Love Means...

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

Women are weird. They’re passivity can run deep. But you and I are different. We’re the outspoken women who yell when angry and sob when sad. We express. What happened? Our voices became pale and garbled suddenly. The lines between us fell.

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

The size was a surprise, though. A baseball, they said. A fucking baseball. When I moved from San Francisco to New York, it was partially to be closer to you. But somehow, my own survival became overwhelming and I wasn’t at your bedside the way I planned on being. Maybe that’s when the divide began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard you the first time, Kris.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The stories about you grow worse. You can't walk that well. Your bones snap. Your face hollows. You are 42 and dying of breast cancer. A massive clock in a pitch-dark sky keeps ticking in my ears. Will we speak again?

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

I know, I know my problems seemed so petty in relation to yours. You yelled at me one time after a reckless where I put myself in jeopardy with drugs, booze, men, sex and fucking stupidity. “What the hell is your problem? What would possess you to put yourself in that situation?”

Unable to answer, I just felt shame. Shame that you, my closest friend, saw the train wreck that was my life and could no longer tolerate it. I didn’t blame you. It disgusted me sometimes too.

It’s now. And I’m racing down a highway in South Jersey trying to get to you. You have hours to live, they tell me. Hours. I race but cannot erase. What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong?

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

“Please, Beth…just don’t upset her. I know you two haven’t been…please, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I think of the other times in my life when a gatekeeper intervened – someone to warn me before I walk through a doorway and face something awful. When my mother was dying, it was my brother-in-law. “Wait, Beth…you need to know…she looks different than the last time.”

“Get out of my way. It’s my mother and you don’t warn me about her.”

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

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

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

Then you say something that stuns me:

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

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

“No. That wasn’t it. That's not why…It’s…”

“Then why? Please tell me. Please!”

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

“Does it matter, Kris...huh?”

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

And we let it go. At that very moment. The silence is broken. The doves fly out the window. All is forgiven.

I sit bedside and sing quietly to you for the rest of the afternoon. You sleep restlessly, fighting some imaginary blanket being pulled over you. I sing all of the songs we’ve sang in the past, songs of love, life, loss. Our anthems, our songs from the troubled but occasional magical little suburban life we shared.

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

One of our favorites:

Sara - Fleetwood Mac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rap as Performed by Average White Chick from Jersey

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

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

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 that obvious fact. 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 just existed and it was 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 the names of Ivy League schools. They didn't attend private schools or take personal tennis lessons. They weren’t the second coming, 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 online. 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 because you didn't have to, damnit. You didn’t know who it was anyway, so why take the chance? Now you know exactly whose calling. And you know they know you know who’s calling. Sure you can ignore the call, but everyone knows you're ignoring their 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 batshit crazy and 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 bigoted. Even the bigoted people don’t know if they’re really bigoted 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 kicked each other's ass routinely. Sometimes they did it just for fun 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 level another human being.


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're sterile and 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

Woman on the Rocks!

The Scene:

A winter Sunday at the Jersey Shore. Waves are big and messy. Water temp, 40 degrees. Air temp, less.

The Players:

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

Oh and let's not forget....

The Jetties


















The Tale:

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

 Me last winter, paddling out and punching my board through
an oncoming wave.

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

















Jetties are rocks used to prevent beach erosion. Slimy unyielding rocks.

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

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

But suddenly, I see a lull. Calm as a lake for a second! Go, go! I decide to forgo advice and paddle out just a little closer to the jetties. I can make it out in puhlenty of time. It's easy.

Leaping into the ice cold ocean water, I begin my paddle out. Interesting...that lull seems to have suddenly disappeared, replaced by a set of large waves heading toward me. Not a problem. I'll rock it. I'll just get past these waves, the lull will return, and I'll be fine.

Looking over to the right, I see the jetties a little closer than I remembered only a minute ago, but I still have a good amount of distance. Not nervous yet...nope, nope, nope. 

Then a larger wave hits me directly and I rag doll around. When I finally resurface, I look to the right and what do my wide eyes see?

Hello large objects.














Oh, this is bad. Really bad. I'm only a few feet from the jetties now. If the next wave hits me, it will put me on top of those rocks. I jump off the board and start swimming furiously in the other direction. This is a silly move but what happens when you panic.

At this point, I can feel the pulling action of the jetties. The jetties have currents swirling around them. To be caught in one of these currents is an unmistakable sensation. You can't move. It's nature's supermagnet. You don't stand a chance. 

I see an approaching wave. I know this is the one. The waves lifts me up like on a wrestler's shoulder and slam, right on the rocks. I lay there for a moment, stunned. At the shoreline, I see Sunday, Pete and Clint in a stunned panic, not sure what to do. Sunday has her hands over her mouth.

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

I look behind me and realize the fun has only just begun. Another wave hits. Slam, lift, slam!

You're in a mild state of shock and everything slows down to a surreal craw. You notice small things, unable to take in the big picture. There's seaweed on my face. I wish I wasn't here right now. I hope my board is all right.

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

Damnit why must my my new board take a beating too? It's one of the only things I've purchased for myself in like a year. It was a gift to myself.

I can see the dings on it already. It looked so pretty and white before...hopeful. Now it's getting banged up repeatedly so it fits in with everything else in my life, including me at this moment.

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

He shouts:

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

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

"Are you alright?"

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

I look behind me and see another wave approaching. This time, I work with the propelling direction and it propels me off the rocks, rather smoothly. Like it escorted me to the door and let me out. Goodbye, sucker, it said to me.















I start paddling out to the breakers instead of heading back to the beach. Hell, I made it this far, right?

Clint paddles up to me.

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

"Story of my life."

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

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

"Suicidal?"

"Maybe."

"Or ballsy."

"Hmm..."

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

"Maybe all of the above."



Me and few of my "war wounds":

This is a MUCH more extreme version of a difficult paddle out.

The Hazards of Showerheads

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

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

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

Clint: Beth. Wait up.

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

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

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

Clint: You love beautiful women?

Beth: Sure. Why not?

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

(Childish laughter ensues.)

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

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

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

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

Beth: Shut your trap. Now.

Kyle: Oh, here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cops Shots (or Tales of Self-Pornography)

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


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

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

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


Why do I take PG-13 shots of myself, I wonder. Then I quickly counter with a "Why the hell not?" I can make some guesses as to why I do though. I love sex. I love sexy. I don't have much of the former currently so I have fun with the latter. I think its called compensation.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

“Show me your I.D. right now”

“I don’t have it. It’s at home”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um...I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, carry on then.”

“No thanks.”

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

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

It was then I turned around and said:

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

“No problem.”

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Miss Shoplifting

[Play music video below at end of post before reading for soundtrack experience.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stealing books led me to my first bust...by my mother. She picked up my coat from the living room couch one afternoon and it unloaded itself, mainly with brand new books. It was tough to explain away. (Go ahead. Think of something, quick.) Oh, the look my Catholic mother gave me. That moment of utter silence. God-awful. (Though you’d think someone would give me some credit for stealing books and not a glass pipe but nooo.)

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

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

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

Vicky and I being proper Jersey burnouts circa 1987

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

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

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

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

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

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

EAT ME PIE!

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

COME ON IN
BABY TOTS!
CAESARIAN WRAPS!

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

BLOW ME CAKE PARTY!
TAIL!

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

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

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

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

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

When my good friend Scott leaves his grandparents house, they always say, “Drive fast, take chances.” Now, that’s a little wrong. I realize that. But the concept of "wrong" often gets in the way of a perfectly good time.

Don’t let them rob you of all the cheap highs out there. There's nothing but your own standards holding you back from true freedom.

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

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

A Semi-Scandalous Day at the Beach (in Pictures, Mostly)

Feeling a little under the weather last Sunday, I decided not to forgo surfing and shoot some photos of The Brothers on their long boards instead. I quickly realized that shooting surfers is not only difficult but slightly boring.

But here are two prerequisite shots of Kurt and Kyle surfing anyway:




























See? Not very thrilling. I mean, both guys are great surfers. I'm just not a surf photographer.

So I lay on the beach, basking in the new Spring sunlight and thought about an idea I have for a new series of photographs:

It's a scandalous idea, you see. I would exploit all the young surfer boys I hang out with by taking risque photographs of them. Not porn, per se...just a little edgy. It would make a great coffee table book! Mad wealth would ensue!














I mean, listen - we've had it up to here (finger to neck gesture) with photos of hot, young chicks from a male's point of view. When do you see young men from a woman's point of view? A woman who, in some cases, is twice their age? Ah, just scandalous enough to work, Beth Mann.

But where to begin, where to begin?

As I roused from my sun-drenched semi-sleep, the answer was undressing right before my eyes. His name was....I don't know. But there he was. My first model, as if a sign from above!














He quickly noticed as I began snapping shots of him and didn't seem to mind at all. Au contraire. I think he put on his shirt and took it off about four times.

I shall call him Mr. January (for my calendar series, soon after the coffee table book is published.)




























































Now, some may say this is a little distasteful. My God, I could be their mother! But guess what? I'm not. I'm not their mother. And at 42 years of age, I care less and less what people think. I'm not bedding these guys (and if I was, then what?), I'm just appreciating them in their steamy prime as I pine away at the Jersey shore. Is that so wrong? Wait. Don't answer. Cuz look! I'm not caring again!

The look of me not caring.

Then I decided to take a few of my friend Eric the next day. Eric is the most poetic surfer of the bunch. He's a musician and really into death and Gothic romance. He's got a delicate, sweet quality to him that I just adore. He was tough to photograph because he's a little shy. But I think we're on to something. This was just a warm-up. I think I want to put him in a bathtub with a boa constrictor or something.




























You see, I'm a bit of a pariah down here. In a traditional suburban area, where a woman of my age is either unhappily married with four kids or divorced, raising said four kids on her own, or dead from a meth overdose, I often stand alone, like a 42-year-old single unicorn.


Sure, I hang out with married couples sometimes and usually want to stick my head in a bucket. Most seem so resigned, so discontent. The few that seem happy, well, I desperately long to have what they have...but I don't have it right now.

So I surf, a lot. And these are the boys I surf with - young, silly, strong, daring, awkward at times, just trying to find themselves.

Clint, the oldest Brother

Since I'm not much of a people lover, these young guys have been a real salve to my aching misanthropy and a boon to my spirits. I see them struggle to find themselves, their voice. They are still vulnerable and open and surprisingly gentle, for all of the testosterone coursing through their veins.

They open up their lives to me, without all the decades worth of protective guise and bullshit we layer upon ourselves. Simply put, they make the whole human process seems a little more dear to me. I like watching them unravel like pretty little manly flowers.

And I plan on making a scandalous calendar called, um...The Boys of Summer. No, Girl Gone Wild or I Gotta Get out of Jersey before they Arrest Me!

$21.99.

Just click here to purchase.

Thanks to Joe for his suggestion.

Get off of Wine's Back!

Good wine is a necessity of life for me.
- Thomas Jefferson

As we speak, I have a glass of wine next to me. It is a decent California zinfandel. It's fruity, bright and a little simple, just like its drinker. My wine makes me happy, and as the annoying pop song goes, “If it makes me happy, it can’t be that bad.”

Well, apparently, it is that bad. Even one damn glass is that bad. This is according to the recent study by Oxford University, where over 1 million women were studied over a 3-year period on the effects of alcohol and overall health.

Here are the results, in short:

A history of low or moderate alcohol consumption increased the risk of a half dozen types of cancer as well as total cancer. The risk was greatest for breast cancer, which increased by 11 cases per 1,000 to age 75 with every additional drink.

Now I’m no doctor (though I play one on my internal TV) but here’s my very non-medical and slightly intoxicated opinion on all of this:

1. The Brits are really unhealthy anyway. Why are we taking their word on this? They're the ones who created the pasty look. They eat jellied eel and Spotted Dick. Their country was literally built on a foundation of white sugar and clotted cream.

2. What? Stress is better? So now, because of this study, a substantial amount of women will forgo that one glass of wine after a busy day and drink a nice, hot cup of their own stress-induced cortisol in its place. Goodbye cancer, hello heart disease.

3. Can we deny ourselves of any more pleasure? I already cut out masturbation because it makes hair grow on the back of your hands (right?) No more…no more! I can’t be any gooder than this.

4. We’re study junkies with spinning heads. Of course, we all remember when we were told wine was actually good for us, just a few years ago. We were happy. That was good news! Now a new study pops out, with totally divergent results and we're supposed to manically march like good little soldiers in a brand new direction.

5. Wine is natural. It’s grape. People have been drinking wine since the beginning of forever! So we’ll give up wine and drink what? Lime-flavored Gatorade? Caffeine-riddled Red Bull? Aspartame-rich Diet Coke? Come on…wine is a lovingly crafted beverage made from natural ingredients. It’s not the bad guy, in the bigger scheme of things, unless you’re an alcoholic.

6. Look at the happiness in the woman’s face at the top of the page. Do you want to wipe that sexy, come hither grin off of her Chardonnay lovin’ face? I don’t want to deny this model of her happiness. Let's drink for the young lady above, if for no one else. Salud, lady.

7. Can't you see? They’re trying to make nuns of us! Listen to what this doctor had to say about the study:

In a related commentary, Dr. Michael S. Lauer and Dr. Paul Sorlie, from the National Institutes of Health, Bethesda, Maryland, wrote:

Despite its attractions, alcohol has been the proximate cause of a great deal of human misery, now with additional documentation by the elegant report of Allen et. al.

Human misery? What is this, the Prohibition? Are you the new preacher in town? Who asked for your moral judgment on booze, Dr. Lauer? And who calls reports “elegant” anyway? Reports aren't elegant. They're just not. They aren't racy or sexy either.

I love wine.

I gave up cigarettes a while back. I consume very little white sugar or white flour products. I make most, if not all, of my own food. I don’t litter or chew mint-explosive gum or use aerosol hair spray or permanent hair dyes. I wear SPF and use natural makeup. I drink one cup of coffee a day (okay maybe two.) I gave up toxic people and polluted environments. I recycle. I pray. I run on the beach and say sorry when I disturb a bunch of seagulls. I take deep breaths and cry to dispel pent-up emotions so they don’t eat me alive. I live to the best of my ability.

The wine stays.

And that’s that.









Me and Wine (on the left)
Come quickly! I am tasting stars!

- Dom Perignon (1638-1714) at his first sip of champagne

Waves of Defeat

As my surfing improves, the brothers encourage me to visit the “big boy” locations on the island. I do so begrudgingly because by the time the session is over, I’m usually pretty shaken up. Yesterday was no exception.

Holyoke is the pinnacle of “big boy” surf spots on the Island. It’s a small, crowded location where the waves are big and the male egos often bigger. Pro and semi-pro surfers try to impress one another, like gay sea-bound peacocks (I don’t know if that analogy is going to cut it but oh well.)

The brothers give me the lowdown before I enter the water:

“Grab a wave or two within the first 10 minutes and they’ll give you some respect. If you don’t, they’re going to plow you down.”

“Okay…I guess. But what if…”

“Just do it.”

We paddle out and I’m shaking already. The waves are towering and nobody is friendly. I toss around a few “good mornings” and “hey theres” but hardly anyone responds. I see a wave coming in my direction and set myself up. Paddling for it as hard as I can, I miss it. Everyone sees it. And the brothers are right. This is sensed as weakness. The next wave I attempt to ride, someone “drops in” on me.

A quick side note on surfing: dropping in on a surfer is akin to cutting in front of someone in line. It’s a major sea faux pas and has lead to bloody fistfights in the water. But it will happen if your fellow surfers aren’t taking you seriously.

I see a woman paddling out to our tight-knit little group. This increases my jitters. Is she better than me? Will I look even lamer in comparison? Oh well. I smile and say hi to her. She barely nods in my direction.

Another wave heads in my direction. I start paddling and I see the woman next to me, trying to get the same wave. She technically has the right of way, but she’s so far behind me, I know she won’t get it. I’m set up in a better position, so I continue to paddle.

I miss the wave. And she misses the wave. And she’s pissed. She swings her board around abruptly, the nose of it almost grazing my face. I grab the nose of her board and push it away from me, so I don’t get hit.

The rest of the session was a blur. I was shaken and trying hard to focus. I got several waves to save some face but for the most part, I kinda bombed.

On the drive back home, the brothers begin lecturing me on what I did wrong. I sit in between the two of them, shivering, hungry yet trying to stay open.

“You don’t push away the nose of someone’s board…ever. It’s a sign of aggression.”

“Aggression? EVERYBODY was aggressive out there. I moved her board away so it wouldn’t hit me. Was I supposed to let her hit me as a sign of respect or something? Sorry but that’s an act I reserve only for a very select few.”

“But you dropped in on her. It was her wave.”

“But she wasn’t going to make it! You guys do that same thing to ME all the time. You paddle next to me and if you see I’m not going to get a wave, you take it.”

“But you don’t know these people. It’s different.”

“Well, how did I know? You know, the one time I do something aggressive, it’s a big deal. The rest of the time, I was being friendly and looking forward to meeting new people and no one was nice to me…and I even know some of those people!”

“It’s surfing, Beth. It’s not about being nice.”

“But I don’t really have much of a…community…here and...”

Oh shit, I feel it coming.

“Why are people so goddamn mean?”

And with that, I start sobbing. In the front seat of a car with two young guys on either side of me, painfully unsure of what to do next. The youngest brother starts awkwardly patting my shoulder.

“Beth, fuck them. They’re nobody. You’re just trying to get better. Don’t focus on them. That scrawny-assed blond chick, you’re so much better than her. You’re learning.”

His words feel like a blanket around my shivering body. Again, they remind me of what real brothers would say. Words of comfort, assurance. It takes so few words to make someone feel better. Truth is, she may have been better than me but it was nice to hear anyway. And it was also true, the part about her scrawny ass.

I don’t know if I want to surf competitively. Surfing has always been calming and fun and spiritual to me, like singing. I never cared much about how good I became. I just did it for me, to make me smile. But how do you know when you’re supposed to push yourself and go up against the big boys, just to strengthen your mettle? If you don’t jump into the hot seat sometimes, your little kid fears can trap you indefinitely.

I can’t imagine what Olympic competitors must feel like at the end of the day. Do they cry in cars, wondering why people are so mean? Do they even enjoy their sport anymore? Maybe I don’t feel like winning in general. Maybe the best days are spent drinking pink lemonade, smoking a little weed, going to yard sales, downloading music, making pies, making out and surfing with friends - real simple-like.

The boys drop me off, with a sympathetic yet slightly traumatized look on their faces. As I continue my sobbing in a hot shower, I slowly start to…touch myself. No, I don’t. I actually wash my hair and use this really good deep conditioner afterwards, the kind you leave in your hair for a few minutes. My ego bruised but my hair - silky smooth.

Thoughts of my childhood float through the steam, when you could fearlessly walk up to some kid and say, “Hey, you…you wanna be my friend? You wanna play?” It was that simple. My parents taught me to be kind at all costs, even when people aren’t being kind in return. It was your spiritual duty and I believe in it. I try, I fail, people try, people fail. And it can hurt sometimes, the whole sticky human process.

And that’s when I actually do touch myself. You know, just to forget about the whole damn thing.

Seagull Flies

I will lie down in autumn
Let birds be flying
Swept in a hollow by the wind
I’ll wait for dying
I will lie inert unseen
My hair same-colored with grass and leaves
Gather me for the autumn fires
with the withered sheaves
I will sleep face down in the burnt meadow
Not hearing the sound of water over stones
Trail over me cloud and shadow
Let snow hide the whiteness of my bones
- May Swenson, In Autumn


I walked out of the dunes at 6 a.m. in the dead of winter. My neighbor, being the eternal watchdog of our street, was there to greet me.

“What are you doing out there?”

I couldn’t speak. I was too moved by the events that had just transpired. He saw me struggling for words.

“Community service, I’m guessing?”

I nodded. Community service sounded about right. I was returning a seagull back into the wild. A baby seagull that was thrust upon me the night before, wrapped in an old sweatshirt.

Several days ago while walking on the beach, I came across an injured baby seagull. His wing was broken. I don’t know why I thought it was a “him” but I guessed. He flopped around frantically, in the deep, truck-made grooves in the sand.

I have a real problem when animals are in distress. It turns me inside out, floods me with grief and empathy. As a little girl, I dreamt of being a vet but had to give up that dream, due to this profound oversensitivity.

As I nervously tried to gauge the extent of the bird’s injuries, a fisherman at the shoreline turned around and watched me. He really annoyed me. People can be so rude. He just stared at me for the sake of staring. Like a dolt. He didn’t want to help the bird or me. He was just a fat-assed spectator and I was his sport. Finally, I looked at him and hissed, “Take a picture!”

I left the beach. The idiot, the injured bird, feeling flooded, watched, helpless. I went to the police station and told them about the injured bird. These guys are nice, though cops tend to make me nervous as a matter of course. The one cop always reminds me of Father Karras from The Exorcist, which elicits a good feeling in me, for some unknown reason. I left the station, thinking I did as much as I could do for the baby gull.

Later that evening, I took one last bike ride to check the waves, sure that at this point, the cops or whomever had “taken care” of the gull. But the bird’s fate landed at my feet once again. I almost tripped over him as I entered the beach. He was in worse shape. Not moving, but alive.

I stumbled backward, off the beach and raced home to tell my brother, who is a little more adept at animal rescue and not as sensitive. He jumped in his truck and left for the beach to check him out. I thought, damn, kill the poor thing if you have to…just don’t let him suffer anymore. And with that, I let the gull go once again and proceeded to cook my dinner.

Several minutes passed and I heard the front door slam. I rushed to the living room to get an update, chopped onions in one hand. My brother promptly handed me a sweatshirt. He mumbled a few words about “keep it covered, find a sizeable box and it doesn’t look good.”

Injured baby gull in my hands, old, panicky feelings start to arise. Still, I’m happy to have my hands on it, finally.

As I rocked him back and forth, I thought of the gulls that perch on the roof next door. I shout to them from time to time “Come here! I want to hold you!” Because I do. I want to hold their fat, beautiful, living bodies. Just to feel their weight. I didn’t want my little dream of holding a gull to be like this.

I pulled the sweatshirt back a little. He was such a big, baby bird. And quite healthy it seemed, up until today. Chubby and wild. His beak was so grand, so large. I touched the top of his head gently. We were both in shock.

I went on my computer looking for advice, while he lay in my lap. I tried to feed him but he wouldn’t take the food. I tried to put him into a box but that scared him and he started flopping about. So I left him on the couch, wrapped loosely in the sweatshirt and an old towel. I left him alone, finally realizing that my mere presence might be taxing him.

Later that night, I woke to go to the bathroom. I walked through the living room and saw the bird motionless. He was sleeping. And tomorrow, I will take him to get help. There was something in the air though, the weight of the lie I was telling myself. The stillness, the flatness, the dryness of death. I crawled back into bed and lulled myself to sleep with thoughts of his safety and the help I’d get for him the next day.

When the cold winter sun barely rose, I went to the living room. He was dead and we weren’t going anywhere, except to bury him, which I wanted to do quickly. I placed him in the back seat of my truck and drove up to the beach, where I had seen him less than 24 hours before, alive.

I buried him in the dunes. You’re not supposed to go on the dunes. But today was different. I allowed myself access to bury the bird. As my cold hands made a shallow grave, I dreamt of crawling in there with him. We could disintegrate together, the natural dissolution of our physical beings. Our bones would eventually meet but we’d be gone.

The bird was going to die, no matter what. Maybe I made it worse – taxed and stressed him. Maybe I should have left him alone to die on the beach, his home, not my living room, my home. I rocked it thinking it was me, that rocking would feel good if I broke my wing. But the bird isn’t me. It’s a wild creature and maybe he didn’t want to be fucking rocked like a baby.

I’d like to be rocked like a baby, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I’d like to be rocked by a wild creature carefully tending to my broken wing. Maybe I’d get better or maybe I’d just let go, like the baby gull did, tired of the stress and the pain. And that wild creature could fly me to dunes and bury me lovingly. The watchdog neighbor would ask him what he was doing up there. The wild creature would squawk at him loudly and fly away.

Death, at its essence, has very little fanfare. It’s supremely natural. The bird died and I continue to coast through space and time and another uninspired winter on this planet, flopping about, moving closer and closer to a simple, quiet core. It’s such a thin line isn't it my chubby little gull?