We Are...[you decide]

This is the second time I have felt the absolute need to post about college football. I am a Miami Hurricane. I bleed orange and green (gross, I know). I understand those who bleed blue and white. I understand those who proudly fly their team's logo from their upstairs bedroom window, or on those stupid car window flags.

 Especially when the entire world seems to be spitting all over it and dragging it though the mud. We Are those who know what school pride truly is. We Are those who know what it means to spend hundreds on a trip "home", to scream yourself hoarse at the game, and to tear up when the band plays the alma mater. We Are those who hold our heads high even after the most devastating loss. We Are woven into the fabric of our schools. We Are an important part of its history, and it is an important part of ours.

Now is the time, my rival Nittany Lions, to show the world what We Are. I've read a lot about the disgusting events that have sullied your school's proud name, and I have been sickened. First by the allegations, and now by the actions of others. Or the reactions, I should say. I read a comment from a person who said the greatest person in the world to Penn State, Joe Paterno, was shat upon with utter disrespect. That made me want to scream and puke at the same time. How could you say something like that? How could you say you have school pride, and yet say the greatest person in the world to you is a man who passed the buck when he was told a boy was raped in his facility's shower? The on-campus facility he is responsible for? The man who didn't call 911 immediately? The man who told his boss, and what amounts to security guards (campus police), then walked away and forgot about it entirely?

Yes, Joepa did what he was legally required to do, but there is more to pride than that. Disrespect? He shat on all the children whose innocence was brutally stolen after he turned his back. Paterno was a great coach, maybe the greatest, and it's a shame his career has been sullied by this. But there are more important things than football. Those of us with school pride know this. Like integrity. Like morality. Like leadership. He showed those on the field. But when it really mattered, Joepa failed miserably.

And now the students are doing the same thing to their school. Rioting in the street? Throwing bottles at police?? Tipping over a news van??? I understand what it feels like to see the values you hold dear violated by those who are supposed to uphold them, to be embarrassed. I love my alma mater dearly. But you are not displaying school pride. You're sending a message that Penn State is made up of a bunch of kids who think football is more important than the lives of those children. Ask yourself, would anyone care if Paterno was a mediocre coach, who had been there for just a few years? Doubtful. The students are shitting on their school with utter disrespect. They are the ones spitting on their school logo and dragging it through the mud.

As a Hurricane, the Nittany Lions are my sworn enemy. But for now I put that aside, and I beg of you, you stupid Nittany Lions, to band together and show everyone exactly who We Are.

We Are hurting. We Are humiliated. We Are angry. And We Are standing behind the children 100%, even if it means turning our backs on the man we love so dearly. Because We Are more than that. We Are proud.

Go Canes!

Deathly blue September skies

It starts with the sky. It always starts with the sky. A particular shade of blue, wispy at the edges, yet with a kind of crispness to it. The weather always seems to match that sky, a perfect powder-blue temperature. And there it is. Curling around the edges of my mind, ethereal tendrils of anxious fear, whispering. I know this deathly beautiful sky, a mirror image of that stunningly perfect Tuesday morning. Ah yes, I remember you.

The fear always comes at the end of August, a yearly alarm clock, in case I've forgotten what month it is, and what lies ahead. It begins in my stomach, a cold, hard knot, and ascends ever-so-slightly, until by the 10th of September it's a barely-contained hysteria pushing at the back of my eyes. I'm weepy by now, constantly taking gasping breaths in a futile effort to hold back the tears that will eventually spill over.

Thank you for asking, but no, I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about. There aren't words, or actions, or even coherent thoughts to work through. There is only a feeling. A raw, visceral emotion that claws at my throat and eyes, something between terror and madness, something that sets every nerve in my body thrumming and threatens to burn me alive from the inside. It's how I felt.

I have flashbacks. I go back to the chair, the room, the images. I relive my frenzied panic, my screams, that animal urge to run. I hyperventilate and bury my face in my hands, rocking back and forth, just like before. Tears streaming; no, no, those poor people, please God, they're going to kill us all.

And then the ordered chaos of a buzzing newsroom, the only thing keeping me sane, even as explosions rocked our cameras in the field, our reporter ducking for cover. Authorities commandeering our chopper to get a better view of their burning five-sided fortress, now with a massive gaping wound, black smoke billowing as jet fuel burned. 

 A traffic camera on route 66, knocked on its side by the low-flying plane, showing the scene through a shattered lens. Reports of fires and explosions all over the District. The anchor, my friend, fighting back tears on the desk, a New York native watching his home town burn. The jumpers. We stopped showing them after a time, but they continued to jump. I watched countless fall to their deaths, nothing making sense except our singleness of purpose: tell the story.

In the days after, 12 hour shifts; midnight to noon for weeks. Bloodshot eyes and a desperate quiet in the station at night, the crew dozing in the control room, watching live images of the Pentagon burning, still burning. From the pile in New York, seeing the initial excitement, hurried movement among the firefighters as a discovery was made, then the visible slump of their shoulders when it was just another body. Over and over, body after body, covered in American flags, gently removed by an assembly line of the hopeful. I saw too many.

And the stories, the stories. A group of children on Flight 77 on a field trip; an entire Maryland family wiped out, including daughters Zoe and Dana, ages 8 and 3. Imaging their terror in the final moments of their short lives, their first airplane ride their last. Mommy, what's happening? Stories of phone calls and voicemails, eyewitness accounts, soundbites from survivors, and the bitter reality that death ruled the day.

I took breakdown breaks. I could only write so much, see so much, before I had to get up (calmly), go into the bathroom, and break down, slumping down the wall, hugging my knees on the floor and sobbing. Then, I (calmly) got up, blew my nose, composed myself, and returned to the torture of watching, over and over, body after body. The Pentagon burned for days.

And my shame. It follows me to this day. Shame that I watched this horror unfold from behind the safety of a camera lens. Shame that I could do nothing but cry; me, who lost nothing, not compared to those with flesh and blood losses. My loss is intangible, my trauma unseen; a thought, an idea, a feeling. I am invisibly scarred, and will shamefully hide those jagged wounds until death takes them from me, as it did so many others.

Ten years later, I still take breakdown breaks. The Pentagon still burns, the pile still smolders, seared into my mind by hundreds of gallons of jet fuel.
 
To the lost, I am so sorry. I pray I told your stories with respect, gave you the dignity you deserved in death. God give me the strength to continue to carry out this responsibility, to pass your legacies on to my 4-year-old child, and her children after her. To this end I endure my personal pain with a terrible honor, and will do so until the day I die.

Southern suns and sky blue water

As you may or may not know, my parents and I dumped about 100 grand into the University of Miami's coffers a number of years back, and I am proud to call myself an alumnus. You also may or may not know that the school is being lambasted in the media -- mainly sports media -- because of accusations levied by a career liar convicted felon. Goes by the name Nevin Shapiro. He was a Miami sports booster, donating money to the University, money that may have been funds from his Ponzi scheme. (Did I mention he's a convicted felon?) Now his allegations threaten to bring down one of the most storied football programs in the country, by virtue of the NCAA's so-called "death penalty".



I'm not here to say whether Shapiro's allegations are true or false. NCAA investigators will determine that. It's easy to think of these guys as pro players in miniature, but we're talking about 18 and 19 year old kids. You throw money in a kid's face, one who most likely came from a poor family who can't even pay the electric bill, living in a bad neighborhood (go spend some time in Miami's Overtown if you need a frame of reference here), and you expect that kid to walk away? I think this man preyed on young men who had big dreams. I am not saying these kids are completely blameless. But to kill an entire program because of the alleged actions of a few?


This hurts my heart more than you could possibly imagine. I am a Hurricane, a proud one, and I always will be. This stains the school I love and the 4 great years I spent there. What's getting lost in all of this are the students, the alumni, and the players themselves, those young men who actually do have big dreams.

There is something about college ball that is so much more than the game. It is about the love of your school, and the pride of being a part of something special. Whether ranked or unranked, Division 1 or Division 1AA, college teams mean something, they stand for something, because of the students and alumni they were built around. There is a power that comes from what each of us give to our school: a little piece of ourselves. Those years of joy and tears, disappointment and triumph. I am a part of the fabric of the University of Miami, as each of you are a part of your alma maters. We are a part of that proud history, as that proud history is a part of us, as well.

Top row, 2nd tuba from the left. Hi Mom!

I was a band geek, you know. Yes, I voluntarily put on an ugly polyester uniform in 110 degree heat and 98% humidity, just for the sheer joy of being a part of my school, my team. I will never forget my first game, running onto the field of the Orange Bowl as my heart pounded and butterflies filled my stomach, the crowd roaring. I remember those first notes I played, with all the breath I had in my lungs, as the hair on the back of my neck stood up, sweat pouring into my eyes. And the crowd, the crowd cheering and singing the fight songs as we played. I was so proud to be a part of that, something so much more than myself, something so special. Even though those uniforms were fugly and hot as hell.

My heart breaks for my alma mater and my team. But I tell you this: no matter what happens, I am and forever will be a Miami Hurricane, and I will wear that mantle proudly and enthusiastically, holding my head high; not so much because of what I left of myself in Coral Gables, but because of what UM left in me: Hurricane Pride.


Go Canes!

Fear and longing in New Jersey

Tonight is my last night in my current domicile. And while I am excited and happy, I am also sad and frightened. I wrote this in a journal, dated March 27, 2011:

"I don't have a real life. I live in limbo, stuck in space between reality and make-believe, truth and imagination, adulthood and childhood. It's not bad, it just isn't real. This isn't what my life is. At 33 I should have my own place, my own furniture, adult friends. But I don't. I live in a sorority house in central Jersey that could qualify as a TV show for MTV or Bravo. '7 addicts, all strangers, living together'. It's the surreal world. Sometimes I can't help but think this is not my life -- it's not sad or upsetting, just so different from what I one knew. Or perhaps, this is more real than my life before. This at least is honest, and raw, and uncensored. This is truth, this is reality. Perhaps the last 32 years were the dream state, phony. I don't know, but I don't think it matters. I am here, I am alive, and I am learning to live honestly, without fear or lies. I think that is reality. It is the truth, no matter how ugly, but that's what makes it so beautiful."

I am about to embark on the next leg of my new surreal life, and I am terrified. Not that I won't make it, but that I won't be able to rise to the challenge, that I will crumble into a million pieces, unable to be the woman and mother I need to be. I feel unsteady, caught once again, this time between my life as it is, and my life as it will be. I am so lonely. I am so afraid. I have detached myself from those I have come to love, and I miss them, even as I spend my last night among them. It's not as if I'm moving to Ohio, I'm still stuck in this God-forsaken state, just 50 miles north. It is more about how it feels to break away, to start all over again, again. I am afraid. And I am so lonely.

I paid $37 for a gallon of gas

I'm an awful driver. Have I mentioned that? I am also not the sharpest crayon in the box. One of the most colorful for sure, but not the sharpest. And while I can usually determine which way is up (that's North!), I often get turned sideways and end up lost a teensy bit disoriented. Especially at night. On the maze of highways that make up the New Jersey Turnpike system, where the almighty Exit reigns supreme, because if you miss yours, you've got 25 miles until you reach the next one. So you might as well settle in for a bitch-fest. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do bitch myself out, smartass.

A detour started this entire chain of events, I will have you know. A simple detour, that took me far, far away from the rest stop that would have provided the fuel that would have prevented this latest craptastrophy in my life. I ran out of gas, ok? Sortof. Almost. I mean, I would have. Probably. Fuck.

The gas light was on, and the little display that tells you how much further you can travel before endgame was showing the dreaded "- - - -". I took a chance and took the first Exit I came to, in the hopes I would happen upon a gas station. Instead I happened upon a mass of brake lights up and over a bridge into oblivion. This? Sucked. I had no idea where I was, no idea how long that bridge was, nor how much longer I could go before other drivers were attacking my crippled vehicle for scrap metal. (NJ drivers are mean, okay? Seriously) 

I eased out of traffic behind some construction cones -- the cause of said traffic snarl -- and called for help. Turns out I was on the NJTP. Even though I had exited the turnpike, I was somehow still on the turnpike, on some super-secret major Interstate. Whatever. I gave up trying to understand road rules a long time ago.

Waited patiently for the NJTP Savior of the Highway to come find me, which surprisingly only took about 30 minutes. Kudos there, Turnpike Authority. So, my Hero takes about 5 minutes putting gas in the tank, and when he's finished, what the hell, it's still on "- - - -". (Translation: you're fucked!) Turns out you only get a gallon, which was more than enough to get me to safety except oh yeah the next rest stop is 25 miles away.  (Oh, and by the way, I don't ever want to hear you bitch about gas prices, because I paid $37 for that guy to come out and give me a gallon of gas. Ergo, that gallon of gas cost 37 bucks)

Fortunately my Hero was well-versed in the secrets of the turnpike, and told me I could find a gas station on the other side of the bridge to oblivion. Easing back into traffic, after 70 yards, I notice a sign. Casciano Bridge. Ah shit. Let the bitch-fest begin. Are you fucking kidding me?!? I know exactly where I am! I totally could have made it over the bridge without assistance! Motherfuckingsonofabitch!! I just paid 37 bucks and wasted 45 minutes on a fucking road I drive every goddam day!

          . . . and so-on and so-on, until I reached my Exit, 24.3 miles later.

Something Stinks

I keep hearing about the Gas-out or Gas-off or No Gas Day (which I could really use around my house) or whatever the fuck angry SUV drivers are calling it. I'm trying to figure out how one day of people not gassing up their cars will make a difference. Even if you got every person in America to boycott gas stations Friday, what about Thursday? Saturday? And you aren't even hurting Big Greezy. You think oil companies care if you decline to partake of their magic Elixir of Wonder for one day? It may hurt the local gas station owners, but not Daddy Greezy.

Honestly peeps, I'm not sure we Americans have the fortitude to do what it takes to evoke change. I don't exactly see the entire city of Chicago participating in a general strike. I just can't envision the Wall Street barons of the world's financial capitol staying home for days on end, lounging unshaven and unshowered on their $5,000 baby seal-skin sofas in their Cantonese Jumping Spider-silk robes, scratching pimply asses while gnoshing on Beluga caviar and 24K gold-dusted truffles, flipping channels back and forth between The View and Glenn Beck. Remember when the entire city of Paris went apeshit in 2010 over the retirement age? I'm pretty sure all the cannabis in Paraguay couldn't motivate San Diegoans to block traffic and set fires. Unless those fires were Zippos sparking a doobie.

If you really want to bring down oil prices, invest in a nice skateboard. Some quality sneakers. Perhaps buy a horse. A buggy for those long trips. A hang glider would be helpful. Cover your roof in solar panels. Consider geothermal heating. Sadly, there is no way to reduce our dependency on foreign oil unless we reduce our dependency on oil, period. That requires the complete cooperation of the automobile manufacturers, electric companies, global corporations, politicians, and even Big Daddy Greezy.

Don't hold your breath. Unless, you know, it's taco day at the company cafeteria.

Highway Signs are Fun

...and please don't jump, because it will just be a big ol' hassle for everyone. And you really don't want that guilt now do you? I hear Pennsylvania has some bitchin' bridges, and they're named after important people! You want to be important, don't you? As important as Benjamin Franklin? I know you do. Thanks a bunch. Love you! (Mean it!)

Hugs & kisses,
The Delaware Memorial Bridge

You Know How I Feel About Hellholes

One of my favorite quips from the Simpsons is from Season 9, Episode 1, "The City of New York vs Homer Simpson," in which he describes this fair city as a hellhole.

Pothole on 67th. Close enough, anyway

Unless you want to lose a tire, you've got to swerve and weave like a drunken fool which shouldn't be too hard for any of you. On my early-morning drive to work, I find myself looking at the road instead of at what's around me. Semi-important stuff, like other cars, pedestrians, etc. I almost ran a light a few weeks ago because I was scanning the pavement ahead for a monster 7-incher I knew was coming up. (This is the only time a 7-incher is a bad thing)


Seriously, how many others -holes do I have to contend with on a daily basis? Now I have to watch for potholes, manholes, loopholes and assholes (usually on bikes).


I need a damn hidey-hole.

Note to self...stop being stupid



Is this thing on?

I was so tired at work yesterday. Some of you may know, I work unhappy hours, starting at 2am. That's in the morning. That sucks. Mondays are, as a result, difficult for me. This particular Monday, I was actually nodding off at my computer. One of those eyes rolling back head-bobbing yourself awake when your elbow slips. I may or may not have been drooling on the keyboard. Can't say for sure.

To remedy this situation, I decided to take a nap. Those 10-minute power naps are supposed to be good for you, invigorating or some such shit, right? 10 minutes, no biggie, no one would ask questions; maybe I went to drop a deuce or something. So I very responsibily set the alarm on my phone for 10 minutes and snuck into an empty edit room, laid down on the floor, (not the first newsroom floor I've slept on, but that's another story) and zonked out within 46 seconds.

I awoke some time later to the sound of conversation in the next edit room, feeling refreshed, yet wondering why I hadn't heard my alarm. Did I wake up early? A quick check of the phone and I had my answer. I set the alarm all right, but I keep my phone on silent at work, so it was a silent alarm. Sonofabitch mother effer Jesus crap! My silent alarm had been buzzing away for 30 minutes. 30 minutes! That is one serious deuce. I snuck back into the newsroom, slid into my chair, and was greeted with, "...are you feeling ok? I've been looking for you. You can go home if you're feeling sick, we're good."

Shit. At least I have co-workers who are sensitive to the implications of a 30-minute potty break.

In which I validate every stereotype about women drivers

Let me preface this by saying I am an awful driver. Truly. I speed, I weave, I shoot the gap...I am the penultimate aggressive driver. But, I am a very good bad driver. No really, I am.


I am not, however, a very bright individual. As evidenced by my adventure in ice driving. I'm rolling along, minding my own business, doing the highway hypnosis thing, and it starts snowing. I don't realize what's happening until I'm coming down a bridge overpass at 75mph, and the car starts wiggling. Damn it's windy, I think, until the rear end starts flailing around like a stipper on stage, and it dawns on me, I'm hydroplaning, on ice, on an overpass, at 75 miles an hour, with no control. Nice.


Again, I may be a bad driver, but I know my limitations. It's slow and steady for me the rest of the way home. I watch sporty little coupes fishtail by me, pumping their brakes. Uh huh, I think. You doucherocket. Serves you right. Approaching a traffic light, I begin the braking process waaaaaay early. But not early enough, it seems, as that bitch locked up tighter than a virgin in the back seat of her brother's best friend's Pinto. My turn to pump the brakes. Nuthin. Wonderful. I'm watching the light as it glides toward me, yellow going on red, and I'm damn near standing on the pedal in my 3-inch ankle boots. The car is freaking out, the ABS thrumming, as I slide gracefully to a stop in the middle of the intersection. It's quiet. It's cold. And I realize the car isn't running. Stalled. I turn the key, and yep, you guessed it, nuthin.


Let me just say, this has never happened to me before, breaking down in an unsafe location like the middle of an intersection on a busy highway. The phone calls commence. As I'm speaking to roadside assistance, which turns out, I am not signed up for, I look in my rearview and very calmly tell the woman, Hold on, I'm about to be rear-ended. I closed my eyes and braced myself as a BMW much like mine pulls a stunt just like mine and slides toward me, also unable to stop. Did you know you're supposed to call 911 when your shit is waving in the wind like that? I didn't, until that moment, when I realized holy shit this is an emergency.


Dude didn't hit my car, but I had to change my pants, it was that close. He actually had to back up several feet to get around me. At this point I called 911, and waited calmly until the 5-0 arrived. Shortly after that, the tow truck showed up. Apparently you get a lot faster tow service if you call 911 and tell them you're blocking traffic. It was 8 minutes, tops. I must now get out of the car, and step onto a thin sheet of ice covering the road, in my 3-inch patent-leather ankle booties. Not exactly weather-appropriate. I inch my way around the car, past the poor cop, who is standing there about to shit his pants because holy God it is slippery and cars are flying. He had to call in another cop to block his car, which was blocking my car. He was a cutie, too. Considered falling to get his attention, but realized I would likely shatter my ass-bone and sprain my wrist. Perfect end to a perfect evening.

Let's wrap this story up, because I'm tired of telling it. Next day, I call the tow yard and ask if they can tow the car to a service station. There is a pause on the other end of the line.

                             Tow guy: It started just fine.

                             Me: Really. The black one, stuck in the middle of US 1?

                             Tow guy: Yeah, picked it up myself around 1. Went out this morning, it started just fine.

                             Me: What in the hell...?

Another pause.

                   Tow guy: You didn't put it in park.

                              ** blink **

                            Me: Sonofabitch! I am an asshole!!

That little story cost me $90.43. I hope you enjoyed it. I accept PayPal and personal checks.