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.

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!