Smarty-Pants Snark and A Couple of Flashbacks

I'm a little bit of a cranky-pants today.

UPDATE -- 10 minutes later. The day just got immeasurably better because "Heartbeat, It's a Lovebeat," by the DeFranco family, featuring Little Tony DeFranco, was just on CBS.  I had to get up and do arm digs, and you know what?  It made me feel better.  What do you mean you don't dance in your office?  I do it all the time.  (I'm just working my way up to doing cartwheels after hours down that long hallway that goes past the Heir Apparent's office. I will do it, too. That is, if I can still get my ass in the air to do a cartwheel at all.)

Makes me think of the Hudson Brothers, another faboo 70's group, who rocked the baddest feathered do's this side of Barry Gibb.

Why don't guys wear their collars out and proud like that anymore? I love those wings!  Trivia: the one in the middle is Kate Hudson's DAD!


Okay, this put a little oxygen into the day and I can go back to work now.

C-Minus. Needs Improvement. Doesn't Meet Her Potential.

If you were to grade my blogging in August, I'd barely pass,  I know.  ME! The girl who always has something to say! And here I am with a paltry nine blog entries in August.  I guess after the projectile emotional vomiting of June and July, I guess it's to be expected. I mean, I did allow myself to fall in love after slamming the door on it for many, many years, it only goes to follow that the end felt more like exsanguination than ending a blip of a relationship.  But once everything was done and my blood was cooling in puddles around me, turning that nice maroony shade, I was fine.  Funny how that happens, iddn it?

Then I spent the end of July and most of August dragging a wheelie suitcase full of dirty laundry around the country (I didn't actually see much of any city, but I did get good look at a whole bunch of airports!), thereby creating a massive case of abandonment syndrome in the Mad Kitty, who now follows me around the apartment like a little dog as if she's afraid I may just change my mind on her.

And man, there has been a lot of death in my life in the last couple of years, hasn't there? Not sure what that's about, just life being life I guess, but just in case, I always stand behind the yellow line, and hold the railing on the stairs, 'cause you just never know.

And then there are the hours I'm spending on this other thing, this slow, sort of sexy unspooling of something that up to now feels sort of unfrantic and deliberate and like a great old-fashioned striptease. Beyond delicious.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, the universe isn't personal -- it just keeps on doing what it does, the wheel keeps on spinning, and every now and again, the ball lands in your number.

But back to the poor blogging frequency.  What can I say? I've been busy. Preoccupied. Slightly dis. trac. ted.

I will try to do better.

Summer's End

It's been a tough summer.

I fell a little bit in love at the beginning of the summer, had my heart kinda ripped out and eaten in front of my dying eyes. I decided that the best thing for me was to follow a wise man's advice and put that love on my heart, so when it broke, the love could fall in and fill it. Nourish it.

Mambo stayed around just long enough to prop me up through all that, until I no longer needed his stout and sturdy heart to carry me anymore, and I had to say goodbye to him after nearly 20 years.

My mother died last night. She went to sleep in her own bed, in her own house, and died as quietly as she had lived. I suppose you couldn't ask for more than that, could you?

But still, my mommy died.

And in the middle of it, there is something really, really beautiful happening. I'm feeling superstitious about it, so I won't say any more, just that at this moment, in the midst of the shock of trying to absorb the fact that, holy shit, I'm an orphan -- in the middle of these waves of grief and nausea, there's this one completely clean and good thing. And though it's new, and just-born, it doesn't feel scary or weird. Like the good smell of clean laundry, or your hands after you peel an orange. Know what I'm saying?

Her name was Aiko. I am named after her.

It means "love."

Wordless Wednesday (my first)

Nature vs. Nurture vs. Neighborhood

Had a couple of conversations today that I really enjoyed because sometimes, in the ever-growing blandness that is Brooklyn becoming, it's easy to forget what Brooklyn was and what it still, in some places, is.

First conversation, with a guy I work with, outside our building during a smoke break. Ralph's a street guy, you can tell. Lives in the Bronx, but grew up in Bushwick, in the '70's.

Go ahead, Google "Bushwick August 1977." Bushwick was the ugly face of the riots and looting that took place during the Blackout of '77. Remember "The Bronx is Burning?" That was 1977, when the city was broke and desolate and on the brink of ruin. That's what Ralph grew up in and escaped from.

Now, the whippersnappers who moved here from Jersey six months ago and run around telling people, "I'm from Brooklyn," really oughta pipe the fuck down and listen to the Ralphs and Carloses and Hectors in their neighborhoods. While they're busy getting their rent paid by daddy and pretending they're going to be rock stars, and looking down their noses at the Ralphs and Carloses and Hectors hanging out on the corners, they are Brooklyn. The real deal.

Ralph is a street kid who managed to escape. Lost two brothers to drugs, prison, and finally, AIDS. Can you imagine losing not one, but two members of your immediate family to AIDS, within a span of eight years?

And Ralph was very frank about his oldest brother -- he spent so much time in prison, Ralph hardly knew him, and when he came out, he would do something stupid just to go back in. Institutionalized, is the word they use. Ralph shook his head between puffs of his cigarette.

"Man, I don't know how I got outta there alive."

Then, as I walked up Bushwick Ave from the subway, I saw Carlos, my neighbor from downstairs, walking along with a kid about 13, with a basketball in his hands. Carlos grew up in the neighborhood, over on the South Side. South Side's now full of more of the same, hipster guys in skinny jeans and their overfed 25-year-old suburban girlfriends. (I ask again, what's with all the fat 25-year-old girls?)

When I lived on South 2nd, it was still pretty grim, very much a gang and drug area, but in six short years the neighborhood has become "desirable." Meaning whiter, as landlords jacked up rents on rent-stabilized apartments that these kids are too stupid to go to the Housing Department to look up to see if they're being overcharged. Most of them probably are, and it serves them right. Hey, Dad's paying the rent, who cares what it actually costs, right?

So Carlos gave me a hug and commiserated briefly about his buddy Mambo, may he rest in kitty peace, and introduced me to this kid, who if you saw him walking toward you, most of you would cross the street, or at least clutch your purse a little tighter. But before I could say a word, Carlos starts braggin' on this kid. He's a good student, he listens to his mother, he doesn't get into trouble...he has braces. Carlos pointed out this last with as much pride as the good grades and obeying his mother.

This kid is not related to Carlos, but because he's neighborhood, he kind of is related. It's Brooklyn, man. Carlos told a story of how the kid brought home some not-so-great grades once, and his uncle, one of the guys around the neighborhood, made him go to the teacher and apologize and promise to do better. The kid did it, too.

Can you imagine growing up in a place where getting good grades and wearing braces on your teeth marks you as so special that your entire neighborhood is pulling for you to do better -- to escape? Where you are the hope for people who couldn't or didn't get out?

Can anyone of us, who grew up in even moderately affluent circumstances (my family wasn't rich, and Daddy didn't buy me a car when I was 16, and sometimes we ate bacon, egg and tomato sandwiches toward the end of the week because that's what the grocery budget could handle, and I certainly heard "no, we can't afford it," often enough when I was growing up -- no dance lessons, or scouts, or camp for this girl -- but I certainly never felt like we were poor, either. I guess having lots of brothers and sisters helped, somehow.
We were a tribe, and we were laughing so much around the table that I always thought bacon, egg and tomato sandwiches were a TREAT, for god's sake. Food, no matter what it was, means laughter and family to me. I had a happy childhood. So sue me. Subject for another post.) -- can any of us really imagine what it must be like to have to climb the hills these kids have to climb -- just to get the the playing field that a lot of us started from?

Try to imagine growing up in a neighborhood, in an environment where poverty and violence and crime are the norm, instead of a place where getting good grades and playing sports and going to college are expected. Do you think you would be able to bootstrap your way out of the projects or the ghetto? We'd all like to think we could. The kids who do get out, the ones who get the good grades, and don't get into trouble, and manage to maybe get a scholarship to a state school? I guarantee you they have had to work five times as hard to get that college acceptance letter as we did.

Okay, I've gotten up on a little bit of a soapbox here to direct my own episode of Limousine Pinko Theater, but I guess living in the neighborhood, and having the locals tell each other, "She cool. She neighborhood," and not having the fluffy air mattress of some trust fund to catch me if I fall, having to stretch a paycheck to make ends meet and not always being able to do it, gives me not much patience to sit around on my fat, privileged-by-ghetto-standards ass and whine about how some boy was mean to me. I snapped myself out of that one fairly quickly, mainly because I realized that doing so was wallowing in a luxury I can't afford.

Can any of us, really?

Besides, I'd rather be neighborhood.

Lazy Sunday

Maybe it's because I spent yesterday in the sun and I'm still a bit dehydrated. Maybe I'm still shaking off the last remnants of jetlag from buzzing between coasts last week. I could be a little tired because of back-to-back visits from my special naked friend. Maybe I'm just bone-lazy. Probably the latter.

I'm not known for being a bundle of weekend get-up-and-go. When I hear about the lists of plans that people have for their weekends I'm always in awe. "First, we're doing this, then we're doing that. Next we'll go to this, and then we'll do that.". It makes me tired just to hear their lists. I can't imagine going into a weekend with a to-do list as long as my arm after a week at work. I think this may be one of the reasons I'm not cut out for marriage. Married people just seem to have so many things to do.

Rare is the married couple who says, "No, we want to lay around in bed until noon on Sunday, reading the New York Times and drinking coffee. Then we're going to watch football all day, order Chinese for dinner, and go to bed without having showered all day."
I hate to say it, but I blame that on wives, sorry. Guys who were perfectly okay before marriage (and their to-be-wives were okay with them) doing exactly that, awaken one day, married, with a Puritan Work Ethic-wielding harridan standing over them. "Come ON, it's 8 o'clock and we have to go to Lowe's so we can re-sod the entire yard before sundown, then you have to clean the pool and get ready because we're having forty of our closest friends over for a barbecue tonight. Don't forget to take the car for a tire rotation and oil change while you're at it and we are supposed to have lunch with my parents then pop in to see your sister this afternoon."

Do any men wake up halfway through their marriages and wonder what happened to the girls who loved them just the way they were? Do they say, wow, who is this drill sergeant and what has she done with my wife?

I'm much more comfortable going into a weekend with no plans at all except maybe, "I have to do laundry." I love waking up with an unplanned expanse of hours in front of me and thinking, "What do I want to do today? Go to the beach? Hang out in Barnes & Noble? Walk around the East Village looking at things? Go to the movies?" I love getting a phone call from a friend who says, "Hey, I'm going to be in your neighborhood in a couple of hours, do you want to grab a bite?" and just throwing on some clothes and spending a couple hours gossiping and eating. I'm sort of the go-to girl for people who are at a loose end, and that's just fine.

Plus, I love to take naps. I take naps on the weekend like a senior citizen.

This has been a totally pointless and lazy post about being lazy.

* * * * * * * * * *

I'm so totally out of it today I posted something meant for this blog onto the public blog. Stupid thing about a word, but still. Need to corral that blog back into its little zen space.

I blame it on the bacon I ate for lunch.

Happy Birthday, Sidney Crosby

A little meander from our regularly- scheduled summer programming, since I forgot to turn off my Kberry alarm and I have been up since 5:30 -- ON A SATURDAY.

I could have rolled over and gone back to sleep, which was my intention, but since the Mad Kitty doesn't know from weekends, and the alarm woke her, too, all hope of two more hours until the sun in my eyes forced me out of bed was abandoned. (It's a good thing I never had kids, because ACS would have been a regular visitor due to my tendency to shove little animals aside, saying fretfully, "Get the fuck. OFF!")

Anyhoo -- perusing the usual round of hockey news to see the latest on the New Jersey Devils' "Yeah, we totally think Ilya Kovalchuk will be playing until he's 60" drama, er, contract negotiations, I was reminded that today is Sidney Crosby's birthday.

Yes, my favorite NHL capitaine has reached the ripe and gooey old age of 23.

Let's see, when I was 23, what had I accomplished? I had just moved to New York City, I was working for that horrible Austrian woman in that office full of horrible Germans, but I was on the verge of launching my illustrious advertising-magazine publishing-advertising-internet-environmental printing-advertising career. I was living in that "Bosom Buddy" women's residence over on the West Side and was about to make a whopping $22K a year, which for entry-level advertising in 1988 was a LOT.

And at 23, just what has this little skate-wearing pisher done? Well, let's see: one of the most-watched young players from the time he was about 13 (out on youtube there's a CBC profile of him from when he was 14 -- same boring and phlegmatic Sid, just with a higher voice and probably no pubic hair), first-round draft pick by a team owned by one of the legends of hockey, an $8 million a year contract with said team, the youngest team captain to ever lift the Stanley Cup (at age 21). And then scored the Gold Medal-winning goal for his country, IN his country 8 months later.  Nahh, he's not so hot.

Well, okay, he's fucking awesome. I'll give him that.

Yeah, I'd say we're just about on the same trajectory.

So happy birthday, Sid!

Hockey fact to make you feel smart: Born on 8/7/87, wears number 87. Duh. Oh, and 18,087 seats in the new, LEED-approved Consol Center, aka The House That Sidney (and Mario) Built.

And I made it all the way to the end of this post without once mentioning... those lips. It just didn't seem right to talk about those lips in the same paragraph as a 14-year-old, though I did of course talk about pubic hair.

The Countdown Continues

62 Days till hockey season.  That's our franchise, right there, folks.

Portland! I'm In Portland!

The weather here is so perfect that it reminds me of Colorado, and I again ask myself, "You left Breckenridge WHY?"

We came back from lunch and a trip to the International Rose Test Garden (so tranquil and beautiful), and as I dropped my handbag in the client lounge, we heard a loud bang, everything dimmed for a second, and then all we heard was machinery cycling down -- air conditioning units, and printing presses, and the power went out in parts of the plant.

It's so strange to be in a printing plant that is totally silent; usually you aren't aware of the constant, almost subterranean rumble of large pieces of machinery running. Printing presses are hungry things. Inactive presses do nothing but sit there depreciating and losing money.

So we were dead in the water for about three hours, during which my rep drove me around different parts of Portland.  Everyone has rose bushes in their yards, leading me to marvel, "Gosh, everyone has rose bushes in their yards. They should call this the City of Roses."  Long pause.  "Ummmm, they DO."  Okay, so maybe I'm not so bright sometimes.

I like Portland. I could see myself living here, actually, working some okay job to keep body and soul together and bicycling to work and doing artistic and outdoorsy things.

I'll post pics of the funny hotel room, with its mishmash of patterns and leopard and zebra robes, another time.

You know, this morning while I was subjugating myself to the terrorism of the patriarchy, er, I mean being victimized by the beauty industrial complex, er, I mean plucking my eyebrows in that super-magnifying mirror that hotels have in the bathroom (and I always pluck my eyebrows in hotels, because that mirror lets you see all those ghosty little hairs you just don't catch at home), I noticed that there was a phone next to the toilet.

I ask you, does anyone need a telephone next to the toilet?  Is there a fear that if someone calls you might  miss something important?  Is it an ego thing, in which people have to feel, "I am so important that I need to talk to someone while I am taking a dump?" Why would someone want to subject anyone else, even telephonically, to the indignity of splashes and other sounds that would accompany them being on the toilet? And even if they don't hear you actually evacuating your bowels or bladder, they will still hear you flush, and don't you think they would think, ew, that person was talking to me while they were on the toilet? Are there people who actually have telephones next to their toilets in their homes?

Has anyone ever actually used the telephone next to the toilet, or is it something that some random hotel planner long ago got kickbacks for from the phone company and suddenly everyone decided they should do it?

Honestly.

Can Someone Please Tell Me Where I Am?

Clearly I am not cut out for Ryan Bingham's life...

New York to LA to New York to Chicago to Portland to New York in 8 business days.

I am feeling rootless and a little confused.  Well, more confused than usual, anyway.

Car service driver totally flaked on me this morning, so I had to call another car service at 4:30 to get me to LaGarbage. I wasn't happy to begin my day this way.

Getting ready to bolt Chicago and head off to Portland now...never been there, so I'm excited to check it out.  I'm meeting Roni's old friend Curtis, (brilliant blues-harp player, inspiration for the Blues Brothers, sang with Santana) for a coffee when I get there. Maybe sitting with a musician for a little bit will align my time zones and circadians  and chakras and all that fun stuff.

I just checked my work email to find that the Heir Apparent has scheduled a mandatory 8:30 meeting for Thursday morning, the day after I get back.

I may just kill myself.

That ... Asshole

This photo has nothing to do with anything I've written in this post. I just thought it looked kind of trippy, and yes, I was pretty wasted when I took it.  Sort of a Vegas palm tree on acid thing happening here.

You know,  from a mental health perspective, I think it represents real progress when you go from making excuses for someone and thinking of him as "The Man Who Broke My Heart (tm)," to remembering, "Oh, yeah, dude treated me like shit," and thinking of him as, "That Scared Peepants Pissant Little Asshole."  Though TSPPLA makes quite an Eastern-European mouthful of an acronym, doesn't it?

I was just thinking about That....Asshole's last, blowhard-ey email to me and what goes through my mind now is, wow, good riddance to bad rubbish.  Whereas I 'm sure he hit the "send" button and said to himself, as people of his ilk are wont to do, "There! I really showed HER."  Woooo, big tough guy emailer.  Stupid ineffectual putz fucker.  May his dick dry up and drop off from non-use during the rest of his sad, shitty, sexless marriage.

So, let's not call him anything any more, except maybe the pile of warm, runny, bullshit I stepped into in April and May and spent the month of June hosing off the bottom of my good shoes.

Besides, he was short, and he walked funny.