Things I Hate (and Sometimes I Hate Just About Everything!)

I hate rich people breezily chatting about someone's post in Dubai, and then remarking that "it's a good job, but the economy there is just not as great as it once was". Lah dee dah.

I hate rich Harvard guys complaining about yet a third wedding in the Vineyard, yet ANOTHER private plane to catch, then hopping into a red convertible Porsche with a freshly cleaned Gucci suit slung over the shoulder.

I hate the creepy guy in Harvard square who does so-called puppetry whilst making strange comments in his husky unpleasant voice. Too much acid, dude, back in the day...waayyy too much. Shoulda stayed away from the Brown Dot. I'm sure everyone warned you, and you just didn't listen.

(OK yes maybe "hate" is a strong word--so this is hate in the sense of so extremely annoyed that I feel like screaming. Not hate in the way I hate the folks "in charge" who left poor old women in New Orleans to die in the streets after they intentionally destructed 9th Ward Levies during Hurricane Katrina, which was only a Category 3 storm when it hit the city, by the way.)

I hate male musicians who, without knowing a single thing about me, condescendingly chuckle when I say I might like to buy a Zoom digital recorder, informing me "That's probably out of your price range." Then I check Amazon and find it for $300, not bad. So what was really meant was "Don't fool yourself. You're a female. You just don't have those creative music genes." (i.e. penis) OK, maybe he didn't mean it quite this way, but that IS the way I heard it, and I HAVE heard derision and chuckles so many times in my life.

Chuckles and condescension from penis-people re: my screenplays, paintings, drawings, op-eds, fiction, videos, photography, musical compositions and arrangements, vocal performances, acting, poetry. EVEN my approach to participating in protests. Even during a critical mass Bike Ride.

I was calling out to folks on Newbury Street "Get out of your car, and ride your bike! It's GOOD for you, GOOD for the environment". A nasty pricky penis person rode up to me and told me to shut up. Apparently only the males in the ride were allowed to verbalize. It was then that I noticed that the other women riding were demurely silent. I ended up telling the guy to go phoque himself (a phoque is a seal, in French) at the end of the ride. But he had temporary achieved his aim--I was shocked into (temporary) silence. Useless A-hole!

Once I got into a huge fight with a guy I had been dating. It was in a bar in Montreal. He had just breezily informed me that he was there to meet another woman, not me. Big mistake. His snotty entitled cruel words and attitude resulted in me ripping his shirt and biting his hand while his friends tried, without success, to pull me off the guy. The bouncer finally came over and threatened to call the cops. I figured I had made my point and left.

I went out to the corner and called my friend Stacy, a social worker. I could feel heat and energy coursing through my whole body. It felt GREAT, but already the "not being demure and invisible" guilt was setting in. But Stacy would have none of that. She thought what I had done was GREAT!

"Imagine what would it would be like if EVERY woman who was fed up with the behavior of some guy or another had a screaming fit simultaneously," she said. "Every single street corner would be filled with screaming women, tearing shirts and biting hands and having bloody fits. It would be fantastic!"

I loved Stacy, a true friend. Haven't seen her in some time and I still love her.

But in Harvard Square, with one cop for every third person, protecting the spawn of the corporate elite, and cameras every 20 feet, the best I have done is intentionally smash into a group of frat boys who refused to give me some space on the sidewalk, and chastise a couple of drunk college brats who were mean to a homeless guy. No torn shirts, no bitten hands.

Maybe it's time to become a metal musician. Then I can scream my head off (as long as it's no more than 80 decibels in Harvard Square) and get away with it. I can also sing tunes like "Land of the Bland, Home of the Cloned" one of my originals. And maybe, just maybe, someone will finally recognize me for the genius I am. Or maybe not. No penis, no genius. Is that how it goes? Well I could always wear a "costume" if you know what I mean.

PS A couple months after the bar fight, I ran into Mr. Bitten Hand at a Salsa Club. He grinned ear to ear and asked me to dance. I didn't hate him anymore so I accepted. His friends looked on in shock as we danced a really WILD, really FUN Salsa. I guess some guys enjoy red-headed women with bad tempers. Thank goddess for that.