How to Kill a Tender Moment

Pop!

So Pop/Daddy/The Old Man, was driving me to Pittsburgh after my final college class had ended. I was now a graduate with a fine arts degree and could look forward to a promising career in ...waitressing. Pop was taking me to the Greyhound station where I’d hop a bus to Chicago and another season with the carnival (staving off the inevitable waitressing for a few months longer). After that I would be off on my own, a free bird, never to live at my parent’s house again.

Being 21, and never terribly intuitive anyway, I didn’t get that this trip to the bus station had big meaning for my father. His little girl was taking wing. Nope, I did NOT get that. I’m slow like that.

Daddy seemed more serious than usual—normally we joked and bantered. Instead he, with some gravity, began telling me the story of his freshman roommate in college. His roomie and he shared a great friendship—better than one could expect with someone you’d just met. They became quite close, inseparable even. At the end of that freshman year Joe came out to him. He was gay (did people even phrase it that way in 1954?) and he was warm for my father’s form (though that’s most certainly NOT how Daddy relayed this—Pop being a total big romantic and all).

That my father, an 18 year old, het football player from a very small upstate NY town, reacted calmly, maturely, warmly and wonderfully even, is and was amazing to me. How many football jocks in the mid 50s, or now for that matter, would react like this? He told his roommate that he valued their friendship greatly but he wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship with him.

mia madre

Remember, this was 1954—15 years before Stonewall, 6 years before Illinois became the first state in the U.S. to decriminalize homosexuality and 49 years before Massachusetts established marriage equality.

My father rocked. Big time. He still does.

So he’s telling me all this—believe me I did NOT get it until he spelled it out in 72 point Arial Black—so that I would understand that he and mia madre both loved me and wanted me to be happy. That and they wanted me to bring home the girlfriend so mother could feed her (what Italian mothers do. of course).

At this point I got what a big horking deal this was and truly wished that I was gay because, well, how many gay folk get such awesome understanding parents? I hated to waste such an incredible, enlightened, mature parental act.

How did I respond though? Keeping in mind that I went to college in the mid/late ‘70s. Studio 54 wasn’t just a club in NYC, it was a mindset. Keep in mind that I was a music and then a fine arts major. You know, we artsy types just couldn’t keep our duds on, even in a January Maine snowstorm at dawn.

You just didn’t bring one night stands home to meet the folks. Bad form. And One Night Stand-ism was the religion of the day.

I don’t recall how I elided the issue but, knowing me and my utter lack of civilized, delicate people skills, I probably said “oh, thanks Pop but I don’t swing that way.”  (And then patted myself on the back,  thinking “hey, at least I didn’t tell him about all the notches on my belt”)

Yet...and yet, they still love me. Go figure.

Every Picture Tells a Story

Some days there aren't any words. This is what I do when language is beyond me.

Goat Ropers, Corn Dogs and Hey Rube

We didn’t make a dime that first summer that I was with the carnival. It was so bad that we were all “eating out of the apron.” That is, we were taking money from the evening start up cash to buy our meal for the day. Corn dogs for dinner on a nightly basis -- I get a wee bit nauseous just at the memory of them.

Morris, (the boss of wondrous hair and weed), had his joints (games) booked into a small carnival owned and run by a man named Shorty. The man looked like a bald, pasty white medicine ball wearing a ten gallon hat. His wife? A tall polyester clad woman with a fluorescent blond dye job piled high on her head, sprayed to withstand 80 mph winds flawlessly intact. She was only ever known as “Mrs. Shorty.”

Morris had heard that Shorty always booked solid money making routes. He kept telling us that the next spot would be better and the one after that...well, he’d heard all kinds of good stories about it. I remained hopeful-ish but the stress and fear of having to hitchhike back to Pennsylvania (versus riding a posh Greyhound bus), with no money for schoolbooks and art supplies was growing larger with every wretched corn dog I consumed.

In my “hello and welcome to the wonderful world of carnies” intro spiel, given upon my arrival two months prior, I’d been told about the “Hey Rube.” This is what a carnie called out when he/she was having big, huge trouble with a local. It was a call to rally ‘round, to fight and defend fellow carnies. The fights could reach riot levels and fatalities were not unknown. Becky, Morris’ wife told me to relax though -- she’d been "with it" (with the carnival) for a decade and never seen one.

We rolled into Hoxie, Kansas in early August -- a town with a feed and grain, three Baptist churches, two bars and a laundromat. Things looked somewhat less than promising. Again.

It was on our second night, only a dozen or so potential customers (ok, ok...”marks”) on the midway. I hadn’t even "broken the ice" yet (had my first player) when I saw ride jocks zooming past me and heard the Hey Rube. I was stunned and afraid as I watched  my fellow jointees hopping out of their games, legging it hell-for-leather up the midway to the Trabant where the riot was going down. Me, I ducked under the counter of my joint and stayed there until the all clear sounded. I'm a real daredevil like that.

Afterward, with everyone accounted for, we were told the show was shut indefinitely. At that, we all came together with our meager resources and had a big party -- chili, corn bread and Lone Stars for all . No one died that night. Hell, black eyes and sore ribs were the worst of it. Everyone was happy to the point of giddy which puzzled me. Shouldn’t we be concerned about attacks tonight? Maybe we should tear down and get gone? I realized that the fight had been cathartic fun for our guys as well as the locals.

The next day the directive came down to us from Shorty -- we were not to go into town on our own -- it was full of “goat ropers” spoiling for fights. Gee...duh...yeah and goat ropers?


Two of the *cough* cleaner definitions from the Urban Dictionery:

"A goat roper is a wannabe rancher or a cowboy poser. Goat ropers have the 4x4 pickup and the cowboy hat, but no cattle, horses, brain, or land.

"I really could use a pick-up truck now and then, but I don't want people to think I'm a goat roper.""

"Not to be confused with a "goat rope", a Goat Roper is an archaic term for a redneck. It lost popularity in the late 1900's, but has had a resurgence in popularity recently. A goat roper denotes someone who is a "hick", and/or clumsy and stupid. Usually said person works in the farming industry, but is not exclusive to this.

"That guy Bill is a real goat roper, did you see the spit stains running down the driver's side of his old, dented 1978 Ford F150 pickup?""

This, THIS, is just some of the important cultural crap you miss when you grow up in small college towns

Reunions and Language Adventures

Imagine this -- you’re 52 years old and have reconnected with a cousin you haven’t seen since you were 12 and she was 8. That’s 40, count ‘em, 40 years meine Freunde. Due to the age difference, you didn’t know your cousin well way back then. Now imagine that, through email conversations, you find that you have ridiculous amounts of stuff in common -- world views, attitudes about family, friends, art and life in general. All that and you both like fairy tales and Thai food.

Della lives in Berlin and doesn’t get back to the States much -- I live in Boston and don’t need much of an excuse to travel ("oh look, the sun came up -- let’s go!"). Jen and I packed up our rucksacks and made our way to the airport.

Our friend Brenda was flying down from Dublin to meet us. Jen and I had not seen her since we were last in Ireland (9 years ago) and, incredibly, just happened to run into her at at a pub on Quay Street in Galway. No kidding -- shocked the hell out of us all.

I was a bit nervous, before the first dinner party, as to how I’d fare in my lip-reading endeavors.  Accents (other than Boston accents, to which I’m accustomed) complicate things. Della grew up in Yonkers so I anticipated a bit of a New York accent. Martin is from Berlin so German inflected timbre and Brenda would have a Dublin rhythm and tone. Della and Martin’s kids spent the first part of their lives in the Netherlands so they were total wild cards.

 I was happily surprised -- stunned actually. I never do well reading someone I’ve just met or see only occasionally’s lips but I managed to follow the conversation rather well. Of course things went more smoothly with Jen filling in the gaps with sign.

The next day Brenda, Jen and I were off to the Oranienburger Straße to look at fresh contemporary wild art. We happened on a store with interesting crafts in the window. I was looking at some very interesting large colorfield-esque magnets when the shopkeeper came over to talk with me about these wonderful pieces. She was speaking in rapid fire German -- as the only one of our group who understood a smattering of the language I intended to say, in German, “I’m deaf, speak slowly and I’ll try to read your lips.” What came out instead was “Ich bin Traube...” I didn’t get beyond that -- the woman was looking at me as though I had a distinct surplus of heads, all a bit crazy looking, and kept on, at a galloping pace, with her sales pitch. I got the gist of what she was saying and allowed that “Ich verstahe” (I understand). Later, as we left the store, I consulted my handy dandy English/German phrase book and found out that I’d told her NOT that I’m deaf but that I’m a bunch of grapes. “Ich bin taub” would have been the thing to say.

Hey, I get points for effort, don't I? Don't I?! Ahem, onward to the wild art.

The Two Baldinis

NF2 Woman and Cancer Girl

It was 6 or 7 years ago that Jen and I decided, all spur of the moment like -- “hey, let’s both have huge, possibly devastating, medical issues at the same time!” You know, we’re tight like that, we like to do things together.

Jen was diagnosed with breast cancer (and she abhors the color pink -- how inconvenient) and was doing the chemo/radiation tango while I was going in for, what turned out to be, back to back (so to speak) brain surgeries. OK, saying “brain surgery” is all melodramatic and not entirely accurate. The cutting is done at the skull base just outside the brain. The docs are messing with those thickly settled nerve bundles which control sight, sound, smell, sensation as well as a bunch of other shit. In other words, they’re dancing a delicate scalpel ballet inside my head.

The best part of all the scary-ass fun we were having was getting to be bald at the same time. Naturally, Jen looked like the babe from that Star Trek movie (sans eyebrows and lashes though). Me? Not so much but we can’t all be Persis Khambatta. 

Our boss at the time was not only tremendously supportive, he also understood our sense of humor. We were christened “The Two Baldinis.” We took the necessary time off but tried to work through as much as we could.  The job, the routine of going into work, gave each of us a sense of normalcy and perspective. Yes what was happening to and inside each of our bodies was some freaky-ass, scary craziness but we would survive it and get on to our next non-medical adventure.

If we let our fears consume us, neither of us would have been able to function. Instead, we got angry. You know "no motherfucking, piece of shit tumor's gonna get the best of me. No way. No how!" This wasn't a conscious effort -- it was a reflex like yawning in church or feeding stray cats.

Being the comic book loving freak that I am, I decided we needed new super hero monikers. I had been referring to us as Paranoia Woman and Neurosis Girl, now we would be NF2 Woman and Cancer Girl.

Names/titles are mutable -- we all hold many in our lives. Jen and I are also the Empresses of Glorious Survival as well as Loquacious Broad and the Kick Ass Kid.

The Christmas Issue

Christmas was, for my parents, the day of going off like Roman candles,  like pre-quake barking dogs and/or warring dorm stereos -- loud, jarring, tense and thankfully just with each other. There was never noticeable, to this child anyway, provocation, preface, count down or even post fray Cliff Notes.

We kids waited for breaks in the action to open our presents. The success of the holiday was measured, or so it appeared, in decibels. The more bels the merrier they were.

I MUCH preferred the Easter holiday. My folks were always happy, rather, happy and not fighting, on that day. We went to midnight mass, came home and slept late. We awoke to Easter baskets containing clever, intricate maps to our decorated eggs, chocolate bunnies and, best of all, our new Easter dresses and shoes.

As a young adult I made big efforts to ignore the Christmas holiday entirely. One year I sold fireworks, with other carnies, on a street corner in Houston. Vaguely interesting, I made money for schoolbooks and art supplies but not fun. “What does this one do?” We were told that, when a customer asked and we didn’t know the answer and this was usually the case, we were to respond with  “it spins around and makes big colored sparks.” Being properly authoritative and convincing on this was not one of my life successes. I’ve come to terms with my utter lack of skill in working the grift. I'm OK with me about this.

Another year, after I’d moved to Boston, I planned to spend it on my own -- reading, watching TV, painting and having a nice cuppa chianti. My boss at that time wouldn’t hear of it -- surely someone alone on Christmas was depressed, lonely and itching for an invitation somewhere. He invited me over to his place and would NOT accept my “no honestly, I’m fine” for an answer. I realized that he was the lonely one -- his wife, an Israeli Jew, didn’t see the day as anything beyond a day off from work (which is well worth celebrating in and of itself)-- and he really wanted a Christmas celebration. I imagine I disappointed him greatly. We had a drink, a meal and then I said “gotta go -- I’m catching the 5 o’clock showing of The Terminator.” (hey, you pick your Christmas flicks, I’ll pick mine.)

I finally found my alternative happy Christmas with The Amazing Bob™. He too had nasty memories of Christmas battles. Together we made a new tradition. This one is low key, quiet even. We start the day with our regular routines (a long walk for me and doodling on the piano for him) and then order in Chinese for lunch, watch movies, play Scrabble and then visit next door with Jen’s big family.

It’s actually only in the past few years that I’ve come to understand, (yeah, I’m kinda slow) that my parents were and still are truly, madly, deeply in love. I’ll never understand that kind of relationship but I now get that it’s possible for love to exist inside a storm of anger. Some, like my folks, may even need it to survive. Not my bag though -- I need sunny days, peace and dark chocolate coconut creams.

Dante's Third Ring of Ennui

If Dante had written about ennui instead of hell, I could pinpoint my exact location — the ring on which I reside. That is, if I could be bothered.

Ever have one of those days where you just can’t get with it — a day when you can’t wake up enough to successfully engage in even the smallest aspect of your job. A day when you’re so befuddled that the very concept of an evening meal confuses, never mind actually having to cook it? (yeah, I know, this is why God created take out) How about a day where you can’t write even a simple email — work or personal? A day where writing a Facebook status post feels akin to composing Beowulf and then being expected to understand it. Have you had a day where the grocery store, a place which normally excites me like a kid in chocolate shop or a geek at a Comicon, is an overwhelming Rubik’s Cube of choices?

Nope, this isn’t due to any cosmically significant, transformative, killer asteroid type event. I think I’ve come down with a nasty case of ennui....or a cold. One or the other. Must be a cold since, I’m pretty sure, when you come down with ennui you get an accompanying outrageously huge desire to smoke Gauloises while discussing Sartre and Camus.

Maybe. I forget.

Perhaps a nap will help.

How We Got To Heaven

Years ago, back in the Early Cretaceous Period when I was just turning 29 years of age, I bought a condo ("condo," not heaven). My digs were being converted into condos. There would be tremendous renovations, a gym with a pool even, all for the  low, low pre-open market pricing. (Can you feel the rug being yanked from under you? I couldn't but then, I was young and younger)

I didn’t want to buy — it flew in the face of my massive fears, phobias even, around commitment. I was looking for every reason not to, while my father and the man I worked for, whose opinion I respected, were talking me into it. Convincing and then helping me get through the buying process.

My close date? Black Monday — Monday October 19, 1987. Of course.

Of the 13 years I owned the joint, the first 6 were spent fighting to get even the barest minimum of what was legally, contractually promised. The developers had engaged in some spectacular dark magic grift, then did a runner to Brazil. No, really... Brazil. A big time, long distance runner. I was just one of many fishies out to legally flay them skinless.

I eventually did get the nice, renovated condo but my life had evolved and it was time to move on and out. The housing market was still utter crap though, especially for a Tom Thumb’s shoe closet sized crib like mine. I rented it out until I could sell for what was left on the mortgage.

My long winded point here is that I never, EVER thought I’d buy property again. NEVAH!

It is perhaps unwise to say “never.”

Up On The Roof

Eight and a half years ago The Amazing Bob and I were living in the Kendall Square section of Cambridge. We lived in a triple decker with The Astounding Jen, her sister and their respective beaus. The set up was more or less ideal.

On the “more” side — the 6 of us loved cohabiting. Incredibly, all our personalities happily meshed and AND, living in a group was full of budget win. On the “less” side — the building was drafty with no central heating and the fire alarms seemed to regularly trip at 2 AM just for shits and giggles. Worst of all, it wasn’t ours. When Kendall Square turned into the next great, stupendous, amazing Must-Move-To neighborhood, we got the heave ho as our landlord decided to make renovations and triple the rent.

View from The Front Yard At Dawn AKA Heaven

We decided to stay together as a living group and buy so that we wouldn’t be at the mercy of a landlord again. I was determined to take what I learned and make a breathtakingly smart purchase this time.

We started the hunt — each of us with a three ring notebook where we kept pics and data on all the houses we viewed. We each focused on one or two aspects (windows, electricity, evidence of leaky roofs, etc.) during the endless round of open houses. Afterward we huddled to discuss our impressions. A more focused, determined party of geeks you have NEVER seen.

Finally, finally, can you believe it finally everyone was utterly, unspeakably worn out. There would be NO house hunting on this bleak early November Saturday. My real estate agent begged me to look at just one more place with him that day. It was a long shot — on a bus line versus the subway, the price looked right but it was on the water. I figured, given the location and the asking price, they had to be terribly sad, soggy shacks.

Nope. We hit a giant, iridescent wall of luck. 

Listening = Travel

Travel is about more than seeing new sites, being in a new place, a new country.  For me it is every nanobyte as much about the people I meet and the stories I hear.

I want to know what other people’s lives are like. So yeah, I’m the type of person who talks to everyone and anyone. If I had a teen he/she would die of embarrassment every other day as I talk with strangers in line at the grocery store, in restaurants and just walking down the street (and yeah, that's both before and after the arrival of deafness).

On a solo trip to Amsterdam in the late ‘90s, I was sitting on a bench outside the Opera House in Waterlooplein after a morning at the Jewish Historical Museum, an impressive, moving place, and the nearby, wild and somewhat overwhelming Waterlooplein Flea-market. I needed to sit and ponder/wonder on all that I’d seen.

While sitting and staring into the cloudless, pale cerulean sky a young man came up and asked if he could join me on the bench.  I’m the ultimate wary city dweller and not a trusting soul, despite my gregarious tendencies, but I said “sure.” You know, you can't live if you don't play.

I started the conversation by asking him where he was from -- he was black, in the very pale Netherlands, and spoke English with accent I couldn’t place. South Africa. After a bit of time and many questions on my part, he surprised me. He was along on his white South African boyfriend’s business trip. The two had been a couple for some time, since well before apartheid officially ended. His partner had an exceptionally good job so my new friend didn’t need to work. He didn’t feel at all exploited (yeah, I asked. I’m obnoxious like that) and was very happy in the relationship. He was a ballet fan so we busted a few arabesques before parting.

Later, while sitting at a bar half watching European MTV, I stumbled into the bartender’s rant on how immigrants were ruining the Netherlands. I was a bit stunned -- in previous  visits to this pub he’d seemed like a kindred spirit, an aging hippy type. I sat, listened, asked questions and kept my non-resident feelings/opinions to myself. He intended to put in just one more year at the bar and then retire to his houseboat on one of the canals. I took this as the rant’s coda and moved on to the Jamaican coffee house farther down the Prinsengracht where everyone was thoroughly engrossed in the football match.

Travel -- a great way to rid ourselves of absolutist notions about ourselves as well as the  rest of the world.

Now, when I have the travel urge but can’t get away for a full fledged adventure, I head for the local tourist hotels and ask Jen to listen for folks with accents. If they look friendly we start with “Hi, where are you from” and off we go on our virtual holiday excursion.

Scared Poopless

So I’m 5 years old and starting kindergarten. I am SO fucking psyched, though I don’t think I worded it just that way at 5 in 1963; “I’ll be just like my older sister, just like our neighbor Lydia -- I’ll be a BIG kid now!” is more what I was thinking maybe.

But... and yet... I was in the running for Most Fearful Child EVAH! If I could have hidden behind our stray cat Minnie’s skirts (if, you know, a cat had skirts) I would have. Hell, I could have seriously medaled in the Most Afraid of Her Own Shadow competition.

Kindergarten was way intimidating. For starters, it’s not home. You may have noticed that. Second. mein gott, there are other people there! OK third, and I think you can understand the horror movie aspect, (Fay Wray, Janet Leigh and Jamie Lee Curtis are all in the wings waiting for their cues), the levels of fear this would instill -- NUNS! Not just nuns but nuns in big black habits with those weird, and clearly razor sharp, wimple wings.

Now, so you won’t think that what transpired was all out of the blue, I never got stars on my kindergarten essays, compositions or monographs -- only moons. Only moons. You can well imagine how upsetting, devastating even, this was for a delicate, artistic 5 year old.

So one day, early on, I very much needed to go to the can, man. We were to raise our hands in a certain way, (like cattle I tell ya or was that chattel? I forget now), signaling our need. I was so stunningly afraid of being yelled at that I did not signal. Nope, instead I pooped my pants. Of course.

OK, I pooped my very nice, new white tights, And if a 5 year old could roll her eyes, that is just what I did. My fear and it’s smelly results had an effect on little me. “Christ, it’s just some old broad in a penguin suit -- what can she possibly do? Get a grip!” Yup, my thoughts, more or less, exactly!

Being scared poopless never happened again though there was one or two times where she, yeah I’m takin’ about Sister Heinous Evilness Christina, freaked me out so bad that I went full metal Exorcist and spewed all over my 5 table mates.

They were, naturally, charmed. Of course.

Random Crap From My Brain

Random Bit #1:
When I was seven we lived on the corner of Butler Ave. and Waterman St. in Providence, Rhode Island. I remember two things about that year.

 It was 1965, the year of the Great Northeast Blackout. On a late November afternoon — already dark outside at 5:00 PM — the power failed. Everywhere. My father came home from class, picked up a flashlight and went across the street to buy candles at the grocery store with its’ aisles lit by candles and flashlights. That night we had dinner by candlelight which I found fabulously romantic and exciting.

This was also the year the Beatles movie Help! came out. I was psyched when my mother took my older sister and I to the theater to see this. Mega excited. And then...totally confused. Why were all these girls, (college girls -- the theater was on the campus of Brown), standing up, even standing on the seats, shrieking and screaming? I couldn’t hear the film at all -- how could they? And they were blocking my view of the screen too!

Wicked annoying.             Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Random Bit #2:
Trains — there should be more trains.

When my father was young he would travel from his parent's upstate New York home of Hoosick Falls to his school in Exeter, New Hampshire, start to finish, by rail. Granted it took half a dozen connections but it could be done. Now there’s not even bus service to Hoosick Falls.

There used to be trolley service from downtown Quincy, Massachusetts to Hough’s Neck, where The Amazing Bob and I live. Now there’s a bus. I hate buses.

And....Hey you kids, get off my lawn!

Random Bit #3:
I’m, generally, a pragmatic sort. There ought to be a superhero for that — The Caped Pragmatist or Pragmatic Woman: able to leap tall buildings in 10 easy steps. Marvel Comics will be knocking on my door with large buckets of dough shortly. I feel quite certain of this. I should have a great superhero costume too. Now that I think of it though, being Pragmatic Woman and all, the costume would have to be comprised of sensible shoes, comfortably roomy slacks and T-shirt all in darker tones so as to hide potential blood stains of vanquished evil doers.  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Random Bit #4:Aunt Mary Ann, my father’s sister, started buying me books from the Anne of Green Gables series when I was 7. I was completely sucked into the world of late 19th century Prince Edward Island. Hell, I wanted to be an orphan living on a farm in Avonlea, PEI (sadly, a fictitious locale).

Random Bit #5: I’m deaf not disabled. Being deaf in a hearing environment is an inconvenience at worst (not being able to hear anything) and a cause for peace (as in peace and quiet) and hilarity at best. Peace and hilarity are always good things. Didn't Elvis Costello have a song about that? I'm fairly certain of this.

Love In a Time of Text Messages

Text message exchange from last night:

Me: You just bought me a gorgeous new ring and DAMN you have serious fine taste!

TAB: Well, as long as it wasn’t a bathtub ring, I’m happy.

Me: It’s a pale green tourmaline in a tall bezel, matte sterling. Looks absolutely perfect with the wedding band. It’s exactly what I needed today, thank you!

TAB: My pleasure. I’ve always hoped to get you a ring made of complex crystalline silicate, containing aluminum and boron.

Me: Wonder how that would look on a white stoneware body in an oxidation environment.

TAB: Well, as long as they don’t spare the radish nostrils or Anglican tri-ossifites, it’s OK with me.

Me: Never wear Anglican Relish Nostrils before Labor Day. Rock solid rule to live by.

TAB: Yes it is and one more silly reason that I love you.

See now this, THIS, is why, nearly 26 years on, Bob and I are still:

1) a hot item
2) the cutest damned couple this side of the Charles
3) stuck with each other
4) happy as:
               a) pigs in shit (but it's French shit so it's classy shit. K?)
               b) clams at low tide (with a lemon infused white sauce. of course.)
               c) CAKE! didn’t someone mention cake?
5) All of the above

If you answered “5” you would be correct. Johnny, tell them about their delightful parting gifts! What, no gifts? Well, there will always be fresh baked Bob cookies so stick around.

Communication -- it's the name of the game. TAB and I speak the same language. God help you all, there's two of us!

Occupy My Blog: Occupy Phoenix Part III

The last installment of this series but def not the last of Jenny Jones' stories!

And so we continued our Occupy march for 2 more stops, chanting and waving our signs. Someone spoke at each stop, and we parroted the speech. We were the “human mic”. At each stop, we were greeted by the “Men in Black” with their pepper spray and face masks, and riot gear. The “Peace Officers”. Reminding us that we were miscreants, to be feared by mainstream Phoenicians.

We stopped at the Chase Bank building. I had been in this building many times. Not as a Chase Bank employee, but an employee of a much smaller, regional bank. I worked for Valley National Bank, in the mid eighties to mid nineties. During my tenure at Valley National Bank, they were one of the largest employers in the state of AZ. When I left, they had been bought out by Bank One, who was later bought out by Chase. The processing centers, credit card centers, and call centers that had once provided jobs for Phoenix workers had been shipped to the Philippines and other countries, where they did not have to pay such high wages or provide benefits for their employees.

My husband and I were not able to stay with the group for the walk back to the park. I had a meeting I needed to attend. Grudgingly, we rushed back to our car, in the rain, to continue on with our lives. But I did come away from this experience with a new perspective. I, the 53 year old woman, whose heart pounds, and whose hands tremble when I get pulled over for a traffic ticket, had suddenly become a threat to society. This mild mannered Customer Service Representative, had dared to speak out against, and call attention to, the injustices that are being perpetrated against the middle class.

There is nothing wrong with Capitalism. But there is something very wrong with the unfettered corporate greed and power, that has been allowed to permeate American society over the last 20 years. There is something very wrong when our legislators are allowed to be bought and paid for by corporations who are interested in nothing but the acquisition of more money and more power. There is something very wrong when a sector becomes so strong and so powerful, that they can become even stronger and more powerful at the expense of the masses.

So, the next time you turn on your TV and see the “terrorist hippie” Occupy protestors, chanting and waving signs, and getting arrested and pepper sprayed, look very hard. You might see me. Or a neighbor, or a co-worker. Or a friend you have lost touch with. I am “they”. And remember that I am doing this, not because I am jealous or envious of what you have. Not because I want to “milk the system” and be supported by my friends and neighbors and co-workers. I do this for all of us.

Finally, at the ripe young age of 53, I have awakened to the realization that the lifestyle I have taken for granted until recently, is in jeopardy of disappearing, for myself and my children and grand children. And you and yours. I have finally realized that there is something out there worth protesting for. This may have been my first march, but it won’t be my last.

Jenny Jones is a wife, mother, grandmother, full time job working citizen, fighter for human rights and a fabulous friend.

Another Segment of the O’Banion’s/Liquid Sky/Butterfly Night

Cute couple, n'est-ce pas?

After absorbing all we could of O’Banion’s aural tempest and surreally punk atmosphere, we stopped at a nearby diner. When you work nights, meal times get odd. It was 3 AM so I guess that made it “dinner” for us. The guy who took our order, looking disturbingly familiar, yelled out to the grill dude “Cheezborger, cheezborger, cheep, cheep!" “But I asked for fries,” says I "No fries! Only cheeps!"

Which came first -- John Belushi or the Olympia Restaurant?

After our greasy, yummy banquet it was  back to the midway for a few hours sleep before the show opened.

Did I mention that the neighborhoods our carnival played that summer were less than fabulous and not terribly safe even for residents?  It was closing in on daylight but still dark when we stepped off the bus.

The midway was a few blocks off when we noticed a group of young tough guys swaggering in our direction down the otherwise empty street. Doug, who’d grown up in Chicago, told me not to say much -- he’d handle this. “Wut? Are we in trouble?” asked the low melanin count country mouse.  One of the young toughs asked Doug what we were doing in his neighborhood and did we have a cigarette to spare. Carnival and yes. “Carnival -- where? when?” Things seemed to be going pig-in-shit groovy...and they were too. We stood on the corner chatting with the nice young men for a while -- joints shared all around plus a sip of whatever brown bag adult bev they were imbibing.

After very warm farewells and promises to come by and visit us at the show, we were on our way. And stopped on the next block by a couple cops in a cruiser. Joy. Carnies are always guilty of something whether they are or not. But we usually are. They were concerned though, worried even--“what are you doing in this neighborhood at this hour. You could get hurt or dead. Couple a block over just got mugged and beaten.” We promised we’d head straight home.

Home that night was the pony trailer. I don’t know how the ponies tolerated it. The place stank, there were only bales of hay to sleep on and NO flush toilet!

My friends wonder why I hate camping with a venomous fever to light a thousand suns.

Occupy My Blog -- Occupy Phoenix Part II

The Second Chapter of Jenny Jones' Occupy Phoenix Experience

It was a cool, rainy day, as my husband and I made our way down to Cesar Chavez Plaza, in downtown Phoenix. The Reverend Jesse Jackson, who was in town for another event that day, came down and led a March for Economic Justice, through a several block area of downtown Phoenix. Armed with our signs, and chanting slogans, we embarked on our journey through the streets of downtown Phoenix. We chanted. “WHO’S street?. . . OUR street!”

The first stop was Wells Fargo Bank. Even though I had been prepared to expect a police presence, it really did not sink in, until I saw the police lined across the front of the building in their riot gear. Standing stoically, in their black uniforms with riot shields and full face masks, they appeared across the front of the building like so many Darth Vaders. I wondered if they were thankful for all the overtime they are getting to defend the targeted businesses and Phoenix from these horrible people with signs. These “terrorists”, chanting slogans as they walk the streets. Chanting “terrorists “ -- “Banks got Bailed Out. . . We got Sold Out”!

I also wondered whatever happened to my friend, Suzanna. Suzanna worked for the predecessor to Wells Fargo, First Interstate Bank, which was gobbled up by Wells Fargo, many years ago. Does she still work in their IT department in Phoenix (do they still have an IT department in Phoenix)? Is she sitting in her office, wondering who these crazy people are, holding signs and chanting outside of her building? Or has she moved back to Mexico City, where she was born and raised? Did she ever become a full fledged American citizen, or was she forced back to Mexico after 9-11?

Chanting “WE are the 99% . . . YOU are the 99%”, we traveled on to our next stop. A local news station. Again, we stood outside chanting, as the Darth Vaders guarded the entrance to the building. Ready to pepper spray and/or arrest anyone who stepped out of line.

Again, I wondered if another friend, who works for this same local TV station was inside thinking “Why are these silly people creating havoc at my workplace?” Is she thinking “They should take a bath and get a job, and work for a living?” Does she know that most of these people have jobs and take baths, and work for a living? And the ones who don’t are fighting for a chance to do just that? Does she know that we are fighting for the future of the middle class? Does she realize or care that we are fighting for her future, and her children’s and grandchildren’s future? Or does she believe the right wing media and politicians, who demonize the Occupy protestors as dirty hippies who don’t want to work for a living? Does she know that we are not “jealous” of her for what she has? That we just want future generations to have the same chance we had at the American Dream and economic justice for all?

Time to move.

Jenny Jones is a wife, mother, grandmother, full time job working citizen and a fabulous friend.

Carnival and Chicago Punk

It was 1979 and Morris, my carnival boss of giant spliff and Jackson Brown by way of young Keith Richards fame, had us booked into a show playing the south side of Chicago.  We played a different neighborhood, a different set of projects each week.

Almost immediately upon hitting the midway, fellow carnies told me of this ride jock who had gone to college. It was really sweet. While I was still the outsider in a world of outsiders and still, most certainly, the College Bitch™ they were trying to find me a friend — someone I could relate to. That just warmed the little cockles of my tiny misanthropic heart.

The crew called him Mork after the Robin Williams character on the show Mork and Mindy. He had a rapid fire, somewhat surreal, comic communication style and something else which totally intrigued me — the tattoo of a butterfly on his schmeckie. C’mon, who could resist checking out that stunning, hopefully stunning, example of self abuse/art in the face of excruciating pain/sideshow attraction splendor?

I went over to the Trabant and introduced myself. What followed was a half hour long, back and forth conversational free range riff on music, art, the absurdity of...well, everything and music. Doug, Mork’s real name, asked me if I’d like to hit O’Banions, a punk club, after the show shut for the night. Of course!

O’Banions was at the northeast corner of Clark & Erie in River North -- at that time a decidedly gritty neighborhood. The bull necked, leather clad doorman was supremely intimidating but the bartender was 20 kinds of divine. She was tall, lithe, fierce and spike haired -- wearing nothing beyond a large plastic drop cloth which she periodically had to open and re-wrap as it slipped down in the heat of the club. As we made our way to the back room (dance floor/stage area) a leashed man being led around by his, presumably, girlfriend passed us by. I was most certainly not in small town American any more — mega cool! We sat on the floor, watching the parade of intriguing, creative punks while absorbing the sonic storm from the speaker stacks.

A few years later I saw the movie Liquid Sky and felt certain O’Banions had been the inspiration for the club scene — eerily similar.
(trailer video for Liquid Sky here)

I eventually did get to see the butterfly tattoo. I’d love to say it was all that and a bag or three of chips but tattoos just weren’t glorious and awe inspiring back then. This was a proficient but wholly uninspiring line drawing with ink faded to that navy blue/greenish old color.

Ah well, we can't all have a Tintoretto tattooed on our lovely cazzone.

Occupy My Blog -- Occupy Phoenix, Part I

The following is by Jenny Jones -- friend and awesomely smart cookie.

I was born at the tail end of the baby boom. I watched the turmoil and protests of the 60’s from afar, as images flashed by on my parents’ TV set. The Viet Nam war, and most of the excitement was over by the time I got into my young adult years. Until recently, I never felt strongly enough about anything, to actually go out and protest. Besides, who has the time for such things? I have a job and a house to take care of. My husband owns a small retail shop. When I’m not working at my job, or around the house, there’s always something I can lend a hand with at the shop. There are activities to volunteer for. Who has time to run around carrying signs and chanting slogans? Aren’t protests for unemployed rebels who have nothing better to do?

Am I not too old, now, for such things? Until recently, it never occurred to me that I should go out and protest anything. Until recently . . .

This October, I started hearing rumblings about a protest in NYC. A little movement called Occupy Wall Street. After all our country has been through this century, this movement resonated with me.

I live in Phoenix AZ, where the housing market was hit especially hard. Like most of my friends and neighbors, I have played by the rules all my life. When John and I purchased a home together in 2005, we got a 30 year fixed rate mortgage with payments we could afford, and money down. Looking back, I should have realized something was wrong at the time. Hind sight is 20/20. I am now living in a home that is severely underwater. Fortunately, I still have a job and a home, and health insurance . And although my small business owner husband’s income has been drastically reduced in the last 3 years, we have managed to live a frugal but comfortable life.

I am one of the lucky ones. But so many others have not been so fortunate. Until now, I have stood by, watching as the banks, who behaved so irresponsibly, got bailed out, and returned to healthy profitability. And good people, who tried to play by the rules, lost their jobs and their health insurance, and were evicted from their homes. And the bankers and CEO’s continue to get their bonuses, while the middle class is trying desperately to hold on to what they have. They bundled mortgages they knew would implode, selling them to unsuspecting investors. And then proceeded to make more money and “earn” more bonuses by betting against those same mortgages. And we paid for the mess they made. We, the American people, picked up the tab for their casino style binge which ultimately brought down the American economy.

So, when I heard that Phoenix would have their own Occupy protest at Cesar Chavez Plaza, I joined other OWS sympathizers, attending an occasional GA meeting and holding a sign on Washington Street in downtown Phoenix. It was not until 2 weeks ago that my schedule allowed me to attend an actual march.

Prior to this march, I had an opportunity to attend a 2 hour workshop on “Non-Violent Resistance”. My idealized vision of a bunch of happy, loving people protesting peacefully, was shaken by the reality that as a part of this group of protesters, I am now considered a real threat to those I am protesting against, as well as the citizens of the City of Phoenix. At this workshop, I was taught techniques on how to not appear confrontational or violent, and to be aware of who was around me. How to minimize the possibility of being pepper sprayed and arrested. And what I should pack in my backpack, so that I may prepare myself for the worst.

This 53 year old “virgin” protester was now ready for her first real protest.

Parts 2 and 3 of Jenny's story will appear later this week. Cheers!

Slouching Towards Veganhood

Here’s why, a lot of why at least, I’ll have both feet in the green world soon.

My father. Nope, he wasn’t a vegetarian. Pop, of the killer fabulous fried bologna and Swiss cheese sandwich (damn, I loved it when he made dinner!), was the patron saint , the protector of all beasties who somehow made it into our house. I’m talking about the creepy crawlies mostly since the old man’s overriding philosophy on pets would make Joy Adamson and Bob Barker look like big game hunters, toting AK 47s to off a lone and lame gazelle.

On more than one occasion when I was a small child, you know -- back when the earth was still cooling, spiders freaked me to the moon and back. We're talking major freakage. A glimpse of a small common house spider was enough to make me leap onto chairs or hide under my bed covers in fear.  The real deal spiders, the daddy long legs, inspired deafening, Maria Callas level shrieking, begging  “Daddy, come kill it, kill the spider dead, now, now, NOW!” 

Pop would have none of this, of course, saying ultra calmly “he’s just as afraid of you as you are of him.” Picture eight year old me there, arms crossed, eyes rolling back — thinking, but not saying — “yeah right, Chuck. Not bloody likely” or sentiments just like that anyway.

 Daddy would coax the spider into a jar, make us gaze upon the poor beast so that we could know  it was  nothing to be so afraid of (oh sure). Then he would have my sisters and I parade out to the yard with him where he would set “George” free. Sometimes he named them “Fred.”

In the early ‘70s we moved to a small western Pennsylvania town where school closed on the first day of hunting season -- everyone was out bagging Bambi’s mother. Driving home late one October night, Daddy accidentally hit and killed a deer. He was devastated and spent the next two days sitting in the car in our driveway overcome with grief and guilt. He couldn't even speak -- unusual for him to be sure. This made a huge impression on 13 year old me.

I didn’t give up four legged entrees right then and there but that’s when it all started. As time went on I felt increasingly queasy -- this being the cute and fuzzy bunny versus the environmentally pragmatic path to veganism.

Now, the prospect of eating anything with eyes, anything I can imagine staring back at me, squicks me into the next dimension.  I’m wicked bummed that Octopi have eyes -- I’m really gonna miss calamari.

Il Capitolo Due -- Run Donna Run

When we last saw our hero (that’s me. No rilly!) she was looking for the ticket office in the snowbound Milan airport -- the next leg of the Gotta Get To Rome Odyssey.

I darted off, from the good airline helper lady, as soon as she gave me vouchers for travel south. At a dead run, winter coat on, sizable backpack in place, I wondered, naturally, if I was burning enough calories so I could get a big lemon gelato in Rome. I had my priorities totally straight! While sprinting down an empty corridor, a baggage handler called out to me, wondering where I was headed in such a rush (flirt. I was being flirted with. Awesome!). I shouted over my shoulder "bus ticket office (pant, wheeze, gasp)!" He lifted the red velvet rope -- I ducked under, galloping down the short cut he’d let me in on. He was speaking (in as much as our communication was verbal) Italian and me English.  Truly, the amount of successful communication that happened, without a common spoken language, amazes me still.

 Turns out there were two bus offices so...more communication, more bolting, more amazement that I was having such a relatively easy time understanding everyone. I managed to get my ticket, and took my seat as the bus pulled out into a near blinding snowstorm. No plows and I was quite sure that the bus didn’t have snow tires, let alone chains, either. There was much slipping, sliding and more shimmying than a solidly coked up exotic dancer on a hot night. No accidents though -- YEA team!

Finally into the train station, I had 10 minutes to:

A) redeem my voucher for a ticket,
B) find a pay phone to call Giovanni’s cell (hopefully catching them before they’d left home) and... oops, forgot to buy Euros in Boston so a sprint to a cash machine now, now, NOW!
C) find the correct platform, and finally take my seat on the train.

The first two accomplished with three minutes left to find the right train. I asked someone in a train operator type uniform and boarded the train I thought she’d pointed out. I sat down and then had a creeping unsettled feeling. I asked another passenger “parle inglese,” nope, “Roma?” No, it was the Vienna train. Rats. I collected my crap and leapt to the next train over, asking, before sitting down this time, “Rom Zug?”  Nein. Scheisse!  (A lot of German speakers up Milan way)

The third train was it and packed tighter than a mosh pit at a Mission of Burma reunion show it was. I finally found a compartment with one seat left. I was six days past ready to stop running and start sleeping but was wedged solid into this tiny compartment with 6 other people. Sleep seemed a distant fantasy.

An hour in, the conductor came ‘round for our tickets and asked, accusingly (well,  it was an accusing look anyway), “what are you doing in this car, you have a first class ticket, and this is third.” I stood, melodramatically (of course) gathered my coat and bag, looked to my compartment mates, who were all staring at me as though I was some kind of odd, possibly dangerous bohemian bird, and said “I have no idea what I’m doing here.” Then, entering full Seinfeldian mode, I gestured to all and pronounced magnanimously, “not that there’s anything wrong with here.”  My six soon to be ex compartment mates continued to stare and blink. Either I was definitely the strangest mammal they’d seen lately, or they knew no English. Maybe both.

Pack on my back again I made my way up one million and two cars in search of first class and that elusive, quite possibly mythical seat. All the aisles were jam-packed with people and luggage. None of them seemed much up for moving to let me by. I bumbled my way through “scusi,” “perdóneme,” “Entschuldigen Sie mir, bitte,”  and plain old “coming though!!” to no useful effect. At that point I just leaped into the crowd, riggling my way northward, thankful for my mosh pit experience.

I eventually wiggled and jiggled (pass the baby oil please) my way to the right car, found a seat and dove, not ran, straight into blessed napville and hoped for a day or two of lower adventure levels.

Run Donna Run -- Il Primo Capitolo

        I’ve usually traveled in winter -- rates are lower, smaller crowds, less frenzied inn keepers, more locals to chat up about what it’s like to live in a place I’m just in for a holiday. The downside to this is cold weather and sometimes (insert ominous organ music here) the dreaded snow. I was zooming off to Italy for a visit with my fabulous pal Cynthia and husband Giovanni at there new home in southern Tuscany.

I was a wee bit nervous about this trip because my hearing had dropped quite a bit -- it had yet to go the way of the Dodo but it was definitely in weak sister-land. I figured I could get by on my own, of course, but wondered where, how and when the hurdles would appear.

My flight to Rome had, what was supposed to be, a brief layover in Milan. Normally I just love flying through Milan -- the descent over the Alps is tremendous, breathtaking, glorious, stunning, amazing and a minimum of at least twelve additional superlatives. On this trip, however, the Alps were invisible, the sky an opaque white; we were landing in the midst of an enormous blizzard. The pilot announced that we would be able to land, but all connecting flights were canceled; the airport shut.

Panic set in. How would I negotiate getting to Rome or even contacting Cynthia and Giovanni? They were driving down to pick me up and, by the time we were on the ground in Milan, would have already left San Casciano. Would I have to camp out in the Milan airport? Could I get to Rome that day at all? Would I be able to understand the airline personnel? If I stayed in Milan overnight would I wake up as a shrill fashionista? All critical concerns!

As soon as we entered the terminal I raced for the Rome departure gate n search of options. I wanted to get to the desk well before the other stranded travelers since I knew my ability to understand would be slow, limited and far more challenged if I was in a crowd of people all talking at once. Even if the airline folks would be speaking English, it would be with an accent and that would up the misunderstanding ante immeasurably.

 I got to the desk and, wonder of wonders, had no trouble understanding the most awesome attendant. She spoke slowly, clearly and with hand gestures -- it is Italy after all. I found myself able to read her lips better than most strangers back home in Boston. Seriously.

Good thing too, since my journey to Rome was just in its nascent stages. I had to get down to the first floor where there would be an office dispensing bus tickets. I had a voucher for a trip to the train station in Milan and then a ticket for the train to Rome. Making all of these connections was heavily dependent on my ability to negotiate my way through an often confusing transportation system --  a mega challenge even for folks with all their hearing.

Dependent on that AND  my ability to run fast -- think Flo Jo, think Marion Jones, think Run Lola Run! The dashing, bobbing, weaving, sprinting and the glory of Italian train travel tomorrow.

Who Knew -- God Had a Last Name!

It was Ojemann.

Doctor Ojemann was my first neurosurgeon.  I’ve got that lovely Neurofibromatosis Type 2 thing going on as I may have mentioned earlier. Ojemann was my mother’s surgeon and my cousin Carmel’s -- Reagan’s too but we didn’t hold that against him -- and I was spectacularly lucky enough to inherit him. Ojemann not Reagan that is.

Daddy always referred to Ojemann as God. God had a comb over. Betcha didn’t know that, huh?

I first met Dr. O (as I referred to him) when I was 22 and fresh off the fun, fun Nf2 diagnosis. There I was, wearing my best shredded black jeans, an elderly Aerosmith T and my stunning black Cons -- looking every inch the fabulous heavy metal-hippy-pre-Goth Goth. There he was in his crisp white doctor jacket with his world class, amazing, brain surgeon guy rep radiating off him like heat waves off a Formula One winner.

At first glance this did not seem like a match made in Valhalla.

He patiently discussed my options and chances. It sounded to me as though immediate surgery was my best chance for saving the hearing on my right side. He allowed that this was his opinion and the road was mine to choose.  My reply? “Well, ya can’t win if you don’t play so let's go.” (me being fairly fresh off the midway and all) I got the sense that my willingness to dive in surprised him a bit or maybe it was just my seemingly relaxed attitude and fast decision.

At that time, 1982, patients for such large surgical undertakings stayed over at Mass General the night before. At 5 AM the nurse came to wheel me down to the OR. My confidence, resolve and any maturity I might have had, fled -- it ran like it had sprouted jet engines and had more fuel than sense. I  stood on my hospital bed and, seriously, attempted to get out the 7th floor window all while calling back “sorry, I’ve changed my mind.” The nurse, who'd clearly seen it all and a half dozen more, talked me down off the windowsill, fed me some valium and confidence and off we rolled into the future.

I was given 30/70 odds (Vegas odds, I think they were) for retaining any hearing and less gracious odds for getting through without facial paralysis. Death was on the table but not considered a truly significant contender. Go team Donna!

I came through that first surgery with a paltry 30% drop in hearing on my right side, NO facial paralysis and mega love for Dr. O. He visited me a few days post-op, not for the first time but the first time I was awake -- I threw my arms around him and gave him a mighty “Thanks, man!” He smiled and then he laughed. God laughed!

Over the following years Dr. O became more than my surgeon and chief brain minder -- he was a father figure and a teacher. Twice and then, as time galloped on, three times a year we’d meet, review my MRIs together. He taught me how to read my own -- we’d always sit together to review, discuss options and family and work and vacations. Life outside the OR.

Dr. O died 2 years ago March. Yeah,  God is dead. His talent, brilliance and humor lives on however,  in his neurosurgical scion, Fred Barker. Sounds like a great name for a Haberdasher doesn’t it?

Fred (AKA Son of God) totally rocks.