So, for any Patriot Act empowered Internet Surveillers (really, there ARE other jobs out there, even in this economy), I thought I would: 1. Remind everybody about the text of the First Amendment (Surely the Bill of Rights is one of the first TRUE original "Patriot Acts"), 2. Recount a brief history of a couple of my ancestors and 3. Just for comic relief (It must get really dull following up all these snarky blogs about injustice and chasing leads based on silly "key words" such as "redheads") I thought I would recount a funny thing that happened at the Grocery store.
So, for starters, here is the text of the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights:
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."
Now, as to my ancestors. Well, two brothers showed up in New York harbor in 1732, having traveled all the way from Bavaria, quite a feat back in those days. They set up farms in New Jersey. Their sons or grandsons fought in the Revolutionary War. They are my great-great times ten or so grandfathers. My own grandfather served on the Ambulance Division in World War I. My father served in the Radio Corps World War II. I have put in many hours as a community activist for much of my life. Perhaps true patriots?
And the thanks I get for these members of my family (and me!) serving their country and upholding the ideals of democracy and this country's founding principals is that I get surveilled for expressing concern about a need for greater oversight of the police force? Thanks a lot, guys. Really appropriate.
But in any case, since I am sure you are bored out of your minds with this "work", here is that funny short story.
I went to the grocery store tonight. Wanted to buy some "Boursin Garlic and Herb Cheese". But there was none available, for the second or third day in a row. So I asked the Deli guys about it. They said I should contact Mr. "Ong" the following day. I heard this as a Chinese name, and said, "Mr. Ung. As in H-U-N-G?" The guy smirked at me and said, "No. Ong. As in A-U-N-G." I had to turn away quickly because I started to laugh really really hard.
Only yesterday I was reviewing some photos I took quite some time ago of a very charming (OK, not so charming, but pretty remarkable in other ways) boyfriend I had some years ago. I figure that may have been the reason for this slip of the tongue.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
In the Mood to Kill Someone and Get Away With it? Consider joining the police force
It seems more and more clear that there is a PERFECT profession for would-be killers and thugs who want to get a paid vacation after killing an innocent person. Yes! Become a police officer!
Once again, an innocent person, Kenneth Howe of Webster, MA, has been beaten and killed by a gang of thugs, the cops. OK, he was allegedly smoking marijuana, which is now subject to a $100 fine in Massachusetts and something even US Presidents have admitted to doing. My god, half the cops smoke weed! This is NOT a capital offense, last I heard. Wanna place a bet that NO CHARGES WHATSOEVER are laid against any of the police in question?
http://www.boston.com/news/local/breaking_news/2009/11/driver_police_b.html
In case you don't believe me, check the history. Victoria Snelgrove, a 21-year-old Emerson student, a bystander after the first Red Sox World Series win in 86 years died in 2004. Victoria was standing OUT OF THE WAY at Fenway Park, just watching the celebratory happiness, when she was shot in the eye by a rubber bullet and died.
Any charges against the cop who shot into this crowd of happy bystanders? No way. And yet her parents received a $5.1 million settlement from the city of Boston. How does that work? Oh right, the rubber bullet was at fault, not the cop who decided to fire into a peaceful crowd.
In 2008, David Woodman, a young guy full of life and happiness after the Celtics Championship, made the HUGE mistake (and committed an atrocious crime, it seems) of saying, off-hand to a bunch of cops standing around a corner where nothing was going one, “Wow. I guess there’s a lot of crime on this corner.” For that he was beaten and died. Any charges against the police? No my friend, none.
"http://jonathanturley.org/2008/07/01/boston-police-accused-of-beating-student-to-death-for-snide-comment/
Allegedly David had a pre-existing heart condition. But just in case he didn’t, health “experts” have now conveniently discovered a BRAND NEW CONDITION!!! It is called “excited delirium” and if you didn’t know you had it before the cops beat you to death, you will find out after the fact, or at least your next of kin will.
http://www.theprovince.com/Knipstrom+death+linked+controversial+medical+condition+coroner+says/2243323/story.html
There are many cases in Massachusetts where a non-lethal weapon could have been chosen, particularly when dealing with a mentally ill or severely distraught person. Instead, over and over again, these people are killed. Any charges? Are you kidding me?
Then we have Sean Bell, the NYC bridegroom killed in 2006 leaving his bachelor party, and Amadou Diallo killed in NYC in 1999 while reaching for his ID. Any charges? Not a one.
So if you are thinking of calling the cops for help sometime, think twice. You may find yourself charged with something (the first tactic, even when police are at fault) and end up dead. And if you do die, will your family find justice? Not bloody likely.
When will it be time to look at the toxic environment of the police force? How about a look at the courts, which almost NEVER find any guilt in these cases? And how about higher standards when recruiting candidates for the police force, including better testing for bullying tendencies or other mental health issues?
Or if in fact the police are no longer there to protect and serve but instead to beat and kill if they so choose, let’s put the cards on the table, and send a general press release to the community at large.
At least then we will all know where we stand.
Here are a couple more links. There are thousands. Just Google “police abuse”.
http://www.coldink.net/2009/11/24/Abusive_cops_are_the_norm_not_the_exception
http://bullcutter.blogspot.com/2008/02/copd-kill-innocent-person-again.html
http://www.gainesnet.com/police.htm
Once again, an innocent person, Kenneth Howe of Webster, MA, has been beaten and killed by a gang of thugs, the cops. OK, he was allegedly smoking marijuana, which is now subject to a $100 fine in Massachusetts and something even US Presidents have admitted to doing. My god, half the cops smoke weed! This is NOT a capital offense, last I heard. Wanna place a bet that NO CHARGES WHATSOEVER are laid against any of the police in question?
http://www.boston.com/news/local/breaking_news/2009/11/driver_police_b.html
In case you don't believe me, check the history. Victoria Snelgrove, a 21-year-old Emerson student, a bystander after the first Red Sox World Series win in 86 years died in 2004. Victoria was standing OUT OF THE WAY at Fenway Park, just watching the celebratory happiness, when she was shot in the eye by a rubber bullet and died.
Any charges against the cop who shot into this crowd of happy bystanders? No way. And yet her parents received a $5.1 million settlement from the city of Boston. How does that work? Oh right, the rubber bullet was at fault, not the cop who decided to fire into a peaceful crowd.
In 2008, David Woodman, a young guy full of life and happiness after the Celtics Championship, made the HUGE mistake (and committed an atrocious crime, it seems) of saying, off-hand to a bunch of cops standing around a corner where nothing was going one, “Wow. I guess there’s a lot of crime on this corner.” For that he was beaten and died. Any charges against the police? No my friend, none.
"http://jonathanturley.org/2008/07/01/boston-police-accused-of-beating-student-to-death-for-snide-comment/
Allegedly David had a pre-existing heart condition. But just in case he didn’t, health “experts” have now conveniently discovered a BRAND NEW CONDITION!!! It is called “excited delirium” and if you didn’t know you had it before the cops beat you to death, you will find out after the fact, or at least your next of kin will.
http://www.theprovince.com/Knipstrom+death+linked+controversial+medical+condition+coroner+says/2243323/story.html
There are many cases in Massachusetts where a non-lethal weapon could have been chosen, particularly when dealing with a mentally ill or severely distraught person. Instead, over and over again, these people are killed. Any charges? Are you kidding me?
Then we have Sean Bell, the NYC bridegroom killed in 2006 leaving his bachelor party, and Amadou Diallo killed in NYC in 1999 while reaching for his ID. Any charges? Not a one.
So if you are thinking of calling the cops for help sometime, think twice. You may find yourself charged with something (the first tactic, even when police are at fault) and end up dead. And if you do die, will your family find justice? Not bloody likely.
When will it be time to look at the toxic environment of the police force? How about a look at the courts, which almost NEVER find any guilt in these cases? And how about higher standards when recruiting candidates for the police force, including better testing for bullying tendencies or other mental health issues?
Or if in fact the police are no longer there to protect and serve but instead to beat and kill if they so choose, let’s put the cards on the table, and send a general press release to the community at large.
At least then we will all know where we stand.
Here are a couple more links. There are thousands. Just Google “police abuse”.
http://www.coldink.net/2009/11/24/Abusive_cops_are_the_norm_not_the_exception
http://bullcutter.blogspot.com/2008/02/copd-kill-innocent-person-again.html
http://www.gainesnet.com/police.htm
Friday, November 27, 2009
YAY!! I Survived Thanksgiving and Lived to Write About It!
Well, I made it through TG DAY. YAY!
And I didn’t:
1. Wander off into the woods in a huff after a TG Day annoyance, only to be found 24 hours later, alive and freezing, like the woman from Gloucester, MA.
2. Lock my kids in the trunk of my car, like the man from Fall River, MA (OK, this was Tuesday, but I think it counts as “Thanksgiving Week” behavior).
3. Shoot anybody, like the 76 year-old man in Colorado who shot and killed his 46 year-old son in an argument over chores.
4. Jump up and down on my mattress, fraying an electric cord, which then caused a fire, like the kids in Brockton, MA, resulting in 200K damage to two triple deckers.
5. Eat 3000 calories for my evening meal, like the average American at Thanksgiving dinner.
6. Crash a White House State Dinner (which really could have been interesting...maybe...although politicians DON’T strike me as the most fascinating people in the world...). Again, Tuesday, but it counts.
7. Crash my SUV into a fire hydrant pulling outta my driveway at 2:35 a.m. Thanksgiving night like Tiger Woods did, after an argument with his wife. (he’s OK, even though his wife then came running out to "help" him with a golf club in her hand)
8. See an image of Jesus in the bottom of my iron, like the woman in Methuen, MA (that woulda freaked me out, I’d say—although I have seen some pretty strange things in my life, such as a fish jumping for joy at a fish-less pond on Mont Royal in Montreal).
9. Line up at 3 a.m. for some cheap electronic junk from China that I really don’t need, like just about everybody did.
10. Get drunk or stoned, or call up some faithless ex-boyfriend for a "quick, let's avoid reality" booty call, or eat an entire pan of brownies in an attempt to space myself out on sugar.
So all in all, I am feeling pretty pleased with myself. All I did was get suicidally depressed for several hours, write some of the bleakest words ever to be put to paper, yell at the woman who works at the Harvard Square Theatre “You are HORRIBLE!!! You’re HORRIBLE!” after she was really nasty about letting me use the bathroom (I did it ANYWAY, so there!), shed a few tears on the bus, ate an entire bucket of buttered popcorn, sent a couple of guilt-tripping texts, and hated my roommate some more.
On the positive side, I met some nice people during my travels (including the British guy who buys an India ale every day from Cardullo’s and has lived here since 1967), made really fantastic homemade mince meat, realized again that I am SO grateful Werner Herzog and all his weirdness exists in this world, AND I didn’t jump off any bridges!!! So I consider this Thanksgiving a real success.
As a side note: I have a sign on the wall of my bedroom which reminds me to “Say YES to yourself!” and sometimes that involves saying NO to other people, including family members who might be inclined to use any get-together as an opportunity to have major screaming fits, as painful and difficult as that NO may be.
Next year I plan to be surrounded by love love love. Whatever it takes, I am damn well finding that in this world and making love love love the centerpiece of my life. That’s exactly what the extraterrestrials who landed in Africa in 1994 advised. OK, they said forgiveness is important too, but I’ll take this one step at a time. Here’s a link, for the skeptical among you:
http://www.ufoevidence.org/cases/case127.htm
And I didn’t:
1. Wander off into the woods in a huff after a TG Day annoyance, only to be found 24 hours later, alive and freezing, like the woman from Gloucester, MA.
2. Lock my kids in the trunk of my car, like the man from Fall River, MA (OK, this was Tuesday, but I think it counts as “Thanksgiving Week” behavior).
3. Shoot anybody, like the 76 year-old man in Colorado who shot and killed his 46 year-old son in an argument over chores.
4. Jump up and down on my mattress, fraying an electric cord, which then caused a fire, like the kids in Brockton, MA, resulting in 200K damage to two triple deckers.
5. Eat 3000 calories for my evening meal, like the average American at Thanksgiving dinner.
6. Crash a White House State Dinner (which really could have been interesting...maybe...although politicians DON’T strike me as the most fascinating people in the world...). Again, Tuesday, but it counts.
7. Crash my SUV into a fire hydrant pulling outta my driveway at 2:35 a.m. Thanksgiving night like Tiger Woods did, after an argument with his wife. (he’s OK, even though his wife then came running out to "help" him with a golf club in her hand)
8. See an image of Jesus in the bottom of my iron, like the woman in Methuen, MA (that woulda freaked me out, I’d say—although I have seen some pretty strange things in my life, such as a fish jumping for joy at a fish-less pond on Mont Royal in Montreal).
9. Line up at 3 a.m. for some cheap electronic junk from China that I really don’t need, like just about everybody did.
10. Get drunk or stoned, or call up some faithless ex-boyfriend for a "quick, let's avoid reality" booty call, or eat an entire pan of brownies in an attempt to space myself out on sugar.
So all in all, I am feeling pretty pleased with myself. All I did was get suicidally depressed for several hours, write some of the bleakest words ever to be put to paper, yell at the woman who works at the Harvard Square Theatre “You are HORRIBLE!!! You’re HORRIBLE!” after she was really nasty about letting me use the bathroom (I did it ANYWAY, so there!), shed a few tears on the bus, ate an entire bucket of buttered popcorn, sent a couple of guilt-tripping texts, and hated my roommate some more.
On the positive side, I met some nice people during my travels (including the British guy who buys an India ale every day from Cardullo’s and has lived here since 1967), made really fantastic homemade mince meat, realized again that I am SO grateful Werner Herzog and all his weirdness exists in this world, AND I didn’t jump off any bridges!!! So I consider this Thanksgiving a real success.
As a side note: I have a sign on the wall of my bedroom which reminds me to “Say YES to yourself!” and sometimes that involves saying NO to other people, including family members who might be inclined to use any get-together as an opportunity to have major screaming fits, as painful and difficult as that NO may be.
Next year I plan to be surrounded by love love love. Whatever it takes, I am damn well finding that in this world and making love love love the centerpiece of my life. That’s exactly what the extraterrestrials who landed in Africa in 1994 advised. OK, they said forgiveness is important too, but I’ll take this one step at a time. Here’s a link, for the skeptical among you:
http://www.ufoevidence.org/cases/case127.htm
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Come on Boys, Get REAL!!!
I'm sorry. There are just some times when it is impossible for me to hold my tongue.
A couple nights ago on Carson Daly was one of the LEAST-TALENTED musicians I have ever seen in my life. But there he was, playing guitar and being adored by a crowd of mostly women, a few men (it was San Francisco, I think).
A flashing neon sign went off in my brain: "Hey, guys!!! I play guitar AND I have a penis, so I MUST BE AMAZING!!!" This guy was so damn pleased with himself it made me want to puke.
Really. Enough is enough. You guys are NOT entitled to be adored simply because you have YOUR extra flesh appendage exposed as opposed to protected (like we women do!). And women need to STOP participating in this LIE!!!
Robin Williams joked that he was so emotional after his bypass procedure that he thought the doctors must have given him a kitty cat (not his word, mine) rather than a valve.
GIVE ME A BREAK!!! People throw this "you're a pussy" insult around all the time, the implication being that vaginas, and the people who own them, are somehow weak, vulnerable, not too smart and just plain yucky.
Excuse me, penis-people, but have YOU ever tried to push the equivalent of a watermelon outta your exposed flesh? I thought not.
Did you know that one reason Einstein and his wife separated is that she was pissed that he "borrowed" so many of HER theories (including Relativity) and never gave her any credit?
And did you know that some artists, including the very famous Georgia O'Keefe, think vaginas are just plain BEAUTIFUL???? Funny how something that at least 75% of men chase after most of their lives can be reduced to an insult. Maybe the truth is, boys, it just BUGS you to be so obsessed with something so soft, beautiful, strong and powerful that YOU don't OWN!!!!
Really, I just cannot take this any more. The expression ought to be, "Wow, he's really got OVARIES" and "You da pussy" should replace "You da MAN" as a compliment.
And talentless guitar players are talentless guitar players, penis or not!
A couple nights ago on Carson Daly was one of the LEAST-TALENTED musicians I have ever seen in my life. But there he was, playing guitar and being adored by a crowd of mostly women, a few men (it was San Francisco, I think).
A flashing neon sign went off in my brain: "Hey, guys!!! I play guitar AND I have a penis, so I MUST BE AMAZING!!!" This guy was so damn pleased with himself it made me want to puke.
Really. Enough is enough. You guys are NOT entitled to be adored simply because you have YOUR extra flesh appendage exposed as opposed to protected (like we women do!). And women need to STOP participating in this LIE!!!
Robin Williams joked that he was so emotional after his bypass procedure that he thought the doctors must have given him a kitty cat (not his word, mine) rather than a valve.
GIVE ME A BREAK!!! People throw this "you're a pussy" insult around all the time, the implication being that vaginas, and the people who own them, are somehow weak, vulnerable, not too smart and just plain yucky.
Excuse me, penis-people, but have YOU ever tried to push the equivalent of a watermelon outta your exposed flesh? I thought not.
Did you know that one reason Einstein and his wife separated is that she was pissed that he "borrowed" so many of HER theories (including Relativity) and never gave her any credit?
And did you know that some artists, including the very famous Georgia O'Keefe, think vaginas are just plain BEAUTIFUL???? Funny how something that at least 75% of men chase after most of their lives can be reduced to an insult. Maybe the truth is, boys, it just BUGS you to be so obsessed with something so soft, beautiful, strong and powerful that YOU don't OWN!!!!
Really, I just cannot take this any more. The expression ought to be, "Wow, he's really got OVARIES" and "You da pussy" should replace "You da MAN" as a compliment.
And talentless guitar players are talentless guitar players, penis or not!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Dreading the Holidays
I know I'm not supposed to say this, but honestly, the period of time between now and January 2nd is just not something I EVER look forward to.
Let's see, first we have Thanksgiving. Well, Native Americans mark this with a Day of Mourning. That makes sense to me. Not only from the perspective of the horrible genocide Native Americans experienced at the hands of Europeans, but also because so many people dread, I mean DREAD, with fear and trepidation, the yearly trip to the family.
I tried, one year, to participate in the Day of Mourning at Plymouth, MA. I didn't feel really welcome. I probably have some Native American blood (two of my ancestors arrived in this country in 1732 and fought in the Revolutionary War, so I figure my blood is pretty mixed), but honestly I'm 90% non-NA. So I understood. A little like having men at a feminist support group.
I figure this might be the second year in a row that I just call off the holiday, in terms of spending time with any relatives. That helps, sort of. But one is left with a lot of sadness to deal with. Maybe I could just go on a bender for the next few days, and again around December 25th. Oh wait, I don't drink or do drugs. Darn.
Then, we get to Christmas. Well, aside from the fact that I am not Christian, but closer to a nature-loving Pagan, I also get really nauseous with the Buy Buy Buy money orgy of the season. I even wrote a song about it once. It's called "Buy Buy Buy"!!! I think most of the buying is really a bribe to that terrifying family. "Here, Uncle Joe, look at the great IPod I bought you! PLEASE don't get drunk this year and scream at everyone and knock over the Christmas tree like you did last year, OK?"
Or, "Here Mom, look at the beautiful sweater I bought you. Now, can you PLEASE not give me the third degree about my love life and remind me that I SHOULD be married to a doctor with a brood of snot-nosed kids by now, like you do every year?"
Oh, and never mind all the treacherous memories just lurking under the surface, like some blood-thirsty shark just waiting to attack. OK, I know sharks aren't really like that--Humans just aren't very tasty--but memories ARE!
Maybe the best Christmas I ever had was one year when I went to Mexico with my friend Wade. He wasn't really happy about it once we got there, because Wade is gay (or he was then--when I first met him he was straight, so I'm not sure where he's at these days). Wade found Playa del Carmen overwhelmingly straight and macho. He just didn't realize that some of the extreme machos were in the closet waiting for a lovely man like Wade to open the door. Patience is required.
For me, it was simpler. I'm pretty gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Also smart. I speak a little Spanish, and I love to dance. On top of that, I'm from a Rich Country, which means that I MUST be rich, right? Even if we were sleeping in hammocks at the Palapas Hostel on the beach, surely we had plenty of money back home. (nope, but hey, I was on vacation, in a foreign country, so I guess in some way that DID make me rich) So I had lots of attention from some very pretty boys. It was quite fun, for awhile.
Oh, poop. Even reminiscing about my Mexican adventures isn't helping. Maybe it's time to take up drinking.
Let's see, first we have Thanksgiving. Well, Native Americans mark this with a Day of Mourning. That makes sense to me. Not only from the perspective of the horrible genocide Native Americans experienced at the hands of Europeans, but also because so many people dread, I mean DREAD, with fear and trepidation, the yearly trip to the family.
I tried, one year, to participate in the Day of Mourning at Plymouth, MA. I didn't feel really welcome. I probably have some Native American blood (two of my ancestors arrived in this country in 1732 and fought in the Revolutionary War, so I figure my blood is pretty mixed), but honestly I'm 90% non-NA. So I understood. A little like having men at a feminist support group.
I figure this might be the second year in a row that I just call off the holiday, in terms of spending time with any relatives. That helps, sort of. But one is left with a lot of sadness to deal with. Maybe I could just go on a bender for the next few days, and again around December 25th. Oh wait, I don't drink or do drugs. Darn.
Then, we get to Christmas. Well, aside from the fact that I am not Christian, but closer to a nature-loving Pagan, I also get really nauseous with the Buy Buy Buy money orgy of the season. I even wrote a song about it once. It's called "Buy Buy Buy"!!! I think most of the buying is really a bribe to that terrifying family. "Here, Uncle Joe, look at the great IPod I bought you! PLEASE don't get drunk this year and scream at everyone and knock over the Christmas tree like you did last year, OK?"
Or, "Here Mom, look at the beautiful sweater I bought you. Now, can you PLEASE not give me the third degree about my love life and remind me that I SHOULD be married to a doctor with a brood of snot-nosed kids by now, like you do every year?"
Oh, and never mind all the treacherous memories just lurking under the surface, like some blood-thirsty shark just waiting to attack. OK, I know sharks aren't really like that--Humans just aren't very tasty--but memories ARE!
Maybe the best Christmas I ever had was one year when I went to Mexico with my friend Wade. He wasn't really happy about it once we got there, because Wade is gay (or he was then--when I first met him he was straight, so I'm not sure where he's at these days). Wade found Playa del Carmen overwhelmingly straight and macho. He just didn't realize that some of the extreme machos were in the closet waiting for a lovely man like Wade to open the door. Patience is required.
For me, it was simpler. I'm pretty gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Also smart. I speak a little Spanish, and I love to dance. On top of that, I'm from a Rich Country, which means that I MUST be rich, right? Even if we were sleeping in hammocks at the Palapas Hostel on the beach, surely we had plenty of money back home. (nope, but hey, I was on vacation, in a foreign country, so I guess in some way that DID make me rich) So I had lots of attention from some very pretty boys. It was quite fun, for awhile.
Oh, poop. Even reminiscing about my Mexican adventures isn't helping. Maybe it's time to take up drinking.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
When Old Codgers Call Me "Red" I Really LOVE It!
OK, all right. I'll admit it. I really LOVE it when some eccentric old codger calls me "Red". Makes me feel like I'm stepping right out of a 1940's movie.
One of my favorite is Charlie, a tall grey-haired conductor on the Fitchburg line train, which I take to Concord to go swimming at Walden Pond when weather permits (actually, I was just there a week ago and some crazy guy was swimming, but no, not me). The two vertical sides of Charlie's face don't match at ALL, so sometimes when I am tired I feel like I need to blink to get his face in focus. Only with Charlie it doesn't work. But I don't care! Charlie always calls me "Red"!!!
"Hey Red, how's it going?" he asks, as I hand him my ticket. I really LOVE that!
It helps that Charlie has a distinguished 1940's vibe going on, a little like James Stewart in his later years. Charlie is friendly and funny in a way that I think has almost disappeared from the face of the earth. He's actually kind of fatherly--which is something I have rarely found in any man of any age since I reached puberty.
But I remember another man, similar to Charlie. His name was Hank, and he was a tall, angular, craggy-faced cab driver who frequented the Greasy Spoon where I worked after school when I was a teenager. Hank had SUCH a beautiful face! He always reminded me of Humphrey Bogart--clearly his life had been difficult, but he had so much dignity and kindness, and a major twinkle in his eye behind the pain.
Hank came in almost every night in his worn leather jacket and ordered the special, which was usually mashed potatoes, peas and carrots and some kind of protein -- meatloaf, sliced turkey, hot roast beef sandwich, tuna a la king (OK I'm getting carried away--it's supper time and I'm hungry!).
After supper, Hank would order coffee to go with his cigarette, and that is when, in his beautiful baritone voice, he would say "Thanks, Red" and give me a really good tip. I was saving every penny to get my own place (and get the hell away from my mother's drinking "problem") as SOON as I finished high school, so that three dollar tip meant a LOT to me.
I always imagined that Hank had been in love once, maybe married, and his wife had run off with another man, and now he lived in a Boarding House with his own private bath but no kitchen, and watched the evening news while he smoked his cigarette and thought about Betty Jo and that scoundrel she ran off with. I really liked Hank.
And so, just now, a guy selling Spare Change, the "homeless" newspaper, called me "Red". "Hey Red, help the homeless?" Well, he had me at "Red". I bought the paper, and gave him a dollar tip, in honor of Hank and Charlie, and the few really NICE men in my life who have made me feel special in a really lovely, warm kind way.
One of my favorite is Charlie, a tall grey-haired conductor on the Fitchburg line train, which I take to Concord to go swimming at Walden Pond when weather permits (actually, I was just there a week ago and some crazy guy was swimming, but no, not me). The two vertical sides of Charlie's face don't match at ALL, so sometimes when I am tired I feel like I need to blink to get his face in focus. Only with Charlie it doesn't work. But I don't care! Charlie always calls me "Red"!!!
"Hey Red, how's it going?" he asks, as I hand him my ticket. I really LOVE that!
It helps that Charlie has a distinguished 1940's vibe going on, a little like James Stewart in his later years. Charlie is friendly and funny in a way that I think has almost disappeared from the face of the earth. He's actually kind of fatherly--which is something I have rarely found in any man of any age since I reached puberty.
But I remember another man, similar to Charlie. His name was Hank, and he was a tall, angular, craggy-faced cab driver who frequented the Greasy Spoon where I worked after school when I was a teenager. Hank had SUCH a beautiful face! He always reminded me of Humphrey Bogart--clearly his life had been difficult, but he had so much dignity and kindness, and a major twinkle in his eye behind the pain.
Hank came in almost every night in his worn leather jacket and ordered the special, which was usually mashed potatoes, peas and carrots and some kind of protein -- meatloaf, sliced turkey, hot roast beef sandwich, tuna a la king (OK I'm getting carried away--it's supper time and I'm hungry!).
After supper, Hank would order coffee to go with his cigarette, and that is when, in his beautiful baritone voice, he would say "Thanks, Red" and give me a really good tip. I was saving every penny to get my own place (and get the hell away from my mother's drinking "problem") as SOON as I finished high school, so that three dollar tip meant a LOT to me.
I always imagined that Hank had been in love once, maybe married, and his wife had run off with another man, and now he lived in a Boarding House with his own private bath but no kitchen, and watched the evening news while he smoked his cigarette and thought about Betty Jo and that scoundrel she ran off with. I really liked Hank.
And so, just now, a guy selling Spare Change, the "homeless" newspaper, called me "Red". "Hey Red, help the homeless?" Well, he had me at "Red". I bought the paper, and gave him a dollar tip, in honor of Hank and Charlie, and the few really NICE men in my life who have made me feel special in a really lovely, warm kind way.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Snarky Blog--Don't Read This if You are in a Good Mood!
Every time someone is executed in this country, I am sickened. Remember Rwanda? That country has abolished capital punishment, but the United States, alone amongst "Western Industrial" nations, continues to allow capital punishment as a state-by-state mandate. And in cases of federal law, states without capital punishment can sometimes be overruled by the feds. So the Washington DC sniper was put to death last week. Will it bring back the people killed? No. Just more blood spilled. So barbaric, really.
The US strikes me as such a medieval country in so many ways. Still running empire wars, enslaving the poor with impossibly low wages, denying health care to the less privileged, forcing poor young women to bear children they can never support (abortion access is NEVER an issue for the wealthy), handing over taxes to Corporate, Wall Street and Banker Kings, while about 15% of the country has no visible means of support, all the while claiming that "God wills it". Yeah. Sure.
OK next. Check the video of the woman who "accidentally" fell on the T tracks in Boston a few days ago. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P__S-OF0ezU
I hope someone who knows her is smart enough to realize she was actually "accidentally" trying to commit suicide, whether she realizes it or not, and gets her the help she needs. First, she goes to the corner where the train will first enter the station (greatest impact area). Then, she lights a cigarette ("casual"). The she looks down the track to see if the train is coming. Then, she doesn't just "stumble" onto the tracks, for goddess's sake! She JUMPS/stumbles (looks like part of her does NOT want to die, YAY). And to me, it looks like she intentionally touched the 3rd rail with her foot, maybe figuring it would knock her out so she wouldn't feel so much the impact of the train. Yes all of this could also be just a "drunken accident". But she admitted to having drunk FOUR TWENTY-TWO OUNCE beers in a couple of hours. WHY?
I knew a teenager in Montreal who committed suicide in exactly this manner, except that she was hopped up on psych meds and not juiced. After spending about 8 months at the loony bin for extreme manic-depression and NO ONE being able to figure out why this smart, beautiful 16 year old was so messed up, she was doped up on meds and sent home. Home to the father who had been sexually abusing her for years. A month later she jumped in front of a train. She died, and no one, least of all her father (or so he claimed, to the media), understood what had led her to such desperation.
Next comment: WHY the hell is it that almost every frickin (and by the way, this is NOT a polite word--it comes from "frigging" which means self-pleasuring, as I learned from Irish-Canadians I met in Eastern Canada; "fricking" or "freakin" is just a couched Americanization) time I sit down inside Au Bon Pain to work on photos, someone (usually male) decides to slam the back of his chair into mine. It's not as if I'm invisible. Or maybe that's what the message is--"You SHOULD be invisible" as in, get outta my space, you female encroacher, you.
Reference for "frig": http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/frig
Next comment: I still hate my roommate. He is so arrogant, condescending and passive-aggressive. I hate it when I hate a roommate. He is not so horrible that I have to kick him out, but I hate feeling like I just CAN'T WAIT til he leaves. Really hate it. And sure, I can try to talk to him, but he won't get it. Just like he doesn't get why I don't want him using my personal bath soap. Yuck!
Finally (not really, but I can only snark so much before it tires even me out): why is that I have met many a man who was initially SO ATTRACTED to me, for my red hair and feisty attitude, and then the second or third order of business (after meeting and charming me) is to try to get me "Under Control"? WHY IS THAT? Something else I just hate. Oh, it can take many forms. Sometimes very coarse, such as quick anger and jealousy. Other times more subtle, such as abruptly rescheduling appointments, or revealing a hidden addiction and insisting I be the rescuer, or being extremely secretive, or “juggling” a few women at once. The hook, of course, is that I, being the female, should not complain, pry, demand, get pissed or have a damn fit, even if I feel like it. Why is that? Why take something wild and crazy (which you LOVE for being wild and crazy) and try to tame the very thing you love? I don’t get it.
The US strikes me as such a medieval country in so many ways. Still running empire wars, enslaving the poor with impossibly low wages, denying health care to the less privileged, forcing poor young women to bear children they can never support (abortion access is NEVER an issue for the wealthy), handing over taxes to Corporate, Wall Street and Banker Kings, while about 15% of the country has no visible means of support, all the while claiming that "God wills it". Yeah. Sure.
OK next. Check the video of the woman who "accidentally" fell on the T tracks in Boston a few days ago. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P__S-OF0ezU
I hope someone who knows her is smart enough to realize she was actually "accidentally" trying to commit suicide, whether she realizes it or not, and gets her the help she needs. First, she goes to the corner where the train will first enter the station (greatest impact area). Then, she lights a cigarette ("casual"). The she looks down the track to see if the train is coming. Then, she doesn't just "stumble" onto the tracks, for goddess's sake! She JUMPS/stumbles (looks like part of her does NOT want to die, YAY). And to me, it looks like she intentionally touched the 3rd rail with her foot, maybe figuring it would knock her out so she wouldn't feel so much the impact of the train. Yes all of this could also be just a "drunken accident". But she admitted to having drunk FOUR TWENTY-TWO OUNCE beers in a couple of hours. WHY?
I knew a teenager in Montreal who committed suicide in exactly this manner, except that she was hopped up on psych meds and not juiced. After spending about 8 months at the loony bin for extreme manic-depression and NO ONE being able to figure out why this smart, beautiful 16 year old was so messed up, she was doped up on meds and sent home. Home to the father who had been sexually abusing her for years. A month later she jumped in front of a train. She died, and no one, least of all her father (or so he claimed, to the media), understood what had led her to such desperation.
Next comment: WHY the hell is it that almost every frickin (and by the way, this is NOT a polite word--it comes from "frigging" which means self-pleasuring, as I learned from Irish-Canadians I met in Eastern Canada; "fricking" or "freakin" is just a couched Americanization) time I sit down inside Au Bon Pain to work on photos, someone (usually male) decides to slam the back of his chair into mine. It's not as if I'm invisible. Or maybe that's what the message is--"You SHOULD be invisible" as in, get outta my space, you female encroacher, you.
Reference for "frig": http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/frig
Next comment: I still hate my roommate. He is so arrogant, condescending and passive-aggressive. I hate it when I hate a roommate. He is not so horrible that I have to kick him out, but I hate feeling like I just CAN'T WAIT til he leaves. Really hate it. And sure, I can try to talk to him, but he won't get it. Just like he doesn't get why I don't want him using my personal bath soap. Yuck!
Finally (not really, but I can only snark so much before it tires even me out): why is that I have met many a man who was initially SO ATTRACTED to me, for my red hair and feisty attitude, and then the second or third order of business (after meeting and charming me) is to try to get me "Under Control"? WHY IS THAT? Something else I just hate. Oh, it can take many forms. Sometimes very coarse, such as quick anger and jealousy. Other times more subtle, such as abruptly rescheduling appointments, or revealing a hidden addiction and insisting I be the rescuer, or being extremely secretive, or “juggling” a few women at once. The hook, of course, is that I, being the female, should not complain, pry, demand, get pissed or have a damn fit, even if I feel like it. Why is that? Why take something wild and crazy (which you LOVE for being wild and crazy) and try to tame the very thing you love? I don’t get it.
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