Turning trauma into creativity ...

So a Friday night some time ago I went out with my resident best friend, Super D. D is pure fun because she is open to almost anything and is, well, pretty much everything I am not. Standing 5'10" and weighing more than twice what I do we are physical opposites. She shares my brashness and brutal honesty but is much more vocal about it. Anyway, she is a lot of fun to hang out with whether we are watching movies, playing board games or just shooting the proverbial shit. It has been our tradition to go out once a week, usually to the Mallard, just to catch up on each other's lives and maybe try to find an adventure of sorts. Lately, however, D has been more vocal about her insecurity, often referring to herself as "fat or "unattractive" and insinuating that she cramps my style. This insecurity has influenced her into thinking that I am some kind of vamp that is irresistible to most men (I can only assure that I am far from that).

When Friday rolled around, D and I trekked to the Mallard after 9pm and with a decent amount of champagne coursing through our systems. As per usual, we ordered a mixed vodka drink and took our seat outside in the designated smoking area. We chatted for about thirty minutes before we were approached by someone who I will deem Q for this story.

Q could not be any taller than 5'7" and had a pudgy physique. A smile was firmly planted on his face for (nearly) the entire night. Q is a white-collar businessman who knows when to be professional and when to let loose, so to speak. Already drunk and swaggering in that way that drunk people do when they think they are looking sober, he approached our table and asked me for a light for his cigarette. This spawned a brief conversation before he asked to sit down. I, already, could not help but notice how instantly fond he was of D. From the moment he came over, he was completely taken with her. Qs friends appeared shortly thereafter. They will be known as B and J.
B is an attractive, young looking black male. He fondled a cue stick (clearly not belonging to the bar) all evening. He was incredibly polite and soft-spoken. He was mellow to the point of being slightly boring.

J was in his thirties and stood taller than Super D and was thick as a brick wall. He had dark, intense features which gave him a hard, brooding look. Although he sat still, his eyes darted around constantly.

We all chatted for a while in a friendly manner until I made mistake #1. I introduced D to B and J and got J's name wrong. This angered him. At first, he did not talk at all for a while but then his mood morphed into one of a total jerk. When Q asked my age, J said, "She's 26." He hit the nail directly on the the head. Then, he added that I looked about 30. This started a chain of insults flying from both directions. I would talk politely to Q and B and then J would say something mean to get my attention. I ignored him some of the time but mostly tossed cold remarks to him. At another point, he referred to me as being "chubby". I am not easy to offend but he was doing a crackerjack job of it. He said, "you're really gorgeous, though" shortly thereafter. Not taking him seriously, I said sarcastically "Yeah, right... So are you." Needless to say, he did not appreciate that.

J would occasionally get up and disappear for periods of time and then would return. This was fine with all of us. Poor D. She meets a guy that she is totally into and was totally into her and she had to deal with the stress of us fighting. It was nearly impossible to help myself, though. At this point, I had consumed two vodka drinks and some champagne which allowed my id to break down all the barriers of social graces I had. I could not let him get away with saying that stuff.

Q explained that J was only nice to the girls who he was not super attracted to and that he was verbally abusive to the ones he was. "Like a second grader?" I asked to which he replied "Yes exactly!" At another point, B took me aside and said the same thing.

All night, Q was cajoling us to go to the Sky Lounge because he preferred the atmosphere there. It was plain to see that D wanted to continue the flirtation as long as possible, as did Q. She was reluctant to leave the comfort of the bar and even more reluctant to go anywhere in a car with a drunk person at the wheel. Q told us to think it over after an Irish car bomb, which we all three chugged (D was the clear winner).

Meanwhile, B asked me to watch him play pool so I did. I could not help but notice that J was chatting up two girls behind me. Neither one was very attractive and one was morbidly obese. I could not help but feel better about the situation. I was "chubby" and there he was flirting with someone who was clearly the biggest girl in the room. J noticed my stare and came over to me. He said that we should go to the Sky Lounge. I said that I was not going anywhere until I finished watching B play, as promised. He said, "Oh, she likes the dark meat" and insisted on me watching him play.

Q and D were soon at my side discussing our next course of action. Angry that I was not watching him, J commented that I had "burnt hair". This is a true statement some of the time. I have kinky Jewish hair which I straighten, sometimes causing it to be frizzy. That night, however, it was straight as a board.

So we left the bar and took off for the Sky Lounge. There was one detour standing in our way. J had to let his beloved dogs out to do their business. Both dogs were quite friendly and nice but he was reluctant to show them off, pulling them out of the room and locking them in his yard. D told him that he should let us play with the dogs more and he quickly shot her down. I started to utter the words, "Come on" but he yelled before I could finish that we were scaring his dogs, that they were where they needed to be and if we did not like it we could "get the fuck out".

We promptly left the house and stood near the car, fully planning to leave the situation as soon as possible. I had finished nearly all of my cigarette by the time J came over to us, his puppy cradled in his arms. He apologized for his gruffness and explained that the the puppy is unnerved by strangers and that he was extra protective of him. This was a logical explanation (still, he could have made the point without swearing at us). Q played the negotiator card and tried to remedy the situation. He was quite good at it and was hard to say no to.

We gave J a second chance (mistake #2) and went with them to the Sky Lounge. As we were going inside, D whispered to me to please be nice to J. I begrudgingly granted her request. J bought me a beer and I chatted politely with him. I explained that I was a nerd and he enthusiastically said that he was one as well. We discussed everything comic books to Battlestar Galactica and managed to find some common ground. I remained polite but still moved away when he tried to hug me. He asked, "How much do you hate me right now?"

"On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being unbridled hatred and 1 being 'eh'? I would say that earlier it was a 6 but, after seeing you trying to pick up on all the ugliest girls at the bar, I realize that you are not mean but pathetic. So now you are a 2.5." As soon as the words escaped my lips, I was appalled that I had said it. The 2 vodka drinks, 2 beers and the Irish car bomb had officially brought out my true nasty side.

He asked what he could do to lower the number. I looked around the bar, immediately noticing the table of girls behind me. They were four young Latinas, obviously on a girls' night out. I nodded in their direction, "Tell them what you told me. You've said three incredibly mean things to me tonight. You called me old looking, chubby and said my hair was fried. Go tell them at least one of those things and I will think about letting you off the hook." I only said this because I thought I knew that he would not act on it. I was wrong.

He approached the table and said to the heaviest one, "Damn, your hair is fried! How old are you?"

I turned away, mortified that I had caused him to do that. I joined in D and Q's discussion, although I was not really listening. I was too busy feeling guilty about possibly hurting the girls' feelings.

All of a sudden, I hear a loud eruption of laughter from the table. I turned to see that he had not offended the girls at all. They were all laughing, hugging and talking excitedly. I was utterly stunned. This guy was the least charming person I had ever met and here he was charming a table of girls he had insulted.

Noticing my stare, he told me to come over. I declared that I did not respond to orders and then he led me by the elbow to the table.

"Oh my God. You're Lee, aren't you?" the prettiest one asked excitedly. "She IS pretty! J was talking all about you. He really likes you."

"He's a really nice guy. You should give him a chance." said the one he had initially insulted.

I shifted my stare of disbelief between the four enthusiastic young girls. "Do you know this guy?"

They explained that they had just met him when I sent him over there. One of the bartenders was watching this exchange. I pointed to J and asked if they were all friends. She shook her head, "No, I have never seen them in here before."

I could not hide how impressed I was. "You're really something" I nodded.

Just in time for last call, we all left for Q's house. I had not fully realized that was our destination until we turned up in the El Cerrito hills. We went in through the garage to his small kitchen. A tiny bathroom adjoined one side and a very large living room the other. Everything was immaculately clean and furnished with very modern furniture. We went into the living room. Noticing that I was checking out his large plasma television, Q turned it on to the Comedy Central roast of Pamela Anderson. I heard D commenting on a glass top table with several rather expensive ties laid out.

I saw J tying one around D's neck. I, in turn, grabbed one and went in the bathroom to attempt to tie it. J appeared behind me and volunteered to do it. Since he was very respectful with D, I nodded. He tied it loosely and then unzipped my shirt halfway to tuck it into my shirt, groping my right breast in the process. Instinctively, I spun around and slapped him rather hard. Due to the angle and height difference, I ended up hitting him in the jaw and ear. (mistake #3)

"Fuck!" he clutched his ear. "You hit me in the fucking ear! Argh! Fucking bitch!"

I cowered, slightly. I had not even thought about hitting him. It was literally an instinctive reaction to his groping me. This is one of the very few times I had ever hit anyone and the only time to someone that I did not know.

He leaned forward and began explaining emphatically, "All I wanted to do was tuck the tie in so you could see what it looked like! I was trying to make you look nice and you fucking hit me! I wasn't trying to touch you!"

I genuinely apologized profusely. Although he was out of line for being so forward, I should not have hit him so hard and, for that, I was sorry. I told him that I would not do it again.

Then it hit me that we were alone. Surely, Super D and Q would have responded to his shouting if they were around. Panic hit hard. I was in this tiny bathroom with an angry man well more than twice my size blocking the doorway. He placed his hands on my waist and began rubbing me. He nuzzled my neck with his face. Trying my best to play it cool, I made a move to the door. He pulled me close and kissed me. I quickly tried to get by but he pulled me back and kissed me again. My panic grew as I realized how he was able to pull me back with little effort. He was incredibly strong; much, much more so than me. In my drunken logic, if I acted unafraid and kissed him back, I could get out of there. So I reluctantly kissed him back and then edged past him into the living room.

I sat into a leather recliner and pretended to be engrossed in the television program. He asked to sit with me as he was sitting down and pulling me into his lap. I acted like I did not notice he was there, like I did not notice him kissing my neck or lightly rubbing my crotch. So then I tried to turn him off by acting crazy (It works with the homeless. I pretend to be talking agitatedly to myself and they leave me alone). I started saying that ducks had cute butts, that Canadian geese recorded our actions with government tracking devices and that I wanted to beat Jimmy Kimmel with a tire iron and then piss in his face. I don't mean any of this except for ducks having cute butts. (I guess this proved to be mistake #4) It was seeming to work. The more I went on, the more still he became.

"Would you really do that to someone you hated?" He solemnly asked.

"I don't know... Maybe..." I said offhandedly.

He sprung to his feet and began pacing behind the sofa next to the chair I was sitting in. I tried not to look at him overtly and did the best I could out of the corner of my eye. He grabbed D's purse and began frantically riffling through it. Protectively, I asked "What are you fucking doing? That's D's purse!"

His dark eyes focused on me, "Where are the fucking cigarettes?"

"D doesn't smoke, fool. She doesn't have any." Shit, why did I say it like that? Do I have a deathwish?

"Where are the fucking cigarettes?" He shook her purse in my direction.

"We smoked them all. There are none left." I lied. I was saving one for the end of the night just for myself.

He was growing more frantic and agitated by the second. "Where are the fucking cigarettes?"

"There's no more left-" Before I could finish saying this, he was by my side roughly grabbing the hair on the back of my head. He wrapped it around his hand and pulled not quite hard enough to pull it out but close.

"Th-th-there's one left that I was saving but that's it." I stuttered.

"Where are the fucking cigarettes?" His growing impatience gave his question a sing-song effect.

"If you asked nicely, I'd have given it to you." I dug myself deeper in the hole with that one. His grip tightened and he lightly shook my head. He repeated the question a fifth time to which I quickly answered, "It's in my bag."

"Where's it?"

"It's way over there. I'll go get it."

"Where's the fucking bag!?!"

At that point, I was more scared than I have been in a very long time. I had been in this situation many times before. Me and a friend meet two men. My friend and one of the guys hit it off and I get stuck in the awkward situation of being left alone with someone who I am not into. It is awkward but never a violent situation. They feel obligated or compelled to try to hit on me because the friends have hit is off so well. So, the try to put their arm around me and once they feel the rejection I am sending their way, they leave me to my own devices. Men have always treated me with a great deal of respect. Sure, a lot of them try to be forward and steal a feel or kiss but they have never forced anything (except once a very long time ago, which I will leave out of this story).

"I'll go get it for you." I sounded relatively calm in my own mind.

He pulled my head to the fly of his pants and rubbed my head there. I could feel the erect penis underneath on my cheekbone.

"Where's the fucking bag?" His voice turned slightly more calm. He leaned down and kissed me passionately. This went on for a minute before I slowly pulled away until my forehead was resting on his and out lips were an inch apart.

"Let me get it for you." I said as sweetly as I could muster. I pressed my luck by slowly rising to my feet, my hair still gripped in his hand. I kept my movements as fluid and calm as possible. He let go of my hair and ever so gently pushed me in the direction of the bag.

I carefully walked toward the bag at a slow enough pace so I could try to make a gameplan. I have read a lot of true crime books about serial rapists and killers and have entertained the notion of what I would do in the victim's case. I wanted to scream for D but I could not let him know that I felt threatened. If I did that, who knows what he would do. I had to get past him to get to the stairs leading to where Q and D were. I had to be fast because he could easily catch and restrain me. Once he had me cornered, I would be at his questionable mercy.

I looked over my shoulder as I opened the bag. He was watching me from where I had left him in the living room. I grabbed the all but empty pack, removing the last cigarette, and my lighter. I trepidaciously approached him, holding the filter of the cigarette out to him. His dark eyes bore into me. With a coy smile on my face, I placed it in his mouth. We stared at each other briefly before I made my move. I tossed the empty pack and the lighter on the floor. (The Kansas City shuffle: make them look one way and then go the other... Or at least that's what Lucky Number Slevin taught me...)

His eyes moved from mine to the pack and lighter as they were flying through the air. I dashed down the steps calling out for D.

"Just a minute-" Q said but they were meeting me in the hall within seconds. "What is going on?"

"D, we have to go. We gotta get out of here." My voice sounded like a stutter because I was hyperventilating from the severe anxiety.

"Okay." Super D did not even question why.

"He- he- he messed with me!"

Q said something I can not exactly remember. It was along the lines of, "Come on we are all having fun here."

My tone was grave, "He tried to mess with me."

I had a difficult time making out Q and D's faces in the dark hallway but I could tell that Q's constant smile had dropped into an open mouth of shock. In fact, he looked horrified.

"Is everything okay?" J's voice was behind me. I turned to see him carefully descending the stairs. It was not until much later that how drunk he was. He walked down them as carefully as a woman in her third trimester. The room was slightly illuminated from the lit cigarette he held.

D pushed me up the stairs at a rapid pace. She grabbed her bag from the couch while I did the same. She was at my side in the kitchen, ready to bolt out the door. I opened the door I thought we had entered in but it was a pantry. "Oh, no!" I shouted.

"No, it's this one!" D opened a coat closet. We exchanged glanced and then turned to what looked like the front door. We ran to it and dashed out of the house and down the street to an intersection. One of its corners was adorned with a large bush. We climbed behind it an called for a cab.

They did not come after us, nor have we seen them again.

I realize that I am pretty lucky. Nothing too bad happened in the scheme of things. I was not raped or physically violated. I cannot help but feel scared even now. It is like when someone broke into my car and stole my ipod. I was more freaked out about my personal space being infringed on.

D really proved herself to be an excellent friend. As soon as she realized that I was in trouble, she remedied the situation by getting us out of the house as quickly and calmly as possible

Looking back on the situation, I made a few mistakes and I was very cruel to him but did that warrant what he did to me? Plus, who is to say that he would have done worse. I really don't know. I know his name, where he works and where he lives. It would be immensely stupid to attack me with those circumstances. It was also obvious that his friend did not approve of what he had done. Would he just risk everything to rape me and certainly get caught?

Immediately, D noticed his rage and pointed it out. He was a loose cannon; getting so angry over such minor things. I should have known better than to test that. It was just so exciting to see Q's true affection for D that we both ignored several serious warning signs. Q was so accommodating and pleasant that we assumed that J was just simply an asshole, not a brute or much worse.

Bottom line: All the cliches about your instincts being right are true. When someone is having difficulty containing rage within minutes of meeting you, do not test them. Q, to this day, probably thinks that what made me run out of his house was J being as verbally nasty as he was all night and that is really sad. He thinks that he knows his friend but he probably never will.

To cheat or not to cheat...

I have always been a big cheater. It has to do with poor self esteem. I would set the bar low and go out with anyone who wasn't completely repulsive that liked me, all the while looking for the mythical "next best thing." I would, then, find someone else who liked me and ditch person A for the marginally better person B. The cycle would continue. I would slowly inch up the rungs of the ladder of acceptable males. A loser for someone less of a loser to a geek to a nerd to a misogynist to hot guy with severe emotional problems to someone so shy that they could not barely function but with a heart of gold and so on... I have done it gently and openly. I have lied and snuck around.

I'm not condoning my actions in any way. I don't like myself and never have. I have never felt attractive except for in fleeting moments through the perception of these poor guys. The more I am wanted, the more it is like an incredibly addictive drug. I've made out with so many people I barely liked just to feel attractive. A bad way to go about getting confidence, I know. It is a transient form of happiness and I am essentially using people as pawns. It is nasty behavior and whatever goes around comes around.

I am not here to talk about my shoddy behavior. I want to analyze the motivations of cheating. Are most people like me, looking to feel better about themselves? Are people love addicts? Do people have impulse control issues? Are cheaters bored with their significant other or looking for something they can't get at home? All are true and there are many more reasons that I am not mentioning.

People cheat and who do the cheated on blame? The other party, rather than their significant other. Why? Often, the other party is a stranger, someone who doesn't know or care about you. You are out of sight and, thus, out of their mind. They are doing what people do: meet someone and hook up with them, sometimes repeatedly. But there is an element of loose morals that goes along with that unless your significant other lied to them. They go along and do the morally wrong thing. They greedily take what they want and that is that. Is that villainy? No. It is inconsiderate to no end and selfish but a far cry from mass murder or pushing an old lady with a walker into traffic. It is the betrayal that your significant other committed that is what is wrong.

The reality is that it is harder to hate someone you love than someone you don't even know. It is easier to project all that hurt and anger onto a blank canvas than someone who has meant so much to you over the years. Out of sight out of mind.

But it doesn't work. Feelings have a way of catching up with you no matter how much you try to displace or bury them.

Hmph...

I am not a fan of gossip. It is not constructive to talk about and judge people without giving them a chance to defend themselves. But, then again, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I know I have a strong personality that attracts as well as puts off people. Because of this, I have had to deal with insults and disdain. That's all well and good. What is messed up, though, is when people post elaborate entries in their blog candidly discussing your life without telling you.

I am not talking about a post that is about me that does not mention my name, giving me some sense of anonymity. This dude did all but give my address and phone number. He talks about certain things being "fucked up." Hello? Take a look at what you are writing! You think because most of the things you say about me are kind of nice that it's okay? How would you feel if I blathered on about every aspect of you and your life for the world to see? Maybe you wouldn't care. Maybe I wouldn't care if you gave me some sort of heads up that you were going to post my dirty laundry on the world wide web. I know we aren't really talking anymore but come on! At least give me an alias.

You talk about being in love with me and me being great at all kinds of things. Fine, thank you. Glad you're a fan. I still don't like you using my name. You say my boyfriend is a douche bag. That's your prerogative but don't use his name. You say I am a submissive cow who wants an asshole patriarchal authoritarian to boss me around. I am sorry but not so surprised to hear that. Because I did not end up with you, that must be true.

How about this: stop feeling sorry for yourself! You always talk about how tragic your life is. You talk about never getting a chance with love. Neither is true. You grew up middle class and never wanted for the basic necessities. You were fed, clothed and had shelter. You always have had those things. You had the luxury of being very smart, so you got a great education. You have had interesting friends and interesting adventures. You have a wonderful, loyal pet who brightens up your life. Girls have loved you. You berate that love because it either wasn't the right kind of love or you did not love them back. That sucks. It really does. Some people never have anyone to love them and you have been loved by a few girls.

Do I think you've had the shit end of the stick? Yes. Do I think you have done absolutely nothing to deserve it? Not so much. You are kind and that kindness is often abused. You are the harbinger of your own misery. You fall for unavailable girls. You devote your life to the concept of love and have built it up so much that nothing can measure up.

I know that I am also a negative person. The "bright side of life" ain't my thing. There is a difference between negativity and melodrama. We've had this conversation before. I've said all of this to you. Your melodramatic outlook is toxic. It ruins relationships and blinds you from the things you have. You are a brilliant guy and this melodrama makes you seem like an angsty teenager who can't see past his self-centered perception. I'll shut up now. It won't make a difference at all.

I love you and I always will. I am just very irked.

Last Night's Dream

So last night I had the strangest dream. I don't know what it means, so I am recording it for later analysis.

I will tell one fact before I start recollecting the dream. My friend, Chance, was in it. Chance is, well, homophobic. That is important to know.

I was at this beach. It wasn't one of those sandy beaches that go on endlessly. It was a beach with hard, rocky cliffs. There was one stretch of beach that was flat and sandy but the people thought it impossible to get to. The water was often turbulent, flooding said beach and crashing against the high cliffs. On good days, the beach was accessible.

So people were building a bridge from the cliff to a giant rock where they planned to build steps leading to the stretch of beach. I watched the construction of the bridge a bit before I voiced my opinion. "Why are you building that bridge? When the tide is high, the water will obliterate it."

"Because we need a way to get to the beach." the foreman replied.

I pointed to the beach, "There is a way to get to the beach already. There is a path not too far from here."

The foreman shook his head, "The path you're talking about is too difficult. Only experienced hikers can walk it. We need a way to get to the beach that everyone can use."

This peaked my curiosity because I had taken the path numerous times before and it was not difficult. I decided to try it, bringing along my friend Chance who is far from athletic.

We started on the path and came across some people talking. One of the people was a young Antonio Banderas (not the celebrity himself but a guy who looked just like him). He started walking with us and told us that there was an ever faster way to get to the beach and that he would show us. Chance and he were talking a lot. I could feel the sexual chemistry going on between them. It was that strong.

We came upon a small cottage. He said that it belonged to him and the shortcut was through the house. I reluctantly entered the house along with him. He pointed to a window next to his bed and said if I went through the window I would find a better path that was a minute away from the beach. I proceeded with trepidation. It wasn't just that I did not like climbing out of his window. I knew it was not a practical path for people to take to the beach. He could not let everyone who wanted to go to the beach walk through his house. Sure enough, there was a path outside the window. He, Chance and I followed it to the beach.

I returned to the foreman and said that I had taken the path to the beach and that it was not too difficult.

The foreman nodded at a large group of school children behind him. "I tell you what, if you can make it to the beach in fifteen minutes or less I will improve the path so that will be the way to the beach. These kids need to go to the beach so hurry."

I took off, jogging towards the path. Chance and Antonio Banderas lookalike followed me. I told him that I would have to take his shortcut to get to the beach on time. We got to his cottage and I made a beeline to the window.

"Ow!" cried a voice from the floor.

I looked down at a person sleeping on the floor that I had stepped on. I am not sure whether it was a man or woman but it had a very thick beard but was dressed like and sounded like a woman. Shocked, I took a step back.

Chance said she could not make it to the beach but I knew she was lying. She wanted to spend time with Antonio.

The bearded he/she looked at Chance longingly and sat next to her.

I took off through the window and made it to the beach in time. I waved to the foreman from down there and he acknowledged that he saw me.

I walked back, climbing through Antonio's window. Chance, Antonio and the he/she were having a threesome. I stared in astonishment. Chance looked horrified. I approached them and then Chance shook her head, looking like she wanted me to leave her alone. I left the cottage and returned to where the people were.

The foreman suggested I show the children the path to the beach. I was worried because the path was laden with sharp rocks but I led them anyway.

Next thing, me and the children are in a huge, lush, open field. They ran around playing while I just stood there.

"You abandoned me!" screamed Chance as she angrily walked toward me.

I told her that I thought she wanted the threesome because of the look she gave me. She screamed that I had ignored her getting raped and then pushed me. The force of the push sent me to the ground. As soon as I was back on my feet, she pushed me again. Next, she began slapping me around. She was so strong that I was being flung around like a rag doll.

And then I woke up. What does it all mean? I don't know yet. I will have to think about it more.

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.

The fascination with Devo...

There is something undeniably intriguing about Devo; their repetitive lyrics, the overbearing synthesizers, the kooky barking voices and of course the costumes. As a child, I was obsessed. My aunt played me some of their stuff and I enjoyed them but it was not until seeing the “Whip it” that I became a devotee (eek, pun not intended). They became the band I most wanted to play my birthday party and maybe adopt me and at least give me one of those red hats.

I wanted to be in Devo so badly that I learned all the lyrics, constructed a futuristic hat out of paper towel rolls and mastered Mark Mothersbaugh’s diction and mannerisms. I was missing one key element: a whip.

My father, an antique dealer, had a whip. It was not ideal. It was designed for horses for buggy driver. It was stiff at the end and significantly taller than three year-old me. (The video was in syndication a long time, for the record. I am in my twenties.) The last few feet of it were loose and, well, whip like.

I would go outside and play Indiana Jones with it and never manage to hurt anyone, myself included. That involved mostly whipping carves into trees and soda cans off of the back deck. Devo gave me a new idea: whipping clothes off of people. That idea was shot down immediately.

The idea that followed was whipping a cigarette out of a person’s mouth. My father smoked at the time and I began begging him to let me try. He quickly denied me. I told him I had practiced and had gotten my precision down. That was probably false. I was only three. What sensible person would let a three year-old whip a cigarette out of their mouth? I would offer him incentives like doing well in school and not bothering him. The answer was still, “No. The whip is bigger than you are. I will not let you hit me in the face with it!” Promises and assurances followed these words. No go.

My grandmother, Mimi (I will talk about her a lot more later) was the only other potential candidate. She smoked and was kooky and up for anything. I asked her if she would let someone whip a cigarette out of her mouth if they knew what they were doing. She cocked her head to the side, which usually indicated momentary thought.

“I suppose.” She replied in her airy Southern voice.

“Suppose, I knew how to use a whip pretty well. Would you let me do it?” I trembled with anticipation.

Again, she cocked her head to the side and was silent slightly longer than longer. “I would.”

I took this conversation as a formal contract and made plans. As I was going over to my great grandmother’s, I tried to hide the whip unsuccessfully. Think of a three year-old with a four foot whip behind her back.

My father instantly saw this, “What ARE you doing?”

Lying failed me so I told the truth, “I was bringing it to Mimi’s house.”

He snatched it out of my hand, “No, you are not going to hit my mother in the face with a whip. Give me that!”

It is rare that I say this but my dad was right. I was not master enough to whip a cigarette out of either of their mouths. I probably still can’t. It makes for comic fodder though.

As always, I will still rock it out Devo Style and maybe learn how to use a whip. It seems like one hell of a cool party trick.

Spokes in my craw

There is nothing I enjoy more on a stressful day than to go for a walk around Midtown. I love to watch the trees changing colors and losing leaves. I love the various dog walkers and their curious pooches, sniffing everything in sight. I love the craggy old men stumbling along, lost in thought. Most of all, I love going to Sutter's Fort and feeding the ducks who are always ecstatic to see me. That short walk is the perfect de-stressor to life and can elevate my day from so-so to good. The only thing that majorly detracts from this is the bicyclists.

First of all, I would like to state clearly that I have the utmost respect for those choosing walking, bicycling and using public transportation in lieu of driving a car. Gas lately, has been exorbitantly expensive plus the exhaust from cars is a major pollutant. The car symbolizes independence for the individual. Having a car means you can go anywhere at any time you want and provides the security of your own personal escape route. Walking or riding a bike flips the middle finger to this contention. Pedestrians and cyclists also have the liberty of going wherever we want at any time (albeit at a slower pace) and we are not doing it at the expense of the environment.

I have no problem with responsible cyclists that ride in the bike lanes. Those of you reading are completely expempt from this complaint. I also give leeway to the parents teaching their children how to ride their bicycles sans training wheels on the sidewalk. I was a kid once and it took me a really long time to get it. If my mother had thrust me into a bike lane as training, I may very well not be writing this now. As an adult, I ride in the bike lanes and feel very anxious of the cars speeding behind me.

What I do have a problem with is the experienced cyclists crowding the sidewarlk for the pedestrians. It is a common occurance that I see a group of pedestrians approaching a bicyclist going the opposite way. Rather than to give the pedestrians room, the cyclist flashes them a dirty look and whizzes past, nearly hitting them.

The sense of entitlement these cyclists have is inexcuseable. Most of Midtown has very nice, clearly defined bike lanes for them. I understand that the sidewalk is roomy and inviting for the cyclists and I understand that being in traffic with cars is daunting, to say the least. Drivers can be unpredicatble and pull into the bike lane to double park, causing the cyclist to halt or be forced on the sidewalk for safety.

I have also witnessed experienced cyclists whipping past the eldery using walkers around Sutter Hospital on numerous occasions. This confused the elderly. It often led them to comment to me about how rude it was to ride on the sidewalk when they had bike lanes. I have seen the same with parents holding the hands of toddlers, already unsteady on their feet. The cyclists whriled past the toddlers with barely any room between them and sped away. Toddlers are unpredictable. Who is to say that one might move over to look at a flower in a yard. The cyclist would collide with him.

A friend of mine is a devoted cyclist. She treks well more than a mile to work every morning. When I brought up my concerns, she was equally outraged. She stated that she always followed the bike lanes to work. However, she pointed out that the bike lanes were not as nice as I perceived. She said that they were often polluted with leaves and debris as well as double parked cars. In spite of all of this, she followed the rules.

I encourage bicycling wholeheartedly. I just want you bicyclists to reevaluate your sense of entitlement to the sidewalks of Midtown. There are many pedestrians- some of us with disabilities- and we deserve respect. Those angry looks you flash us for being on your sidewalk are unwarranted. You think you're the shiz-nite because you're green. Well, pedestrians are green as you are and it is our sidewalk too.

On Beauty and Nothingness...

"It has done me no good; to be pretty... to be admired... I want to be different!" -- Eugenia "Angels and Insects"

When I was a girl no older than four, my distant father sat me down for a talk. It had been discovered that I was a genius of sorts and much hullabaloo was made about that. My father rarely talked to me at all, so I assumed the conversation would have something to do with the recent events. He leaned forward and motioned me to do the same. He told me that he was glad that there was something that I was good at. Not being a pretty girl, being a smart one made up for it.

Why did he feel the need to put his four year-old down? Was it because he really felt that way? Did he feel threatened by me and want to tear me down? I tried to tell myself that was the reason but the conversation called other things to my attention. For example, no members of my family, with the exception of my aunt Deedee, ever mentioned my appearance. They discussed others’ looks; i.e. “Your Aunt Neth was a great beauty.” They also went on about my being clever and amusing.

The children at school were worse. Some claimed I was “ugly” simply because my hair was black. They mostly called me fat, ugly, etc. I tried to get in their good graces by dressing in haute couture. I styled my hair in the most fashionable ways and they still ridiculed me.

Again, we can say that they felt threatened and preyed on my insecurities. Teachers made no secret about my success in academics and often pointed me out as an example, something I never wanted.

Over all these years I have given much obsession to the concept of beauty; being beautiful, becoming so. I assess the qualities I have and would at any time give them up to be beautiful. I know that my sense of humor and intelligence are rare and may make me “beautiful” to some. I don’t want that. I want the real head-turing deal. I know it fades. I know it is in the eye of the beholder. I don’t care. I want it.

Maybe I already have it. I see the way I get treated versus others and the better quality of treatment my friends receive when with me. I get sometimes double and triple takes. I have never been rejected or had an unsuccessful date (the humor helps). I get groped often. It usually happens in public places by men with kids. Talk about sleazy! I get hit in by parades of lowlifes. Is it because of my rare qualities? Am I pretty? Is it both?

I am different and all I really want is to be appreciated for my looks. Guess we want what we think we can’t attain.