To the women walking behind me today...

In the immortal words of Missy Elliott, "Haters I flip the bird." So that is what I am doing...

So I am going to class today, minding my own business, when these two women walking just far enough so I could hear their conversation decided to use me as a basis for a tirade against smokers.

It is my normal routine to light up a smoke before my several hour long class on my way from my parking space to the school building. People do not like smoking and they are especially intolerant here in California. I get it. It is smelly and gross. It is bad for your health and those around you and it very well may kill me one day. I realize the effects and try to be as courteous as I can with my vice. As I last checked there are no non-smoking signs in the parking lot.

So I see these women, one holding a small child. I deliberately walk way ahead of them because I do not approve of smoking around children. I always avoid smoking or go out of my way to keep it as far as possible for them. This was not even noticed by them. They saw my puff of smoke and went on a tirade about how smokers liberally litter their butts all over the ground and that it is not only an "eyesore" but is gross and disrespectful. The fat one sans child spouted her theory that smoking kills all the necessary brain cells because all smokers are stupid. The other wholeheartedly agreed.

It is fine to talk trash. People do it all the time. People diss smokers and we deserve it a lot of the time. But come on! Having an overly loud performance conversation about me when I am trying my best to shelter your child from the smoke is just plain bitchy.

Your claims are partially true. There are a lot of butts on the ground and it is an "eyesore". Truthfully, there aren't enough public trash cans or ash receptacles and a lot of us get frustrated and toss them. Some smokers are just self-centered and lazy and treat the Earth like their personal dumping ground. Is that right? No. Littering is always wrong even if you know they will get swept up by someone later. Habitually polluting and dumping your butts anywhere you please is horrendous. A dog or kid could pick it up and they are not biodegradable. I can say that I and my friends that smoke do not do this. We will hold it until there is a trash can and throw it away. Other smokers do too. I have seen them. They even invent these cool things to put in your purse to hold onto the butts until you reach a trash can. (a favorite of mine)

You are right that smoking kills brain cells, at least according to BBC news. I will have to read up on the matter more but it makes sense. Smoking kills cells in the lung which are crucial for air exchange and the brain needs lots of oxygen to function. Your claim that all smokers are fools is unsubstantiated and wrong. Winston Churchill, Jack Kerouac, George Orwell, Edwin Hubble, Sigmund Freud and how about this one ALBERT EINSTEIN were all smokers. All of them were brilliant and smoked! I know for a fact that I am not stupid, either. Is starting smoking a bonehead move? Yes, it is highly addictive and will kill you. The word you are searching for is "self-destructive", not "stupid".

Next time you have a conversation for the sake of others hearing it, think about what you are saying. You did not make me feel bad about smoking. You made me angry with your stupidity and narrow-minded view of the world and sorry for your little girl. I hope her dad has some sense.

The undercover prodigy...

My grandmother, who I deemed Mimi as soon as I could speak, was, well, a bit of a ditz. She was like an over-grown child in many ways. She got excited about butterflies and plums falling from trees. Every time she left the house (a rare occurrence), it was like a new world. She always managed to be intrigued by something new. Even as a child, there were basic things I understood that she failed to. For example, she looked at one of those collapsable trailers and asked how people could fit in it. The thought of it changing size failed her.

Another example of that was when I was in second grade. She found out that I was a nerd with few friends. She sought to remedy that by putting a stick in my lunchbox in lieu of actual food. This stick, she wrote in a note, was a magic wand that I could use to impress the kids in my class by doing magic tricks. Her plan backfired. I became known as the kid with the "retarded grandma."

I wished for a grandmother like the ones in the movies: quaint little old ladies with blue hair who always offered cookies warm from the oven. Not one who would constantly try to feed me freezer burned steaks. I wanted a grandmother who would knit me cute little things for holidays, not one who smoked so many Winstons that all my gifts consisted of free Winston merchandise. Come on, a seven year old in a Winston windbreaker with matching coffee cup!

Because of all of this, I assumed that Mimi was a simpleton. I was constantly having to explain things to her and I was just a little kid. In contrast, my great grandmother, Nannie, was sharp as a razor in her eighties. While Mimi's head was in the clouds, Nannie's feet were planted firmly on the ground. Practical is the word that comes to mind when I think of her. She had boatloads of common sense, while her daughter seemed to have none.

One day, Nannie mentioned that Mimi had been Valedictorian of her high school and had the highest GPA in her college (she dropped out to get married). I sarcastically asked what school she went to. Nannie's eyes narrowed the way they always did before she got agitated. She replied that Mimi was her daughter and my grandmother and that I was never to condescend to her ever again.

I felt invalidated that my perception of my grandmother had been questioned but, more importantly, intrigued. Was it true? Was Mimi playing dumb all along? Was she a genius masquerading at as over-grown child? I had to know.

I investigated her bookshelves. Most titles were random, from romance to cookbooks to instructional guides on bird watching. I watched her closely. She continued to make silly remarks, not understand the gameshows I watched after school and chain smoke. It occurred to me that she was the accountant for Nannie's dress shop. I decided to test her by asking math problems. She knew the answers instantly. I came up with the toughest ones my young mind could think of and she still instantly knew them. I had found her talent. I immediately went to my mother and teachers and asked for the hardest math problems they could teach me, often involving many steps and a calculator. It still did not matter. She instantly knew the answer to any math problem I could think of without using so much as a pencil and paper.

I had to reevaluate my whole perception of intelligence. There was my mother who was versatile in her learning and fast at picking up on anything. There was Nannie, who had amazing instincts with business. There was my aunt, who was incredibly creative and an amazing writer. All of these people carried themselves with wit and cleverness. Then there was Mimi, so brilliant at mathematics but so incapable of understanding basic things. Maybe it was that she did not like basic things. She liked light and magic. She liked being in a constant state of childlike wonder. It made her happy and sheltered her from the harsh reality of adulthood. I couldn't quite grasp it until years to come. Truth and knowing things for certain has always been so important to me that I just could not get someone who wanted to be blissfully ignorant.

I wish I had treated her like I understood. I was not always the nicest grandchild but she always treated me as if I were the most special amazing person alive. That was the thing about Mimi: she always saw the beauty in people and life. She always genuinely wished all of her loved ones well in the truest way possible. She loved anyone we loved because we were so great to her anyone we liked had to be amazing.

I hate that I wished for another grandmother so many times. I was so busy trying to fit into "normal" that I was unaccepting. Mimi's quirks were beautiful. The way she talked in such a faint voice and sung in a deep alto. Her enthusiasm for doing anything and everything. Her willingness to see new things and party so hard in her seventies that she made my twenties look tame. Her absolutely terrible presents. The way she always posed for a picture with her arms slightly bent at her sides like a mannequin. The way she hit on young waiters until her dying day. The collapsible red sun hat she always wore... Why did I want a boring old normal grandmother when I had Mimi?

I hope she knew how much I loved her when she passed away a few years ago. I hope she knew that I would never change a single thing about her.

In-A-Gadda-Da-What?

I recently reflected on the ridiculousness of this classic '60 rock anthem. The lyrics are at the level of a third grader. I don't claim to know about instrumentation but it seems a wee bit repetitive.

Okay, when I was a little kid I liked it. I liked it for the same simplicity I am chastising it for now. When I was older, the malevolent guitar appealed to me. While the lyrics were simple and romantic, it suggested something a little sinister. But do we really need something varying from nine to, sometimes, fifteen minutes of the same repetition?

Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Wah Wah Wah Wah... Over and over... Again and again...

Stoners can't get enough of it. I guess that is the demographic. Years ago, I sat- the only sober one- in a smoke-filled basement while my best friend expounded on how deep the song was. She took a long hit from a joint, shook her head and told me her version of how the song was born:

"So they were recording... Iron Butterfly, man.... And the lead singer was supposed to sing ' In the Garden of Eden' but he was so fucked up. He'd been doing bong hits all day waiting to record. He couldn't say it, man. And they just jammed. This is the essence of love and weed and just having a good time."

I turned a skeptical eye to her. She was beginning to sound like those people on Woodstock documentaries. The funny thing was that she was a poet and had written far more advanced things years ago. I looked at all the other burn outs and they basked in the repetitive rhythm, swaying with their eyes closed. I was reminded of myself as a kid. Are potheads reduced to kids, liking repetition and simplicity?

Maybe I need to be of a different mindset or live in a different time. I dunno... No amount of drugs has made me get the appeal of that song.