Bob, Al Green and The Witch of Salem

So last week I met Bob, who was thin and drunk and mustachioed and shivering on a bus bench, after catching the Rev. Al Green in concert at the House of Blues. [Al was great, inspiring and charming, incredible band, two WONDERFUL drummers, but the show was a tad brief...sorry Rev. Al!]

I thought maybe Bob wanted the bench space to himself, so when he turned to me, I said, "Sorry--just waiting for the One Bus to Cambridge". Bob replied, "Do you have a cell phone?" Warily, I said, "Yeah. Do you need to use it?", hoping he would not abscond with it, or maybe worse, vomit on my phone. Bob said, "Can you call 911 for me? I'm dying here."

Wow. Now I felt like a jerk, for thinking bad thoughts about Bob. I'm familiar with that "I'm dying here" feeling, so I asked, "What's going on?" Bob held out his gnarled shaking hands and said, "I can't stop shaking. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the cold, but I feel like I'm dying. I need to get to a hospital." It was really cold and damp. Bob's short green jacket was way too thin for the weather. I figured maybe Bob had hypothermia, and I told him so.

Bob told me he felt like laying down on the bench and going to sleep. He leaned over. I tugged on his jacket and said, "I don't think that's a good idea. You really need to stay awake." That's what I remembered from Red Cross training in high school. Drugs, head trauma, hypothermia. Keep the victim awake til they get to the hospital.

As I fished in my backpack for my phone, Bob explained to me he had already asked several passersby if they could help by calling 911, but everyone had ignored him. Oh yes, Boston, that warmest and kindest of all places!

I called 911. I explained that I thought Bob had hypothermia, and could they get there ASAP? The woman on the other end said, "five or ten minutes".

To take Bob's mind off his distress while we waited, I decided to make conversation. I asked his name-- "Bob", his age "45", and where he was from "Salem". "I wish I was there now, " said Bob.

"Oh, yeah, the Witch Capital of the Northeast," I commented. Bob eyed my long red hair and black and red clothing and asked, "Are you a witch?" I said "No", but Bob didn't believe me.

"It's OK with me, I don't mind witches," he said, to reassure me.

I told him, "It's not that I don't believe in that stuff, I just think you have to be very, very careful with it, or it can come back and bite you in the ass." Bob nodded in agreement.

I looked down Mass Ave toward the Hynes Center, hoping the ambulance would arrive quickly. I didn't want to miss my bus.

"I know Laurie Cabot, the Witch of Salem," Bob announced.

"You do?" I asked.

Bob said, "Yep. I went to high school with her daughter."

I nodded, curious about what was coming next.

"Her daughter and I got caught smoking weed together one day at school. Sent to the principal's office. They called our Moms. My Mom got there first. Then a big black limousine pulled up in front of the school. Laurie Cabot got out, 6 feet tall, hair to her waist, long black robes, carrying a skull and a witch's staff."

"A skull?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yep," said Bob. "A skull...so anyways, my Mom started to speak up, but my Mom looked kinda normal. I took one look at Laurie Cabot, and said to my Mom, 'I think we better let Laurie Cabot handle this.' "

"So did Laurie Cabot 'handle' it?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," said Bob. "You shoulda seen the look on the principal's face." Bob made his eyes huge and terrified. "He was scared to death. They let us go home with just a warning."

I laughed, loudly. Bob laughed too. Passersby with zealously guarded cell phones looked over to see what all the happy ruckus was about. Bob and I laughed some more, while Bob shivered and I listened for the ambulance.

A few minutes, both the ambulance and the bus pulled up. Bob told me to go ahead and grab my bus, but I figured I should wait to make sure he was properly cared for. He wobbled badly getting on the ambulance, but the emergency worker didn't think he had hypothermia. She put a latex-gloved hand inside the top of this shirt to touch his bare skin. No explanation to Bob about what she was doing. I thought this was disrespectful. Bob was drunk, not comatose. But she said since his skin was warm, if he had hypothermia, it was mild. Bob looked a little annoyed by her hand on his chest, but I think he was mostly worried about dyin' at that moment, so he didn't say anything.

They had a heater in the ambulance and blasted it directly at Bob. I waited until they left in the direction of the Boston Medical Center. I hope the doctors there took good care of Bob. I hope someone gives Bob a proper winter coat. I hope Bob gets into detox, soon. And that it sticks this time.

Bob has some great stories to tell. I'm pretty sure that with the life he has lived, he has a couple dozen books inside of him desperate to get out.

Thanks Bob, for letting me sit next to you, and sharing your amazing story. I feel really lucky. Sorry for worrying about my stupid phone. Hope you are OK.

Cambridge Clones, Ghosts and Marching Bands

OK, So I have tried, I really have, to be more open-minded about the clones who populate Cambridge, MA. I have gone out dancing at Cantab on Thursday night. As long as I focus on the Chicken Slacks (the Thursday band) and my dancing, I'm fine. But the minute a blond Cambridge clone hits me in the head with her elbow and I'm therefore forced to look around to let her know she might want to NOT do that again, to avoid a bar brawl with me, I am dismayed to find that yes of course, the bar is filled with Cambridge clones. It's like some kind of "Village of the Damned" nightmare, vacant eyes and empty gestures with a great soundtrack.

Today I went to Oktoberfest in Harvard Square. Also Honkfest, plenty of small marching bands playing some funky tunes. Pretty good musicians, and WOMEN playing trombone and drums. YAY! But.......somehow even the Allston hipsters strike me as clones, in their own hipster way. Cool funky clothes but no vibe, no feeling, no depth, nothing there.

Someone told me once that the strange thing about people in Boston (which includes Allston and Cambridge) is that, although one can see they are PHYSICALLY occupying space, they actually don't seem to BE HERE at all. So I guess the problem is I am trying to relate to ghosts.

But wait a minute. I do NOT mean to insult ghosts. I lived with one for 15 years in Montreal. He was a sad thin twenty-something man, dressed in WWI army fatigues. When I first saw him, I thought maybe the shrooms from my teenage years were kicking up some dust in my brain, so I didn't mention it to anyone. But then a roommate, somewhat irate, demanded to know why I had not informed her there was a ghost living in my flat. When she described him, yes, it was the same man. And guess what? My ghost friend had MORE depth, more vibe, more gravitas, more LIFE than most of the Cambridge clones. Wow. How weird is that.

Maybe I need to move to Mexico. The people down there have light in their eyes and magic is in the air. Oh, but the police are horrible...that's another story. For now I'm just thinking of a long trip on a train (I love trains, traveling on them, meeting people, watching the countryside roll past) to unknown parts. Even NYC. Just desperately need to feast my eyes on a few REAL people, talk to some really smart NYC cab driver about how the economy is going to totally tank in a few years (this really happened in 2005). And try to erase the image of the sad, empty-eyed Cambridge clones from my brain. Vampire energy suckers, that's what they are. And I am really sick and tired of having my energy drained by these vampire clones. Maybe I WILL start wearing a garlic necklace to protect myself. Or, just move the hell out of Cambridge. SOON!

Condom Companies Should Pay, Not Me!

I hate anti-abortionists. I just had one sitting next to me in this coffee shop. After listening to her blow hot air for 45 minutes, blithely spewing how SHE would simply HAVE the baby, and go to grad school at Harvard anyway, how people who make mistakes should PAY, well, I just couldn't take it any more.

I stood up, on my way to get a 6 inch chicken submarine for supper, and I said, "I've done both, had a kid young, and had an abortion. And what I want to know is, where were all these "save the baby" people after she was born?"

That's right, not ONE of those hypocrites ever showed up at my door to say, "Good for you, you struggling, poverty-stricken single Mom! You kept those cells intact and had a baby without ANY resources to care for her. Well, let ME pay for those diapers, those school fees, her winter boots, her college tuition." Empathy for a group of cells is only good until the cells actually evolve from an embryo to a full-fledged human being. Then, it seems, the empathy and concern go out the window.

Why should I, and some human being who had NOTHING to do with anything, pay for a broken condom with a life of poverty--a child who will spend more time with babysitters than her mother, every heart's desire either impossible, or unbelievably difficult to realize? Give me a break! I didn't make that condom, and I WAS being responsible, using it. So I should pay for the poor quality plastic, the condom companies cutting corners, by being forced to raise a child?

The only people who really suffer from the efforts of the anti-abortionists are poor young women, often black or Latino, who don't have the means to fly up to Canada or New York city. Any comfy suburban girl will always have a choice, at least financially. So what is the idea here? That if you are poor and your boyfriend pressures you for unprotected sex to prove you love him, and you are only 15 or 16 and don't see this for the ruse it is, that you should PAY for your youth, your silly young heart, for affection from a ruthless boy who doesn't even love you, by being forced into a life of unbelievable hardship?

It is not easy being poor. I daresay most of the people screaming "Don't Kill the Baby" at Planned Parenthood have no idea of the hardship of simply being poor, never mind being poor and alone with a baby, child, teenager. In fact, most of the people I saw screaming at Planned Parenthood were 60 year old men, who will NEVER have any idea what it is like to go through such a painful decision and a difficult life.

I suggested to the young woman that she start by becoming a full-time nanny, and then try to imagine caring for these children with NO money, NO education, NO resources, NO help, and NO maturity. Then head on down to Downtown Crossing, Boston, and take a gander at the 15 year olds screaming at their kids, and try to convince yourself that this is the wonderful suburban outcome you imagine when you sit there judging people who had no other sin than to use an imperfect condom, listen to an abusive boyfriend, or maybe get drunk one night.

Man! Anti-abortionists are among the least compassionate people on the face of this earth.

One Smile Can Make You Feel So Much Better

So I have been sitting here at Starbucks in the Garage in Harvard Square (not an actual garage, as far as I know, but maybe it was in a former life?), so depressed I couldn't find even a single song on the radio to make me feel better. Then a guy I've never met walks in and sits across from me. And miracle of miracles, for Cambridge (one of THE most unfriendly places on the face of this whole wide earth) he actually smiled at me. My goddess, I almost fainted. Maybe it was just the shock of it, but my mood slowly lifted, and now, thirty minutes after that smile, I can listen to Milli Vanilli without wanting to do myself or someone else in. Amazing what a simple smile will do.

I Want a Bail-Out!

So yeah. I want a bail-out, too. Or at least, one of those one percent loans the banks are getting. That's right, one percent! The banks, which never in your lifetime or mine will EVER give you or me a one percent loan, are getting exactly that from US. By US, I mean, all the taxpayers whose pensions are being thrown at these greedy pigs who got us into this mess in the first place. Give me a break! We should be pursuing criminal charges against these con-artists, and that includes Bush and Cheney, who would like to quietly go away and hide with all the billions they stole from US taxpayers. How did they do it? Branch companies under Halliburton, the biggest umbrella corporation in the world (and Cheney's baby), got no-bid contracts to "rebuild" Iraq after bombing it to smithereens. They also inflated prices (who wouldn't, when there is no chance of any competition?) on everything from labor to hammers. So who pays now? We do! We are being told to tighten our belts--buy just ONE rose for Valentine's Day, and spread the petals around (no kidding, I saw this on a "news" item!) the dinner table, while you serve boxed macaroni and cheese. Meanwhile these thieves have absconded with money earned by our blood, sweat and tears. They should be prosecuted like any normal criminal, their assets frozen, and eventually, these billions put back into the US economy--health, education, social services, would be a good start. If you stole one loaf of bread for a hungry family, you would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Yet these greedy criminals and war-mongers (convenient way to make a BUNCH of money!) can rob billions and apparently, get away with it. TIME FOR A CHANGE!!!!!

Neysa Malone is AMAZING!

So yeah, Neysa Malone is my daughter--there's the disclaimer. She's a singer-songwriter, slogging it out in NYC. Day after dismal or sunny day, she gets up, writes her songs, finds dancers for her music video, heads over to a studio to tweak production on her latest song, or heads to the subway (and sometimes Union Square) to perform. Yes, she's a busker, for now.

She's also a former Berklee College of Music scholarship recipient. She's an invited member of SESAC. She has worked with some pretty famous people, including a producer who was Joss Stone's former musical director. Neysa fronted a back-up band for a couple years in NYC, performing her own originals at the Knitting Factory, Joe's Pub, Arlene's Grocery and S.O.B.'s, among other venues. Her band included a keyboard player and drummer who have gone on to work with Beyonce's all-girl band.

But the people who put money in her bucket don't know this. Neither do the people who take it upon themselves to spew their bad mood or worse day in vomitous words on the internet. On the other hand, the many MANY people who have stopped, emailed her, become a MySpace friend, just to let her know how she brightened their day, and how talented she is, also don't know anything of her background. They just like her, a lot. And that says everything.

Still, I don't know how she does it, honestly. I have a degree in music. I've performed in my life, but quite frankly I just don't have a thick skin. Lousy family background, zero support, in my case. Zero support coupled with constant put-downs doesn't make for a thick skin. I made a lot of mistakes raising my daughter, some like most people do, others unique just to me, or at least only a few of us, I'd guess! But I DID encourage her a LOT with her dreams.

So Neysa, my beautiful talented daughter heads out to the subway. She descends into the bowels of the earth, into the stench and smoke, the grime and dust, the screeching brakes, hauling her heavy amp and her simple bucket. She plugs in her MP3 player and, head held high, sings Madonna tunes, or her own originals.

Some days she makes bunches of money. Others, not so much. She started busking because she had no means to pay a back-up band. And understandably, I guess, people in NYC want money up front. And she needed to perform, needed to reach out. She asked me if I thought it was a bad idea. I said no--many musicians have busked, including Tracy Chapman, Beck, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton. Not bad company.

I do wish she had more chance to perform her own originals (and in a clean, fume-free environment). But she says (and she is probably right) that in the subway, it's a quick fix, and a little uplifting while waiting three minutes for the train, that people need. And that's what she gives them. Despite her own struggles, her periods of discouragement, Neysa Malone still has something to share, something to give. That's an amazing spirit, and it should be honored and cherished. And I do. Hats off to you, honey! You're doing great! And I love you with all my heart.

My Therapist Hates Me

So out of desperation, I actually PAY someone to listen to me, and she is SUPPOSED to at least pretend to like me and to want to help. But yesterday when I went in for my weekly session, I swear she sneered at me! Well yes, I was being very snarky with her, disagreeing energetically with her stance on psychotropic drugs. She said, "Well, the research says therapy combined with prescription drugs works best." I asked (and yes, I was angry), "And WHO conducted this so-called research? The DRUG companies?" She said she didn't know. I said, "Follow the money, that will tell you everything you need to know." And then she sneered.

I pointed out that the U.S. flooded Iraq with Prozac almost immediately after invading that country. I said to her, "If that doesn't tell you a WHOLE LOT about the purpose of this drug, I don't know what will."

On another tangent (or was it?), I told her I am bloody sick and tired of being afraid of men (as in psychotic males, who are far too numerous in this crazy world), and that I am going to arm myself. She flinched. I went on to (timidly? maybe I am wimping out) own up that I hate guns, so I would probably just buy some legal keychain pepper spray.

But my grandmother bought a gun when she was in her late 70's, and she used it, and I don't blame her. Someone broke into her house in Indianapolis, and robbed her. So she bought a gun. When, as she expected, the guy returned for another take a couple months later, she was ready. She shot him. He survived, but you can bet he never came back to her house again.

That sounds so tough, and so American, in a way that I hate. But I also HATE being afraid of psychopaths!