Date This

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

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

Take Clint, for instance. Last week, he dropped by with some “good news” for me. He just met with his home insurance rep and guess what? He thinks I’d really hit it off with him! His name is Wayne Krassman.

My fists softly tightened (because again, I really, really hate someone trying to set me up on a date. Have I established that?) But I tried not to show it.

“So,” I asked breezily, “Why is he such a great match for me?”

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

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

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

“Uh…yeah.”

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

Clint looked exasperated.

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

“You’re too much.”

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

He left in a huff. And I sat there wondering whether this issue of mine was getting in the way of me meeting someone special.

So I found Wayne online and explained that I needed flood insurance for my home. My brother and I are finally moving forward on a buyout so I can move out and buy my own home. We need the flood insurance in order to secure a mortgage loan.

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

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

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

Dick.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey Wayne. I’m actually concerned about my welfare, not some stupid pictures I posted on Facebook.”

“So who took them?”

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

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

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

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

When I was done with our "first date", I reached for a Zombie Pill (what I affectionately call my anti-anxiety meds). I grabbed a glass of wine to enhance the mind-melt effect. (As my late great friend Krissie used to say "When the bottle tells you not to mix with alcohol, they're just trying to deny you a good high.")

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

Clint stopped by a little later. In a dream-like state, I told him that I conversed with Wayne.

“Well, what do you think?”

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

“I think I'm in love.”

"I knew you guys would get along!"

How to Ace a Job interview

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

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

who's your daddy, beth mann?

Paul E. Mann

Dear Dad,

Father's Day, whatever. Another day to feel amiss and discordant with the world. According to a magazine article, writing a letter to you is supposed to be therapeutic. I hope so. Because I could stand for some help.

When you left so many years ago, I thought you went to live with a another family with a superior 6 year-old girl. There must be something wrong with me, with us, I thought. And worried, what bad thing could happen to us next?

And now, so many decades later, I don't feel radically different from that sad, anxious little girl. But this routine is getting old. Time is running out. I don't want to spend my remaining years with the nagging weight of your loss anymore.

I get why it imprinted me so deeply. You were my first prince and you left me at such a delicate age. From that point forward, I felt less than. If my first prince left me, then who would possibly stay?

I want your help to shake this stale messaging completely. I'm already making some headway. I see glimpses of a better self. I'm becoming more whole (as far as fractured people go). And it feels fucking nice, Dad.

But those fleeting moments aren't enough.

I also want to be able to dream again.

When you lose your father, you don't dare dream. You just figure dreams are for little girls whose daddies stuck around. Things don't work out the same for the girl whose daddy left. A perpetual Cinderella.

So can you help me? I'm ready to dream again. Hell, I want my life to be an active dream.

I want to fall in love, maybe get married, and spend every day feeling worshiped and wonderful. I want to speak my mind without feeling stupid or ashamed. I want to be at peace, not frightened and anxious. I want to laugh hard and frequently. I want to feel safety and a deep sense of home.

You see, when you left, home left too. But I'm ready for home now, Dad. I'm ready for a new way of being in this world. Because I can't take too much of the old world, Dad. It's eaten up too much of my happiness.

_{The year my father left}

Maybe we wouldn't even get along, if you had stayed among the living. I don't know. But I remember you being a very gentle and just man. Kind. Am I wrong? You loved nature, animals, singing, laughing. You were well-liked and humble. Mom was the dark horse but you were the jovial, peaceful one.

My mom and dad

My father in a comedy skit, with broom

And then the social embarrassment of growing up without a father. Every holiday or birthday, feeling like you were the odd family out. With mom gone, I'm an official orphan. Now I'm forced to hear people say (in this patronizing tone that only I recognize): "You can spend the holidays with us. We'd love to have you." The royal we that everyone has and I don't. Those invitations make me cringe.

So how can you help, Dad? Remind me sometimes that you didn't leave me. You died, Daddy - you simply died, like humans do.

Because I was a little kid, I didn't know how to process grief. Maybe if I was allowed to visit you in the hospital more or gone to your funeral, maybe I would have understood better. But I doubt it. A little girl doesn't understand anything other than "he's gone." 

I so wish you were here, just for a short while. I'd like to show people you exist. You see? I have a father too! A good father! I don't have to hear about your father and all of the wonderful things he does for you. I can brag about my father too, so screw you.

So Dad, do what you can on your end. You can still help me, right? Death shouldn't stand in the way of you being my father.

Until then, I'm just another butterfly on a windy day.

Love, Beth

The last photo of my father, me in the middle. He died 2 weeks later.

Surfing, Sexism and Self-flagellation

I have been surfing for about 7 years now. Self-taught...so a long 7 years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is long boarding:



This is short boarding:



Two totally different animals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

An aerial - something I cannot do...yet!

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

Kurt, keeping it classy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what you need, Beth?"

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

"Exactly! How did you know?"

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

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

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

"When?"

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

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

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

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

The voices inside my head began their usual battle.

"You shouldn't have been so mean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Kind of Tears do you Cry?

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

Have you cried today? This week? This lifetime? Crying is the most amazing internal pressure valve. An emotional baptism, a mental waterfall. No prescription required.

Here are your options:

Daily Bullshit Tears are pretty self-explanatory. These commonplace tears drop when your health insurance won’t cover an expensive procedure or when an old woman slams on her breaks in the middle of Route 72 and you know you’ll be held responsible (though it was clearly her fault). DBT's roll down your face silently with little fanfare while the officer hands you a ticket and swaggers away.

Bitter Tears sting and burn. They’re often birthed from scorned love and dashed hopes. The refrain “Why me?” pairs nicely with them. These tears are cathartic but can also contort a situation so you feel the maximum amount of victimhood. They’re most commonly released after a nasty break-up or upon receiving a careless zinger from a friend. Beware! These tears are increasingly caustic and can turn into Endless Tears. [See below.]

Endless Tears are the inspiration for tunes like “Stop your Sobbing.” These gushers seem to replenish themselves from a never-ending source. And while crying is a an amazing self-cleansing act, excessive crying can drown you. Dry those eyes and drag yourself outside if you find yourself overcrying. (The light of day hurts a little at first, so be prepared.)

Nostalgic Tears fall when a memory from the past floods you, making it feel like it just happened. These waterworks remind you of the breakneck passage of time. They can be caused by regret and remorse, for words never spoken, even for pleasant times that simply don’t exist anymore. Perfect to shed when revisiting a painful family memory or missing a dead pet.

Soul Wrenching Tears are released when dealt with a devastating blow, like a death. They often come with an animalistic cry meant to reach God’s ears. My mother cried Soul Wrenching Tears when she found out my father died. The sound of her cry is what I remember the most.

Hysterical Tears are rare and special. They manifest when laughter meets sheer terror. I experienced Hysterical Tears during a difficult rock-climbing adventure. Midway up a very steep climb, I looked down and became seized with fear. I couldn’t climb any higher. Above me, my friend urged me upward. I started laughing and crying at the same moment. Two crazy emotions clashing wildly together.

Empathy Tears fall when you feel the pain of others acutely. These tears are ideal while watching the news or seeing an animal in distress. They remind us that we all share similar pain and grief. By shedding Empathy Tears, we are for at one for a moment or two.

Misplaced Tears occur when you’re going about your business and something as stupid as banging your head causes an overflow of childlike emotion to gush forth. Misplaced tears are often provoked by something trivial but represent deeper internal shit that needs released.

Frozen Tears are often locked inside many men. We live in a landscape where they aren’t supposed to cry but are still expected to be emotionally available. Frozen Tears can lead to a wealth of health issues or a state of emotional deadness. Frozen Tears are often surprisingly easily dislodged by a touching movie or sad song, so there’s hope.

Tears of Elation are happy tears that explode right out of you. These sweet and salty drops wake up the little child inside all of us. They’re perfect when we’ve given up all hope and something magical suddenly happens. Or when romantic love prevails in the end. Or when a child is born. Tears of Elation heal the depths of our souls and give us reason to live.

Tears of Laughter. Saving the best for last. It’s amazing how a good cry feels like the emotional equivalent of a gut-wrenching laugh. But these laughs are often hard to come by these days. People just aren’t as funny as they used to be. Sometimes you have to rely on a funny TV show or movie.

How do you know if your tears are good for you? You should feel better afterward, not worse.

And remember, if someone cries in front of you, don't freeze up. Shouldering another person’s pain is a privilege. Hug them. Let them pull away first. Heal yourself by healing others.

Quotes on Tears

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

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

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

“Where grief is fresh, any attempt to divert it only irritates.” ~ Samuel Johnson (Soul-wrenching Tears)

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

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

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

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.

A Nice, Safe Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Pearl Jam sucks.

I Miss Shoplifting

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