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.

The First Commandment

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, you know.

Funky? Oh, I Thought You Said Frumpy!

I realized something today, as I walked from my car to work. (Okay, I actually realized it a long time ago, and I haven't gotten around to posting it until now, but I know you'll forgive me for it.) So the thing I realized was this: I don't belong in New York. A woman in her mid 40's walked by me wearing turquoise jeggings tucked into black riding boots, a huge slap in the face kind of reminder: you don't belong in New York. All the people I pass are ridiculously fashionable; even the dour-looking, struggling actor-types with a permanent scowl wear their black jeans and long T-shirts in New York style, their vacant eyes staring straight ahead, walking that weird model walk. Kind of creeps me out a little.

Me? Today I'm wearing jeans I think I bought in college -- that would be the late 90's -- so they're baggy, wearing thin in places, and are that color that fell out of favor in fashion circles in the late 90's. You know what I mean, admit it, you had 5 pairs of them. Sneakers (at least those are Adidas), a T-shirt that's too big, and I'm carrying my lunch in a plastic Stop & Shop bag. That might fly in Ruston, Louisiana, but not here.

Maybe if I made an effort. It's just that usually I'm running late. Actually, I'm on time, which is late in NYC time, because you have to factor in an extra 15-20 to navigate the maze of asshole drivers that makes up Manhattan, plus time to park, so yeah today I was 30 minutes late. Remind me to take the train on Saturdays from now on. So moral of the story: I'm running late, and I don't have time. I usually come to work dressed in what would be considered my Sunday Best in Ruston, Louisiana; hair air-dried because I didn't have time to blow dry it after my shower, and dammit you're lucky I even took a shower, and maybe some mascara. At least it's not blue mascara. Wait, what? Blue mascara is back in? Aw hell. I need a stylist.

Apparently I Am the Little Engine That Could. Who Knew?

My life pretty much derailed in January. And just when I thought that maybe it was kinda back on track, the bridge was out, and that whole sucker went right off the cliff. Engineer was critically injured, engine was totaled, and the passengers, well, let's just say they're not sure they want to hop back on the Express.

There is an up side to complete self-destruction, though. We can rebuild. Clearing away the wreckage allows us the opportunity to start over from scratch. We can use higher quality materials, oversee every brick and hammer stroke, and even use some new tools we may have picked up along the way. We have the ability to do things better this time, to see just what went wrong, and hopefully, right those wrongs.

While I would never wish ruination on anyone, it is truly an amazing opportunity. But we've got to realize and accept that some passengers will never come back. They'll find easier ways to move forward; a different track, another train on which to load their baggage. Some things can never be repaired, some walls can never be rebuilt, and some wrongs can never be righted. 

But time marches on, and we've got schedules to keep, stops to make. All aboard!

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...

 

Things That Suck

No, not this.

This

And this

And a whole lotta this

Mother Nature may actually be a man, because somehow, she can find a way to ruin even the most beautiful of moments. 

Troubled Times

I am inspired. For the moment. So you, interweb stalkers, are going to suffer reap the benefits. Tonight I had meaningful conversations with two co-workers of mine. And they made me realize what a loser I am for wasting my talents. More about them later.


My grandmother comes to visit me, pretty often lately, I'd say, although I can't be sure because I can't see her. She died in 1990. But she is around; I have felt her presence with me, have even felt her arm around my shoulders when things got really bad. She stays around because she is worried about me. I was her first grandchild, and she was my best friend. She was always there, often taking the brunt of the storm that often raged in our house. I was lost when she died. Empty. And so she comes to me. She may be here now, and I think she is, but I can't be absolutely sure. I can't see her, although someone in my family can. Actually, 2 people can. Monster is one of them.


I spent quite some time last weekend talking about Mom-mom with my step-father, Wolf, who can also see her. She hadn't been around in some time, he said. I asked Monster where Mom-mom was, and she shrugged and said "Mom-mom not here". An expected response, I suppose. But I guess Mom-mom's ears were burning because she did come to us. Wolf asked Monster where Mom-mom was, and she said "Mom-mom is here now", and trailed her eyes around the room, watching Mom-mom move. Wolf spent a long time that night acting as translator for her, telling me things that he could not have known, observations only one who truly knows me could make. You may think I'm full of shit, but I'm not. Spirits do walk this earth, and the innocent, the very young, can see them. (As can Indians, apparently, because every damn Indian I know can see some weird shit that I can't) Monster can.


Later that night, as I tried to put her to bed, she refused to let me go. This is a child who loves to sleep. It was hours past her bed time, and yet she still called for me. I went in to the room, and she asked me to lie down with her. I asked her what was wrong. No answer. On a hunch, I asked if Mom-mom was here. She nodded, a slow, deliberate nod. I asked where Mom-mom was, and she said, very slowly, "I can see her". She pointed, but not to any definitive place. She made me lie next to her with my arm tucked around her until she fell asleep. This child never lets me do that. She saw Mom-mom, and she was unnerved by it. (Can't imagine why)


The point of my supernatural story, is that Mom-mom stays here because she is worried about me. She sees my troubles, my inner turmoil, and she watches over me. And for that I am grateful, although a little advice now and then would be nice. Being ubiquitous must have its perks. So she is here, now, because I am a complete mess. Even when I fix the external and change my life, what's inside does not. It's still a raging tempest of confusion and sorrow, and I cannot seem to find the tools (or the strength) to tame it.


Now, bring in the girls. One girl (I guess I should call her a woman, but she seems so young to me!), and intern, is 23, beautiful, intelligent, well educated, exceptionally nice, and loves the news. Loves it. She actually does research and tracks stories down -- a real News Hound. I really wasn't sure there were any in the biz anymore. But she loves what she is doing, and is excited every day. She wants to learn it all and do it all, all with her eyes on the prize: a reporting gig. I could see the excitement and passion in her eyes, and it made my heart hurt. I envied her her dreams. Another girl woman works part time there like I do, and just like me, her heart is not in it. But she's not letting that stop her. She has published a book. A book, people! An actual, honest-to-God book on the shelf in Barnes and Noble. She is also living her dream, and doing what she is passionate about. She put herself out there. Took classes, met people, shopped around for an agent, and she did it, by God! She goes in to work when they call her to make the money, and she makes it happen. I look at the passion and intensity of those dreams, and I wonder where mine went. Or if I ever had them at all. And if I did (directing and producing movies) did I let them slip away, let them get lost in that inner tempest that seems to devour every positive thing in my life? If I found the strength to pull myself up out of the dark, could I accomplish what I never dreamed I could? I'm looking for some advice. Some help. From this world or beyond.

Sometimes There Aren't Any Words

On Tuesday, September 1st, a friend of mine from high school was shot and killed. He was a police officer in our small home town in southern Delaware, killed in the line of duty. He was 29. He was a single dad. His little girl is 3.

This nightmare started with a shooting at the McDonald's in town. The McDonald's that is within sight of my childhood home. The McDonald's we rode our bikes to as children. Chad Spicer and his partner were trying to pull over a vehicle seen leaving the scene of that shooting. The officers chased the vehicle, eventually ramming their patrol car into the car to stop it. The driver got out and ran. A man in the back seat fired a single shot into the patrol car, shooting Chad in the face. The gunman ran, and Chad got out of the car to chase him, before collapsing on the ground. He died at the hospital. The other officer in the car --another friend, a total class clown -- Corporal Shawn Brittingham, was wounded by the bullet that killed Chad. The shooter was arrested and faces the death penalty for murder. Another man in the car was also arrested, while a third turned himself in today.

You cannot imagine the shock and devastation this horror has left in its wake. In a town of less than 5,000 people, the sorrow is palpable in the air. The entire town is in mourning; flags are at half staff, every official building in town (and some homes) are draped in black. More than 700 people attended a memorial service for Chad, and the townspeople have organized their own candlelight vigil tonight in Chad's honor. The first day of school is canceled for his funeral. The entire police department is on leave, for mandatory counseling. I won't lie, Chad and I were not close. We didn't hang out. He was 2 grades behind me in school. But I can guarantee if he saw me out somewhere he would recognize me. But this isn't just about him.

You may not know Chad, but you know 3-year old Aubrey. Yes, you do. In your mind's eye, can you see her inquisitive toddler eyes, so big and round? Her whispy little girl hair -- what color is your Aubrey's hair? -- tied up in a ponytail on top of her head. Can you see that beautiful little girl? I can. And my heart breaks into a million pieces. Her Daddy was her whole world. He was all she had, and some stupid motherfucker with a gun took him from her. That fucker robbed her. And the real tragedy, is that she doesn't understand. How do you tell a 3-year old that Daddy isn't coming home? She thinks he is still at work. Her grandmother has tried to explain he's not coming back, but she can't understand. How could she? She told a reporter, "My Daddy is with Jesus, but I still want to see him." How do you explain it to her? My heart aches every time I think of her. I have cried -- and will cry again -- for her.

Have you hugged your child today? When was the last time you spoke to your niece or nephew? Why don't you make that call now. Make plans to take your son or daughter to the park this weekend. Maybe a nice picnic or bike ride. Hell, just talk a walk after dinner. The time we spend with our children is precious, not only for us as parents, but for them. The memories you make with them now will carry them through. Memories are all that Aubrey has left now. I hope they are enough to help her through. (And I hope that motherfucker burns in hell )

Chad Spicer, August 23, 1980 - September 1, 2009

Because I Need All the Help I Can Get

Bring it!!

Things That Suck

This.

Don't see it? Look closer.

There, see that? The naked stalks, the brown, shriveled leaves. It's ghastly. And no, I am not a black-thumbed flora killer. I can grow anything. I grew Gerbera daisies without even trying. When I was 10, I cross-bred wild violets to create lovely white and purple flowers. Last year I ended up with about 50 pounds of tomatoes (or more). But I have met my match.

It's called late blight . Or as I affectionately refer to it, the mother effing black plague. It is the same fungus that caused the potato famine in Ireland in the 1800's, and forced all my Mic ancestors to leave the bonnie isle for the new world, where they would subsequently invent illegal sports betting and pub crawls. The black plague is highly contagious, and has spread virulently throughout the Northeast thanks to the shitty rainy weather all friggin summer, killing off tomato crops by the hundreds of thousands, including my 10 plants. Once it takes hold, nothing can stop it.  So the question is, do we immigrate to Mexico and become jumping bean granjero, or trek to Canada to become, uh, maple syrup farmers?

What is it With Jam Bands? Or, My Night at the Allman Brothers Concert

OK, before you get all up ins about taking it for granted, I had a good time. It was an excellent concert. I know I will never see 2 more talented guitarists than Warren Haynes and Derek Trucks on stage together (thanks to The Saint for pointing that out). I know I am lucky to have seen them. I am happy to say I have seen the Allman Brothers in concert. But, it's not me. I've learned, since meeting The Saint, that I don't like jam bands. Those are bands that play endlessly, just jamming with each other as if no one else was around, even though there are other people around, people that paid good money to hear the shit that's on the radio, dammit. Lyrics? Eh, maybe, if they feel like it. Mostly it's just guitarists playing with each other. Like Phish, or the Grateful Dead. (Although my real problem with the Dead is that they sound like a cat being sucked into a turbine engine)

I know it's about the music, man; it's about the feeling and the soul, man; it's about the way the music speaks to me, man...but it only says 'bathroom break' to me. I don't want to hear a bunch of guys jerk each other off on stage, musically speaking. (Or literally. Ew) I don't want to hear the 33-minute instrumental The Saint listens to at the gym as an encore. It's not even about the style of music. I've seen Government Mule a bunch of times, and I like a few songs I've heard from The Derek Trucks Band. I just don't like the endless guitar, the long, drawn out chords that go on forever and rarely ever resolve and sound like the musicians are conducting weird experiments and using the audience as guinea pigs. And most of the audience is so stoned they go along for the ride, even if it's long and repetitious.

There is music that speaks to me, music that can bring me to tears and fill me with absolute joy, but it ain't jam music. I'd rather go see Victor Calderone. (That's a trick. He's a DJ. I'd have to go to a club to see him, and I stand a better chance of dragging The Saint to see "Jersey Boys" than a nightclub) I'd rather see U2, who I hear are playing Giants Stadium in September. (hint hint!!) Snake River Conspiracy, The Crystal Method, Scorpio Rising, The Cure, Jimmy Buffett, George Strait, to name a few. That music speaks to me. (Wow, is that not the most bizarre combination of musical styles?)

I'm sorry  Skydog. I hear you, but I just can't understand what you're trying to say.