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.

ode to my next door neighbors' dog...

My whole life I thought I liked dogs but now I realize that I don't really. I realize that I view animals on a guilty until proven innocent basis (my policy for people as well).

Growing up in Mississippi, the dogs seemed much more likeable. Like the people, they have adopted a more mellow, easy-going way of life. There are bigger yards and more designated places for them to run wild.

I don't know what it is about the bay area but the dogs attitudes reflect those of the people. They seem slightly aggressive and, for the most part, unfriendly. I don't get it. They prance their dogs around like the hottest fashion accessories and flash you a dirty look when you so much as glance at the dogs. It is not the same in L.A. The people and the dogs were much more approachable. People would notice me looking at their dogs and do everything from nod in recognition to offer to let me pet their dogs.

Anyway... I digress... I hate my next door neighbors' dog. Is it the dogs fault? Not really... It is allowed to stay in the yard and bark continuously and aggressively all day. (literally, all day) My neighbors have a rather large family. I have counted at the very least six children, all nearly a year apart in age. The father only appears at barbecues and parties, while the mom only comes out of the house to do the occasional laundry or to scream horrible things to the unruly kids in Spanish. They have been living next door for over a year and the kids seem to be left to their own devices. The older two are relatively quiet. The oldest of the middle children likes to hide behind the fence and stare at me as I read/smoke/whatever. She thinks I can't see her but I could make out her coke bottle glasses from the thinnest space in the fence. The other two run rampant, screeching in babytalk gibberish and the newborn cries in a low-whine at all times. Needless to say, they are a very loud bunch.

Then about two months ago, they added yet another member to their already large, boisterous family; a young dog. It is hard to tell how old he is, as I have always seen him through a crack in the fence. He is obviously a chihuahua mix (about the size of one and with the disproportionately large ears). It is really out of control how much he barks... I mean, continually like a broken record. If anyone makes the slightest noise, he is immediately running as close to the source as possible, growling and yapping at it. As I have observed, no one barely pays attention to it, let alone brings it inside or scolds it.

What is wrong with these people? I understand that they don't discipline their kids so why do it for the dog but come on! I had a dog for over ten years. He was a basset hound and very prone to barking. I effectively disciplined him to the point where he barely barked at all inside and almost nonexistently outside. I know it can be done. My parents only allowed me to get my dog if I proved myself to be a responsable owner. To get my dog, I had to show that I could feed, walk and discipline it.

Don't get me wrong, I know barking for a dog is talking for us. I understand that people and other animals alike can get riled and express themselves vocally and I am not against that at all. It is the constant bark all day that I cannot take. Why did they get a dog in the first place? The mother is already at the end of her proverbial rope with the kids so why add a dog (possibly a puppy) to the mix?

Something has to be done about this...