick on my Shoulder

2011-02-02T11:23:00.010-05:00

What's missing?

“I think that’s just an urban legend, Clint.”

“No, this guy told me it really happens.”

“It would be sexual harassment.”

“No, not if he just places it there.”

My friend Clint, who recently joined the Navy and will be working on a submarine, is telling me about a “technique” that is supposedly employed to help the newly enlisted seamen focus.

Go ahead, Clint. Tell the story in your own words:

Okay, I was told if you’re new on the submarine and asked to steer the submarine, the captain tests your focus by draping his dick on your shoulder. You can’t look at it. You can’t even act like it’s there. You just need to keep your focus.

It got me thinking.

Where’s the dick on my shoulder helping me to focus? I have my own business as a media and creative consultant and time management and self-discipline have always been a challenge for me. Don’t get me wrong – I like working. But I stray easily.

Being a surfer doesn’t help. There’s something about surfing that makes you an instant airhead – just add water. Suddenly your sole focus is to surf, drink and fuck – like, pretty much all day, every day. If you’re lucky, you travel around the world and surf, drink and fuck. And if you’re really lucky, you’re Kelly Slater and you get paid for it.

Pro-surfer Kelly Slater keeping busy.

I read recently that motivation and ambition are hardwired into us, genetically. We all have varying degrees of it but it probably won’t change much in a lifetime. You won’t become suddenly ambitious, for instance.

When people ask me where I see myself in five years, I cringe and respond with a few pithy answers:

“In your pants, if I’m lucky.”

“Six feet under.” (Done with a forlorn sigh.)

“I want to be a fireman!” (Said in loud child-like voice.)

“I'd like to break into the hamburger business.”

The list goes on. But perhaps these are all easy ways for me to escape much needed goal-setting. I’d like more money. I’d like recognition for my work. I’d like to own a cute house in the country with a fireplace, dogs running around and a sexy man who loves me adoringly (not in that order – the fireplace shouldn’t occupy the number one slot...or should it?).

Write a book, I’m often told. Yeah, you write a book. Write a book for me while you're at it. People don’t understand that after years of working in the creative arts, writing a book has as much appeal to me as eating molten glass.

I know the behind-the-scenes work involved in it, the years put into writing, publishing, distributing and promoting it, only for it to potentially fail miserably. And why? So I can say I wrote a book? So when I die, people can mill about my wake, eating coconut-encrusted popcorn shrimp and drinking a pint of Guinness saying, “At least she wrote a book.”

When was it just enough to live?

Some days, I find it’s an accomplishment to just make my bed in the morning. I stripped the paint off of a dresser once and still consider that one of my crowning achievements. I’m excited when my car starts in the morning. Seriously. I think, “Fucking A! My life is awesome. The car started again!”

The porch light in front of my house burnt out months ago. Every time I walk by it, I think, “One of these days, I’m gonna change you, you little bitch.” I then trip up the front steps and curse that light, but never my lack of drive.

It took me two years to change my cellphone plan. The prospect of it was so overwhelming and tedious, I had to build up to it, real slow-like.

See that photo of my shoulder at the top? That was done while I was talking with a client on the phone about an important project. Some may call it multi-tasking but I don't think the client would appreciate it much.

Maybe I need a dick on my shoulder to motivate me. One for each shoulder. But see – therein lies the rub: I’d much prefer to focus on the distracting dicks than on the task at hand.

I'm think I'm going down.

I am not my Blog

2011-01-24T15:01:00.002-05:00

When my mom was dying of cancer years ago, I gave her a journal. I told her to write anything she wanted in it. My mother was a consummate reader and a creative writing teacher, so I knew it wouldn't be a stretch for her. After she died, I read the journal. (I don't think it's ever okay to read someone else's journal, but in this case, I knew my mother was alright with it. And she was dead, afterall, making it harder for her to protest.)

Well, it was scathing. Hateful. Mean-spirited. Destructive. Morose. Mad at the world. Mad as hell at the world. I've never let anyone read that journal because most people would misinterpret it; they would think they knew my mother by reading her scrawl.

But they would be wrong - my mother was dying and had every right in the world to unleash. She was purging, letting go. It was not an indicator of her real personality - it was her expression at that moment. My mother was a bon vivant: rebellious, quirky, fun-loving, very conversational. She could also be depressed, overbearing and narcisstic. She could, like all of us, be many paradoxical things, all at once. But her deathbed journal was not her.

My blog is not me. It contains aspects of me, sure. But it is not the gospel according to Beth. If I wrote truthfully and honestly from the daily-living Beth's point of view, you'd nod off about midway through. I take liberties, because I can. I live out fantasies, because I can. I stretch the truth, because I can. Am I lying? Nah. It's creating.

I heard an interview of Orson Welles many years ago. He said he borrowed stories all the time from people. He then built upon them and acted as if they were his own. His take? A good story is a good story. Why mess it up with the truth?

I find my online life to be a form of wish fulfillment. Practical online magic. When I play out a story of mine, I bring it closer to life. I let my subconscious do the talking. Just like children work out many aspects of themselves through play, I do too. Is it the truly me? Nah, it's more likely an aspect of me that needs to be expressed in order to be purged or transformed. Once it's been born, I've already changed. Morphed and moved on. And the truth police have yet to arrest me!

I'm often surprised how many writers feel the need to stick so religiously to the truth instead of furthering their story in a more creative way. Again, that doesn't mean lying. It simply means letting the director in you (and the editor in you) tell a more exciting, lively story, for your readers' sake and for your own sake.

I've read many online pieces where people will regale every detail of a trip, for instance, only to get to the real story on the last day. Cut out the drive. Cut out the stop you made at the gas station where you asked for directions. Cut out the stomach issue you had that made you pull over and buy Pepto Bismol even though you've had bad experiences with Pepto Bismol in the past. (Of course, if these aspects serve your story, keep it. But most of the time, they don't. I swear.)

The cable guy (an acquaintance of mine) came over a few months ago and gave me a big hug, after he had read a particularly depressing blog entry of mine. He was worried about me. Strangely enough, at that very moment, I had a gorgeous man in my bedroom who had been in the process of kissing and biting every inch of my body. I was in a state of pure ecstasy, hardly depressed, and truly resented having to answer the door. I quickly explained to cable guy that it's just a blog, I'm a creative writer and I have to get back to...writing, now!

I don't like the feeling that people think they know me so intimately. The whole process can feel voyeuristic and self-exploitative. There are several people who are no longer in my life who read my blog and I wish I could stop them. They think they have some bird's eye view into my life, like some virtual peeping Tom. On a bad day, I won't write for that reason alone. There's this one-sided mirror and I'm being watched. And the funny part? It's not even me they're watching. It's a figment of me, that I've created.

But what do you do? Certainly there is something distasteful about this whole process of writing personal essays and posting them online. I'm actually a fairly private person and I battle with that side of myself every time I post a piece. But I do my best to move past it. Yes, it feels like a peep show at times. But I've deemed it more important to share and express and create. At least that's how I feel right now.

I am not my blog. My blog, to me, is like a super power - it gives me a chance to exercise (or exorcise) aspects of me I want to develop or ditch. We should never assume we know someone by their online writing.

The cable guy story? Partially true. I won't tell you which part. It is my fictitious life after all.

Help. There's a Man After Me.

2010-12-30T20:21:00.272-05:00

I'm hiding in a snow drift in my back yard, waiting to hear his truck leave. He bellows, "Let me in, Beth Mann." I know what he wants. And I can't give it to him. But why?

Kurt is the youngest of the brothers I've befriended here at the Jersey shore. At 22, he'll do anything, try anything. Risk taker? An understatement. He's impulsive, explosive and unbridled. Fiery and wild. A bit of a badass.

He's also exceedingly kind and simple, with an energy that feels like B-complex to my soul. He is unlikely mentor to me, reminding me to live from my id occasionally. He teaches me that in order to live, one must risk. One must be a wild thing.

Kurt has been one of the biggest influences on my surfing. He is a hardcore, competitive surfer. Everyone's eyes are on him when he surfs, like watching a drunk rock star on the edge of a stage. Because of our time surfing together, I surf aggressively. I charge big waves and take big chances.

Last summer, I watched him compete with the big boys at a longboard competition. The top contenders are real athletes. They don't drink or smoke. They don't blow stuff up or break the law or steal food from a seagull. Kurt was the wild card - a stoner, a slacker, a troublemaker. He didn't care. He just wanted to surf and have fun.

As the competition progressed, Kurt continued to advance to the next heat. Each time they announced his name, we screamed and hugged. He placed fourth out of 60 competitors, which is remarkable, considering the advanced level of the top three. Those three technically surf better, but Kurt is more fun to watch.

Kurt not taken the tournament very seriously.

Kurt not taken the tournament very seriously, again.

Kurt listening to the results of the tournament.

The moment he hears that he advanced.

Kurt is 22. I'm 43. I have a friend and mentor who is half my age. We fight, we talk, we cry. We eat, we drink, we smoke, we wrestle, we carouse. We surf and get in more fights because he surfs like a maniac and has almost plowed me down several times. Somehow, after years of close-calls, we've never had any accidents.

Hiding behind a snow drift in my backyard, I'm experiencing another kind of close call with Kurt.

Kurt has a a lot testosterone pulsing through that taut, blue collar body of his. I forget this sometimes. I joked with him via text, after the snowstorm last week, that he should come "plow me out." He responded that he'd be happy to, wink, wink. I realized the double entendre and continued to make more jokes about the drilling, pounding, stripping and hammering I also need done.

But as I came to quickly realize, it is unwise to make sexual innuendo jokes with a 22 year-old hormonal demon like Kurt. He was a boy to me before. Now he's a man, at my front door, demanding to come inside. Suddenly I feel like a cavewoman about to be clubbed and dragged away by my hair.

"I'm here to plow you, Beth Mann. Let me in!"

Shit. I hightail out the backdoor. The snow is 4 feet deep and I sink into a good spot. He means business. The pounding continues. I'm not even sure if he's knocking with his hands at this point.

"I know you're in there, woman!"

Finally, the banging stops and I sneak back inside, wet and cold-assed. As I return to my routine, I ask myself why I ran. If I had let him, he would have probably fucked me six ways to Sunday. Senseless. The kind of hardcore sex you feel cheapened by, in all the right ways. The "it hurts to walk" sex.

But I locked my door. I ran out into the cold, protected by a wall of snow. I was wet for all the wrong reasons.

Sure, sure. I know why: He and I have been friends for years. I created a needed boundary that keeps our friendship in check. Why ruin a good thing? Sex changes everything! He's half my age. Be the moral compass and blah, blah, fucking blah.

But where's the risk taker? Where's the Kurt inside of me? (I mean, in me, not, like, inside of me, because he wasn't...oh hell, you know what I mean.)

Crouched in the snow that day, I was afraid. Afraid to break down an internal wall that's been building in me, built of apathy, social inactivity and fears. Was I getting rusty? Stale? Where's that ol' sexy Scorpio mojo of mine? My openness to new experiences....sexual experiences? I used to be such a fine and willing slut.

I visited his home several days later. Standing on the far side of the room, out of pouncing range, I asked him how things were going. His hormone level seemed back to normal, I relaxed and we chatted for a bit. Maybe he came over to plow snow afterall?

As he walked me to the door, we hugged as we always do. At that moment I realized I made the right decision, keeping my distance, regardless of his intent.

Then I said fuck it to right decisions. I grabbed him and kissed him, tongue and all. I wanted him to feel, quite literally, the influence he's had on me. I felt ready to come in from the cold.

Kurt, years ago.

Even though it's blurry, this still remains one of my fave photos him.

Kurt being Kurt. I think he was going after a 70's porn star look that day.

Kurt the summer before last.

After the competition this summer, feeling like a bigshot.

He surfs much bigger waves than this but this is the only photo I have.

Kurt and I years ago.

Listen!

The Only Good Holiday Tune

2010-12-18T14:17:00.027-05:00

Okay, I tricked you - there's actually a small handful of good holiday songs and the rest should be candy caned to death. (The remainer of the best holiday songs will be revealed at the end of this post. - don't peak!)

Do They Know it's Christmas is a song that continues to warm the cockles of this blackened, holiday-hating heart, even though the key player behind it considers it one of the "worst songs in history." Below is an exploration into the making of this socially resonant holiday song as well as the project's offshoots.

Do They Know it's Christmas was written in 1984 by the eminently grouchy Bob Geldof of The Boomtown Rats and Midge Ure of Ultravox in order to raise money for famine relief in Ethiopia.
Some of the top musicians of the day were recruited and the song was recorded within a 24-hour period. It quickly went on to becoming the biggest selling single in UK singles chart history until 1997.

The Making of Band Aid - Part 1:

The Making of Band Aid - Part 2:

The Extended Version (my personal fave):

Not everyone is a fan of this Christmas tune, including Geldof himself:

"I am responsible for two of the worst songs in history. [One is] 'Do They Know It's Christmas? The other one is 'We Are The World," Geldolf tells Australia's Daily Telegraph. "Any day soon, I will go to the supermarket, head to the meat counter and it will be playing. Every fucking Christmas."

Singer Morrissey critiques the song with an even sharper blade:

"I'm not afraid to say that I think Band Aid was diabolical. Or to say that I think Bob Geldof is a nauseating character. Many people find that very unsettling, but I'll say it as loud as anyone wants me to. In the first instance the record itself was absolutely tuneless. One can have great concern for the people of Ethiopia, but it's another thing to inflict daily torture on the people of Great Britain. It was an awful record considering the mass of talent involved. And it wasn't done shyly it was the most self-righteous platform ever in the history of popular music."

Regardless of what one thinks of Geldof or this holiday tune, its creation marked a critical moment in music history: celebrities realized the potential of gathering collectively and leveraging their fame for global attention and substantial social change.

Some notes about the recording (a la Wikipedia):

The introduction of the song features a slowed down sample from a Tears for Fear's track called "The Hurting".
Paul Young has since admitted that he knew his opening lines were written for David Bowie who was not able to make the recording. Bowie later sang the opening at the Live Aid concert in July 1985. [Young, the opening vocalist, is my personal favorite in this tune.]
Ure sought a volunteer to be first into the studio to sing the main body of the song. Tony Hadley of Spandau Ballet took the plunge, with plenty of rival artists watching him, and sang the song straight through.
Despite being singers themselves, neither Geldof nor Ure had a solo line on the song, though both took part in the 'Feed the world' finale.
Ure states in his autobiography that he was constantly battling with Geldof, the song's lyricist but not renowned for his melody skills, and telling him to leave when he would come into the production booth and wrongly tell the artist behind the mic what to sing.
Ure also had to shelve an attempt by the two members of the band Status Quo to record the "here's to you" harmonies because Parfitt could not hit the note.
Status Quo contributed in other ways.

According to the journalist Robin Eggar "Once Status Quo produced their bag of cocaine and the booze started to flow – I brought six bottles of wine from my flat, which disappeared in a minute – it became a party."

The record was released on November 29, 1984, and went straight to No. 1 in the UK singles chart, outselling all the other records in the chart put together.

Today's artist's reflect back on the tune:

Bono discusses his section of the song:

Live Aid, a follow-up concert, would occur the following year. The event was held simultaneously in Wembley Stadium in England (attended by 72,000 people) and the JFK Stadium in Philadelpia, Pennsylvania (attended by about 99,000 people). It was one of the largest live television broadcasts of all time with an estimated 2 billion viewers, across 60 countries.

As for detractors who would later say that Band Aid's millions of dollars in charitable funds would be subverted to Ethiopian rebel leaders, Geldof has this say:

"What [the event] did was superb," he said. "And there are millions of people alive today because of it."

Some highlights:

Queen's performance brought down the house and is often voted as one of the greatest live performances in rock music history.

A 1:24 minute documentary about both Live Aid concerts - fun watch:

Harry Belafonte and Ken Kragen ran with Geldof's idea. The pair recruited Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson to write a song to benefit African famine relief and "We are the World" was created. In early 1985, some of the music industry's top recording artists were gathered to contribute their vocals and the song became a huge chart success.

The critics, on the other hand, weren't always so kind, including those who participated in the tune. Whispered Cyndi Lauper to Billy Joel during the recording, "It sounds like a Pepsi commercial."

A great clip of the "bridge people" working out their section:

The final version of "We are the World":

If you made it this far (and if you really care), here are the only other holiday tunes I like...guess I'm not as much a grinch as I thought!

2. Carol of the Bells - I've listened to countless versions of this tune. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir is still the best. What a build!

3. One of Vince Guaraldi's tune from A Charlie Brown Christmas, released in 1965 as the soundtrack the CBS television special of the same name. It remains one of the most popular Christmas music albums of all time.

4. Oh Holy Night - Celine Dion smoking this tune!
Joan H. from Open Salon suggests these contenders for Oh Holy Night:
Mariah Carey
Mahalia Jackson
What's your vote???

5. Blow thou Winter Wind - John Rutter's haunting holiday song as performed by his Cambridge Singers.

10 Reasons Why it was Better “Back in the Day”

2010-11-17T09:35:00.004-05:00

I'm SO going to sue you for this.

1. Back in the day, you could eat bacon freely. It was the world’s tastiest meat product and we celebrated it, proudly. Now, we have to watch out for nitrates, fat and salt - not to mention the pig’s welfare. Back in the day, bacon didn’t come from an animal. It was just plain bacon and just plain delicious.

2. Back in the day, you could drink during the daytime. Nobody cared. Nobody judged. And we’re not talking a dainty glass of wine over lunch. We’re talking a hefty martini or scotch on the rocks, during your workday, in your office, with clients! No guilty conscience, no drunk driving. Hell, there wasn’t even hangovers back then. You just drank and smoked cigarettes simply because you could.

3. Back in the day, kids weren’t so important. They sat at separate tables and were told to speak when spoken to. They didn’t wear little t-shirts with Ivy League college names on it. They weren’t taken to private schools and given tennis lessons at 4. They weren’t treated like the second coming, with their photos plastered all over the Internet. They were just kids, with snotty noses and dirty clothes, running around like little wild beasts.

4. Back in the day, you were stuck in a deadbeat relationship for the entirety of your miserable life. You didn’t go to couples counseling or “process” with your “partner.” You didn’t have to endure a painful search for a new mate on Match.com. You put on a good show for the public, wore a constantly strained smile, and cleaned up the broken glass behind closed curtains.

5. Back in the day, you didn’t answer your phone. It just rang and rang and you didn’t answer. You didn’t know who it was, so why take the chance? Now you know who’s calling. You know they know you know who’s calling. Sure you can ignore the call, but everyone knows you're ignoring the call.

6. Back in the day, you were just crazy. There was no fancy label for it. You didn’t have bipolar or narcissistic personality disorder or ADHD or borderline. You just did your own thing, as a crazy person. Sure, people talked behind your back, but what did you care? You were too busy arguing with the voices in your head. There was no lengthy discussion with overpriced therapists or medication. Just good old-fashioned lunacy. The public at large was forced to make room for you and your nuttiness.

7. Back in the day, bigotry was out in the open. People spoke of their hate, no matter how ignorant. Sure, it was disturbing but at least it was out in the open. Now, it’s buried under a cloak of political correctness and nobody knows who is really racist. Even the racist people don’t know if they’re really racist anymore.

8. Back in the day, there was no teen pregnancy. Or cancer. People just quietly went away. Sometimes they came back, sometimes they didn’t. If they came back, the problem was magically solved and no questions asked. Skeletons remained happily in closet and no one was the wiser.

9. Back in the day, people beat other people up routinely. Sometimes they did it just for kicks on a drunken Friday night. It usually started with a “Hey, you’re out of line.” And then the fighting would ensue. Now there are lawsuits and hospital expenses and anger management classes dampening our natural urge to occasionally kick some ass.

10. Back in the day, you had personal contact with people. You had to deal with their messy humanness, their bad breath or poor taste in fashion. You had to be around them for prolonged periods of time, where you went from liking them to wanting to kill them to liking them again.

Now, we electronically connect. Sometimes we develop entire relationships with people online, not even knowing if they wear cheap,cologne or have hair growing out of their nose. We call it connection but we go to sleep, lonely, wanting more. Sigh.

Thanks to Ruby Lawrence for her contributions!

Beth and Ruby contemplating old days

I Like the Pie

2010-10-25T18:16:00.004-04:00

I like the pie. And that’s why I couldn’t give it to the old lady.

Marjorie is 85 and lives down the street from me. She makes me things and gives me things. I, in turn, move large things for her and remove opossums from her garage. Young opossums are strange-looking but pretty and white and fuzzy and curl up like cats when they sleep.

Marjorie wears something on her neck. If she slips and falls, an alert center is notified, then I’m called. I wonder what that will be like.

Marjorie needed my help at her church’s flea market. She sells baked goods at one of the tables and it's a little hectic for her. She’s 85 and moves slowly and I move quickly. So Saturday morning, I went with her and sold sweet things to other old people.

I also bought a sweet thing:

A coconut cream pie.

The coconut cream pie was freshly made by a another old lady who is known to be one of the best bakers among the old ladies. They resent and admire her at the same time. She seemed to stand out among the crowd, full of self-confidence and, dare I say, a hint of smugness. It was interesting to me that even in their eighties, people could be highschool petty.

There was only one coconut cream pie that queen baker lady made and I bought it. For ten bucks.

Marjorie and I talked about coconut cream pie throughout the morning. It went like this:

Beth: I really like coconut cream pie. It’s my favorite.

Marjorie: It’s one of my favorites too.

Beth: I really like coconut cream pie. I’m glad I bought it.

Marjorie: I really like coconut cream pie too.

Throughout the morning, a strange young man kept staring at me. He worked at one of the tables too. His stare was creepy but for some reason, I didn’t mind. I rather liked the attention. It made me wonder if I’m desperate enough to invite stalker types in my life as romantic interests because normally people staring at me gets me very agitated. Unless I desire them. Then I don't mind. But most of the time, I want to say, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

Anyway, the pie. I brought it home. I ate a quarter of it in a matter of minutes. It was transcendent. Queen baker lady deserved to look smug, I realized.

I’m a giving person. It’s my nature. I must have been part of a robust peasant stock. You know the types who don’t have a pot to piss in but still give a visitor their last crust of moldy bread? When people come over, I like nothing more than to serve them, give to them. It creates in me a strange sexual gratification that I’ve never quite figured out - to slave for someone, to give them a brown sugar experience (which I will shortly discuss).

Marjorie wanted some of my pie. I knew that. I knew it would be right and good to give her a slice when I got home. After all, the woman has made me cookies and cakes and all sorts of goodies in the past. Once she gave me a jello mold with salad ingredients in it, like celery. I found that strange.

Later that evening, after eating a half of the pie in lieu of dinner, I contemplated giving her the remaining quarter. I insisted on it. Perhaps real generosity is giving when you don’t want to. I’ve often thought that to be true.

I put the remaining slice of pie on a plate and wrapped it nicely. Marjorie would enjoy some pie too, whether I wanted to give it to her or not. I felt that old, familiar sensation of goodness. “I'm good,” I thought. “I'm doing the right thing. Again.”

When I was a child, Kimmy, one of the girls on my block, told me to close my eyes and open my mouth. She then put a lump of brown sugar on my tongue. It felt amazing and sensual and overwhelming. I never looked at Kimmy the same way after that.

I want to be like Kimmy and give brown sugar experiences to others. I give. I give myself to people. Sometimes I give myself away.

Women give a lot. It can be extremely selfish, how much we give. We want to be indispensible, so we give as a form of investment, so people need us, like a junkie needs a fix. And then the resentment kicks in, when you want brown sugar in return and there's no Kimmy, just needy, gaping mouths.

I’m eating Marjorie’s slice of pie now. I’m eating it and typing in between bites. Marjorie is a good woman and I know she’ll wonder why I wasn’t polite enough to offer her some.

She’ll have to go on wondering.

Marjorie deserved a slice of pie and I ate it anyway. Just to feel the decadent sensation of selfishness. To take my slice of the pie and their slice of the pie. To be ungood and like it. To give myself that brown sugar experience. I will get no gold star this time. But what does one do with gold stars? You can't eat gold stars and you can eat pie.

My mouth is always open, waiting, for more.

I don't need any more of these, thank you.

The Thinning of Glee's Lea Michele

2010-10-06T16:55:00.017-04:00

When I first watched Glee, I felt giddy. Unabashedly expressive, darkly humorous...it was an earnest program with a heart.

And yes, I'm talking in past tense. The Hollywood machine ate the show for brunch and bulimically purged it into the pretty mess we now have before us.

Don't get me wrong - I still watch Glee. It contains fine writing, fun characters and strong talent. It just got all glossy and perfect on me. And nowhere is this more apparent than with our darling lead, Rachel.

Lea Michele's "Rachel" is the centerpiece of the show. More than an amazing, almost Streisand-level singer, her acting is endearing and accessible, which is no easy feat, since she plays an annoying character: self-serving, narcisstic and occasionally ruthless. But somehow she pulls it off. Or did.

Apparently, they replaced her with another slimmed down, super polished Hollywood starlet, who looks like yet another machine-made actress, and just doesn't have the same effect on me.
Lea Michele:

Her sexed up and slimmed down replacement:

I wonder if they know each other?

Lea Michele's audition for Glee, before the machine:

Listen, I understand the game: she's in Hollywood, keeping up with her flying star and getting in touch with her "vegan" side. (Back in the day, we used to call it an "eating disorder" - now you can hide behind the healthier guise of "veganism" to slim down without all that stigma.)

And I don't really know if she has an eating disorder (though I think once you hit the borders of LA, one is bestowed upon you, whether you like it or not). But why couldn't they leave well enough alone? Now, Rachel looks like a pre-pubscent stickling on the show. Her warm and inviting face has turned Hollywood hollow.

And of course, like every other female actress, she only has one "stylistic" choice to make: sex up or get out.

When I see so many pouty, preening female celebrities, I wonder if they ever feel silly, playing up sex appeal to almost comical levels. It's like they've been trained to be on the constant verge of an orgasm. That's got to be painful to maintain. Come already.

Hustler-style "sexiness" is de rigeur. Physical imperfection won't be tolerated. The machine is churning, keeping us all on the run, literally. (And by us, I do mean women mainly. If you want to argue that, please send an email to: getargripfool@yahoo.com.) If women remain in a constant, agitated state of insecurity, they're too busy "fixing" themselves to find their real voice.

Rachel was my secret TV heroine. She was supposed to be larger than life, not a waif. I looked up to her, in that fictional, far-off sense. Rachel wouldn't have succumbed to this Hollywood assembly-line pressure.

Or perhaps she would have; Rachel is driven to succeed at all costs. If that's the case, I'll choose to remember Rachel before she made it big and got small.

Though if she gets a nosejob, I'm SO outta here.

One of my favorite performances on Glee:

Here's some more video:

A "showdown" video of Barbra Streisand and Lea Michelle.

In Reaction to your Idiotic Comment

2010-09-25T19:17:00.006-04:00

Don’t try to change me.

He says. Drunk, on replay, repeating the same old warning.

Don't try to change me.

My dear, when you have so little to offer, what is there really to change?

Don't try to change me.

If I could change you, if I had the energy or desire to change you, what would I change first? Your vast expanse of emotional unavailability? Your addictions? Your flagrant inconsistency in my life? Who would dare change such endearing traits?

Don't try to change me.

I have a better idea. Why don't you try to change me instead? Try to chip away my hardened disappointment or relentless worry with love and companionship. Change my wornout perspective that people like you never see beyond your own vapid self-protection. Change my life by adding to it instead of robbing from it. Change me! That way, the focus could be on me for once and not the vigilant protection of your eternal nothingness.

Don't try to change me.

I'll try not to. But it's hard! With my luxuriously simple and carefree life, I have so much spare time on these delicate hands of mind, I simply need a side project to keep me busy. Please rethink!

Don't try to change me.

Thanks for the warning. Because you've been so graciously open in so many other areas of your life. As I humbly try to occupy a small slice of your life, there's nothing more welcoming than drunk cautionary advice.

Don't try to change me.

Alas, my emotional zero, you should only be so lucky to have someone like me want to change you, let alone try.

Don't try to change me.

Did you ever think, if that is your constant refrain, then maybe, just maybe, you're in dire need of some change?

Don't try to change me.

You're not a butterfly I want to capture or bird's wings I want to clip. You are man whom I've allowed into my life. This is a privilege and an honor. Your caveats are a needless insult to me and do nothing but push me away.

Don't try to change me.

As if you're a baby in need of changing. Because your diaper is full of shit and piss and has been on your oversized body for far too long. Because you stink and someone should change you, like your mommy or your nursemaid, of which you have both. But certainly not me. Let the co-dependents "change" you.

Don't try to change me.

Certainly not. I won't try to change you...but can I get some change from you? That way, I'll know I walked away with something from this relationship. Fifty cents should do.

Don't try to change me.

Everybody wants to be accepted for who they are. This is true. I do too. And changing someone is an impossible feat, most of us know. But your warning didn't come from that justifiable place, did it? It was just another emotional stop sign on a dead-end street.

Don't try to change me.

I thank you for the warning. I promise not to perform such a heinous act by my physical removal from your life. That way, god forbid, you won't be changed. At all. You'll stay just the same. Only I will have changed.

Wayward Erotica

2010-09-05T08:52:00.007-04:00

(This was written for Open Salon's Open Call for bad erotica.)

As Max kissed Sandra's soft, white neck, she moaned quietly with excitement. He bit and licked his way slowly downward, her hips bucking gently in anticipation. Sandra breathed deeply, wanting to drink in every moment of his wandering mouth on her taut body.
When Max reached her hips, she could barely take anymore. Her moans grew louder, her breathing more rapid. She wanted to scream. She wanted to explode. She wanted to grab his head and force his mouth into the hot, wet center of her being.
Instead she grabbed the sheets and bit down on them.

And these weren't your average sheets. These were 100% cotton percale sheets that Sandra had just purchased only days before at Macy's Labor Dale sale, with savings up to 60% off, going on until 9/6.

What are percale sheets, you ask?

Well, some consider percale sheets the best sheets on the market, with a silk-like feel and spun fabric made from carded and combed cotton.

What's the thread count of percale sheets?

They range. But if you're one of those people who think thread count is all that matters, think again!

According to Dana Poor, home trend forecaster for Cotton Incorporated:
“What many consumers don’t realize is that thread count is affected by a number of factors, including the ply and the thickness of the threads used.”

Words of wisdom, Dana!

And Percale has a story to tell: percale linens were originally imported from India in the seventeenth century then manufactured in France. The word originates from the Persian, pargalah meaning rag, although the Oxford English Dictionary (Dec. 2005) has traced it only as far as 18th-century French.

Rag indeed!

So while the word "percale" may be of humble origins, the quality of the fabric sets the bar for bed linens everywhere. So if you're tired of wasting good money on sheets that pill up or wear out after a year of use, then it's time to consider the very real option of percale sheets: long-lasting, luxurious and just plain beautiful.

Buy today, sleep on luxury tonight!

All the Dresses in the World

2010-08-19T22:32:00.026-04:00

I'm naked in an upscale clothing store in New York City.

My wealthy friend Thomas is buying a fancy Italian shirt. He buys clothing on a whim. We're going out tonite and he wants to wear something nice.

I browse the men's clothes with him, careful not to drift over to the women's section because I know it could strip me of my upbeat mood.

But slowly, I drift over, the scent of newness drawing me near. I spot one vintage-style floral dress with an orange sash around the middle. The material is feather-soft and heavenly, the colors bold and inviting. I touch it and find my way to the price tag, sigh and walk away.

I return to the men's section. Thomas has spotted several shirts of his liking. He asks me which one. I tell him the cobalt blue shirt brings out his eyes. He darts off to the dressing room.

Reluctantly pulled back over to the women's section again, I eye this form-flattering slate gray dress. Heavy-hearted, I pull it off the rack and put it up to my body, envisioning me in it. I would be a new and improved woman in this dress - comtemporary, sleek, tres elegante. Magical things would naturally happen to me in this dress, of course. Pricetag, sigh.

I go to the dressing room. Thomas walks out, looking dashing. It's amazing what clothing can do. Well-dressed men make me weak in the knees. I walk up to Thomas and tug at his collar. He has become a beautiful male doll I suddenly want to fuck.

Walking by a 3-way mirror, I catch a glimpse of myself: my outfit is not like his. It's nice enough but it's certainly not that slate grey dress. Most of my clothes are from secondhand stores. I'm usually proud of my patchwork gypsy look....except for this moment.

Secondhand stores go way back for me. A widowed mother raising five children on a secretary's salary couldn't afford much more. I'd die a thousand deaths shopping at those stale-smelling, drab stores, hoping no one would see me. After Christmas break, pangs of envy would stab at me, seeing my friends in their new Jordache jeans and Candies shoes and me, possibly wearing one of their old sweaters from last year.

It wasn't just second hand clothing that I would get for Christmas; it was hideous second hand clothing! Purple polyester pants with elastic waistbands, old frilly dresses made for a bootleg Shirley Temple and coats that looked like burlap sacks stuffed with moldy feathers.

Years later, as an adult, I would receive my annual birthday box in the mail from my mom, full of the same kind of clothes. My heart would softly break. My mother put so much time into finding "just the right thing" for me on a tight budget, but usually she was miles and miles off. I'd return the clothes to the Goodwill so other misguided mothers could torment their daughters for generations to come.

A few months ago, I met a well-established painter here at the Jersey shore. Like other visual artists I know, they often view you as a "work." By the end of a wine-infused evening, he said, "You are a fine specimen, Ms. Mann. One of a kind. You need to be wearing clothing that suits you better." That naked feeling again. I had dressed up that evening - a tight black knee-length skirt and a short-sleeved turtleneck. But somehow, I knew what he was talking about. Something was off; I wasn't quite pulled together.

I jokingly refer to it as the "Bowie Effect." Whatever David Bowie possesses is genetic and I fear I don't have it. It's the ability to look good in just about anything. He can't help his stylish, lanky self. (His millions of dollars don't hurt either, I'm sure.) But I think if he shopped at my second hand stores, he'd still look better than me. Why?

Maybe I missed out on the feminine role-modeling, where mother shows you how to apply lipstick and walk in high heels. My mom was too busy "raising you damn kids, damnit." Maybe I missed out on that opportunity to parade in front of my father as a young girl, wearing my Sunday best. Maybe I missed out on the opportunity to "buy whatever you want, sweetie."

As a fatherless child at 6, I was stripped of my role of a little princess. My prince had died. My imaginary gown was replaced with imaginary tatters. The world soon became a place packed with well-dressed princesses with living princes who bought them brightly bowed presents bursting with girlish gifts. And I felt terribly bare and wrong. All the dresses in the world couldn't bring my prince back.

There was a man I was involved with once who lived far away. We would talk to the wee hours of the morning. It would usually evolve (note I did not say devolve) into phone sex. Somehow amidst all the prerequisite mentions of cock, pussy, etc, he would hit me in a random sweet spot:

"I want to take you on an all-day shopping spree and dress you up in the finest clothes, then bring you home and take them off of you, slowly." Tears welled up in my eyes as heat burned between my legs. That little girl longing again, to be a perfect princess dressed in the finest wear, shining, sparkling, twirling, alight with my eternal feminine beauty. I knew he'd never take me on a shopping spree. It was just part of a fantasy, worse than a sexual tease, though I'm sure he wasn't aware.

Over the years, I've tried hard to move away from this tired, overplayed Cinderella motif. My nakedness has become my fashion. I enjoy my body underneath the clothing and the occasioanal glow that emanates from me, not generated by any high-end purchase.

And I like my eclectic fashion. It suits me well, (though I suspect expensive clothes might suit me better.) I'm no longer embarrassed to shop at second hand stores; I relish it. And I own several dresses, new and used.

When I see little girls longing to be princesses, I realize it's a slippery slope. When the knight doesn't appear, when the princess can't fight back against an angry prince, when the castle has no doors for escape, those seemingly sweet roles can limit and restrict. But for me, I never had the chance to walk in those glass slippers and enter the starlit ballroom. As I try to reclaim my princess later in life, it can be painful and emotionally evocative.

A dress is no longer just a dress. It's a symbol of fostered feminity that I missed. It's a symbol of a lifesytle that warrants dresses that I currently don't possess. It's a symbol of a non-existent prince who sees me in it and lovingly undoes the laces. It's a symbol of clothes bought for me, for once (other than my mother, who seemingly wanted me to resemble Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.)

Thomas bought two shirts because he felt indecisive. As we walked out the door, he asked me if I saw anything I wanted.

"Not particularly," I replied. "Except for you, maybe."

(It's always fun watching the double take of a gay man.)

Where's my Evacuation Chute?

2010-08-10T22:19:00.011-04:00

If you're anything like me, first off, good luck. It's not easy feat.

Secondly, you smiled big and hard when you read the story about Jet Blue's flight attendant Steven Slater and his dramatic dispute with a passenger. According to The New York Times:

Mr. Slater instructed the person to remain seated. The passenger defied him. Mr. Slater reached the passenger just as the person was pulling down the luggage, which struck Mr. Slater in the head.
Mr. Slater asked for an apology. The passenger instead cursed at him. Mr. Slater got on the plane's public-address system and cursed out the passenger for all to hear. Then, after declaring that 20 years in the airline industry was enough, he blurted out, "It's been great!"

Then, the authorities said, he pulled the lever that activates the emergency-evacuation chute and slid down, making a dramatic exit not only from the plane but, one imagines, also from his airline career.

On his way out the door, he paused to grab a beer from the beverage cart. Then he ran to the employee parking lot and drove off, the authorities said.

Now that's an exit. Not only did he publicly humiliate this woman who decided she was beyond the rules, he gave a fine closing monologue deliciously packed with expletives and added the sublime finishing touch of grabbing a few beers before sliding down an evacuation chute. That, sir, is what you call rock and roll.

The online community has gone wild for this man. Why? Because he represents those of us who retain manners and civility in a society increasingly loaded with rude, entitled morons, testing our patience daily. Because he gave a resounding "fuck you" to a system that he could no longer tolerate. Because he expressed himself, boldly and unabashedly in a world that encourages a tired herd mentality.

The name of the passenger has not been released. Why? Because we'd all want to kill her - or at the least, slam a suitcase in her face, like she carelessly did to him. I wonder how she sleeps tonite. I hope she is worried that people like us are dangerously tired of people like her.

Theories abound that the airlines have become a hotbed of tension since 9/11, hence this dispute in the first place; I disagree. I believe we have been splitting off into two groups for some time: people who maintain basic human consideration and people who don't.

Usually the inconsiderate win, based on sheer garishness. In this case, the considerate person won. (At least in theory. He could still serve seven years behind bars. Go get him, justice system! But make sure those banks and oil companies get off scot-free.)

I often wish my mother had never instilled courtesy and consideration in me. It's a curse, as I spend parts of my day shocked by behavior that I was never allowed to display, nor thought to. I was told that staring is rude, eating before others are served is wrong and "please" and "thank you" are to be said at each and every appropriate time. Like this flight attendant, I try to stay on a civil, good path, considerate of others.

Then I find an elbow in my face.

"Excuse me, but you must be aware that your elbow is dangerously close to my face. Surely your can of beans is not important enough to warrant your total invasion of my personal space," I say to the grunting woman at the grocery store. She ignores me.

"Pardon me, sir. But your child is standing on my foot while I attempt to dine at a fine restaurant. Would you care to take on the job of parenting for a moment and remove said child before I eat his head for dinner?"

"I know your conversation is terribly important but we've been on a bus for an hour and your incessant hen-style yapping has grown tiresome. I know it's a crazy concept for people like you to conceive but I don't care to ever hear the details of your droll life."

Yes, I'm being "snarky" as they say. But what choice have I? What choice did Steven Slater? One reaches a breaking point when common decency seems like it was run over by a piece of white trash in a Humvee.

And if it were only about decorum! Unfortunately, people like this rude passenger have far-reaching implications on our sad, fatigued planet.

Several days ago, I watched two fishermen flick their cigarettes into the ocean, while they got in touch with their "manhood" and "nature." I picked the butts up and handed them back to them. They wouldn't take them of course ("What's your problem, crazy bitch!), so I dropped them in one of their bags. Rudeness has a ripple effect that hurts more than feelings.

All Steven Slater asked for was an apology. A simple apology would have dismantled his rage. I wish I could have been there to explain that people like that woman have no clue how to apologize, unless they're forced. (And then, really, is it an apology?) An apology implies a sense of empathy and kindness that this woman is simply incapable of possessing.

He requested a civil response for a rude act. The poor man thought that antiquated logic might work with the chronically entitled and rude. Like me, he learned that when people do something wrong, an apology will naturally follow.

It didn't.

And he responded the way most of us want to, when someone puts our lives at risk on the road, so they can advance one car ahead. Or when people stare at you in times of need, instead of helping. Or when someone hurts your feelings (or in this case, your head) and all you want is some basic human acknowledgment to lessen the pain. Really basic human stuff!

What happened to Steven Slater is what happens to many of us, every day. He hit a natural breaking point. Luckily he had an evacuation chute. I'm still looking for mine.

Hats off, Mr. Slater.

The Case Against Placebo Boyfriends

2010-07-25T13:28:00.012-04:00

I don't think I've ever tittered before. I'm not even sure what a titter is. But when the question hit me, that's what I began to do.

"Why don't we just have sex? Right now."

Clint and I don't have sex. He and his brothers live down the street and serve as my surrogate family at the Jersey shore. I realized early on that it was much more important for them to serve that role in my life. Sex changes everything...doesn't it?

We had just finished surfing and a storm was fast approaching so we jumped in my truck and raced back to his house by the bay. While driving, I told him about a sexual dream I had that morning that included a surfer we knew.

"Everything was so open. It was like there were no...rules around sex. You just saw someone and had sex with them. So when Justin [the surfer] appeared in my dream, I went up to him, unzipped his pants, lifted up my skirt and climbed on top of him. It was all very easy, free."

Clint sat silent and tense in the passenger seat. For a moment, I wondered whether telling a male friend intimate details about a sexual dream is a little different than telling a female friend.

When we got back to his house and out of my truck, the black sky tore open and unleashed. Already wet and in our bathing suits, we stood in the pouring rain for a minute or two, enjoying the feeling. This is a perfect summer moment, I thought. Just this.

We grabbed some towels and dried off under the deck, looking out over the bay as the rain came down harder. Then I noticed a strange sensation; it was if the air had become electrified, bouncing back and forth, through me, through him. Everything felt very alive yet very still at the same moment.

Then zap!

Clint turned to me and said, "Why don't we have sex? Right now. For the next hour. Or two." He didn't sound totally serious...but not totally unserious.

That's when the tittering began - a high-pitched, girly laugh that I don't ever remember emitting in the the entirety of my life.

"Really, that's what people would do in this situation. They'd have sex."

"It's true...they would" I managed to say.

Strangely, "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" began playing in my head at full volume. I took a wet barefoot step toward him. That easy, sexual dream version of me was in full agreement with his suggestion.

Why wouldn't we have sex? We spend a lot of time together, we know each other very well, we're kinda hot. We're straight. We only live once. Besides, everyone already thinks I sleep with him and his brothers anyway. Let's give them something to really talk about.

Then the head interjected, reminding me of all of the stupid and annoying things Clint has said and done in the past, how careless he's been with my feelings, how terribly...dudelike he can be. If we did have sex, it would suck afterward. He'd potentially tell others how he "tagged" me. Or he'd share with me in detail how much he likes the ass of some chick on the beach, later that very afternoon. And I'd feel disgusted and annoyed. Definite step back.

But what are these stand-in, placebo boyfriend types for anyway? They just kind of hog up time and space that could be dedicated to someone you really like. Why not at least use them to their maximum capacity?

Another step forward.

Filler men can be so frustrating. So much feels right and natural. You have nothing romantically invested in a faux boyfriend, so you relax and truly act yourself. Sure, we all want to believe we're really "ourselves" with our significant other but there's a special lack of concern for a stand-in boyfriend that feels pretty good. I call Clint a moron whenever I damn well please, for instance. He tells me to shut the fuck up when the urge hits him. Easy like Sunday morning.

So why mess up that magic? There's no undoing sex once it's been had.

Step back.

"I need to...iron my clothes."

" You need to what?"

"You heard me, moron. I have ironing. To do."

And with that, I walked left.

Later that day, Clint would introduce me to his friend as his "surfing buddy and neighbor" (which, trust me, he would have done, even if we had sex.) I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't made a sexually grievous error. Placebos are made up of sugar and have no real medicinal effect whatsoever. But I guess if you don't know any better, placebos can do the trick. Unfortunately, I know better.

Boring Story Told Dramatically – Part Une

2010-07-13T19:33:00.011-04:00

I often ponder whether I should say something to her. Or perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Though it's not her fault, I continue to blame her - every day of my goddamn life.

Pam told me to buy a “better” coffeemaker. You’re not in college anymore, she said. Don’t buy a cheapo. I agreed. I didn’t have to buy your basic $15 coffeemaker anymore. I could buy something a bit more sophisticated. Upscale. And that’s exactly what I did.

I looked at Pam as we exited the store and thought, “That’s what friends are for. They guide, advise. Thanks, friend.” She caught me looking at her and I smiled, gratefully. She smiled back, knowingly.

Little did I know those innocent smiles would portend a domestic nightmare from which I could not awake. Since the arrival of the new coffeemaker, my life has become a living hell, unpredictable, full of torment.

Why, you question?

Because the coffee filter often folds in on itself during the drip process. The result is coffee grounds in my coffee. But wait! No! Not just grounds in my coffee: weaker coffee because the water doesn't drip through properly – lifeless, tepid brown, gritty water, unfit fit for a septic tank.

In short, my life has been irrevocably altered.

Every morning now, I walk into my kitchen with trepidation. Will this be a good coffee day or a bad coffee day? I never know. I never know!

Oh, you think it’s me? It’s something I’m doing wrong? No, no sir. It is not. And I resent your implications that I’m to blame.

Every step is closely monitored to ensure the best possible results. Each filter needs to be in perfect form, not misshapen in the least or chaos will ensue. Once, I accidentally placed an object on the package of filters and did I pay. Oh, dearly! All the filters were contorted just enough to be problematic, no matter how much I tried to mold them back to their…

Wait, I’m not done!

Their shape. So for months, I had many bad coffee days. I waited patiently for the day when I could buy new filters, filters in their original, innocent form. Until then, I silently suffered, morning upon morning upon morning. When I finally bought a new pack, I can’t express the relief I felt. Maybe now, my life would return to a semblance of normalcy. But guess what, fair reader?

EVEN WITH THE MOST PERFECT COFFEE FILTERS, LIFE IS STILL UNPREDICTABLE!

Oh God, it's so true.

This morning, I looked at the filter and thought, “You’re a good one. You’re in perfect shape. You should serve me well.” But guess what? It didn’t. The motherfucker folded in on itself, again, leaving me to drink hot grit water.

No, no…I haven’t told Pam yet. Dare I? Frankly, we haven’t been speaking much lately and occasionally I wonder if this coffee maker business is the real reason. She misled me and I feel...

Listen! I said, listen!

Betrayed. There are lots of things I can look beyond in a friendship. Hell, we all have our flaws, right? But I can’t seem to move past something of this magnitude. I’m not Jesus, you know! I can’t just turn the other cheek.

Or perhaps its time to turn that pointing finger back to the real source of the problem: me. Had I not been so gullible, so eager to “keep up with the Joneses”, I might have said, “You know what Pam - YOU may need a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles. But I don’t. I’m a simple woman with simple needs. Now back the hell off!”

But I didn’t. And I’ll have to live with the consequences of being a mindless sheep for some time to come.

Hope for me a good coffee day tomorrow. I shall do the same for you.

God speed.

Karaoke as Cheap Therapy

2010-07-04T19:27:00.002-04:00

"I think it heals the soul," she whispers, as if a secret.

"I think it does too, Aunt." I reply.

My Aunt Mary Lou and I are on the phone. We're talking about singing instead of addressing her daughter, who is dying of cancer. My aunt needs a break.

"Do you still sing, Bethy?"

Hearing "Bethy" always warms my heart. It's my child name.

"Yes, Aunt. I do. I sang with a choir for the last few years. I even sang a solo once."

Listen!

(Me singing with a small group ensemble in Brooklyn's Bella Voce. It's an Emily Dickinson poem put to music. I'm one of the two altos.)

"Really!" my Aunt Mary Lou exclaims. "Well, isn't that wonderful. How about now?"

"Well, it's kind of...stupid. It's...I just sing karaoke sometimes at the local bar here."

"That's not stupid, Bethy. That's practice."

I smile, wiping away a wandering tear. My cousin is my age. She had a routine gall bladder surgery and found cancer. Lots of it. Suddenly, she has weeks to live.

"It is practice, Aunt. I'm not sure for what but..."

"Life. It's practice for life."

Back in the day, my mother and father, my aunts and uncles, would sing all night long, if you let them. That's when people were more full of goodness, it seemed; content with sitting around a kitchen table until the wee hours, connecting, conversing, debating, joking, laughing, singing songs - just being simpler and happier. Before computers. Before cell phones. Before a million TV channels. Before a great disconnect.

Listen!

(My family sitting around singing in 1971. That's me at 4 singing in the background.)

Occasionally the gang would go out to a local piano bar, sipping the same drink all night and singing until their voices became whispers the next day. I loved watching the women prepare for their big night out - coral lipstick, bright floral patterns, hairspray...layers and layers of hairspray.

(My Aunt Mary Lou on the left.)

Years later, after many of the old crew had died, I would visit my aunt in Pittsburgh and she would insist on us singing. She'd sit down at her organ - those crazy organs with a million buttons - and start playing at full volume. And I was expected to sing...loudly. Show tunes, I remember.

"I am sixteen, going on seventeen," I'd sing. (Although I was 34 going on 35.)

"I enjoy being a girl!" I'd meekly proclaim.

"Louder, with feeling. Sing it out, Bethy!" she'd demand, a Kool cigarette dangling out of her mouth.

"Come on, Aunt, please. I'm not very good."

"What the hell does that matter? Just sing! You're too damn shy."

(Interestingly enough, coming from a pretty rowdy bunch, I'm still considered the wallflower.)

I'm not a singer. I love to sing. There's a difference. Being around real musicians most of my adult life, I've realized how difficult it is to sing well. I've studied it, I've practiced it and yet, because my ear is pretty darn good, I hear when I'm doing something wrong and can't always correct it.

That used to eat me up inside. I wanted to sing 100% well or not at all. Singing can make you feel very vulnerable, soul bare. The chance of singing even a little badly was just too much of a risk. My fiery self-loathing wouldn't allow me.

Now, I embrace my imperfections...or I try to. Now I sing because it "heals the soul" as my Aunt Mary Lou puts it...and I need some serious soul healing. Singing is expressive and sweet and good. And my self-judgment has died down and been replaced by a more immediate desire to purge and release.

Now I sing to feel lighter and more magical.

Often, it's me in my room, which is a little awkward; you know others can occasionally hear when you decide to unleash (it's not really therapeutic singing unless its loud and heartfelt) then you remind yourself, "What the fuck do I care?" Then that becomes part of it, singing in the face of self-consciousness and not worrying who hears. Exposing your voice - it's more naked than nudity.

Once my friend went after my throat, as a joke, like she was going to strangle me. I was very sad at the time and the second her hands reached my neck, I started sobbing. That area was just so loaded with energy. It's the place where I express and all of my emotions were bottled up and stuck there. It was then I realized the importance of your voice as a form of release. It's very personal. And singing, very therapeutic.

I was lucky to sing with Bella Voce (directed by the amazing and fierce Jessica Corbin) but here, at the Jersey shore, the pickings are kind of slim. So it's karaoke. None of my friends will go with me. It's stupid and corny and they want no part of it.

And they are spot on: it is all of those things. And then some! At times, it's a surreal circus that would make David Lynch bow his head in reverence and confusion.

Oh well, who gives a shit what they think, my tough Aunt Mary Lou says, her voice woven deeply into my being now, after years of indoctrination.

I agree...so much that I've decided to share (hands shaking a bit) several pieces of me singing karaoke at The Gateway Inn in Ship Bottom, New Jersey. The sound quality is a little poor...but it is karaoke after all.

Beth does Karaoke from Beth Mann on Vimeo.

(Leo Sayer, singing the song maybe a little better than me. Okay, a lot. But note, his open-throated sound and dead-on diction. That's solid technique.)

(After Gary introduced me to the better mike.)

There are Worse Things I could do....really. from Beth Mann on Vimeo.

Pussy on a Platter

2010-06-20T15:53:00.012-04:00

"You know what your problem is?"

"What?"

"You're giving your pussy away on a platter."

"I'm what?"

"You're coming across as desperate."

"I am desperate!"

My soon-to-be-ex friend Clint is explaining to me in his inimitable way that giving some guy my number last week went a little too far.

"I guess he was supposed to 'hunt' for it or some caveman bullshit like that?"

"Exactly."

Silence.

"Out. Get out."

And for the third time in a year, I threw Clint out of my house.

I don't seem to be winning here. For the first few years at the Jersey shore, I played it safe, not hooking up with any of the locals. Not that I had some great desire to; I'm always wary of men who wear more hair product than me. Yet somehow the more I tried to protect it, the more my reputation grew.

But nowhere did it cut so deeply as with my old friend, George.

George is an old, sweet, Jesus-looking, acoustic guitar-slinging hippie, beamed right from Woodstock. He dated my sister for many years when I was a child. He became a surrogate brother during that period: protective, kind and instructive.

He took me to see a meteorite shower one night at the Jersey shore, which still remains one of the most bright and shining memories of my life. As a child, I wanted to believe in magic so badly, but too many disheartening things had happened already to allow me that spiritual luxury.

But that night, as George and I watched the sky explode with light, I believed in magic once again. My soul lit up. From that point on, George and magic were indelibly entwined in my child mind.

When I moved back to the Jersey shore several years ago, George and I joyously reconnected, after decades apart. Picking up where we left off, he quickly became that watchful, warm friend, helping me whenever I needed. As someone who hasn't experienced much protective familial care or guidance, this was a huge gift.

He taught me how to make repairs to my car, found an old bike and fixed it up so I could ride it around the island (with a cardboard license plate that read "Beth"), he made a concoction of special oils for my surfing-induced ear infection and showed me how to tell the wind direction by letting sand run through my fingers - kind and gentle acts that fed some undernourished side of me.

After some time had passed, I noticed he hadn't invited me to his home. When I asked him about it, he told me that he was afraid his wife wouldn't understand our friendship.

"What do you mean? Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, she gets jealous."

"But we're just friends," I said, my neck tensing. It was disturbing to think that anyone would consider George as my romantic partner. Incestuous and creepy feeling.

"George, if you can't tell your wife you're here, its probably best we don't hang out."

"Oh...and you might want to grow some," I wanted to add but said instead:

"I'm nobody's secret."

But that wasn't true; I have been a secret. My friend David only calls me on his drive home from work, because he's afraid to talk to me in front of his wife. I've been friends with him for 20 years.

Robert and I dated when I lived in New York but he always felt uneasy bringing me around his "baby's momma." We remain friends but he still has an issue with it.

"I just don't want any problems with her or the custody of our kid. I don't want to upset her."

"But you have no problems upsetting me."

Before you tell me to toss these jerks to the curb, please understand: these are men who mean a lot to me. They have been my guardians and my mentors and my friends - all for a long time.

Besides, I did start tossing.

Shortly after George and I stopped talking, he came to my house, desperate for help. His wife had "found out" that he stopped by my house on several occasions and was going ballistic. Would I please go over and explain to her that nothing is going on?

"Oh god, George...you can't be asking this of me. You can't!"

He implored me. I finally relented. Before I left the house, he asked me to dress down. I put on a flannel shirt and a baseball cap, so I didn't appear the supermodel that I really am.

Entering their house was one of the braver moments in my life. The energy was palpable and hostile. I decided to swallow the poison as quickly as possible. Marching over to the kitchen sink, I stood behind his wife, her back to me. She was sniffing, as if she'd been sobbing.

"I'm Beth. I'm sorry you're upset. I've known George since I was 5. He dated my oldest sister. The thought of anything romantic with him makes me deeply uneasy. I can assure you nothing has happened nor would it ever. He's a friend and he's been a great help to me."

She didn't turn around. She simply asked me to leave.

I turned and walked out of the house...and away from a friendship I had since childhood. Occasionally, I see his wife out in the world and want to say, "Do you know what your petty insecurities cost me?" But of course, I know it's his responsibility as well.

He's doing it to protect his family, a friend countered. From what? Am I disease? What kind of marriage are you protecting when you have to resort to lies and cowardice just to maintain a friendship? What are you teaching your children? How to be in a deeply dysfunctional family that stays together at all costs? So they too can one day mimic your relationally twisted ways? "Gee, why does our daughter have an eating disorder." "Why is our son hooked on drugs." Protect them? Please.

And this is only one story. As I continue to "do the right thing", my scandal quotient grows. A 43 year-old woman who hangs around young surfers and acts free and sexual and creative and doesn't have children? What's wrong with her? Stone her!

"So why aren't you married? Why don't you have children?" I've been asked several times before.

Who knows how to answer that? "Um...I was busy doing stuff, I guess."

The truth of it is, the need to marry and procreate wasn't imbued in me, like other people. I didn't dream of a wedding dress or a fat rock to wear on my finger. That doesn't mean I don't want to get married or have a family...it just doesn't dictate my life.

That's one take.

The other? When you spend a lifetime simply trying to survive, battling depression and fostering relationships that you think might last but end up smashed into pieces over and over again, it eats up a lot of fucking time.

Clint knocks at the door.

"Do you want to go grab a beer?"

"You're an ass."

"Sorry about the pussy on the platter comment. Can I come in?"

Doing Stuff is Overrated

2010-05-31T18:24:00.020-04:00

“Don't underestimate the value of doing nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear and not bothering.” ~ Winnie the Pooh

I like doing nothing. Sometimes its frowned upon and I’m not sure why. Doing nothing is relaxing, fun and easy.

Doing stuff, on the other hand, is overrated:

1. It’s tiring.
2. It doesn’t usually amount to much.
3. It usually leads to the doing of more stuff.
4. It often requires a needless, overpriced gym membership.
5. We’re all going to be maggot food anyway.

Back in the day, people sat around in rocking chairs on their porches and drank lemonade all afternoon. They were totally down with doing nothing. People took "Sunday drives" and the term "lazy afternoon" was invented. Time went by more slowly so days lasted about twice as long.

Even further back, people sat around naked in the forest, doing nothing. Sure, they hunted for food and foraged and stuff. But that was just so they could eat their meat and berries and get back to sitting in a circle, doing nothing, naked.

Now, we’re like manic little gerbils on electrified running wheels. I say the madness must end.

Cavemen, keeping it simple.

There was a time I too thought doing things mattered. I did things for decade upon decade - for other people, for money, to feel accomplished. Then one day I said to self, “What the fuck am I doing?”

So I just stopped and have felt happier since…well, not really. But I’d rather be unhappy doing nothing than doing a lot of something. Then I’m unhappy and tired on top of it.

I prefer doing nothing alone but sometimes I do nothing with other people. If we have to do something, we get a little annoyed. But we do it anyway, so we can get back to doing nothing again...together.

Guess what I'm doing?

Sleep is a good example of doing nothing and is by far the most interesting part of the day. You never know what’s going to happen, who you’re going to meet and what magical powers you may possess. I like to think of my waking hours as a 16-hour preparation for going back to sleep.

People do stuff to succeed, to be somebody. They strive for money, recognition, stature, attention. But they’re still unhappily married or wax nostalgic about days when they were broke and happier or have some weird closeted fetish that consumes all their time or they shoplift earrings at Nordstrom’s.

At this point, I consider it a success if I make it through the day. That’s not intended to sound fatalistic but life is a contentious bitch and you know it. People are dumb and mean you’re always working for the man on some level, relationships usually end (come on…they do. Really. And they usually end badly, to boot.) And we haven’t even gotten to diseases yet. I say give yourself a pat on the back if you’re not shooting smack or buying sturdy rope.

Doing stuff opens you up to all sorts of dangers as well. Once I was riding my bike around the neighborhood, trying to do something, when a big, black Kujo dog ran out and leapt up on me. His slobbery jaws were inches away from my face. I could be noseless as I type these words. I’m not – but I could be. Shit happens all the time.

Goodbye, nose.

And stuff just falls from the sky. A substantial number of people have died from pianos falling on top of them; it’s not just in the movies. You’re better off inside, safe, resting, prepping for sleep, where the real action happens.

Hello, piano.

Historically speaking, busy people have been nothing but trouble: Hitler, Mussolini, Vlad the Impaler (pictured below.) Say what you will about them but they were all on the go. Same with serial killers; busy people with a serious agenda. Buddha, Lassie and Robin Leach? Not so concerned about grabbing the brass ring and look at their level of contentment.

Vlad, getting busy.

Now, I’m not advocating doing absolutely nothing all the time. I’m asking we redefine doing stuff and bring it down a fucking notch, for God’s sake. Really. What are we trying to prove? That we’re winners in the game of life? Well, let me polish up that trophy for you. Do you want it engraved?

"Congratulations, you did stuff! Now you’re in an urn on a mantelpiece. Not so busy anymore, are you, bigshot?"

Once I stripped a dresser of all of its old paint. Some may consider that a small accomplishment but it remains one of my life’s crowning achievements. I’ll never forget the deep sense of completion I felt when it was finally done. I felt blissfully lost in time, fully alive and technically, not doing a whole lot in the bigger scheme of things. Yet it still beat out some more seemingly relevant moments in my life, like graduating college or winning a contest or watching my baby being born. (I don’t have a baby, but points need to be made.)

So the next time you want to do something, stop. Ask yourself, “Is this really worth it?” Or better yet, “Am I still going to die even though I did this?” The answer will probably be yes (unless doing stuff includes creating an immortality potion. If so, kudos for you, smartie.)

If death is in your future, you may want to consider doing nothing, as a form of preparation. Eternity is a long, long time and you don’t want to tire out too soon.

Group shot of us 100 years from now

~~~

“I don't understand people who like to work and talk about it like it was some sort of goddamn duty. Doing nothing feels like floating on warm water to me. Delightful, perfect.” ~ Ava Gardner

Ava Gardner, getting her wish

Rise!

2010-05-07T14:46:00.020-04:00

The first time I died in my sleep, I was a child. Someone had knocked me on the head in my dream and I began rising quickly, into the air. A little voice whispered urgently, Don’t go any higher or you can’t come back! Shaken, I willed myself to fall downward and woke up.

My flying dreams continued as I grew up. It was always the same feeling; a strange lifting sensation began in my solar plexus and I would start to rise. Taking flight awkwardly at first, I would soon be able to cover more distance and fly with greater control.

But I always remembered that voice, that point of no return.

It’s alright if you decide to do it, Amanda says to me on the phone last week. I sit on the corner of my bed, shocked and silent. She continues, I won’t be mad. It’s your right to go.

In one precious and frightening moment, a friend gave me permission to visit that point of no return. She did not chide me, but openly acknowledged the hidden thoughts that over the years and tears and toils and struggles, she has grown to understand deeply.

Nobody has ever offered this kind of acceptance before. All of the loved ones scream and shout and punish and shame when I utter the very real and possible solution. How dare you think that way? Don’t you realize the pain you’d cause others? Stop it. Bad. WRONG!

It's the elephant in the room, isn't it? Amanda asks. I don't want you to do it. Obviously. I love you. But its your choice.

Maybe it's the home I've been looking for, I finally manage to whisper, through tears.

This time, she is silent.

Last year, I would have the most powerful in my series of flying dreams:

My sister and I are in my backyard, chatting on the swinging chair. It’s summer. We’re both relaxed and warmed.

A deep, frightening voice suddenly speaks, very matter-of-factly:

Come with me. It's time.

I am pulled from the chair by a force beyond my control, my feet dragging in the grass like a dead body being hauled off. I am dropped into the front yard where the voice alone waits for me, just a disembodied voice.

Rise, it commands.

I expect to be scared but I'm not. There is no need for fear or fighting. This force is all-powerful. There is only relinquishing, a complete letting go.

My body, flopped forward like a rag doll, begins to rise upward. I see my sister down below, rocking alone in the chair, unaware of my departure. I see the town I live in. The country. The clouds. The stars. I have no control over this flight. I am being pulled by some universal magnet, moving quickly now. Too quickly.

You won't blame yourself if I do, will you?

No, Amanda says, no.

I just can't keep getting up.

Suddenly my back slams into something hard.

It is the sky’s ceiling.

As a child, I believed there was a ceiling beyond the clouds and the blue. A ceiling, an end. You could get no further than that point. Only when you died would it open. I have finally reached it, the point of no return.

My body starts hitting the sky’s ceiling repeatedly. Thump, thump, thump. The ceiling is old and yellowed. A cloud of dust surrounds me with each thud. I am surprised how unceremonious and clumsy this is becoming. They can’t get me past it. What will they do now?

And just at moment, I begin plummeting back to earth. This descent feels dangerous, uncontrolled. The stars, the clouds, the country, the town, my backyard. Slam! My body lands in the grass and my sister sits, swinging in the chair. She is a small child now, looking radiant and sweet.

You’re back, she says, nonplussed, putting daisies in her hair.

Yes, I’m back. Did you miss me?

I always miss you.

I sit next to her but am no longer relaxed, like before. Everything is different. Nothing will ever be the same. And I know, I know, the voice will return. I will rise again.

Image Source: House of the Rising Souls by the amazing 16-year old Lauren Withrow

The Cutefication of Feminism

2010-04-22T15:13:00.007-04:00

Over coffee this morning, I saw a few FB posts from female friends, excited about showing off some cleavage for "Boobquake" this Monday. While I wanted to be happy about some counterculture movement, this one just made me sigh.

In case you haven't heard, Boobquake was started by Jen McCreight, a blogger at Blag Hag, in response to an Iranian cleric who recent issued a statement that read:

"Many women who do not dress modestly... lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes."

McCreight encourages you (meaning women, of course - men can be the continual spectators) to:

... join me and embrace the supposed supernatural power of their breasts. Or short shorts, if that's your preferred form of immodesty. With the power of our scandalous bodies combined, we should surely produce an earthquake. If not, I'm sure Sedighi can come up with a rational explanation for why the ground didn't rumble.

It has turned into somewhat of a phenomenon. According to McCreight:

So what started as a joke and somewhat sarcastic reply to the ludicrous notion that women's immodesty causes earthquakes has now exploded. Seriously, internet, you scare and amaze me sometimes. The Facebook event already has almost 14,000 attendees (and 60,000 invited) in just over 24 hours. The wall is getting comments so quickly that I had to disable Facebook email notifications because my inbox was getting flooded.

I appreciate McCreight's intentions behind this; she meant it as a feminist response to a ridiculous statement. Unfortunately, it seems to be turning into something else, with many men chiming in, with their "show us your tits" camera-ready attitude. Women on parade again...sigh.

Since when did we "stick it to the man" by wearing low-cut shirts or short shorts? When women burned bras back in the day, there was a statement there, full of boldness and righteous anger. This type of happening feels like feminism lite, "cute" feminism or "male friendly" feminism.

It got me thinking about the current state of the dirty "F word" as I try to figure out why people thought this was such a good idea that they'd join in droves. Hasn't overly sexualizing women been done to death? Literally? Doing it even a joke doesn't strike me as funny. Doing it even a joke doesn't strike me as particularly funny - just overkill.

Though apparently that means I just don't have a sense of humor. You see, when you take a feminist stance, you're instantly tagged as some sourpuss who just doesn't get it. That kind of social shaming doesn't work on me. I do funny quite well, thank you.

Or you are told to "relax" or "get off your high horse." Why must I relax, I wonder? Women have been objectified to such an extreme point that even our so-called feminist undertakings include more objectification. I don't relax when I find something disproportionate and unfair. Nobody should.

Reviewing the hundreds of comments that continue to pour onto the Boobquake FB page, many women apologetically replied, "Sorry, I don't have enough cleavage to show" or "I'm as flat as a board...sorry!" A movement that encourages more body issues! Yay for us. Go team go.

When anyone interjected with an opposing view, they were met with anger and shaming. "You must have no tits." "Calm the fuck down." "Shut the fuck up and get off this page." It's shocking to see people say such hateful things so cavalierly.

Hence why objectification is so dangerous in the first place: pretty dolls with hot racks should play nice and shut the fuck up. In short, any worthy political movement or happening should be open to opposition without such ignorance and ire.

Women should be able to wear what they want. That's a given. Women should be able to sexually express themselves how they see fit. Of course. And underneath it all, I guess that was Boobquake's intention.

Unfortunately, we live in a world that sees that kind of freedom of expression as a photo opportunity or another cheap thrill. All parties must be on board and in celebration of the cause in a way that doesn't include lasciviousness, latent female hatred or sexual over-saturation.

If not, then all we've got is Girls Gone Wild with a cause slapped on top of it.

Thanks to friend Ruby T. Lawrence, for input and overall incitement!

Words are Alive

2010-04-03T16:52:00.021-04:00

"Words are alive. Cut them and they bleed."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday, I had a conversation with an old boyfriend. He said I was the first to say, "I love you." I vaguely remember him initiating it. The debate bordered on an argument and I couldn't help but wonder what was beneath it.

Did it really matter who said "I love you" first? Is "I love you" like a game of chicken, where whomever says it first "loses" in a sense? Do we covet those words too much, treat them too preciously?

Some may argue "I love you" is said too freely or cavalierly. And undoubtedly, that can often be the case. But considering most of the human populace seems emotionally bound and stunted, erring on that side of the fence seems, at the very least, a risk.

When my mother was ill with terminal cancer, my boyfriend's family invited her to come visit in Philadelphia. She was living in Florida by herself and while my sister lived close-by, my mother was feeling quite alone and enduring grueling treatments without a lot of assistance. This trip would be a break, a "cancer vacation" of sorts.

My ex-boyfriend's family is a very demonstrative sort - very giving and kind people. When my mother arrived, she was treated like a queen. They waited on her hand and foot and she was so flattered! No medicine in the world could have touched their generosity.

They arranged a lunch in her honor one afternoon, where she met several extended family members for the first time, including my boyfriend's Aunt Mary, a warm, jovial lady. My mother and Aunt Mary sat next to one another and they laughed and conversed easily, like old friends.

When the day came to an end and Aunt Mary was heading home, she hugged my mom. I heard her say something that would stick with me for the rest of my life: "I love you, Randee." They had spent several hours together, that's it. Yet I didn't doubt her love for my mother for one second. She did love my mother, after one afternoon together.

The next day, my mother was feeling quite recharged from all of the attention and activity. She flitted into the room I was staying in and started chatting happily. Unfortunately, I was feeling a black cloud over me. I knew what was to come. And for some unknown reason, I felt angry at my mom, annoyed by her newfound happiness. She mentioned something excitedly about the day's plans, I don't remember what, but I snapped at her. Hard.

And I live with that. I don't beat myself up too much for it. I was under an enormous amount of pressure, as was my mother. But I realized that day, among others, that once words are uttered, there is no retracting them. Reparation is possible, but retraction is not.

My oldest brother, in a fit of anger years ago, once told me that I was definitely the "slowest" one in the family. He always thought that, he continued. A few weeks ago, as we discussed some family business, I asked him to repeat something I didn't understand. I said, "Remember, I'm the slow one in the family. It takes me a while." He looked baffled. I explained that it was a callback to an insult he had made years ago. He had no memory of saying it whatsoever.

"Why have you harbored that all these years?" he asked. "Why did you say it all those years ago?" I replied.

Of any insults that have been leveled against me, stupidity doesn't tend to stick. But it stuck a little, obviously. Words, once uttered, are etched in some cosmic fabric in the sky.

My favorite teacher, Mrs. Polhamus, once scolded me in class. I was in first grade and was caught talking during a spelling test. I don't remember what she said but my whole world fell apart suddenly. I couldn't complete my test, so shaken up. Instead I wrote at the top of the paper, these exact words:

"I know it is true that Mrs. Polhamus does not like me anymore."

Even now, as I type them, I feel that 6 year-old pain. In this case, I remembered my words, not hers.

My friend is dating a man who seems downright phobic when it comes to the word love. One day, he put his fears aside and signed an email to her "Love, John." She was flattered by his attempt. She didn't book a date at the church or buy paint for the white picket fence - it just made her feel good...and special.

But months later, he retracted it. He told her he didn't mean to sign the letter that way - it was just an innocent congeniality. Please don't take it too seriously, he begged. She began to take him less seriously, unfortunately. Love and cowardice do not go well together.

Who doesn't know when you love someone? It's a very natural, simple feeling. It cannot be contested. It's as plain as the nose on your face. It doesn't require years of harvesting and deliberating. It doesn't require the perfect setting to be spoken. It's not even all that complex. It just is. When you become a tightwad with love, your world becomes smaller. Love becomes a bank account and you write your checks carefully, constantly watchful of your shrinking budget.

Words hold power. The words that really matter are often stuck in some box, waiting for a perfect date to be released. Other words pour out of us, often with little discretion or forethought. I do my best to refrain from saying:

"Shut up."
"Fuck you."
"Relax."
"Calm down."

"Get over it."

I try not to say those words, even jokingly. Do I say them once in a while? Hell, yeah. But because I rarely do, I feel I'm afforded the opportunity on occasion...and I probably damn well mean it when I do.

My friend's mother, whom I've always been close with, once said "fuck you" to me semi-jokingly. I made a small joke at her expense and that was her response. You can't carry every verbal infraction with you since you only burden yourself. But I do remember it.

And let us not forget the importance of the simple yet sublime:

"I'm sorry."

When those words are spoken from a genuine, heartfelt place, without any dreaded "but" attached to it, it can wipe away a world of hurt. Occasionally, "I'm sorry" isn't enough; it requires action as well. But most of the time, at least in my case, deep-seated resentment and anger evaporate almost instantly with those little words.

I read somewhere that talking slowly is good for your mental health, akin to eating food more deliberately. Perhaps there is some answer there. Choose the words you say carefully but not so carefully that they become a too precious of a commodity.

Image: Flickr - Donovan13

Mr. Shuffles Makes me Smile

2010-03-28T08:10:00.008-04:00

Mr. Shuffles is a miracle elephant.

After almost 2 years in his mother's womb, the vets found not vital signs and he was presumed to be stillborn.

At a press conference, the staff at Taronga Zoo in Australia announced the sad news.

Photo: Dean Sewell

But in spite of the odds, Mr. Shuffles was born at the in Australia on March 10, 2010 at 3.27 am.

Katharina Theodore was one of the first keepers in the elephant barn the morning after Portnip, the mother elephant, gave birth.

"We went to greet all the elephants, walked up to Porntip and she didn't react at all." Theodore said.

"She seemed to be in a stupor and so I started to cry literally. I noticed blood on her legs and the bulge that was holding the calf was missing. So Gary and I walked into the paddock and we found a calf.

"I was kind of happy that at least she'd expelled the calf and I was thinking that's great, we can move on and look after her.

"And then, mind-blowingly enough, the calf raised its head."

20 vets and keepers quickly went to work, round the clock, administering to the calf who they feared suffered brain damage.

When Mr. Shuffles was well enough to take his first steps, they were heavy and unsure, like that of an old man, hence the nickname "Mr. Shuffles."

He was officially renamed Pathi Harn in a ceremony held by Buddhist monks to celebrate his Thai culture. This caused a minor uproar online (by people like me) who really, really like his nickname.

Parthi Harn is the Thai word for miracle.

Pathi Harn is getting stronger day by day, feeding heartily from his mother and playing with his cousin, Luk Chai .

And while his beautiful Thai name reflects his regal status which he rightfully deserves, he will always be known as Mr. Shuffles to many.

He's a little wide-eyed and goofy - a creature who has gone through something. A creature who is happy to be alive.

Mr. Shuffles lives!

Mr. Shuffles Naming Ceremony:

Mr. Shuffles Slips into a pool:

News clip on Mr. Shuffle. He's a happy-go-lucky baby elephant!

Follow Mr. Shuffles on Twitter.

Sources:
Brisbane Times
ABC News Australia

Dear Fill in the Blank

2010-03-20T10:43:00.013-04:00

March 21, 2010

Dear _________:

We haven't communicated in quite a while, my dear. I continue to miss you though I try to keep it at bay and humbly move on.

I sometimes wonder why I bother to write you anymore. Not sure if you even read what I send or whether this account is active. I know why you had to close a door but its haunting to think I'm writing to thin air at this point.

I suppose sometimes it makes me feel good to reach out and send you a song or an idea or a thought. It's ultimately a gift to me to give to you. (Though I much prefer to believe you are out there, reading what I write and loving me from afar.)

I've deleted most of your songs from my iTunes library and put them away for safekeeping. It just hurts a bit when they come through my speakers suddenly and enter my room. You wouldn't believe how many songs we've exchanged over the years! Some tunes have slipped through the cracks and they play on anyway, as if to say, "You can't get rid of me entirely, Beth."

Today I'm sending you a potentially corny song. Luckily I've never felt self-conscious sending you the sappiest of tunes. You could always handle it, which I've always loved about you. I wouldn't feel brave enough to share them with hardly anyone else!

So there's a story behind this song:

Last week, I had the most magical evening with a few close friends on the mainland. We gathered for an impromptu dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. We had the most perfect synergy. We talked about so many strange and wondrous things, laughing and sharing intimate thoughts. I left feeling quite high from the whole experience.

As you know, my social life here is pretty dim so when I have a good night, it burns like a flame in my mind. I had a good evening! It felt so nice that it almost hurt. I want more of my limited time on this planet to feel like that evening. Special. Magical. Connected. The way I've felt with you many times before.

Driving back to the island that night, I popped one of my cassette tapes into the player. Remember, I have an old truck. No fancy audio system like you probably have! Plain, old cassettes. I enjoy stumbling across little cassette treasures at yard sales or second hand stores. For a quarter each, it's a heck of a deal, right? And you're forced to choose from a limited selection. I like that too. Too much choice and access today.

Anyway, I stuck in a tape of early Dan Fogelberg. I know, he's a bit easy listening. But this was one of his earliest recordings, pre-ballads. He was only 18! His voice was so high and sweet and his tunes simple yet rich. He died just a few years ago from prostate cancer at the age of 56. After doing some research (because I can be a geek like that), I found out that after he wrote this particular song, he knew he wanted to be a songwriter and never looked back.

As I listened to the tape and drove over the bridge, I looked out at the lights lining it. As a child, when my family would drive over to spend the summer at the Jersey shore, I'd stick my head out of the window and say, "Light, light, light, light, light..." trying as fast as I could to keep up with every one we flew by. If one was out, I'd stop for a millisecond, then continue again: "Light, light, light_____light, light."

I did this for years and years. It was my little ritual to mark my arrival back on the island, to a house I loved. Tonight was no different. "Light, light, light, light..." I said as I drove back home, feeling content and full.

Then this song came on. I'm not sure why, but suddenly I found myself pulling over to a side street next to the bay and began sobbing so hard. A perfect emotional storm had formed inside of me. It wasn't really the content of the song - it's about a peaceful morning. And it wasn't the evening, which was lovely. It was more than that.

I'm leaving this island this year, looks like. I'll walk away from the only house I've ever considered home. The family politics surrounding it have just been too much since my mom died. I'll never be able to reclaim this place, the way it used to be, you know? So I will take a sum of money and say a hard goodbye.

Sometimes I feel for the house. She remembers times past. I pat her old, worn walls and say, "I know. I'm sorry. I'll miss you too." We sigh a lot lately, realizing what lies ahead.

As you know, our family hasn't seen many happy times. When I was six and my dad died, it seemed to create an permanent rift in our family. We were wounded and lost, with a depressed and overwhelmed mother at the helm.

But this shore house provided us all with temporary relief. My mother seemed content here and we could all relax for a bit. We were like all of the other "whole" families, at least for a season.

"And maybe there are seasons.
And maybe, they change.
And maybe, to love is not so strange."

Those were the lyrics that played. All of my childhood memories flooded me, like water in a fast-sinking boat.

The "light, light, light" times when we laughed more easily and the days drifted on as if forever. Lightning bugs and shooting stars and fireworks and wave leaping. Reading books quietly in the evening and sleeping so soundly. A brief glimpse of family and home.

In my truck, sitting in the dark, I realized the irrevocable passing of time, the hollow and frightening realization that certain stages and people are gone, never to return. I cried for the expanse of my past, growing bigger with each passing year. And maybe I cried a little for you, as you slowly become part of it too.

So this was the soundtrack to my bayside breakdown. The first few minutes are a little much but it evolves into a sweet tune, I think.

Maybe I won't send you any more letters or songs. While it can make feel happy to share things with you, I can equally feel foolish and even more alone, which I can ill afford. It's simply a waste of words if you're not even reading this.

Well, we shall see where I fall or stand emotionally. I still have about 200 songs to send to you. (Ha...it's true!) I guess it's more like 200 songs to send to myself.

You know, sometimes, I'm filled with disbelief, wondering how you could so easily close a door on me, making sure I had no power to open it. A bit of a dick move on your part. And sometimes, I realize we are best parted, in our current states. I understand. We had to be. And most of the time, I just simply miss you and have trouble letting you go, I admit embarrassingly.

Well, thank you for being my lover and friend from afar. And for being my muse. To think, you could be my muse, an artist of your fine caliber. How lucky am I? What a real, live fairy tale, one I sorely needed and deserved. For us, it has been hearts and flowers. Well, it's been hearts at least...I could have stood for some flowers.

But maybe there are seasons. And maybe they change. And maybe, to love is not so strange.

To the Morning - Dan Fogelberg

16 Reasons Television Doesn't Suck Anymore

2010-03-14T11:45:00.013-04:00

I turned my back on television many years ago. Sitcoms, reality TV, annoying commercials - the sheer stupidity of it all seemed too pervasive to overlook. But in the last few years, there's a crop of programs that have me thinking twice. These shows have an almost cinematic quality - beautifully shot, sharply edited, tightly cast with well-crafted story lines.

In addition, to a higher caliber of programming, many of these shows have enlisted the talents of amazing actors, such as Tim Roth, Gabriel Byrne or Mandy Patankin, to name a few. Television gives the viewer an opportunity to watch these masters in action, with a close-up, intimate feel that film doesn't necessarily offer.

Dare I say, there's some art on television?

So here's a spotlight on some of the best television shows and actors who've set the bar higher in TV land:

1. Breaking Bad

If you haven't seen this AMC series, stop what you're doing and get your hands on it. Bryan Cranston is knocking it out of the park with his performance and the show is daring and smart. It's beautifully shot, expertly edited and the supporting cast is top-notch.

It's about a down-trodden high school chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. With two years left to live, he joins forces with a former student, skillfully played by Aaron Paul and they cook methamphetamine together as a way to make extra money.

But that summary of the show doesn't do it justice: it's really about struggling, hitting breaking points and life not turning out as you planned. It's Death of a Salesman meets Falling Down meet speed. Oh...and it manages to be quite funny somehow.

And it's so exciting to see a lesser known actor such as Bryan Cranston, previously known as a comedic performer, really showcase just how skilled he really is.

One of the best shows to grace television, hands down.

2. Criminal Minds

Criminal Minds follows a highly adept team of FBI profilers who analyze the minds of serial killers, anticipating their next move before they kill again. Each show is a noirish gem in and of itself and has more of a filmic feel than a television show.

(I had to include a photo with Mandy Patinkin who is no longer a member of the cast. But to watch him alone is worth it. And Thomas Gibson is my boyfriend, kinda.)

3. Nurse Jackie

I was never much of an Edie Falco fan. She often struck me as a little flat in her approach to acting. But I'm wiser now. Nurse Jackie, in a similar vein to Breaking Bad, is a show about a good woman making some seriously flawed choices. She has a prescription drug addiction and lives a deeply opposed duel life. Amidst it all, she possesses a saintly air that is a perfect counterpoint to all of her very real flaws.

Supporting cast is solid as well. My new favorite on the show is Merritt Wever (pictured above with Falco) who plays Zoey Barkow. Her character is doe-eyed and idiosyncratic. She likes "pink, cats and panda earrings, and that she's not quiet and mean."

4. Glee

Not liking Glee is akin to not liking puppies. This fuzzy, adorable show follows a group of high school misfits lead by an earnest teacher, played sweetly by actor Matthew Morrison, trying to make his glee club successful against all odds. The cast is pitch perfect, with scene-stealing performances by Jane Lynch as Coach Sue Sylvester.

The best part about Glee is that it shamelessly has heart - lots of it. It doesn't mind being corny and touching.

5. Kyra Sedgwick, The Closer

While I'd like to give The Closer high praise, it would be a bit of a stretch. The show can be lightweight at times, with improbable and flawed plot lines. The supporting cast is spotty. Sedgwick's love interest does not spark enough flames. But to watch the enchanting powerhouse actress, Kyra Sedgwick, makes it well worth your time.

6. Tim Roth, Lie to Me

This is when I get really excited (I know - it doesn't take me much.) Tim Roth is an actor of the higher order and watching him is a thrill.

Lie to Me has its flaws though the subject matter is fascinating: Cal Lightman (Roth's character) and his team have the ability to read body language. They assist in various types of criminal investigations. And like Criminal Minds, the show's material is very well-researched. Its quite a lesson in psychology for the viewer. (Wow - learning from television? How novel.)

But the real reason to watch this show is to watch the finely-tuned expertise of Tim Roth's acting. In my book, if you get a chance to watch Tim Roth act, you watch it.

7. Gabriel Byrne, In Treatment

In the same vein of Roth, if you get a chance to watch the sublime, seasoned acting skills of Gabriel Byrne, you do so. The plot of the show is rather simple: it chronicles several patients in therapy with the world weary and depressed therapist, Dr. Paul Weston. While In Treatment can border on the pretentious, you still feel compelled to watch it, like some shrink session voyeur.

8. Law & Order

What's to say about Law and Order that hasn't already been said? It's the backbone of dramatic television, spanning decades at this point. Law and Order (and its various spin-offs) have been compared to eating potato chips, where the consumption of one leads to another. And another. Afternoons have been completely lost to Law & Order's well-honed formula.

I'll quickly highlight just a few of the actors who really capture that Law and Order feel:

Jerry Orbach is Law & Order

Michael Moriarty - one of my favorite actors in the show's early days

Dann Florek

Christopher Meloni, The hottest hothead on the show

9. Hugh Laurie, House

Let's first address the fact that Hugh Laurie is hot. Smoking hot. Let's sit with that for a moment. Okay, I'm ready to move on:

House has gone downhill over the years. I can't really support it as a show anymore. The cast seems chilly and narcissistic and annoying. I don't feel for them, which is a real directorial problem.

Hugh Laurie is still the reason to watch House. Like Roth and Bryne, he is an actor of a higher order.

10. John Noble, Fringe

Not a big fan of Fringe. It's kind of like a bootleg X-files. But John Noble's touching performance of a troubled genius makes the ridiculous story lines worth wading through. He an actor of great subtlety and nuance...and kinda blows the rest of the cast away, frankly.

11. The Sopranos

One of the main reasons television doesn't suck anymore is that a few shows set the bar pretty damn high. Certainly The Sopranos blew us all away (hello, easy pun) at first. It was a dark but very human look at the life of a Jersey-based mob family. The Sopranos is a very good example of a near perfect cast.

12. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Joss Wheedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer is so well-crafted, I almost don't know where to begin, other than to say it's one of the best television shows of our time. Interestingly, the actors on it aren't superb but they're good - they do their jobs. We relate to them. The mythic element brings us back to our childhood selves, where good conquers evil...at least sometimes.

Buffy has a strong feminist undertone, with a powerful and complicated lead character, which makes it even more refreshing. Dollhouse, one of Wheedon's more recent creations, is also a smart and creepy piece of science fiction.

(Oh and hats off to Xena, Princess Warrior, who matches Buffy in overall badassness and campy perfection.)

13. The Office - UK

Ricky Gervais gave one of the most awkward, self-conscious and deeply funny performances in a television series. He's a beautiful trainwreck of a performer. The Office, as a show, created its own existential comedy genre.

It mirrored, almost too closely, the realities of mind-numbing office jobs. Kudos the the American version of The Office. It's stellar in its own right. But nothing touches the complexity, bizarreness and heart of the original. The Brits tend to be funnier, as a rule.

14. Intervention

I tread lightly in the arena of reality television. It can get so ugly! But some props are due. Intervention is deeply compelling and all-to-real. The power of addiction is something most of us relate to, for one reason or another. The transformations that take place on the show remind us all that change is possible, even under the most dire of conditions.

15. I Survived

I think this Showtime program is relatively new. But you will be glued to it, I promise. The premise is simple: 2 or 3 people retell a life-threatening situation in which they found themselves. No fiction can touch some of these stories, they are so real and terrifying.

But what really makes this show so powerful is that you see elements of heroism and strength in so many different kinds of people. At the risk of sounding a little over-the-top, this show makes you believe in the power of humanity.

16. The Cartoonists

(above) Seth MacFarlane

(above) Matt Groening

(above) Trey Parker and Matt Stone

Nobody can take liberties like the cartoonists. They seem to have carte blanche when it comes to being politically incorrect and wildly id-driven. And that's why we love them. They get to say and do things we can't and probably shouldn't. Family Guy, The Simpons, South Park go there, unabashedly. These guys are real visionaries and artists.

This spot below is reserved for any suggestions (since I'm sure I've overlooked some worthy shows or actors.)
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Damages with Glenn Close - Trilogy

Modern Family - Lainey

Iron Chef - MyPsyche

Southland, Mad Men, Ugly Betty, and Shameless. For sci-fi fans, Caprica & Battlestar Gallactica - Leslie Basden

The Wire & Friday Night Lights - Juliet Waters

White Collar & The Good Wife - Nikki Stern