A Few Thoughts

Well, Janey,

Your Husband seemed to be in better spirits today, although he complained bitterly about how father-son weekend at your kid's camp was lame (his word, not mine). And these words actually left his lips, "I would rather have been playing golf."

I heard from his assistant that he actually thought about NOT GOING. And instantly I flashed on your poor kid, sitting out activities because your husband couldn't be bothered to take two days to spend time with him. It was a very Rudolph image, and frankly I almost cried to think about it. Because then I looked down the road at your poor son having this memory of the year his dad didn't come to Father-Son weekend at camp because he wanted to play golf.

I just couldn't imagine a parent being so cruel. My parents, for all their shortcomings, at least got their asses into seats for band concerts and football games, and weren't afraid to tell me when they were proud of me (as well as making sure I knew that it was a tough world, and I was going to get my share of knocks). So my experience, I guess, was different. Then I thought about what my experience with Your Husband has been, and what I know about him, and realized that he just doesn't have the tools to NOT pass his upbringing on to his own son. He doesn't know that he can say, "My father was this way, but I don't have to be like him." The amazing thing to me is that more people than not just don't have the wherewithal to make that change.

It's actually no wonder your kid is the camp bully. Yes, I know about that, too. That you actually got calls from the camp director because your son is starting fights with the other kids.

To hear YH talk about it, the two of you do a fine job of hiding your problems from your kids. I dunno, starting fights with the other kids doesn't sound like the product of a happy home. I told him once that he should start saving for the Lifetime of Therapy Fund as well as the Bar Mitzvah. Sounds like you guys may need to start dipping into that a little early.

I'm so sorry your kid is on the way to being Fucked Up for Life. The poor thing never had a chance.

YH's week is about to get very, very bad. One of his employees confided to me that he has gotten a job offer from another company -- closer to home, more money, AND with benefits. And take it from me, because I know firsthand, this guy is seriously important to YH's little company.

Just wanted to warn you, Janey... the next few days are going to be pretty unpleasant, I imagine. And rest assured, it will be your fault, my fault, his assistant's fault...anyone's but his own.

I feel like I should settle in with a 32-ounce Coke and bucket of popcorn to watch the show.

Busy Weekend in Bushwick for the Grim Reaper

And I didn't even see Georgia Lass around the 'hood.

A 20-year old kid from across the street was killed on Wednesday in a motorcycle accident right in the neighborhood; he was just about to go into the police academy. And some other guy in the neighborhood apparently just dropped dead on the street a couple days later.

And Cracky Crackhead in my building just lives on.... and on.... and on. Just like a cockroach.

I guess the Reaper's obligations in Bushwick distracted him from the guy who was on the Today show this morning -- a first-time skydiver whose chute didn't open -- and he survived!

Weather today in the high country: 63 degrees and fair, with a high of 68 in the forecast. Not that many people were traveling in and out this weekend...

Today's Summer Songlist

As I crawl out of The Hole, I know I'm feeling better because the songs on my iTunes make me happy again. I've just been...i dunno, indifferent. That's one of the first signs of the impending blues for me -- when music doesn't lift my spirits on a cellular level.

Today, it's been summer songs that make me happy, that make me groove and bounce in my seat, and sing along with abandon. The thing I love about summer music is that it doesn't ask for too much. It's as if our vacation-mode minds, steeped in the humidity and heat, can't handle anything too deep, or heavy, or "important." Summer is the time when we switch from Johnnie Black and Guinness Stout to Grey Goose & tonic and hefeweisen. I want my summer songs to be fluffy. For now, give me something lightweight, music like a clean white tee shirt. These songs are the grilled cheese sandwich of the season, and I want Velveeta on Wonder Bread, not Brie on a baguette.

1. My Cherie Amour, Stevie Wonder -- one of my earliest memories is taking mom to the airport (back when going to the airport was still an event, not an ordeal) and waving goodbye to the Pan Am 747 from the observation deck at Greater Pitt as she flew halfway around the world to visit her family. This song was playing on the car radio as we drove home. Dad was taking care of us, so we ate a lot of hot dogs and baked beans while she was gone. He also took us to the Village Theater to see "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang," and we watched men land on the moon.

2. To Turn You On, Roxy Music -- "Avalon" is one of the most achingly beautiful records ever made, definitely a desert island disc for me. And Bryan Ferry yearns so in this song. Jerry Hall is an idiot.

3. The Thong Song, Sisqo -- Shut up. We're talking summer songs here, not delving into the meaning and depth of Proust. This song defined the summer of -- what was it? 1999? 2000? It's so bad it's good. I mean, just what does the lyric, "She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck, thighs like what, what, what, baby move your butt, butt, butt" mean, exactly? We may never know, but we sing along obediently, don't we? Plus, the kid could dance.

4. Roll with the Changes -- REO Speedwagon. Kevin Cronin is perhaps the least sexy man to ever play in a rock and roll band. But they played these songs with conviction, man. I can also play this on the guitar, which isn't saying much, since it's just A, D and G, but a beginner like me takes her satisfaction where she can get it.

5. Separate Ways -- Journey. What can I say? I'm a child of the 80's, and I love this song beyond reason. I play it when I'm driving, and something about it makes me go 90 mph.

6. Since U Been Gone -- Kelly Clarkson. I'll bet if you take a trip out to Long Island this summer, this will be the song that is blasting out of every single high school and college girl's daddy's car. Face it folks, this song is irresitably catchy and I just can't help doing the head bop when I hear it.

7. My Happy Ending -- Avril Lavigne. OK. This is crap, but it is some of the best-produced crap out there. And I'm of the opinion that once li'l Avril stops becoming "product" we'll actually get something great out of her. I mean, the girl can sing. Can YOU nail those octave swings when you sing along? That shit is hard to sing. Come on, sing along with me:
"You were EVerything, EVerything that I wanted..we were MEANT to be, supPOSED to be, but we lost it...." Plus, I love the way she enunciates the word "everything" so you hear all the syllables.

8. Entry number 8 has been deleted as of 8/17/05, due to the fact that I've finally accepted that the artist is a sociopath.

9. Take it Easy on Me -- Little River Band. I TOLD you, this is all about the fluff. But I do think Glenn Shorrock is one of the underappreciated pop voices of the 70's. I have to admit, I'm not wild about it once you get past the piano and vocal intro part -- it's one of those songs with a really promising start, but then those extra cheesy 70's guitars start and it kicks into a straight 4/4 and kinda gets boring. It's like that guy you love flirting with, but when it comes time to kiss him it's all formula.

10. Ah, Leah! -- Donnie Iris. Well, what can I say, he's a hometown boy and I love him. Saw him in concert in 1982. Don't be fooled by his nerdy Eugene Levy appearance -- in concert, he just rocked and rolled like he was Bruce Springsteen at the Meadowlands.

11. Don't Fear the Reaper -- Blue Oyster Cult. I've got a fever, and the only cure is more cowbell! Well, guess you had to catch that episode of SNL. But who doesn't recognize the riff immediately? If you've ever seen "The Stand," the miniseries based on Stephen King's book, they use this song to incredibly creepy effect as the background in the long, continuous shot that opens the series -- the camera pans over the dead employees at the government installation where the superflu "Captain Trips" has somehow escaped. Rent it, it's a good rainy Saturday's entertainment.

12. Good Times -- Tommy Lee. I'm on an all-junk-food musical diet this week, clearly. I find Tommy Lee skankily sexy. He looks like all those guys who were on my high school drum line whom I secretly lusted after but could never openly say I liked. They sat at the back of the band bus, smoked dope, drank, smoked and chewed. I, the angelic goody-two-shoes pom-pom girl, watched them from the corner of my eye while I did my homework and made sure the tassels on my boots were straight. I can't wait until next week when we get to see "Tommy Lee Goes to College." Sorry, I like my summer TV as fluffy as the music. This is a perfect amalgam of both, as it is the theme song for the show.

13. Papa Was a Rollin' Stone -- The Temptations. The bass line, man. The bass line. This is the first thing I'm going to learn after "Boogie Oogie Oogie" when I get a bass guitar. Isn't this the perfect song to play under a PBS documentary about the '77 blackout in New York City? Cut to footage of the residents of Bushwick rampaging down Broadway under the JMZ line. It makes me want to be cruising around Brooklyn in a 70's-era maroon Monte Carlo -- the one with the landau roof.

14. Groovy Train -- The Farm. It was the summer of 1992, I was dating Matt and lookin all Janine Turner and shit. Juliet was dating Pat, and we were hanging out a lot in that Times Square bar that is now a tourist trap. Matt had the convertible and Oh. My. God. That was a fun summer. This was the song.

And that's today's list. Next week it may be different. Or it may be a different theme. Who knows, but this sure was fun writing, and my god, I AM feeling better.

Blues in E

Don't ask me where that title comes from. It just sounds good for the mood, the weather, and the overall *bleh* that is suffusing everything lately. When I hear blues in E, I'm instantly transported to that funky-butt bar in the French Quarter on that steamy summer Friday night when some guy ran out into the street and grabbed me away from my friends, dragged me inside, and made me dance with him. Hot sweat is running down the back of my neck, but the sweat on the bottle of beer that finds its way into my hands is blissfully icy. I'm a little drunk and I dance with my eyes closed.

I swear, it's got to be this damn weather. I finally broke down and slept with the air conditioner last night, much to the cats' relief, and mine. I hate sleeping in air conditioning; I'm a huge fan of fresh air (though the air in our polluted little part of Brooklyn is questionable at best, what with the waste treatment plant, Newtown Creek, and the impending power plant) and can't stand sealed buildings and their recycled air. But last night, I just couldn't face the idea of powdering myself down like a chicken cutlet for the fryer before going to bed.

I did something last night I probably ought to have done last week when I felt these blues coming on; I spent the last five days feeling miserable and self-absorbed and by turns sad and angry. Basically, being human.

Then someone left an incredibly mean-spirited anonymous comment on my blog, which interestingly, seemed to mark the bounce point for me -- you know, you fall and fall and fall down the hole, and at some point you bounce. This poster actually did me a favor, because once I got over being annoyed, I actually started to feel better. So I went off to the nonprofit where I am a volunteer with a heart that was a little bit lighter...

Then after my volunteer stint, I got home and instead of "going unconscious" by turning on the television, I just sat. I sometimes forget how to be quietly alone with myself and just sit. We live in a society that is so conditioned to be stimulated all the time that most people don't know how to be with themselves. Particularly in New York, where the sensory input is there all the time, there is almost no place to escape it. So I've learned how to be okay with the stimuli that surround me, and not necessarily tune it out, but more to incorporate what is there without adding unnecessary "noise." Be it the television, the radio, a cheesy chick-lit novel -- they're all noise and ways of going unconscious.

So I sat. And sat some more. And tried to pay attention to what was going on. I thanked ego for playing this week, I thanked ego for its input, but realized that I don't have to believe anything it says (about me or anyone else). I thanked those who challenge my temper and make me angry, because those are the ones who are sometimes my greatest teachers. Not because I learn anything from what they have to say, but from observing my reaction to what they have to say. They are not pushing my buttons. I'm pushing my own buttons.

I reached for Cheri, as I usually do in times like this, and a couple of things I came upon resonated with me (and, I believe, contributed to me finally having a good night's sleep):

It's easy to love ourselves when we're being good and meeting our standards. The practice is to love ourselves when we're not.

Everytime you do something you disapprove of, instead of beating yourself -- "I shouldn't have done that" "I should change" "I always say the wrong thing" -- open your heart to compassion. This is the only "change" you need. After all, it's the parts of ourselves who are suffering who need our unconditional love.

"But how can I become a good person without disciplining myself?"

Remember, one process does not lead to another. Punishment does not lead to love. There is no "good person" outside of compassion. When we truly know this, when in the deepest part of our heart we find that compassion, we won't continue to disappoint ourselves...

In this practice we don't punish people -- internal or external -- because they don't meet our standards or because they don't do what we want them to do.

The practice is finding compassion no matter what.

From That Which You are Seeking is Causing You to Seek. Cheri Huber, 1990.

and this:

Projection, or How We Create The World We See

We experience the world the way we do because of who we are, not because of how it is. We project our thoughts, feelings, values, etc., onto everything. If we are unaware of this fact, we believe that what we see is true "out there."

Well, our projection at any given time might or might not be true for whatever we are projecting onto, BUT IT IS ALWAYS TRUE FOR THE PERSON SEEING IT. (Notice whose head it appeared in and whose mouth it came out of.)

Also, we tend to "give away" negative qualities and feel better, while we "give away" positive qualities and feel lacking.

Once you know that what you are experiencing is the result of how you are, of how you see the world, you will be less involved with trying to change the content of your experience.

You live in the world you have chosen.

Your world continues to be the same, not because that's the way the world is, but because you continue to make the same choices...

What you see is who you are.

Anything that happens could be experienced in millions of ways. What happens is not important. How we react to what happens is very important. It is not what we get that matters, it is what we do that matters. We can let go any time we are willing....

What is, is.

Many of us have learned to believe that we can improve ourselves by a very cruel system of self-rejection and abuse. We call this the "Building a Better World Through Hatred" school of thought. The slogan is, "You, too, can hate yourself into being a better person."

If you are hating, you are doing/being hatred. The only way to be loving is to love.

There is nothing real in the universe that requires you to hate. Nothing real expects you to punish, reject, or be cruel to yourself or anyone...

You will never learn to be a loving person through a process of hating.

Excerpts from The Key, And the Name of the Key is Willingness. Cheri Huber, 1984


Weather today in my mountain town: 58 degrees right now with a high of 67 in the forecast. Isolated thunderstorms. I loved the storms there -- they seemed so much more elemental at 10,000+ feet. Mambo wasn't loving them. Zack, full of ennui as usual, didn't give a shit.

And this was the view from outside my office

I looked at this every single day. Again, tell me why I came back?

Oh, right, because crazy people flew planes into buildings and killed a whole lot of people.

I love this photo

...because this is where I used to live. The driveway on the right used to be mine, before I decided to come back east. I know, I know, I ask myself the same question all the time.

Just why did I decide to come back to New York?

Today's weather in the mountains: 68 degrees, partly cloudy. Unusual for a place with more than 300 sunny days per year.

My Wish List

Dear Dickhead Asshat,

Start shopping. Or I start making you Google-able.

- iPod, the big one, not that crappy little $99 one
- Digital Camera
- Macintosh G5 with 20" monitor, dual processor and full graphics software package including Quark
- modular storage system for my closet room
- entry fees, airfare and hotel for me to participate in the Ride for the Roses.
- gift certificates for a year's worth of massages at Downtime Spa
- a new mountain bike for NYC commuting purposes
- diamond studs, minimum 1/2 carat each

And this is just the beginning. I'll keep updating as I see things I want.

Here's how I see it -- when your employee threatened to quit, thereby making your professional life uncomfortable, you came up with a great big fat raise for her.

This is just personal-discomfort avoidance for you.

Oh, and no more screwing in your office. Find a different place and make it good. Make it Soho-Grand good.

I want the dinners to start again. I really enjoyed the meals at Nobu, Peter Luger, Hanmura An, and Pearl Oyster Bar.

No more freebies.

Your Husband is a Huge Dick

Dear Jane,

Not "Your husband has a huge dick" -- he IS a huge dick. He seems to read it as "I can be a total dick and get away with it." I quote Jennifer Aniston (yeah, yeah, make fun of me, you culture snobs, I read Vanity Fair, get over it), "He seems to have a sensitivity chip missing." As if, because I don't complain about the way things are, it is okay for him to be a DICK. Because, clearly, if I don't complain, then it must mean that nothing will hurt my feelings, and that makes it okay to be a DICK.

He is a huge dick.

Dick
Dick
Dick
Dick
Dick
Dick

There.

I just needed to say the word "dick" a dozen or so times. I feel better now. Really, I do.

Self-hating behavior

They say the road to enlightenment is paved with awareness and compassion. I've been working really hard on the awareness part of that equation, but compassion (toward myself) has been a hard-fought battle.

I'm aware that when I feel bad about myself and what is going on in my life, I do things to punish or harm myself. That includes smoking too much, eating the wrong things, and doing things to reinforce my belief system about myself. Ah, the voice of self-hatred, it is so pernicious and strives so hard to live (ego wants to live and will fight against the idea of no-self with all its might).

This week it was sitting in my big chair and chain-smoking, brooding and procrastinating. Then I went for a haircut and looked at myself in the harsh, unflattering light of the David Ryan Salon (hello? David Ryan Salon? How about lights that make your customers feel good about how they look?) and saw me, fatter than I've been since I left college, with multiple chins and an unsightly roll of flab around my middle, and something in me said, "Well, how can I complete this unattractive picture?" And found the answer as the words left my lips, from my mouth to Roni's ears.... "Cut it all off."

So now I look like an overweight housewife, or the New York City equivalent, a fat dyke with a nightmare of a haircut. I did notice as soon as I walked in that Roni looked exceptionally thin and drawn, and seemed jumpy, and my first thought was that she was using -- then she told me that she and MG have been doing a lot of drugs lately. Great, if you want to punish yourself with a hair tragedy, get your hair cut by an off-the-wagon tweaker. Go ahead, do it.

Well, it's done, there's nothing I can do about it until it grows out.

And let's see, how many times did I eat McDonald's last week? Three? And I supersized everything. Self-hatred running amok, as I knew every bite I put in my mouth was poisonous. It didn't even taste good.

Then, let's see, on Saturday I decided to "take a nap" (aka "escape from life") and woke up 6 hours later at 10pm, so naturally couldn't get back to sleep. Tossed and turned until 2 or 3, laid in the dark and cried for no real reason, not even real, healing crying, but hot seeping tears of self-pity and overwhelming loneliness. I could feel them rolling down the sides of my face and dribbling into my ears until I got up and sat, chain-smoking again in the big chair, until 4:30am.

Finally double-dosed myself with Valerian and dropped off at 5:30 or so, only to be awakened at 9 by Mambo clamoring to be fed.

And no electricity in my kitchen -- somewhere between 4:30 and 9, the circuit overloaded and blew. Called Antonette and Mike came right over, but the problem is in the wires, not in the breaker box. Carlos came up with an outlet tester which revealed that I have something called a "hot-ground reversal."

So now let's add a potential electrical fire to my list of woes.

I Saw a Really Bad Accident on the L Train This Morning

A FASHION accident, that is.

Oh, honey, honey, honey....where do I begin to count the ways your outfit was just a tragedy? I'm sitting here wishing I had a camera phone so I could have taken a picture to demonstrate to my miniscule audience just what I saw.

The best I can do is describe the conglomeration of crap you were wearing this morning.

First, let me say, I did notice that you were very attractive -- as tall and slender as a model, with a lovely face, pretty hair, and very polite (you actually said "excuse me" to someone you bumped into as you walked by).

Then I got a good look at the outfit.

Interestingly, each piece, taken individually, was relatively inoffensive. But as a conglomerate, it was bad. And not just a little bad. Spectacularly bad. Cher-at-the-Oscars bad.

It didn't start out so bad but got progressively worse from the neck down --

1) A plain grape-colored form-fitting sleeveless top. Good for summer. Okay, nothing wrong so far.
2) A flippy little flowered skirt, one of those that rides a little low, so a teensy bit of your midriff was showing. Okay, you have a great body, you get a pass for that. Here's where the accident occurred, officer...
3) That flippy little flowered skirt was so short it barely covered your ass, which again, was okay, since you have a great figure, why not show it off.
4) Black stockings -- not pantyhose -- with the black garter-top showing below the hem of the skirt.
5) The stockings had seams down the back of the legs. Not just seams, but SILVER seams!
6) Then, on your feet were the high-heeled black floral brocade mary jane type shoes.
7) But I think the last nail in the fashion coffin was the oversized floral tapestry tote bag that looked like something Dame Edna would carry.

All I can say to you and to all those other women watching "Sex and the City" reruns on TBS is this: unless you have Patricia Field personally dressing you in the morning, cut it out. You aren't going to look like Carrie Bradshaw. You are just going to look like you are trying to look like Carrie Bradshaw, and it's just going to look pathetic. Oh, and that Sarah Jessica look is so over, by the way. She's moved on, so should you.

But in a way, your outfit was so bad, it kind of made my day.