Category Archives: Is This Interesting? Meh.

Don’t Shoot The Messenger

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Are you like me? Do you ever look around at the absurdly offensive, violent, ignorant people that seem to be swamping the earth with their irrational stupidity and think to yourself, “There is no way that I am genetically similar to these freaks. I must be a different species?” Do you ever get tired of it all? Does the futility of your existence pervade your chest cavity like tuberculosis? Do you ever feel like you can’t breath?

Are you like me? Infused with a righteous idealism that compels you to defend the weak and oppressed? Charged by a sense of empathy so strong that you can sometimes feel the frantic distress of the desperate and needy shiver up your spine like an icy electrical current?

Are you like me? Perfectly aware that all of your righteous indignation, your sense of right and wrong, your desire to protect the weak isn’t worth a bucket of spit, and you would gladly trade it all for a sense of purpose, self-confidence, and self-preservation that allowed you to climb to top of this pestilent rat king we call humanity?

Of course you are. If there is one thing I have learned from being a Facebook member, it’s that you love to share inspirational quotes. Quotes from the Bible to Rumi to Maya Angelou to Taylor Swift to Minions, all reminding you to Be Yourself and to Never Give Up because God Has A Purpose For You (Share If You Agree). If further proof was needed that most of us are hanging on by a thread, look no further than a typical Facebook feed. We are in constant need of reassurance that we are and will be okay. I can only surmise that is because for most of us it is extremely difficult to sustain a high level of confidence, so therefore we need to be frequently reminded that hope exists.

I don’t post those motivational quotes, though, so perhaps we’re not much alike, you and I. I despise them. Life is hard enough without being reminded that Casey Kasem wants me to “keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.” It doesn’t take a genius to realize that stars are unreachable, especially from ground level. I can’t even reach the platter on top of the refrigerator without at least reaching for a step stool. Shut up, Casey Kasem. I wish I could post more realistic quotes:

“Go Ahead, Overdose. If You Die While You’re Young, No One Will Discover What A Failure/Burden You Were Destined To Become In Your Old Age.”

“It Doesn’t Matter How Often You Exercise: He’s Still Going To Cheat On You.”

“Who Really Gives a Fuck?”

“No, Seriously. Who Really Gives a Fuck?”

I have so many problems that it’s difficult to list them all, but I think it’s safe to say that one of my biggest problems is that I think it is patently obvious, through both a review of history, our global connections, and our universally-held religious traditions that there is such a thing as Right vs. Wrong. No other belief has caused me more agonizing grief. I don’t know where I developed this sense, nor do I know how to escape it. I am perpetually tortured by it. Because, of course, no other belief of mine is so frequently abused by the anger-fueled sadists known collectively as My Fellow Man.

Please allow me to give you at least one example: Gun ownership. I think it is dangerous and futile. Unsurprisingly, this is not a popular viewpoint here in America. America has gun ownership baked into its constitution. It is one of the earliest rights explicitly granted to the new nation’s citizens. Americans were allowed to possess guns almost a century before black people were allowed to consider themselves human; over a century before women were allowed to vote. Americans feel that gun ownership is part of what makes America free. Americans, in other words, are bat-shit crazy about guns. I think this perspective is so wrong it should be classified as a mental defect. It is so blatantly wrong that it is difficult to know where to begin protesting against it. It’s so obviously dangerous and pointless that it turns you into a stammering idiot when you try to point out the irrationality of it.

Americans have a fetish with guns. They seem to think that the one(s) that they own are going to protect them from home invasion or government tyranny. They also seem to think that hunting animals is a vital and necessary aspect of human existence. They seem to think that, if civilization collapses that they will be able to survive on their hunting skills and wits alone. I would like to point out to those people that the original settlers in Virginia had guns and an entire untouched wilderness within arms reach, filled with what I can only imagine were millions more delicious animals than are currently present on these shores, but that didn’t prevent about eighty percent of them from starving to death anyway. Americans are obsessed with the delusion that they are “survivalists” and “rugged individualists,” when every step of human progress proves the exact opposite: Unless you’re an Inuit hunting on the fast melting permafrost to the north of me, (which, if you are, kudos on your strong internet signal. I assume that you are not a Comcast customer), you no longer need to hunt for survival. Just…no. Ssh. Stop. You may do it because you like stocking your freezer with venison, and you may even “use the entire carcass” thinking that makes you an actual Inuit but, no. It’s not even an economic issue. The poverty-stricken in this nation are not the ones hunting for food. There’s a reason you don’t see a bunch of people from the projects lugging deer carcasses home for dinner: They can’t afford it. If you can afford to go hunting, you can afford to go down to the Piggly Wiggly and buy chicken thighs at $2.99 a pound. You don’t kill deer out of necessity. You kill deer because you think it’s fun. It’s your hobby.

(While we’re on the subject: Can’t nature lovers figure out a way to “love nature” without killing the animals that live in it? Take a camera with you: Take pictures. Maybe pick up watercoloring instead of a hunting rifle. Just a thought.)

No one in America opposes gun ownership for the purpose of hunting. Again, they see it as a sacrosanct right, as American as it gets. Never mind that over 80% of Americans live in urban areas. When creating the Ideal American, he is a stoic, rugged individualist who hunts to keep his family fed.

I brought up hunters first because they are the protected class of gun-owning American. They are the good guys with guns, the responsible gun owners who love our nation and revere nature and who would never do anything stupid with a loaded weapon. They are, in other words, the ones who make gun control impossible in this nation. As long as we treat hunters reverentially, we will never be able to turn the tide against gun ownership. They are the umbrella under which every other class of gun owner can scurry. “If he can own a gun, then I should be able to as well.”

Which brings me back to the Constitution. As much as I am opposed to gun ownership, it’s baked into the second amendment. I can complain about it all I would like, but it is a fundamental right granted to our people.

A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

There’s nothing that irritates me more than arguing for the sake of arguing. I don’t argue against gun ownership because it’s fun to tussle with people who disagree with me. I do it because it’s fundamentally foolish and dangerous and it contributes absolutely nothing to the advancement of civilization, which I thought was the whole point of this ridiculous adventure we call Life. But gun ownership is a fundamental right, so what is the point of opposing it, if not to simply argue for argument’s sake?

“Why Fucking Bother?”

As I mentioned earlier, I am imprisoned by the belief in Right vs. Wrong. I believe that gun ownership is foolhardy, dangerous and wrong. And since I believe it is wrong despite the fact that it is a right granted by the Constitution, one of two things need to happen: either I need to change my viewpoint or the Constitution needs to be changed. So, clearly the Constitution needs to be amended. That will probably never happen, but we have to try. It is an impossible task unless the tide of public opinion is turned. And that won’t happen until an overwhelming majority of people realize how pointless and dangerous and stupid it is to own guns. So I have to keep arguing.

Are you like me? Does it bother you that Americans toddlers are shooting themselves and others on a regular basis? And, follow up question, if it doesn’t bother you, what the fuck is wrong with you? Lawn darts are banned in this country (and Canada). Four children died playing with them, and they’re banned. We lose four children a day in this country to guns. People shrug and say shit happens.

Americans are more wedded to the wild improbability that they will need their handgun to fend of a home invader or prevent governmental overreach than they are to the stark reality that the people getting killed by our guns are our own family members. Your distraught 18 year-old son is finding your gun and killing himself because his girlfriend broke up with him. You are killing your own child because they sneak back into your house while playing hookie and you think they’re a home invader. You are killing your eleven year-old nephew as he watches television as you clean your gun behind him. Your four year-old son is pulling your gun out of your purse and shooting you in the chest as you shop for groceries. These things are happening all across this country, right now. People shrug and say shit happens.

One of the most frustrating aspects of believing in Right vs. Wrong is how difficult it is to dispel myths. Myths underlie much of everything that is Wrong. People genuinely believe that  the .44 caliber handgun they own is going to protect them from criminals. No, it won’t. You will be caught by surprise by any invader, regardless of where your gun is. Oh, a few of you might not be caught flat-footed, but the vast majority of you will. In fact, it is more likely that the home invader will steal your gun than it is that you will use it against him. Not only that, but just how many home invasions do you think we endure here in America? You would think we live in a lawless hellscape to hear people talk about how important it is that they own guns. We’ve grown increasingly paranoid. We see danger lurking around every corner.

Another myth that Americans have convinced themselves is true is that we think we’re safer when we are all walking around armed. It isn’t true. Petty crime still happens; the difference now being is that random bystanders are now shooting shoplifters. Nothing screams “freedom!” like running the risk of being shot by a stray bullet in the Home Depot parking lot because Glen from accounting thinks he’s Dirty Harry. Can you please process what it happening? We are trying to kill people who are stealing power tools. Is this the country that gun-loving Americans demanded Obama give back to them? Do we have any respect for human life?

It eats away at me, does the collective stupidity of America. I know I’m not going to persuade anyone to change their mind by calling them stupid, but at least I’m not calling them retarded. Because it is ridiculously stupid (not to mention heartless) to look at all the suicides and preventable deaths that guns cause, shrug and say shit happens. It’s horrific that your first reaction upon hearing that twenty five year-olds are slaughtered in a school is to go out and buy the exact same gun used in the massacre.

Americans are also deluded by thinking they are going to stave off government tyranny with their gun collections. This delusion is so twisted that it is difficult for me to even grasp all the threads, but I’ll try. 1)Right now, militiamen in Oregon think they are being oppressed by a tyrannical government. 2)This, despite the fact that we have frequent, public and fair elections? 3)Yes. The elections are rigged. We are living in tyranny. 4)Hmm. Okay. Could you please give me an example of this so-called tyranny? 5)The federal government owns too much land. We want it back. 6)Government land equals public land. Doesn’t that mean you want to take land from the public and keep it for your own private use? 7)They don’t have the right to do it! 8)Do what? Own land? 9)Right. It’s tyranny and it’s unconstitutional. 10)So, the United States doesn’t have the right to…own the United States? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Even though that doesn’t make any goddamn sense no matter how I twist it? 11)Exactly. 12)Ah. I see. Well, shit, when you put it like that, where can I sign up?

I think of so many oppressive regimes that have occurred in history: Pinochet in Chile, Hitler in Germany, Ceaușescu in Romania, Stalin in Russia, Pol Pot in Cambodia. And, of course, Obama in the United States. Because YES HE IS A DICTATOR SHUT YER STUPID FAT FACE. I’m not trying to suggest that our government is perfect. Far from it. But we have free and open elections and we are still governed by the rule of law, which is the exact opposite of what “tyranny” means. However, people who are growing increasingly paranoid over the power of the government think the threat is real and that the end of the Republic is near. So, they stockpile weapons and become increasingly resistant to our democratically-elected government. They become more suspicious and more determined to oppose it. The people paranoid about government tyranny are becoming the very tyrants they purport to be protecting themselves against. They are fomenting a revolution. They are secessionists. They are unpatriotic. They are traitors.

But the Second Amendment tells them their gun collection is the only thing standing between them and tyranny.

Bear in mind: This is only one issue that causes me despair. We haven’t even touched on abortion, climate change, a living wage, universal healthcare or religion.

Are you like me? Christ, do I feel sorry for you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The State of The Music Business Is…*Buffering* *Buffering*

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According to David Byrne, the music business is in real long-term trouble. According to Taylor Swift, everything is awesome! David Byrne was born in 1952. Taylor Swift was manufactured in a secret underground lab, stitched together using castaway parts of rejected Nickelodeon/Disney Channel child stars, in 1989.* Your own age probably is the best indicator of which argument you agree with: I suspect the older generations see a bleak future for a business in its death knells, incapable of sustaining its business model as low-revenue streaming sites increase in popularity; meanwhile, I suspect the younger generations see an exciting future for music centered around the unlimited potential of the internet. Then again, since most of you have children and dogs and loving spouses and stressful jobs to focus on, maybe you haven’t given any thought whatsoever to the state of the music business. Maybe I’m all alone on this one. Because all I have are cats. And cats, as you know, are surprisingly low maintenance. Not having to take them outside to poop, to school or soccer practice, or give them obligatory blowjobs twice a month, (unless they’ve been very good about not vomiting on the carpet, which never happens), has given me an enormous amount of free time to think about the state of the music business on my own terms. If you would indulge me– although I’m no Taylor Swift!–I would like to take a brief moment to share what I think about all of this.

I was born in 1969, so I find myself about halfway between David Byrne’s generation and Taylor Swift’s, which is interesting, as I agree with parts of both of their arguments. (If you tell anyone I agree with Taylor Swift I will cut you.)

Please bear in mind that I am approaching this subject purely as a consumer. I am not a musician, I cannot sing, and the idea of writing poetry fills me with dread. In my early 20s, after a stint in the Navy, I briefly considered pursuing a career in radio or as a wedding deejay…but I quickly abandoned those dreams, as I saw that radio was a sleazy business, and there was no money to be made in deejaying gigs. If you would like to see a brief overview of my musical consumerism over the years, I have footnoted it at the end of this post.†

I absolutely agree that, with the increasing popularity of smartphones and streaming services, the music business is changing, and changing in dramatic, unsettling ways that will devastate some. But I do not think that the music industry itself will be destroyed. That is unfathomable to me. You might as well worry about destroying laughter or driving love into extinction simply by outlawing Valentine’s Day. It cannot be done. Music is the human condition. Music cannot be destroyed. It will always be created. The question at hand, the question that worries David Byrne is “Will people still be able to make a living at it?” And, to be honest, questions like that that kind of make me angry.

Let’s chat about that anger for a little bit, shall we?

I think we can all agree that artists of all types live in a strange economic universe. Take me, the non-artist, as a counter example. I am a payroll specialist by trade. That is how I makes my money. To paraphrase Dustin Hoffman, I’m an excellent payroll specialist. I am not the best in my field, but I’m fairly competent. I am professional and efficient and oh my God I am putting myself to sleep just typing this bullshit who gives a fuck I mean really. I make less than $50,000 a year. (I actually make a lot less than $50,000 a year, I’m just rounding up to be vague, as well as to give you the impression that I make $50,000 a year, which I don’t.) Even if I am the best payroll specialist in North Carolina, I am never going to make more than that. I am trapped, so to speak, by the economic limitations of my profession. I am also living the staid, corporate 9 to 5 existence…the one musicians mock as being soul-destroying. (If I had a soul left, that type of mockery would hurt me.) But, when I look at the other numb, dead-inside payroll specialists that surround me, we’re all in the same economic boat. We all float along trying to survive on–again, this is ballpark–$25,000 to $50,000 a year. Now let’s look at professional musicians.

They don’t really play in the same ballpark with each other at all, do they? Some, if they’re lucky, get $100 a gig. And that’s if they’re lucky. And some get arrested at age 19 for speeding in their Lamborghini. The disparity between a struggling musician and one on top of their profession is incomprehensible.

When did this start? Music, musicians, and singers have been around for as long as civilization has existed. But when did the grotesque, fabulous wealth come into the picture? The first wildly rich musician that comes to mind was Elvis Presley. I’m sure there were others before him, but his are the first examples of excess that pop into my head. Him with his fleet of Cadillacs and stupendous drug habit and posse of leeches and hangers-on. The money flowed through his hands like water. Liberace lived extravagantly as well. So, in my mind, generally speaking, the fifties and sixties were the period when musicians started to gain access to unimaginable wealth. It hasn’t been that long, in other words: less than a lifespan. In my opinion, the David Byrneses of the world, the ones who succeeded in this business when enormous sums of money received for album sales were commonplace, they are the ones that are feeling the most shock from this transitional period in the music industry.

And you know, let’s flip the question. Let’s talk about those at the top. We never ask why it is, exactly, that successful musicians–not necessarily the most talented, mind you, simply the most successful–make so much goddamn money. But I think it’s a question worth asking. Because how can we worry about how the lowest among them are suffering if we cannot question why it is exactly that Justin Bieber owns a goddamn Lamborghini?

What does David Byrne consider to be so low a figure that artists can’t make a living? It would help if I knew. Because a lot of the consumers of the music–the ones who buy the concert tickets, the ones who buy the posters of “Stop Making Sense,” (did I just date myself with that reference or what), the ones who stream the music on their phones–make less then $35,000 a year, and they seem to “make a living.” They “get by.” Of course, some of them are on food stamps and WIC and don’t own cars…but they’re living. Millions of us are struggling in this country, not just artists. When did they forget that? When did it become expected that everyone would struggle except the struggling artist? When did writing/performing a popular song become synonymous with hitting the lottery? When did the valuation of that skyrocket? And is it reasonable to expect that standard to be maintained? I mean, I can’t be the only one disgusted by the very thought of the show Cribs.

Of course, I do not want musicians or songwriters to be exploited. I want them to be treated equitably. I want them to be able to make a living at what they do. But, you know what? That’s pretty much between them and their record labels. And record labels have been infamously fucking musicians over since record labels were created. Artists are creative people. And creative people are notoriously horrible with money. Their lack of understanding of it and failure to appreciate it, (see: Presley, Elvis. see: Hammer, MC. see: Nelson, Willie. see: Ever, Almost Any Musician. Except for maybe Joan Jett & David Bowie. They’ve invested wisely.), is part of the problem. When they’re not snorting their money up their nose, drinking it or injecting it into their veins, they’re assigning shady business managers to be responsible for it. (see: Joel, Billy.)

People are still spending their disposable income on music. But David Byrne has to understand that a)we have a lot less disposable income now that he thinks we have and b)it’s not our fault that your record companies aren’t sharing what we spend with you. We can only do so much. Whining about how you’re hurting isn’t making you too many friends in the $9.00 an hour crowd. Lars Ulrich from Metallica pulled that shit when Napster exploded onto the world ten years ago and I still hate that greedy little shit for it.

Because Taylor Swift is right.**** There is a lot to be excited about in this digital age.

We now have access to every song, musician, and style that we can think of. Sure, wandering through Goody Records or The Music Man or Tower Records or Licorice Pizza back in the day used to be fun…but those brick and mortar stores offered NOTHING in the way of selection the way that the internet does. With YouTube and iTunes, you can sample almost anything at the click of a button. You can discover new bands in ways that you would have never had discovered them before the Internet Age. You’re no longer simply bound to the boring constrictions of formatted, corporate radio. You can make your own playlist, discover your own next best thing, create the soundtrack to your life on your own. As I have said, I’m not an artist, but that has got to be exciting from an artistic perspective. The problem for artists being, of course, that the market is flooded with a million people just like them.

So, yes, I see this as a turbulent period for the music industry. Artists that were used to one type of revenue stream have had their lives completely upended by this new digital world. And I am sure that some of them have seen dramatic shifts in their income. They may have to get out of the business and become music teachers or accountants or truck drivers. But there will be others who will step into their place. Maybe this new set of songwriters will be more open to the idea of touring full-time. (Maybe this new set of songwriters will all be capable of singing their own songs, as making a living simply from songwriting seems to be, according to David Byrne, increasingly impossible to do.) Since they will not be familiar with what it feels like to write a hit song and watch the six-figure royalty checks come floating in, they won’t know what they’re missing. But the creative force is more powerful than how it is monetized.

Rock and roll was never supposed to be about money. When did we forget that? Was it when Steve Winwood sold out? It was supposed to be about rebellion and liberation and telling The Man to fuck off. And I’m pretty sure that people will want to do that regardless of how much money they make doing it.

That being said, of course I want the laws rewritten so that a more equitable share of the revenue from streaming music goes to the artists themselves. I am not happy that the record companies are raking in profits at the expense of their talent. (Fucking corporations, man.) But, again–that is a fight between the artists and their labels. I fully support the artists in that endeavor. But, when they come out publicly bitching about how unfair it is that people are streaming music, how ridiculous it is that people expect to listen to music for free, that is when they lose me. Would David Byrne have bitched when I recorded Burning Down The House off the radio in 1983? Was I stealing music then, as a fourteen year old, listening to my radio-recorded mix tapes? People are no more stealing music now then they were listening to the radio back in the day. The shocking thing, when you think about it, is that people are now subscribing to music streaming services when they used to get it for free.

Maybe the universe is simply realigning in this Digital Age. Maybe all of this is just karmic payback for Peter Frampton having the most popular live album of all time, something that I will never understand. Then again, people were doing a lot of drugs in the 70’s. But, if this realignment results in the show Cribs never being aired again because singers can no longer afford McMansions with infinity pools and pinball machines, I think it’s going to all be worth it.

Pretty much ever since the Internet was invented by Al Gore, people have been bemoaning the demise of a)newspapers; b)the movie industry; c)books; d)music; e)magazines; f)pornography. (Heh, just kidding about that last one. I just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.) They’ve all taken serious hits in one way or another…but they are all still very much alive as industries. They are learning to adapt to the new age. I mean, for example, porn is thriving, at least in my house. And I now subscribe to the New York Times. I never would have subscribed in print form. Christ…the subscription was too expensive. And who has time to read the goddamn New York Times? But I am a subscriber now, in spite of the fact that Maureen Dowd works there.

I really ought to get my money’s worth and find time to do their crossword puzzle.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is David Byrne needs to chill the fuck out. We’re not trying to burn down the house (eh? eh?) of music by streaming music. We’re simply trying to transcend the boundaries of what is possible. Which is exactly what music has been trying to do for centuries.

I expect the next few years to be exciting indeed.

*Allegedly.

† The first album I remember wearing the needle out on my little record player listening to was The Beach Boys’ Endless Summer double album. I was about 8. When I was 13, my mother let my choose a cassette from Columbia Record House. I chose John Cougar’s American Fool. When I was 14, I received a $25 Sears gift certificate, and with it I bought the cassette versions of the Police’s Synchronicity and Lionel Ritchie’s Can’t Slow Down.** And a basketball. And three 90 minute Memorex blank tapes, to record songs off the radio. ($25 dollars used to buy you a lot of shit at Sears, kids. What’s Sears? Oh, I’ll explain that to you later. But they had escalators and used to sell popcorn and bulk candy. The store smelled fantastic.) When I started converting to CDs in 1989, the first three CDs I bought were Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits, Oingo Boingo’s Best of Boingo: Skeletons in the Closet and the Best of Berlin. When I started converting to downloads in 2010, the first album I bought electronically was The Jesus & Mary Chain’s 21 Singles. I had bought a few singles through iTunes by that point, and I needed a copy of their song Sometimes Always for a project I was working on, but the entire album only cost $6.99, so rather than simply buy the single I said fuck it and bought the whole thing. I’ve been buying my albums electronically ever since. With that I hope you can see that, despite the relatively embarrassing choices I made in my youth, music has been an important part of my life for as long as I can remember. (I can tell you I can’t remember anything else that I did when I was 13…but I remember buying music with that gift certificate.***)

**Shut up.

***I may have also gotten my first period that year. To quote Lionel Ritchie, I was not “dancing on the ceiling” over that, of that you can be sure.

****I said shut up.

God Damn The Second Amendment

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Heavy, thick raindrops are falling outside my window right now, as if even Mother Nature Herself is trying to passive-aggressively remind me how fat I’ve gotten in the past month. “These drops were smaller in May, Laurie, wouldn’t you agree?” Well, it won’t burn any calories, but I’m going to exercise my mind tonight as I craft this essay. Not that that will satisfy Mother Nature. We all know how bitchy & hard to please she is “I get it!” I yell at the weather. “I’m going to go back to the gym this weekend! Get off my back!” (“I’ll try, but it’ll be hard to miss. Your back, I mean. Because it’s so fat.” I imagine her answering serenely.)

Writing feels similar to painting to me. Of course, I have never painted anything in my life and I can only call myself a writer in the sense that I have, at times, strung sentences together in an effort to express a complex thought, but every blank screen feels like an empty canvas. Every time I face one I am filled with trepidation and doubt about where to place my brush, what color I should choose, what emotion I am trying to convey, or what subject I am going to illustrate.

I think that most people with an internet connection read a lot. As my grandmother used to say, if you’re on the internet you’re either reading, watching porn, or playing Candy Crush. If you’re bothering to read this, believe me, I feel pretty honored. Particularly because I know so much of that porn is free. No, really, it is. Just Google “free porn.”

And there went my audience.

I consider myself relatively aware of the world. What that means is that I don’t know who the president of Chile is, but I’m cognizant enough of the political shift in South America to know that a)she’s probably a woman and b)she’s probably a goddamn Socialist, loathed by the United States government.

Which, you know, puts me in the 90th percentile of Americans, because I a)know that Chile is a country, not just a casual dining franchise that serves Mix & Match Fajitas®, b)I know that country is in South America and c)I know that there is a SOUTH America.

Not that this essay is going to be about Chile.

I’m not going to lie to you, it is difficult for me to live in the world. In fairness to this century, I think it would have been difficult for me to live in any moment in time, assuming that I had this brain in every century. Which, let’s face it, due to a lack of education, poor diet and status, I wouldn’t have. But it is particularly difficult to have intelligence, to see the poor choices that are being made by those that are in charge, and to be incapable of preventing them.

I feel like this world is divided into two camps: a)The Well-Off and b)Everyone Else. Except that The Well-Off very rarely feel well-off, and everyone else spends their time being tremendously pissed off at those who are poorer than they are.

Very few people look outside of their own pain, and even fewer look at the big picture.

It drives me absolutely mental. I can only hope that other people are bothered by this, too.

As Americans, let’s talk about guns.

(For THE ENTIRE REST OF THE WORLD, this really isn’t a debate. FOR THE ENTIRE REST OF THE WORLD–which is a sizable majority, Americans, in case you didn’t know: most of the people that live on this planet don’t live in the United States–this isn’t even an issue.)

Guns.

God damn the Second Amendment. I wish it had never been written. I am absolutely positive that, were James Madison allowed to travel through time and see what his vaguely worded edict had wrought by the 21st century, he wouldn’t have written it in the 18th.

I completely understand how frightening people can be. Strangers can be violent. Strangers can be criminal. The fear of the unknown is genuine, and something to take seriously. Unfortunately, I believe that Americans have taken this fear to pathological extremes. We are paranoid about being murdered by strangers. I believe that this fear has been manipulated by the NRA, which has been encouraged by the 2nd amendment. So many of us are convinced that having a gun in the home will protect us from invaders that we fail to see that having the gun in the house is causing us more deaths than burglars ever could. Our kids are killing themselves with the guns. We’re killing our spouses with the guns when we’re angry. We’re killing ourselves when we’re suicidal. We’re taking the guns out of the house and killing people in malls and schools and churches.

But we’re so obsessed with guns that we refuse to see it. It truly is an addiction.

It reminds me of how people used to be when smoking rights were slowly curtailed. “I can smoke where I want!” “My smoking doesn’t hurt anyone!” “I have the right to smoke!”

Replace guns with smoking. It’s all the same rhetoric. But, of course, there is no right to smoke written into the Constitution.

The obvious solution would be to change the Constitution. We repealed the 19th amendment. Certainly we could repeal the 2nd, right?

Yeah. I think so, too.

Sometimes I think, the 2nd amendment wouldn’t even need to be repealed…just interpreted properly. It says right in the text “A well-regulated militia…” I mean, shit. That’s a no-brainer, right. Sure…as long as you’re part of “a well-regulated militia,” you can possess your precious firearms. IT’S RIGHT THERE IN THE CONSTITUTION. But, somehow, the brainiacs on the Supreme Court haven’t really focused on that wee little bit of language for the past 40 years or however long the NRA has been pressing its knee on the throat of American politics. (Not that there is corruption in this great country of ours. That would be horrible.)

There are so many people carrying their revolvers and long guns around in this “great” nation of ours. And I have to wonder what they think they’re doing.

The “reason” for the 2nd amendment is to protect against the tyranny of the government. A man with a Glock isn’t going to stop the local police department from killing him, much less the force of the United States government.

The second “reason” people give for promoting gun usage is that police departments are never there when you need them, so it’s best to defend yourself. Well, to that I say, let’s do away with most of the police departments. As it is, SWAT teams are invading homes, innocent people are being killed, no-knock warrants are perfectly acceptable according to our government…so let’s stop spending money on police departments.

People also seem to think that their gun collections will never be infiltrated by their children. They have their security codes in place. People with guns don’t seem to give a shit that a lot of mass murders in America occur because the kids get the guns and go on a rampage. They don’t seem to connect their violent weapons with their children’s desire to act violently.

No one who loves guns and identifies with the second amendment sees that they are part of the problem.

Do they value life, these gun owners? They would rather shoot first and ask questions later, as the proliferation of the Stand Your Ground laws would attest. You have to ask yourself: Are we a civilized society?

It doesn’t feel very civilized to me. It feels increasingly more wild.

I would say that it feels like the wild, wild west, but that’s not fair to the wild, wild west. They were much more concerned about gun play then we seem to be here in the 21st century, thanks to the manipulation of public opinion by the NRA.

Gun sales went up after Barack Obama was elected president. So they say. Did gun sales go up after Ronald Reagan was almost killed? If not, why not? Why not? If there was a time to worry about the government taking over your guns, you would naturally think it would be after the attempted assassination of the president.

And people hold onto their guns. Like, desperately. The very ownership of the gun makes a person feel like a vigilante. I don’t think people realize the impact having a killing weapon in their possession has on them.

Listen.

I know that life is frightening.

I know that someone could smash my door in, attack me, and kill me. I know that possibility exists. It’s remote, but it could happen. Two cars have been broken into on the curb outside my house since I’ve lived here.

But I have to weigh how rare that possibility is against the possibility that that gun could be used in a suicide, in anger, in doubt, in panic, in fear. I could take a life so suddenly that I wouldn’t have the ability to rethink my decision. Do I really want to take someone’s life because he wanted to take my television? Someone could find my gun and take my life just as suddenly.

I don’t know why people would find comfort in owning a handgun. The only reason I can think they would is because of the second amendment.

God damn the second amendment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Don’t You Quit Leaving Me Alone?* Part Two

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It’s hard to believe it’s been almost six months since I wrote Part One of this essay. Time flies when you’re desperately procrastinating.

Right off the bat, I want to dissuade you from the notion that my sex (love?) sex life has in any way been exciting simply because I am a lesbian. To paraphrase the old joke, it’s been so long since I’ve had sex I can’t remember who storms out of the bedroom to angrily sleep on the couch first. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if this essay about my evolution into the Sapphic world is as dry and dusty as Hillary Clinton’s vagina after a three-day hike in the Mojave desert with a one day’s supply of water.

(Editor’s note: There was absolutely no reason for Laurie to disparage Mrs. Clinton in that appalling manner. As her editor, I should totally excise that from the text. I mean, I’m probably going to vote for that vagina in 2016. But, to be honest, it made me chuckle a little. “That’s one dry essay!” I said to myself with a smile. I hope that unnecessary insult hasn’t completely turned you off to what will otherwise be a spectacularly written confessional essay. Although it probably will be extremely dry. Laurie is probably right about that.)

When you’re a mixed-up, confused, tragically lost figure, stumbling around full of uncertainty and doubt, as I was in my childhood, (as circumspectly outlined in Part One of this essay), you would think that finding the key to unlock my sexuality at the age of 19 would magically fix all that.

Shockingly, it didn’t.

In fact, I probably skipped over the Rainbow Bridge with the type of lover I needed least: The Player.

They say you never forget your first and oh! they were so right.

God, she was charming. She had this seductive combination of confidence and gentleness, mixed with a passion and love for life that essentially swept people up. It was impossible to resist her. She was basically a 5’8″ lesbian tsunami. Or maybe she was 5’9″. It was 25 years ago. Who cares how tall she was and why are you asking me?

Wanna see a picture of her? I don’t have many.

Don't Ask Don't Tell

       Don’t Ask Don’t Tell

(For those of you who don’t know what I look like, Beth The Player is the seated one.)

Now, this picture, (along with the companion one I may publish later in this post), was taken years into our relationship. And I do mean years, even though I do look like such a baby, don’t I? By the time this picture was taken, I had already stopped being suicidal over the heartache she caused me. We had been broken up for a long time by the time we posed for this. In fact, I think this picture was taken by the mutual friend that I was actually trying to introduce to Beth. I thought they would be terrific together. They were. They lasted several years, from what I heard.

But, I have jumped too far ahead.

For those of you who have never been in the military, everything is not quite like Full Metal Jacket or Private Benjamin or Stripes. We didn’t go straight from boot camp to fighting the Reds on the Eastern European front. For one thing, we were in the Navy, and most of Eastern Europe is landlocked. For another thing, the military educates its new recruits in a gazillion training facilities in a gazillion congressional districts across this military-industrial complex we call a democracy before sending them onto their final duty stations. So, Beth and I met in Orlando, Florida, in the Electronics School. (She was there to actually learn electronics. I was there because my test scores said I was smart enough to learn electronics so I said fine, I’ll become an Electronics Technician.) She was three years older than me and had been in the Navy for 8 weeks longer. Naturally, she seemed like a veteran as experienced as Clint Eastwood in Heartbreak Ridge to me.

I can almost remember the exact moment I met her which is a miracle unto itself, considering how much alcohol I have consumed in the past 25 years.

I had never been pursued before, certainly not by a woman, but I think there is something instinctual about the process, because when she locked me in her tractor beam, I simply knew. She laughed a lot at my jokes. A lot. (In the beginning, I mean–once I was in her net, once I was tagged game, my bawdy sense of humor not only annoyed her, it used to make her angry.) She asked me a lot of questions about my life. And she had follow-up questions. And she seemed genuinely interested in me. She wanted to spend every night with me. And we did. We started hanging out. I was under-aged, so it was an awkward kind of hanging out, but we seemed to spend every night together, drinking. I say that we spent “every night” together because I have effectively blocked out all the nights she went off base to sleep with her other lovers. Because the mind does what it has to do to survive. It’s an amazing thing.

Of course, during her courtship, I had no real clue that I was a lesbian. None. In fact, during those whirlwind first few weeks, I probably made a lot of disparaging wisecracks about lesbians. I remember joking to her in a library that I thought lesbians basically looked like butch dykes with arm tattoos in black leather biker vests. God only knows why I brought it up. Or why we were in a library. I do remember her laughing, (Even to that, she laughed), albeit only politely. I didn’t have a lot of kind things to say about lesbians before I realized I was a lesbian. Which, I think, means that I’m a walking cliché.

She offered to take me down to some Air Force base in Florida for the weekend, and I accepted.

(If you think this is the moment we consummated our relationship, calm the fuck down, Sparky.)

She was from Florida, she knew her way around, and she was introducing me to experiences I would have never discovered on my own.

(I said CALM DOWN, SPARKY.)

We spent the evening in a cheap motel room, drinking Michelob and listening to music. She played U2’s The Sweetest Thing for me, and I played Yaz’s Nobody’s Diary for her.

I didn’t know what our relationship was, but I knew that, for the good, the bad, I didn’t want to be a page in her diary. On some level, that must have invigorated The Player.

As we lay on the bed together, listening to music, drinking Michelob we kept on ice in that cheap motel sink, she ran her fingers through my hair. That was the first time she touched me. Nothing has made my scalp body tingle in the same way since. It’s funny how you remember.

We drove back to Orlando the next day in her red Toyota truck, and I was in a pensive mood. I remember her in her oh! so charming way trying to draw me out in conversation. Pointing at the bland, depressing swampland that we were passing through and attempting to make it seem interesting, with that damned charming smile of hers. I finally turned to her and, remembering how it felt to feel her fingers in my hair the night before, “When you touch me like that, I don’t want you to stop.” I was puzzled and a little bit angered by this epiphany I had. This look overcame her. I thought she was going to pull the truck over, she seemed that frazzled. Maybe she did pull the truck over, I don’t know. Who can remember after 25 years? I was distracted, anyway, by my own anger & confusion. She took my hand and placed it on her chest, so that I could feel how I had physically affected her. She was red hot & her heart was beating out of her chest. It’s possible that I should had sought medical treatment for her. Instead, I think we just started making out.

I cannot remember if we started kissing right then and there in her truck on that miserable, dismal highway in the middle of Florida. But I am pretty sure that we didn’t stop making out until she left Florida several weeks later. For at least a month I couldn’t suck my Coca-Cola (that I LOVED!) out of the straw at McDonald’s (the only restaurant on base, therefore the only place other than the mess hall we seemed to eat at) because the sensation reminded me too much of sucking on her nipples and it would drive me absolutely insane.

Yes. Her breasts tasted of Coke. It’s a lesbian thing. You wouldn’t understand.

That all sounds so incredibly romantic & charming–which it was–until you remember that I was emotionally fragile & oh! so breakable. In retrospect, I wish I had been swept off my feet by a woman who was more interested in finding a soul mate than one that simply wanted to conquer a challenge. Because conquer me she did.

I am not going to go into all the hedonistic details, but she took me to Key West to take me. That’s right. I went to the tip of America’s penis to lose become a lesbian.

I was under-aged and unadventurous, though, so I didn’t explore any of the bars with her. She lived in Key West before she joined the Navy. She knew the town like the back of her hand. It would have been an incredible weekend if I had participated. But, all I wanted to do was lie naked in the motel bed and wait for her to ravish me.

No wonder she grew bored with me. I’m bored just thinking about it. As I’m sure you’re bored reading about it.

Once she had me, her passion for me definitely cooled. The problem was that I wasn’t on the same page with her. So, how do you say, psychosis ensued. I had found a woman that I connected with, who opened me up both figuratively and literally, (Wait. Is that too gross? That’s too gross, isn’t it? Where the fuck is my editor?), and I did not have the emotional strength to realize that I was just a conquest for her. Man. If I had realized that we were just a fling…well. I wouldn’t be the emotionally fucked-up person you see before you today. Not that you can see me but…you know what I mean.

 

They Say They'll Kick Me Out of the Navy if I Put My Tongue Where?

They’ll Kick Me Out of the Navy if I Put My Tongue Where?

I am not mad at Beth for being The Player. I am mad at myself for not being strong enough to accept our relationship for what it was. I was too clingy. I imagine that happens sometimes to emotionally needy, fucked up people. We’re not self-sufficient enough, so when we get seduced by casual romantics, we take their advances entirely too seriously.

It’s not her fault that I had voids within me larger than the Grand Canyon that I expected her to fill. I wanted her love to solve all the problems I had. Instead, it just made it worse. This beautiful, temporary romance that she constructed, I took all of that and turned it into some expectation of lifelong commitment. If I were an emotionally healthy person when she met me, I would have had the strength to simply let it be what it was, which was a passionate, temporary, fling.

So, naturally, I tried to kill myself when it collapsed. Because, you know.

I swallowed a bunch of Ny-Tol. (“Nite, y’all!”) Like. A bunch. Not a ton. But a bunch. 24? But I called her from a payphone (a-ha!) before I did it. I said goodbye. Laid down to die.

Honestly, I did NOT realize that she would trace my call back to the payphone from which I called her. CSI was not a television show at that point. After I had swallowed the pills and she knocked at my motel (motels played a huge role in our relationship) door, I was genuinely befuddled & surprised that she was there. But that could have just been the sleeping pills talking.

“How could you do that to me?”

When it was all over, after I had swallowed the charcoal solution, after I had puked & shat any future suicidal attempt out of my system, after I had lied to the Naval psychologist–no, it wasn’t a suicide attempt, I was just stressed by my studies & had forgotten how many sleeping pills I had taken–that is what she asked me when she knocked on my door in Chicago. “How could you do that to me?”

I don’t know how many of you are going to have to endure dealing with suicidal friends and lovers. I hope none of you will. But, if you ever have to deal with one, please do not let your first question to them be “How could you do that to me?”

You would think that would be the end of my relationship with Beth. But, as evidenced by the photographic evidence I have provided above, that is where you would be wrong. I followed her to San Diego, and from there, Norfolk. Remember, we were in the same line of work–but she was eight weeks ahead of me. And I was a good student. So, she went to San Diego & Norfolk…I made sure I had good enough grades to be able to go to…San Diego & Norfolk. Which, I am pretty sure, ranks as one of the stupidest reasons to perform well in any school at any level, civilian or military. The only thing that could make that type of devotion more ridiculous is if I were, I don’t know, following her around the country in Mime School or something.

Obviously, things between Beth & I did not work out.

At some point during the years I fought for her, I realized she was a player, that she was a stallion that couldn’t be tamed. And then she moved to Norfolk and was promptly tamed.

By the time I hit Norfolk, Virginia, I was as emotionally dead as a person could be without being labeled “sociopathic” or “dead.” I was hanging on, but I have no idea by what. And so of course that is when Dana decided to become the love of my life.

I don’t even know how I managed to make it through each day in Norfolk. The only reason I was there was because of Beth, but she was thousands of miles away in the Mediterranean Sea, because in the Navy getting shipped thousands of miles away from home is what we do. So, the only word I can use to describe my first few months in Norfolk was “numb.” I wanted Beth, and I couldn’t have Beth. She didn’t want me. Hello, Dana.

Dana had known me before in Chicago–when you’re in the same line of work, you meet up with people. It just happens. When she saw me on her ship in Norfolk–fwoop!–my God, she latched onto me. And I so didn’t care. I was indifferent. I was dead inside. Mourning Beth. We spent a lot of evenings together. Drinking. Laughing. Watching movies. I can’t really go into detail about what we did, because I was drunk most of the time. She looked like Bette Davis. She talked like Bette Davis. She laughed like Bette Davis. It is possible, in my drunken state, that I thought I was hanging out with Bette Davis. The one thing I remember when officially being introduced to Dana was I looked her in the eyes and said “I trust you as far as I can throw you.” Of course, looking back, how could I trust her, impersonating Bette Davis the way that she was?

Naturally, she was destined to become the love of my life.

She had a boyfriend. And a girlfriend. She wasn’t into the boyfriend, and her girlfriend was thousands of miles away in the Mediterranean…with Beth, my ex-girlfriend.

When Dana kissed me for the first time, it was like an out-of-body experience. “Oh. So this is happening now.” I really did not care. But, I couldn’t resist because…how does one say no to Bette Davis? Buckle your seatbelts…

But, after three or four months of drunkenly making indifferent love with her, on a particularly tender night it dawned on me, “Holy shit, Laurie! You’re in love with this woman.”

And I was.

I had literally “fallen” in love because I wasn’t paying attention at all to where I was going.

She was funny, smart, determined, kind, sharp as hell…and loving. She loved me so very much. Naturally, I couldn’t handle it. I was mixed up, pained, insecure, and dealing with the loss of Beth. Once I realized that I loved Dana more than I had loved anyone in my entire life, including Beth, the woman that I had tried to kill myself for a couple of years prior, that is when the genuine fear set in. To love her meant to lose her, and I realized almost as quickly that I could not survive losing her. I survived losing Beth, but I knew that losing Dana would successfully kill me.

And that’s been my weakness in the 20 some odd years since: I have always feared the worst instead of expected the best.

Hey. Let me show you a picture of Dana & I.

We were in France. Possibly the happiest afternoon in my life. By the evening, everything had turned to shit. But this afternoon was amazing.

We were in France. Possibly the happiest afternoon of my life. By the evening, everything had turned to shit. But this afternoon was amazing. So I know how Chris Brown & Rihanna feel, is all I’m saying. I can relate. NOT THAT WE BEAT EACH OTHER UP. WE DID NOT DO THAT.

 

If I had just been brave enough to say yes.

I live in Charlotte, North Carolina, and I moved here because of her command. Within two weeks of my having moved here, my relationship with her was completely destroyed. We live within three miles of each other, unless she has moved since the last time we spoke. (We haven’t spoken to each other in years.) She is married to a lawyer and is raising two children and is part of the fight here in North Carolina to get the anti-gay marriage amendment overturned.

You know, our entire American mythology is centered around redemption, about second chances, about rebirth. We love to be born again in this country.

But what’s it called when you reject the one you love, then seek the one you love, then accept the fact that the one you love and who used to love you no longer loves you, then realize that you will never find a connection that intense and sincere again. What if you’re never born again. What’s that called?

I’ve grown more comfortable in my fourth decade of life. (Or is this my fifth?)

I’m not the same mixed-up, confused, sarcastic child that entered the world as an adult. None of us are. We all learn, to a certain degree, from our mistakes. And we grow. Now I’m thankfully less confused. But more sarcastic.

I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t want to kill myself when I’m sad or depressed. I consider that progress, although I still have a difficult time with my mental weakness.

Regardless, I will always suffer from not knowing what it feels like to have a person love me. But, then I remember Emily Dickinson and it occurs to me that I’m not even doing anything remotely significant with my pain.

I’ve felt love enough to know what it feels like, which is a good thing. Better to have loved and lost than live with a psycho the rest of your life. No…better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. That’s what I meant. I dream about it. When I sleep I have love coarse through my body sometimes. And that has to be good enough for a woman like me who lives (mostly) alone with four cats.

One of the last things Dana ever told me, she told me in an email. After years of loving her, tragically, painfully, yet deeply, she told me that I live in the darkness and I only love women I know I can’t have.

I hated her for saying it, but with every passing year, she is proven more and more right. It drives me mad. It’s like she’s that gypsy from Richard Bachman’s imagination. Except for instead of “Thinner!” she’s cursed me with “Celibacy!”

So I can’t believe that this icon, this image, this symbol, this Dana is the person that Twitter decided today that I need to follow. @DangerDraa

Well. I guess she chose the right handle.

 

*Rosanne Cash. King’s Record Shop, 1987. Sony Music Distribution. Composed by Benmont Tench.

Let’s Talk About Music

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Hello, friends.

As many of you know, I am pretty passionate about music. What you may not know is that I cannot stand music critics. Ho, my God. What pretentious assholes they seem to be, (although I’m sure their mothers love them.) Most of the music critics in my life–and I genuinely try to limit them–come to me via NPR. One of them recently, when describing a favorite album of his from 2013, said that the singer was “self-conscious without being self-absorbed.” I heard this in my car. I had to fight the urge to deliberately smash into the nearest concrete barrier simply to stop his voice from coming out of the speakers. I could have turned the radio off, but he made me so angry I forgot that was an option. He was “speaking English without even remotely attempting to make any fucking sense.” I seriously loathe them. (In an effort to sound a wee bit magnanimous, allow me qualify that. I don’t hate ALL of them. Some are quite good at what they do. Most of them, however, aren’t.) They are so busy trying to maximize their desperately overpriced English/Music degrees that they don’t even realize they stopped making sense about music a long time ago.

Music and language are clearly related to a certain degree. But, they are two vastly different mediums. My suspicion is professional writers resent that. Musicians, they own us, baby. Don’t they? You know they do. Writers can spend months locked up, sweating and alone, with their thoughts, for months, in an attempt to move perhaps 1,000 readers, if they’re lucky. Two notes from a guitar solo is all it takes to make thousands erupt. You don’t believe me? If you love rock & roll and were alive in the 70’s, try not to float a little when you click this. I don’t care how many books Oprah sold, her book club will never make people feel like that. The written word will never have that power. Ever. And that resentment comes through loud and clear in most of the reviews I read.

With all that being said, I’m here tonight to review a couple of CDs I’ve been listening to lately.

I know, right? I am nothing but a bundle of contradictions. And that is somewhat evident in the albums that have been competing for my attention lately.

I have been listening to Rosanne Cash’s new album “The River & The Thread” and Jill Hennessy’s “Ghost In My Head” pretty much on an infinite loop for the past two months. And just like the contradiction of my despising reviews of music and yet having the need to write about it, those two albums are very different. And yet I am addicted to both.

If you’ve known me for more than 47 minutes, one of the things that you’ve learned about me is that I am a tremendous fan of Rosanne Cash. That is not to say that I am a tremendous person, but rather that I will easily become the most tremendous blow-hard if you wanted to “chat” with me about her music. You will quickly look at your watch, silently wondering how you are going to extricate yourself from the conversation, thinking “Jesus Christ. All I said was ‘7 Year Ache’ was a good song. I didn’t even know who sang it. I thought it was KT Oslin. I have a family to go home to.”

020

Here I am in an intimate moment with Rosanne Cash, being photobombed by her husband, John Leventhal.

I have loved and admired Rosanne Cash for decades. Have you ever heard a particular singer’s voice and something clicks deep inside of you and you realize “I am this person’s slave. I will do whatever it is they want me to do. Wake up to buy tampons at 2:30am? Sure. Go murder the President because he won’t publicly support an anti-gun initiative? (Wouldn’t THAT be ironic?) I will do it, because I am their slave and they own me?” Has no one else had this happen to them? Well. If Rosanne Cash needed me to buy tampons–which, in and of itself would be an impressive request, because she’s in her 50’s–I would put the slippers on, fumble for the keys and look for the nearest 24-hour pharmacy.

I reveal that level of devotion to let you know that there is absolutely no way that I could seriously criticize any work that she did. I mean, it’s ridiculous to even expect it. But I will do my best to be objective.

But–it’s fucking ridiculous. I mean, I have been backstage as she performs soundcheck on some of the very songs I am going to be talking about. Please. I’m biased. Totally, irrevocably, biased. That’s another thing that pisses me off about music critics. If you don’t like someone because they’re a selfish, conceited, unmanageable prick, just say that. Don’t mask your resentment of their personality with a bad review. Conversely, if you are completely smitten with someone, be bold enough to admit that you are hypnotized by them, and that is why you are giving them a glowing review. (I’m looking at all the Taylor Swift fans out there.)

The River & The Thread

Rosanne Cash’s latest album, The River & The Thread, is a beautiful masterpiece.

For me to really get into the subtle nuances of her album…that would require you the reader to be face to face with me. We would consume either too much coffee or too many beers, but together, in conversation, we would parse this woman’s evolution down to its essence. Because she is a complicated woman. That is one of things I love about her. I am not going to do that justice in this essay.

To truly appreciate the beauty of Rosanne Cash’s latest album, you have to understand the albums that came before it. The reviews, be they on television, on NPR, or in print, don’t seem to focus on that. I mean, AT ALL. But, again…*hatred of music critics*…sigh. Stupid fuckers. All they focus upon is her relationship with her father.

I think I loved Rosanne Cash long before I had even an inkling of who her father was. That probably makes me different from about 97% of her fanbase. When I fell in love with Rosanne Cash, I knew her father sang “A Boy Named Sue,” thanks to my own father’s record collection. My father also introduced me to “My Ding a Ling” by Chuck Berry and “Hello Muddah Hello Fadduh,” by Allen Sherman. He loved them all equally. So, at the time, I did not have a deep appreciation for Johnny Cash. That came later, with maturity, once I got out of the house. My love for Rosanne came first. I feel like I am swimming against the tide in that respect, as everyone seems to love her father first, and her only as an afterthought.

She has a legacy that she has to honor. In many ways she is American Royalty. (Miley Cyrus probably knows exactly how she feels.)

(Show of hands–how many people here don’t realize that Rosanne Cash’s father is Johnny Cash? Show of hands–how many don’t know who Johnny Cash is? Well. Thank you for reading this essay for as long as you have.)

Rosanne Cash has been in the music business for a long time. She has transformed herself–as many do–over the decades. I am particularly infatuated with the work that she has produced since 1993’s The Wheel. I mean, I LOVED her King’s Record Shop album from the 1980’s that garnered her so many awards, and of course I remember 7 Year Ache…but her work since The Wheel has been decidedly different. And that in large part has to do with the man that she was in love with, who produced it, and who has been her life partner and collaborator since, John Leventhal.

It is ridiculous, since 1993, to refer to any Rosanne Cash album as a “solo” work. Because it is always in collaboration with her husband.

They fused a blend of country & pop and mixed it with red-hot passion back on “The Wheel” in 1993. That’s a great album. I cannot believe it didn’t chart. I mean, seriously. That is one of my favorite albums of all-time. It bothers the hell out of me that no one has ever heard it, if the charts are true. So, if you would like me to burn you a copy, just send me a tweet @Twizznit.

They have evolved, she has evolved, and her relationship with her family/heritage has evolved. And it has all coalesced in The River and The Thread. And she has blended the perfect brew. My only criticism of it is that it is too perfect. I don’t admire perfection. I resent it. I like flaws, and I like to root for underdogs. The River & The Thread gives me none of that.

I could spend the next few paragraphs dissecting every song on the album, providing you with adjectives that make you want to shoot me or read your thesaurus and then find an imaginative word for “murder,” but suffice it to say that Rosanne Cash has created a very soothing album that blends the history of her past with the history of her marriage with the history of music. Her husband plays on the record. Her husband produced the record. I don’t know how to tell you he is a genius, but he is one. She thanks, in the acknowledgements, her husband John. “We painted this together.” They did. And it is a beautiful painting. Are you familiar with her “Black Cadillac” album? Such a beautiful tribute to all the people she had lost during that time, including her father. (Her father is Johnny Cash. The singer.) And on the eponymous song, Black Cadillac, I could swear there is a trumpet tribute to Ring of Fire on it. I am probably wrong. But at the end, I swear I can hear it. Again, what do I know? I’m not a Johnny Cash fan, nor a music critic. The point I’m trying to make is that these people are serious, subtle, masters of their craft. The River and The Thread seems not only to tie into her familial roots, or the roots the South, but also to the past 20 years that she has been making music with her husband. But, unless you have heard the albums that they’ve made together, you would quite possibly miss that.

Rosanne Cash is, above all else, always in control of her emotions. There is a reason that her autobiography is titled “Composed.” She is focused on mastery, and you can feel the mastery in every song on The River and The Thread. There is nothing raw or unhinged about a Rosanne Cash song. She is always in control. It’s beautiful and intimidating.

It’s fascinating to me–again, because I know a little bit about her musical history–that the most interesting collaboration she performs on The River & The Thread is with her ex-husband, Rodney Crowell. They raised four children together but have been apart for decades…and yet, when they sing, it’s pretty obvious that they sound great together. Again…in keeping with the River and the Thread theme…that life, love, history and land all relate…it’s pretty awesome (and subtle) that she would recognize that with a soft duet with her (ex) husband.

To someone who has never heard of Rosanne Cash in their life…this is a soft, safe, crooning album. She is not going to surprise you, although she may please you. (Does that sound like something an asshole music critic would say? Please tell me that’s not as bad as “it’s self-conscious without being self-absorbed”?) She is a wonderful master, in her 50’s, who services the song…oh, Jesus, I think I heard that on NPR once. I need to shut up now.

When I’m not listening to Rosanne Cash’s new album, I’m playing Jill Hennessy’s 2009 debut, Ghost in My Head. Rosanne has come so far, and Jill is just getting started. What a contradiction.

Jill Hennessy Ghost in My Head

What year is this? Are we in 2014? That’s…okay. So, it’s been 5 years since this album has been released. Give or take. I’m a fairly new listener to it.

If you remember the early years of Law & Order or the television show Crossing Jordan, you should know who Jill Hennessy is. From the moment I saw her on Law & Order, she was in my “Top Ten.” The Top Ten, of course, being a list of beautiful women on television that, once they decided they wanted to sleep with me, I would accept into my bed as long as they were at the top of the list. (Thank God only men are sexist pigs, or else I might feel guilty about shamelessly rating women.) And Ms. Hennessy was always in the Top 10. Who else was in the Top 10? God, it was ever evolving. Madeline Stowe. Oof. And Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. Oh. My. God.

Can we please just take a moment to honor the powerful beauty that is Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio?

Whew.

Breath-taking.

No.

I still need a moment.

***

Sometimes I miss the 90s.

Alright. So now that I’ve established my sexist credentials, please allow me to dissect Jill Hennessy’s album further.

Please know that I was TERRIFIED to listen to this album. It took me YEARS.

I had been following Jill Hennessy on Twitter for many years, ever since I signed up for the service. From following her, I knew that she had made an album. And I completely, deliberately, avoided it. I was scared to death.

Try to imagine someone that you love watching on television or in movies suddenly deciding that they were going to sing.

I did that already, with someone named Russell Crowe.

Have you heard of him? Oh, yeah. I have his CD. 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. Yep.

30 Odd Foot of Grunts

Even the baby is ashamed to be associated with this album. “My God. What will my parents think?”

I own this album. It is on my iPod.

I loved Russell Crowe. Have you ever seen him in The Sum of Us? I had such high hopes for him. So, when he came out publicly to say that, yes, he was a musician…I scooped that shit up. Who wouldn’t? I loved him in The Sum of Us. And why would he lie?

And then I listened to his album.

To my credit, I haven’t killed him.

But, he did completely ruin me for the “actors who want to sing” set. I was done after that. He was that powerful & awful. That Pawerful.

So, when I joined Twitter and found Jill Hennessy, and her bio said that she was singing and had an album out, of course my first thoughts were towards Russell and I was all “Isn’t that nice.”

I completely ignored this woman’s singing for, what, two years, at least. Possibly three. Who but the NSA can know for sure how long I’ve been on Twitter.

I don’t think you understand how much I love this woman. She changes the physiology of my body–but only an asshole would say “she changes the physiology of my body.” I can’t breathe when I see her. There is like a gaping hole in my abdomen where my appetite used to be when I see her. She utterly stupefies me. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life. So why would I want to fuck that up by listening to her sing and have her turn into Russell Crowe all over again? No one needs that shit. So I knew she was singing…and I politely ignored it.

Then, one day, on the Twitter, I said something about something she wrote, and she wrote back. (Soon I was to discover that she is very responsive to her fans. Like, VERY responsive. If I my girlfriends were that responsive to me, I probably would feel better about myself as a lover.) All of the sudden, this actress that I had admired, easily, for 20 years, was conversant. Shit! Fuck.

I downloaded her debut album. Because I felt guilty that I hadn’t listened to it. I didn’t know how to tell her “I have loved you for 20 years as a sporadic actress. I don’t want to heard your shitty vanity album and have all that love turn to hate.” It was released in 2009. I can’t remember being so scared to listen to anything in my life. Again, you have no idea how much I’ve admired Jill Hennessy as an actress.  And then there was Russell Crowe, Russell Crowe, hounding me in the back of my mind. I felt like I was losing my virginity for the first time all over again.

God, I was scared.

That was like two months ago. I haven’t really stopped listening to it since. I’ve kinda turned psycho about how much I love it.

So that’s the review you’re going to hear.

Remember how I said Rosanne Cash is so polished? Well. Jill Hennessy isn’t. And yet.

When I listen to some of her songs, it sounds as if she is playing for money in a subway…which kind of is perfect, because that is how she started.

I have my friend Rosanne Cash publicly saying that “It’s a mistake to say that songwriting is therapy,” and then there is Jill Hennessy saying that, yes, her songs were therapeutic.

(I just realized that I called Rosanne Cash my friend. We, (and by we I mean me and my cats) will let that go. C’mon. Let me die with my cats and my “friendship” with Rosanne Cash.)

I was so scared that Jill Hennessy was going to suck as both a singer and songwriter. I was just…I didn’t want to touch it for years.

But, I love Ms. Hennesssy’s work for almost the exact opposite reasons that I love Rosanne Cash’s.

I don’t understand the profession of songwriting. But there is something about Jill Hennessy’s voice that completely hypnotizes me. Her lyrics are so raw and personal–whereas Rosanne Cash’s are so ephemeral & universal.

After accepting that Jill Hennessy was a singer, I have learned a little bit about her history, and I now know that she began her career singing for money in the subways. You can totally hear that in her debut album.

But there are some songs that break through that busking genre and give you hope that there is something powerful underneath. I cannot stop listening to 4 Small Hands.

(Full disclosure: Before I started to listening to Jill Hennessy, I had no idea what “busking” was. I thought it was a city in Canada. Now I’m tossing the word around like I’ve used it for years. I’m 44, people. I had no idea what it was about 3 months ago.)

Apparently, when Jill Hennessy started her life as an artist, it began as a street musician.

It’s always ridiculous when you tell your friends “Hey, listen to these things!” “I like them! And if you like me, you’ll like them, too!”

Rosanne Cash’s new album and Jill Hennessy’s debut album are two totally different things. One is polished and composed and professional and the other is open and raw and intense. One knows who she is and where she comes from. One is trying to find a foothold in a harsh business. I love both of them.

Watching Morning Joe Is Hazardous to Your Health

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I have stopped watching Morning Joe on MSNBC. Although I have recently increased my level of exercise and have tried to be more diligent about the food I eat, deliberately avoiding Joe Scarborough at daybreak has been by far the healthiest thing I’ve done for myself in recent memory.

I should have never started watching Morning Joe in the first place. No one should have, really. Joe Scarborough is a proud polemist of a conservative bent. A former Republican congressman from Florida, Joe brings a Republican-friendly message to a network that leans predominantly to the left. I suppose that MSNBC puts him on the air for “balance.” But, conservatives who would appreciate his message probably avoid MSNBC the way that they avoid NPR, which is to say entirely, and liberals who do watch MSNBC really don’t need to absorb his shit first thing in the morning. I’m not sure who exactly Joe Scarborough’s core audience is, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they all self-identified as “libertarians.” (Or, as I like to call them “douchebags who can’t take a pragmatic political position if their lives depended upon it.” Want to bring all your guns to a gay wedding in an economy ruled by the gold standard and in which the IRS is obsolete and the federal government only focuses on military spending? Congratulations, douchebag. You’re a libertarian.)

I used to think that Morning Joe was a 3 hour news show into which its conservative host occasionally interjected his Republican viewpoint. It isn’t and he doesn’t. It is a three hour showcase for Joe Scarborough to attack Democrats mercilessly while continually offering up his Republican ideology countered by his relatively stupefied and shell-shocked supporting cast. (Mika Brzezinski, bless her heart, is the hapless, albeit beautiful, Colmes to his Hannity. Overmatched both by wits and passion, she typically has no response to his diatribes save for the occasional “Well. No–I just–I shouldn’t–okay, moving on.” She succeeds in pissing me off both as a feminist and a liberal. As a woman with an adopted Polish heritage, though, I’m proud of her roots.)

I suppose he’s always been more obdurate and opinionated then I gave him credit for, but I didn’t really notice how far off the rails he has gone until the healthcare.gov website fiasco. Not coincidentally, that grim period represented the last time I watched Morning Joe.

Anyone who knows anything about the Affordable Care Act, (and I sincerely hope that you do, because I am not giving an overview here), knows that the rollout of the website that non-insured people were supposed to use to sign up was a complete disaster. There were very good reasons, all of them computer-related, why that happened. Never one to miss an opportunity to needlessly criticize President Obama, Joe Scarborough turned the failed healthcare.gov website rollout as his raison d’être for the next two weeks, if not longer. I don’t know, I stopped watching.

Every single morning, rain or shine, Joe Scarborough started his show off highlighting the failure of the website. That in itself is fine. I would even go so far as to say that making the public aware of a massive failure is one of the cornerstones of journalism in a democracy. Awareness brings public outrage which brings change. It is good to be aware. Joe, of course, wasn’t merely interested in bringing awareness. He was interested in using the failed website as a cudgel to beat the President’s policy senseless.

The problems with the website, out of Joe Scarborough’s mouth, became “the worst social engineering policy in the history of the United States.” (He probably didn’t use those exact words. I’m paraphrasing.) Obamacare, a mere two weeks in, was the “worst thing to ever happen to the United States.” I cannot begin to tell you how many times I heard the word “failure” out of his mouth.

Joe Scarborough used the rocky rollout of the website as an excuse to confidently demand that the entire law be repealed. As this is what typically qualifies as “logic” within the Republican Party, I am not surprised to hear it. But to a liberal just waking up trying to eat her Cheerios without choking, it is really unappreciated.

We live in a modern, industrialized world controlled by corporate interests both at home and abroad. This is not the laissez-faire agrarian world of our powdered-wigged forefathers. Certainly, subsistence farmers have a lot more political freedom than a wage-earner working under another man’s thumb, but it’s time to admit the day for that ideology, held so lovingly by states’ rights fan Thomas Jefferson, has long since passed. And in this new world, in which our government’s sole purpose seems to be dedicated exclusively to increasing corporate profits, the expectations of the average citizen have changed. Having access to basic healthcare at minimal cost has become a universal human right…throughout all of the industrialized world save for the United States. In the United States, this most basic of concepts is still up for debate. Since the existence of man-made global climate change and evolution are also still “up for debate” in this country, again I can’t say that I’m surprised. But I can still be annoyed.

If you ask any Republican, including Joe Scarborough, “Does every person have the right to buy health insurance?,” they will probably all say yes and agree with you. Enjoy that moment of agreement, liberals, because when it comes to access to health insurance, that is pretty much where the two parties part ways. (Notice, by the way, that we’re not talking about healthcare itself–no, no. To discuss universal access to that you’d be jumping straight onto the socialist crazy train. We have to take things incrementally in this country and limit our discussions during this decade to access to health insurance.) Because, if everyone is in agreement that people have the RIGHT to buy health insurance, they sure as shit can’t seem to agree on how to make sure that everyone has it.

For example, that is the first wrinkle that the Republicans want to protest against. “Making sure that everyone has health insurance.” We can’t FORCE people to have health insurance, they say. What if someone doesn’t WANT health insurance, they ask. You should have the freedom to CHOOSE whether or not you want health insurance, because this is America, they bluster.

There are two things that are currently true in the United States of America: The government does not automatically provide healthcare to every citizen and everyone, at some point, is going to get sick and die. I wish Republicans would for once forget that they are supposed to oppose everything that Barack Obama supports and admit that requiring every citizen have health insurance is the responsible thing to do. They seem to have no problem, after all, supporting mandatory car insurance, mandatory home owner’s insurance or mandatory flood insurance. On the basis of that track record, they seem to understand the concept of risk pools. But, since Socialist Obama thinks mandating health insurance is a great idea, suddenly requiring that every citizen has health insurance is the most ridiculous notion ever conceived in a democracy.

The second wrinkle is acknowledging the economic burden 48 million uninsured people are placing on our country. Obamacare, for all its flaws, was drafted in an attempt to correct a healthcare industry that was rife with problems. But, to hear Republicans speak about healthcare today, everything about our healthcare system was working perfectly until that Kenyan Marxist plowed maniacally into the Oval Office and starting destroying America from the top.

If by some miracle you are able to get a Republican to admit that everyone is entitled to health insurance and that, yes, having 48 million uninsured people within our borders acts a drag on our economy then, assuming you do not die from shock, you should ask the next basic question:

“How do you expect people to pay for it?”

Because, if you can come to agreement about the two wrinkles that I mentioned above, then you start to really see the gaping flaws in the American healthcare system. We are not talking about something that is provided freely to the public like police and fire services are. (There are millions of us here in America that think that’s EXACTLY how healthcare should be offered in this country, but that is lightyears away from where the discussion in America is today. We have to focus on health insurance, because that is the engine that currently drives our healthcare system.) If health insurance has to be purchased by every citizen, at what point does the government step in to assist those that can’t afford it?

That, of course, leads us to the next obvious truth in America: the majority of people that do not have health insurance do not have it because they cannot afford it. Which leads us to an even more sobering reality: A lot of Americans are really fucking poor. Even if they are living in decent neighborhoods, they are spending so much of their income on housing & basic living allowances that they are finding it increasingly difficult to absorb new expenses. We’re not saving a lot of money, not because we’re out making it rain with extravagant, unnecessary purchases, but because we don’t have any money to save. So how are these people going to afford to buy something that cannot fit into their budget?

If you’re a Republican with a morning talk show on MSNBC, you basically shrug your shoulders and say “That’s freedom. That’s the free market. If you can’t afford it, you shouldn’t have to buy it.” If you’re a liberal who confidently thought you were making headway with a Republican, seeing as how you just got them to agree on those first two wrinkles and all, you stare at them like they are a fucking moron.

Because of course the obvious answer (other than the much simpler, much more dangerously socialist “Medicare for all”) is “the government has to provide subsidies.”

Everyone needs health insurance. Everyone needs to buy health insurance. Everyone should be means tested to see what they can afford, and the government should assist anyone who is too poor to be able to afford it on their own.

With me so far? It’s so obvious, isn’t it? So simple. Hard to believe two political parties are fighting so fiercely over this basic concept.

Once those things are established, you can move onto the quality of the health insurance being offered. Because “cost” really is relative when it comes to health insurance, as I’m sure most of us have learned at one point or another. What is the point of having an “affordable” insurance plan for $75 a month if, when you had to use it you learned that it essentially covered nothing you needed? So, clearly, if we are going to mandate that everyone have health insurance, then we should establish that, at a bare minimum, every single plan being offered cover the very basic standards of care. Right? Please tell me that makes sense to you. Because that one issue alone is causing seizures throughout the entire Republican Party. Apparently, no, they do not believe in minimum expectations of services. They want people to have the “freedom” to purchase a health insurance policy that is worthless. They call that “choice.” They call that “the free market.” And they call it all those things with straight faces. I would not want to play poker with these sociopaths. I would lose my shirt.

Not to continue to drone on about the obvious need for Obamacare, but it is clear from our history & the declining overall health of our increasingly poor populace that something needed to be done about the situation. Republicans can rightfully moan about the particulars of what is being done, but for them to howl that Obamacare needs to be repealed in its entirety is a direct affront to the people who are deeply affected by this healthcare crisis.

Because that is another thing about Obamacare: It is attempting to improve a situation that is literally Life & Death. This is not mandating that everyone travel 55 mph on our interstate highways to conserve fuel. This is not mandating that everyone get a social security number. This is mandating that people have health insurance so that they can seek medical attention at a reasonable cost and receive treatment so that THEY DON’T DIE OR GO BANKRUPT.

Worrying about health insurance, or a lack thereof, is probably the greatest unspoken stress in this country. When people lose their jobs, they at least have access to unemployment & food stamps. What they don’t have access to is health insurance. People are afraid to leave jobs they hate for fear of losing their health insurance. Health insurance controls this society more than people give it credit for. Making it easier to get & less expensive will, ironically, provide more Americans with that freedom that Republicans seem to cherish so much.

In short, there are hundreds of valid reasons why the Affordable Care Act is an important piece of legislation that will greatly improve the lives of millions of Americans.

But did Joe Scarborough, (the self-proclaimed “moderate, reasonable Republican”), acknowledge any of that? Fuck no. Obamacare was a huge failure. It is going to prove to be the biggest disaster ever placed upon this nation. It is government run insurance! (No, it isn’t.) It is socialized medicine. (No, it isn’t.) It is going to lead corporations to stop offering their employees health insurance. (There is no evidence that this will happen.) Corporations will start making all their employees part-time so that they do not have to pay them health insurance. (Again, why would corporations shoot themselves in the foot like that? They would suffer a huge loss of employees. Not only that, but that has been Wal-Mart’s policy since long before the implementation of Obamacare.) All because a website wasn’t designed properly and was an unmitigated disaster in its first month.

Joe Scarborough’s the-sky-is-falling reaction to the failures of healthcare.gov would be laughable if there wasn’t so much at stake. I find his reaction to be ridiculous. It would be akin to Harry Truman, upon discovering through his Senate committee that rampant fraud was being conducted by contractors who were tasked with building up the military at the onset of World War II, throwing up his hands from his committee chair and demanding, not that the abuse stop, but that American surrender and get out of the war altogether because, dammit, we just can’t get it right. His attitude is not very American. It’s nothing more than political theater. Which is exactly why I stopped watching.

Because you are free in this country to proclaim that basic human rights should not exist. Of course, that makes you an idiot, that goes without saying. But it makes me a bigger idiot to sit and listen to your nonsense while I’m trying to eat my Cheerios.

Why Don’t You Quit Leaving Me Alone?* Part 1

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You don’t know me, but I want to explain myself to you. I want you to understand the transformations I’ve undergone in my lifetime. I want you to respect the improvements that have been made to my psyche, my soul, because I want you to appreciate my point of view.

What I am discovering, though, is that having a story to tell is more difficult than having nothing to say. Wanting to be accepted and understood is harder than begging to be left alone.

But after staring for hours (literally! hours) at this blank computer screen, squeezing my brain for the slightest drop of inspiration, I have come to the glum realization that I’m probably not going to be successful.

There are so many obstacles to writing. Knowing where to begin. Knowing where to end. Knowing what it is, exactly, that you are trying to say. Dealing with the panicked alarm that comes once it occurs to you that, even if you do know exactly what to say, you don’t exactly know how to say it. Somehow finding the courage to move forward, anyway. Realizing that “courage,” at least in this instance, isn’t the right word, as it isn’t “bravery” that you’re displaying so much as it is “fuck it, I’m tired of staring at a blank screen, so I’m going to start writing something, anything, because I’m not walking away from this without at least one goddamn sentence in the books” attitude, which is hardly anything to boast about. Then you hate yourself for using the word “courage” in the first place. Suddenly you have to overcome the obstacle of wanting to delete all that you’ve written. (You could just change the word “courage” to something else, but at this point you’re tense, frustrated, and prone to irrational emotional outbursts. Because you’re writing.) And I haven’t even begun to mention to distraction caused by the cats. It never fails that right as I’m in the middle of a cohesive thought, one of them will jump onto the desk, purring, lay on the keyboard and stick her butt in my face. You know. Because she loves me.

I’m telling you, writing is hard.

So what exactly am I trying to say?

…

(Thirty minutes later…)

Okay. Maybe the direct approach was the wrong strategy. I mean, the day’s already half over. Let’s try a different tack.

I endured a hearty share of physical, sexual & verbal abuse as a child–the trifecta of emotional disturbance, if you will–and so what that means is, regardless of whatever other gifts and talents I had to share with the world, by the time I was a young adult my life was dominated by two powerful core beliefs:

1)I do not trust a single motherfucking one of you.

and

2)Yes, I know, I get it. I am not good enough.

Every moment of my adult life has been spent trying to overcome the harsh outlooks that were imprinted upon me in my formative years. Needless to say, just like writing, it’s been hard.

You may find this hard to believe, but when you do not trust anyone, and when you know in your heart that you’re a worthless human being, it negatively colors everything that you do. (No, really. It does!)

Let me give you just a couple of examples:

When you’re distrustful, it’s not like you run up to people on the street with eyeballs bulging, tendons in your neck tightening as from spittle-covered lips you scream, “I don’t trust you!” into their faces. (Except for perhaps one or two vagrants who do that in New York City. But, even then, after sixteen, seventeen hours of such public behavior, I hear those aggressively non-trusting people are eventually whisked away to a mental facility for “evaluation.”) No, it doesn’t quite work like that. You’re simply…wary. Distant. You’re quick to jump on any contradictions that a person reveals about themselves. You bring a lot of sarcasm to the table. (“Oh, really?” Yes, really. “Thanks, I had no idea.“) People may try to get close to you, but eventually give up once they realize that you’re an impregnable fortress of solitude. (This tends to really disappoint the people that wished to pregnate you.)

When you think that you’re a worthless human being, you have no ambition. Ambition is for people who feel like they can accomplish things, and you clearly cannot accomplish anything because you are worthless. Worthless people content themselves with simple jobs and menial labor and staying out of the limelight. If you develop friendships of any kind, they are typically, sadly, dysfunctional. At my lowest point, at the time I felt the absolute worst about myself, I was surrounded by some of the most depressingly awful people you could ever hope to find. The hopeless alcoholics, embittered by the pain of life. The cynics who rarely had a kind word to say about anything. You surround yourself with the disgusting and the undesirable in an effort to blend in, and to avoid anything too positive or upbeat. If I did have any positive, outgoing, warm friends, my negativity and sarcasm constantly tested their will until they eventually drifted away.

Basically, with an outlook such as the one I entered adulthood with, you’re a wreck. You’re a disaster waiting to happen. You’re a ticking time bomb. You’re a shell of a human being. You’re all of those clichés and then some. Consider yourself lucky if, as you’re enduring that blackness, you are smart enough to sense that something is wrong with your life. Of course, being incapable of believing in yourself or others you have absolutely no idea how to fix it…but at least you’re aware that something is wrong. That awareness is a gift. Otherwise, you’ll simply spiral down the toilet into the cesspool of life until you’re nothing but a toe tag in the county morgue.

(Editor’s note: At this point in the show, this is when the wildly ebullient MC would emerge from the stage, smiling and clapping his hands. “HOW’S EVERYONE DOING, HUH? Everyone having a good time?” Then, as it dawns on him that all the women in the first three rows are crying and the men that brought them are looking furious, the MC would gulp nervously, lick his lips and, ahh, tell some lame joke about prostitutes in Brazil that has a punchline like “Oh! I thought you said all the hookers had ‘Gone to Rio!'” There would then be dead silence. Beer bottles would clink in the back of the room. One drunk at the bar would bark a single note of laughter, which would sound as loud as a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. Finally, one of the men with a crying girlfriend would yell, “Get off the stage!” In other words, there’s no saving this essay. Be sure to tune in for Part 2.)

*Rosanne Cash. King’s Record Shop, 1987. Sony Music Distribution. Composed by Benmont Tench.

Brief Thoughts on Thinking

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I have never read Ralph Ellison’s novel “Invisible Man,” but I’ve known that I should. If one is interested in expanding one’s level of awareness, (as I am), or if one is interested in broadening one’s horizons and familiarizing oneself with great works of literature, (as, again, sometimes I am), then one should read seminal works such as “Invisible Man.”

I checked it out of the library today. I started reading the introduction over lunch. And now I am very nervous. Because I can barely understand a goddamn thing I’ve read so far. If the novel itself is written in the same style as this introduction, I might as well read it in Italian: I wouldn’t understand the intent of Mr. Ellison’s words any less, but I might actually learn how to read a little Italian.

Ralph Ellison is much smarter than me. His intelligence jumps off the page with every convoluted sentence I read. I can tell that he is saying something important. I can tell that he is describing how it came about that “Invisible Man,” (arguably one of the greatest novels ever written), was created. But I cannot, for the life of me, be sure of what he is saying. Take this tiny excerpt:

And all the more so because the voice seemed well aware that a piece of science fiction was the last thing I aspired to write. In fact, it seemed to tease me with allusions to that pseudoscientific sociological concept which held that most Afro-American difficulties sprang from our “high visibility”; a phrase as double-dealing and insidious as its more recent oxymoronic cousins, “benign neglect” and “reverse discrimination,” both of which translate “Keep those Negroes running-but in their same old place.” My friends had made wry jokes out of the term for many years, suggesting that while the darker brother was clearly “checked and balanced”-and kept far more checked than balanced-on the basis of his darkness he glowed, nevertheless, within the American conscience with such intensity that most whites feigned moral blindness toward his predicament; and these included the waves of late arrivals who refused to recognize the vast extent to which they too benefited from his second-class status while placing all the blame on white southerners.

Umm. What?

(For those that are unaware, since Mr. Ellison was discussing race, (was he?), in the above paragraph, he was a black author, born in the first half of the 20th century, who died in 1994. “Invisible Man” is hailed as a masterpiece novel that tells “unparalleled truths about the nature of bigotry.” I was looking forward to reading it before I started reading it.)

Trying to understand Mr. Ellison’s meaning has really got me thinking about the larger subjects of thinking and communicating, and how the art of writing enhances both of those things.

I’m about to tell you something that I bet you didn’t even know, so pay close attention:

Most of us are born with brains. Actual brains! Nestled comfortably within our soft, newborn skulls, yearning to be filled with knowledge and information. (Despite all evidence to the contrary, our brains are not located in either our penises or our  butts. Nope. They are in our heads, balanced delicately upon our necks. I’m happy to have cleared that up for you.)

One of the questions I wrestle with, as the simple layperson I am, is what limits are imposed on our intelligence? As we grow older, are we capable of growing smarter? Can a person develop critical thinking skills or, like the ability to curl your tongue, are they something you’re born with? Is your brain as capable of being smart on the day of your birth as it is going to be your entire life, or can you train yourself to become smarter?

(I realize that is actually four questions. Which basically ask the same thing. So, it’s just the one question.)

The reason I frequently wonder about intelligence is because every time I turn around I find myself face-to-face with another stupid person. It used to be funny, talking to a complete idiot who, in all other respects, appeared to be a functioning adult, but upon closer inspection it’s revealed that they are miraculously walking, talking, breathing & laughing despite the fact that their brain is completely detached from their central nervous system. (“I just met a woman who didn’t know the phone number to call 9-1-1!”) But then, like a massive walker herd over the horizon in “The Walking Dead” attracted to the sound of a single gunshot, I feel swamped by morons who must have been attracted to the sound of my derisive laughter. Suddenly the joke’s on me. I can’t get away from them and I don’t have nearly enough ammunition to fend them all off.

(For those of you who thought I was exploring the topic of intelligence because I was nobly motivated by the pure and unimpeachable pursuit of philosophical knowledge simply for knowledge’s sake, nope. I am just sick of stupid people. This makes me not a nice person. I realize this.)

Will reading Ralph Ellison’s ponderous train of thought make me more intelligent? If I can get through his prose and somehow make sense of it all will, in the end, my brain be “better” for it?

Let’s say you’re trying to educate yourself. I know, I know, based on the number of stupid people I meet or speak with on a daily basis, there is a good chance that none of you are actually trying to do this. But, for the sake of argument, let’s just say that you are. Give me some hope. Throw me a bone. At least one intellectually curious person has to exist–I’ll just pretend I’m lucky enough to have you stumble across my blog.

What is it that makes you smarter? Is it being introduced to new ideas or strains of thought that literally had never occurred to you before? Or is it deciphering multisyllabic, dense sentences and translating them down to your ingrained level of understanding? Or does simply going out and interacting with new people strengthen your brain?

Okay. I’m just going to throw that last question out. While there certainly has to be huge benefits to socializing and interacting with people, as anyone who has spent more than three minutes in a Wal-Mart on payday will tell you, it doesn’t, as a general rule, make you smarter. Or a Starbucks. I am not trying to trash poor people here. Hell, I’M POOR PEOPLE. My gripe is with stupid people. And, believe me, stupid people in a Starbucks are even harder to deal with sometimes than the ones at Wal-Mart because you have that hot coffee in your hand just itching to be thrown in their faces.

Because here is what I think. I think getting new ideas in your head is what’s important.

Well, let me back up. In order to get smarter, a person has to be willing to admit her views are wrong if confronted with overwhelming evidence to the contrary. If a person refuses to adapt her views despite completely rational, logical, valid evidence that completely refutes what she currently believes, then that is a person who is incapable of recognizing new ideas. That and she is incapable of completing her term as governor of Alaska.

Pow! Take that, Sarah Palin! *relevant!*

So, clearly, there are too many millions of us incapable of changing our views on any given subject. Why is that, I wonder? Are those people stupid? Is that what stupidity is, the inability to alter an opinion? Or is it simply a matter of sensory overload? You know, when I want a milkshake, I am not eager to get one from a place that has sixty different kinds. There are too many choices. They overwhelm me and my brain shuts down. Which is why, in my lifetime, I’ve only tried four flavors of shakes: peach, strawberry, chocolate peanut butter and Shamrock.

I’m kidding about how many flavors I’ve tried, of course, but I am quite serious about the immobilizing sense of overwhelm(edness?) that comes over me when I’m confronted with too many choices. And maybe, in this high-tech world of instant access to all human knowledge, that is why many people are incapable of accepting new ideas. There are just too many of them?

Of course, I personally think that is a bullshit excuse, but it certainly seems like a viable one.

After all, it’s possible that my brain is simply wired differently than most other peoples, and it has been since birth. I’m curious about history and philosophy and a variety of social sciences, but maybe I was just born with it. (Or maybe it’s Maybelline. I don’t know. It could be.) Maybe this desire I have to constantly know more and more about the human condition is nothing that I’ve developed, per se. Maybe I am no more in control of my curiosity than squirrels are in control of their desire to collect nuts in August.

I mean, let’s be clear here: I’m no fucking brainiac. At best–at BEST!–I’m what is derisively known as a “bookworm” or a “dilettante,” although dilettante is way too fancy a word to describe someone like me. It sounds too much like the word “debutante,” which is something young wealthy virgin women are called and I have neither money nor virginity, thank you very much. A bookworm is someone who reads a lot of books but is not an intellectual. And that is an apt description of me. I do not use my brain for any grand purpose.

When I think of smart people, I think of those people who give TED Talks and, I’ll be honest with you, I grew bored as shit with the never-ending hope and awesomeness of the TED Talks years ago. (Again, need I remind you, I am not a nice person. But, I’m sorry, okay? All those brilliant people get up on stage and talk about mind-blowingly fantastic ideas and idealizations for the future and, meanwhile, Detroit public workers are still losing their pensions, the President is still ordering the murders of innocent people in the name of fighting terrorism, the NSA is still spying on all of us, and black boys are still getting shot for being black. I’m cynical. Sue me.)

That being said, I am still compulsively interested in trying to improve my brain. (So that maybe, one day, I’ll appreciate those TED Talks for what they are.)

I cannot imagine trying to live a life in which I am not trying to become smarter. Well, no, again, I hate to contradict myself, but I can actually imagine that. I did it for years. I shut myself down, holed myself up, and played World of Warcraft every free minute of my life for about seven years. Man, do I wish I could have those years back.

So.

If you want to be “smarter,” here’s what I think: You have to be willing to change your mind. You have to willingly seek out ideas & concepts that are foreign to you. From my perspective, I think it is best for the person trying to educate himself if the author or speaker writes or speaks in a colloquial style. I think that many important concepts and ideas fail to take hold with people because they are written in high-brow language that only a sliver of serious academics can understand. Language can either be welcoming to virtually all literate people or it can be a unintelligible code to outsiders. Buddha, Gandhi, Jesus & Paul from the Bible, Mark Twain, Thomas Paine…these great thinkers ideas did not spread simply because their messages were universal. Their message was universal because the language they used was accessible & easy to understand.

Anyway.

Thanks for reading this if you’ve made it this far. I didn’t do a very good job of either communicating effectively or sounding intelligent in this post, I know, but I tried. I’ll do better next time. Although it’s possible that I’ve been bitten and infected by that herd of stupid zombies I referred to earlier, (Stupies? Zombidiots?), and I’m now simply part of the pack, watching Duck Dynasty, shuffling closer to a Starbucks or a Wal-Mart near you. Stay on your toes. And read “Invisible Man.” I hear it’s excellent.

Conflict Resolution

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The fact of the matter is humans like to fight.

Argue, challenge, disagree, confront, dominate–call it what you would like, but human beings love to mix it up. If enough people read this essay, someone, somewhere, will disapprove of the sentence I used to begin it. (“It’s practically a fragment!”)

We have struggled since we learned to think. (I would say that we struggled since “time in memoriam,” but I don’t think I’m using that phrase right, or spelling it correctly. Am I? Bah. It doesn’t matter.) We’ve fought a long time.

At the time of this writing, us Americans are concerned about 1)Abortion rights in Texas; 2)Abortion rights in North Carolina; 3)Abortion rights in any state that is dominated by Republicans; 4)The Egyptian Uprising of 2013; 5)The George Zimmerman trial. 6)The way that America is being taken away from them by the other political party.

(Full disclosure: When I say “us Americans,” I am referring to those that bother to engage with political matters via Twitter. I have no idea what the rest of the country is concerned with. My Facebook friends simply want to re-post George Takei pictures/puns. I assume that everyone I don’t know is watching reality TV or shopping on QVC. So this is in no way a scientifically-based essay.)

The existence of our species has been entirely based upon THE STRUGGLE.

When we’re not focused on political struggles, when we take a moment to look within, we see that THE STRUGGLE rages furious within our private thoughts, too. You know what you struggle with. I do not need to speak for you. But, regardless of the George Zimmerman verdict, most of you reading this wonder if you could have done things differently.

I contend that the struggle, (my apologies, but I am not going to capitalize it again, as I am not a revolutionary in Che Guevarra’s army), is essential to our humanity. We are constantly fighting. Is it because we know that we are going to die? Perhaps. Is it because we want things to be different? Perhaps. Is it because we expect things to be better?

Perhaps.

I hate fighting.

But it’s essential to our humanity.

I think my biggest worry is that I’m not fighting for the right things.

Fighting forces us to explore the way we think. It’s only when you are confronted with an opposing believe that you realize that other people might think differently than you do. It’s not healthy to live in a bubble. It’s impossible to make everyone happy…but it is incredibly stupid to think that everyone believes what you believe. It’s only through the struggle that we learn that there are different viewpoints.

In the long run, I am not worried about women’s health, as it is being attacked by Republican states across this supposedly great nation of ours. Eventually, sanity will prevail. Because this legislation will have consequences. If you wish to outlaw safe abortion clinics, damn you, but God bless you. (Full disclosure: I’m an atheist.) And women will attempt to abort babies, anyway. And many more young, desperate women will die because of your callousness. You are doing this to them. And your laws will change. Unfortunately, many women will die in the process. But every struggle has its martyrs.

We take two steps forward and one step back. No advantage granted via the legal system should ever be taken for granted. We must fight. We must stand vigilant.

And when we are dealt blows and our rights are setback, then we must coalesce our forces and hit the legislatures harder than before.

And if that doesn’t work I guess we just have to move to Canada.

It’s Always Something

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I am terrified to write today.

I am staring intently at a cobalt blue Bud Light keychain bottle opener that is laying lying resting on the desk in front of me. I am telling myself that if I can just get through this essay, if I can just get to the point where I feel comfortable posting it on my blog, I can reward myself with one four ten of the Negra Modelos that are currently chilling in my fridge. The only reason I’m writing is because I really need a fucking beer. (Oh, stop with the judgment! If my lover’s name was Zelda and strangers asked me, “Do friends call you ‘F’ or ‘Scott’?”, then a)it would be gin and b)I’d already be drunk. Not that I’m comparing myself to Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m merely reminiscing about an earlier, more innocent time, when blogging was new, no topic was off-limits, and everyone who did it was an alcoholic. Plus, I never really got into Fitzgerald. Or Hemingway. I preferred Sinclair. And Dreiser. Drunks. All of them. <wait for laughter here>)

The reason fear is gurgling up in me like pureed carrots in an over-fed baby is because I feel like I’m On The Verge of Something. Only I don’t know what it is, I don’t know how to express it, and there is a good possibility that it is going to Evaporate before I have a chance to Pull My Shit Together.

What I did realize today is that I need to take smaller bites of the apple. That is what I told myself as I diligently put my left blinker on as I slowed to a stop waiting to turn onto McClure Circle. “You need to take smaller bites of the apple, Laurie.” I can only assume that means the Something I’m On The Verge of is a very large piece of fruit. Figuratively Allegorically Metaphorically speaking.

So, (lucky for you), I am not–not today, at least–going to attempt to expound on the entire Something that is percolating in my brain. For starters, I am not nearly skilled enough to compose such a thing. And, for another, I’ve only recently, as in the past week or so, realized that I’m even onto Something. I haven’t figured out what exactly that Something is. But Something is in there. And I am going to try very hard to fertilize it, gestate it, and then give birth to it. From my brain. After which I will make a placenta smoothie and drink it. (Okay, what? That was uncalled for. And if I weren’t running purely on fear and adrenaline and a thirst for cold, cold beer, I would totally erase this entire paragraph. Placenta. I mean, ewww. Grow up, Laurie. Jesus.)

One step I took towards getting closer to expressing Something is that I stopped at an Office Depot today and paid entirely too much money for pens and a composition notebook. But, they are very nice pens. All twelve of them. Even though I just needed the one. (Editor’s Note: If you’re running short on time, you can just simply skip this paragraph. It is completely unnecessary. Laurie was simply excited that she bought new pens. It is in no way relevant to the topic at hand.)

As my metabolism since I’ve started “eating right” (sometimes) and “working out” (I can sometimes do 17 push-ups! In a row!) has begun to speed up, I now constantly feel like an elephant shrew that has to eat something every three hours or else I’m going to die. So, after I bought my writing utensils, I stopped off at a taco shop. (Today not being one of my “eating right” days.) I opened up the notebook and began to jot a few thoughts down. THERE IS A REASON THAT I AM TELLING YOU THIS. So, please, stop playing Candy Crush and just read this one thing. I won’t be too much longer. I expect to be drunk in less than an hour.

Here’s what I wrote:

I have to believe that most of us–those who are not so poverty-stricken that existence is nothing more than a vicious, desperate struggle for survival, leaving little room to contemplate existential questions or ponder the transcendental nature of the universe–strive for harmony and the divine. It is a noble goal. The problem arises partly from the fact that every person has their own definition of what those words mean, and they have very different visions of how to achieve them.

CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW THAT IS A VERY BIG SOMETHING TO CONTEMPLATE?

I probably did NOT need to shout at you just then. But, it’s been more than three hours since I ate. And, you don’t know this, but I deleted a big ol’ “FUCKING” from that sentence, just for you. So, you know. I’m trying, my friend. I’m trying.

But it is a lot to carry around in my wee little head. And I’m not thinking of these things because I have to write a grant paper or turn in a report on the state of bliss for the Pew Research Center or something. There is no reason in the world for me to be contemplating Harmony. Or the Divine. Or any other band led by Smokey Robinson. But I am. And, (lucky for you), someday you’ll get to read just what exactly I think about it.

See, here’s the thing, though:

After filling my small intestine with jalapenos, cheese, and Diet Coke, I headed to the library. I had a book waiting there for me to check out. I had ordered Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. (I will succeed in reaching Harmony & the Divine when I can pronounce that name flawlessly without a moment’s hesitation.) Don’t ask me WHY I requested this book. I have absolutely no idea. I don’t even remember what compelled me to search for it. Perhaps someone recommended it to me. If so, the moment that happened escapes me. Perhaps it was on the NY Times Bestseller List. Turns out this book was written in 1990. So, you know. If it’s still on the Bestseller List it must be very good. The subtitle is “The Psychology of Optimal Experience,” and I’ve grown comfortable enough in my skin over the past year that that didn’t sound New-Agey to me and didn’t creep me out.

When I got home with the book, I notice that the chapters are very detailed. The contents of the final chapter caught my eye. So, I flip to Cultivating Purpose on page 218.

Please remember <look up> what I had just written not more than an hour before I ever set eyes on this book.

I would very much like to simply transcribe the six pages that I read, slack-jawed, dumbfounded, leaning on my kitchen counter. But, of course, I cannot do that. For one, I am pretty sure that is against the rules of publishing. For two, I told you I would be drunk by now. As the saying goes, ain’t nobody got time for that. But here is the first paragraph:

In the lives of many people it is possible to find a unifying purpose that justifies the things they do day in, day out–a goal that like a magnetic field attracts their psychic energy, a goal upon which all lesser goals depend. This goal will define the challenges that a person needs to face in order to transform his or her life into a flow activity. Without such a purpose, even the best-ordered consciousness lacks meaning.

I know, right? Sexier than 50 Shades of Grey, am I right, ladies? So, he (I assume Mihaly is a man’s name) elaborates–he talks about the different ultimate goals that have satisfied cultures, and he mentions different meaning systems that cultures have had. He then proceeds to cite someone named Pitrim Sorokin, (Who I also assume is a man. Not that it matters. Except that I find these names to be strangely lyrical and beautiful.), who divides all of Western Civilization into three types of meaning systems: sensate, ideational, and idealistic. <Stay with me, friend. Stay with me..> It’s really fascinating. <It really is!>

He then starts to discuss the psychology of the steps human beings need to take in order to achieve their ultimate goals. He said that the first step is each person needs to preserve themselves and their basic goals. If they can get to the point where their physical safety is no longer in doubt, then they can move onto to embracing the values of their community–their family, their neighborhood, their church, etc. He states that this leads to something called reflective individualism, which in turn leads to the final step, which is a turning away from one’s individual self “back toward an integration with other people and with universal values.” (That means you reached the harmonious and the divine, basically.)

I know, right? I agree, it is totally intense. Well, it’s not my book to lend, but you can totally check it out at your local library.

The part that sent shivers down my spine was just a little further along, after he has explained the stages people go through when attempting to merge with the whole. Let me just quote it for you. And, again–please remember what I wrote down as I was shoving a quesadilla in my face:

Not everyone moves through the stages of this spiral of ascending complexity. A few never have the opportunity to go beyond the first step. When survival demands are so insistent that a person cannot devote much attention to anything else, he or she will not have enough psychic energy left to invest in the goals of the family or of the wider community. Self-interest alone will give meaning to life.

I know, right?

So. I write down a random thought that has been percolating in my brain and less than an hour later I’m staring at the much more eloquent expression of those very same thoughts in a book that I had never opened before.

I don’t know what it means, either. Part of me feels exhilarated–that this Something that is in my brain has been studied and mapped and is understood by psychologists from around the globe. I can seek out this topic at the library! I can learn! I can become more enlightened! Yay for me! Part of me feels deflated–that this Something has been studied and mapped and is understood by psychologists from around the globe. You’re not educated enough to talk about this! No one cares what you think! Smarter people than you have already covered this topic! Suppress the need you have to discuss it! And, of course, part of me feels terrified. Because I AM On The Verge of Something. Maybe I will never be able to successfully write about it. But maybe I’ll grow to understand it, which will help me on my journey to find Harmony & the Divine. (9PM Eastern/8PM Central this fall on TNT.) Knowledge and self-realization can be terrifying sometimes.

Which is why a bigger part of me REALLY needs a drink.