rants

I’m Sorry

Alexander Archipenko, “Seated Woman,” 1912-Bronze

Really, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re tired of reading and hearing about this, everyone who’s anyone or no one has already blogged, posted, written this article or that essay. I want to let this go, want to roll my eyes at the stupidity of people and snicker about those on the Right getting the candidate they deserve. I can’t do it. I can’t let it go, and I don’t believe anyone deserves someone who brags about sexual assault as their President. Not even those who want him. Maybe especially not them, because in the year 2016, there shouldn’t be one woman in the world who believes sexual assault against women is a man’s right. Not one woman.

I can be uptight in many ways, but language isn’t one of them. I straight out tell people not to bother checking out Mrs Fringe if they’re offended by the word fuck. I tell them because I acknowledge that some people are offended by certain words, and if you are, you aren’t going to be happy here. I love language, and I love words, all of them. Words are powerful, written or spoken they can outlast a good deed, a box of candy, they can remain and ring through your brain and guts longer than any slap upside your head. A couple of years ago there was a hashtag that went around twitter, #yesallwomen in response to #notallmen, I blogged about it here.

And here we are again. Only I’m seeing “not all men,” “not my men,” “not my sons,” etc, in response to comments and posts supporting Trump, saying that horrific tape of him speaking about women, with charming highlights like, “I moved on her like a bitch,…she was married…you can do anything,” and of course, “Grab them by the pussy.” I literally feel sick to my stomach with every comment and post I see in support of him and his words. Here’s the thing, most of those posts and many of those comments are from women. Women. Protesting that all men speak that way, no big deal, it’s only words. No, these aren’t only words. And no, I haven’t suddenly become a delicate fucking flower, offended by the word pussy, in need of men to stand up for me and remind everyone that when Trump was speaking, he was speaking about someone’s wife, mother, daughter. I saw a meme floating around to the effect of “If Trump’s words are so offensive to women, who bought a gazillion copies of Fifty Shades of Gray?” Sigh. If this makes sense to you, look up logical fallacy.

These language used is not colorful, against the rules of the FCC, or naughty. They are words describing assault, making it clear that he sees nothing wrong with literally aggressively touching and grabbing another human being whether they want to be touched or not. A likely smaller person, not as strong physically, and likely someone he’s in a position of power over.

I don’t want to hear about responses that begin “But Hillary,” or “Well Bill.” This has absolutely nothing to do with Hillary Clinton, and she is not responsible for what Bill Clinton chose to do.

When I was 16 I worked as a cocktail waitress. Think about that for a second. 16, working as a cocktail waitress. Standards, not that high. I remember one busy night, I had just begun serving wine to a large table, no room to maneuver with another table right behind me when one of the men reached back and, well, grabbed me by the pussy. In the moment, with his wife sitting right next to him, I was stunned. He said (exact quote, because WORDS), “Sorry sweetie, I touched your box.” And he smiled. A fucking fifty year old man, who turned his back to his wife and didn’t move his hand. At this point in my life, I had already learned there were situations where I could be out numbered and overpowered but this wasn’t one of them. I lifted the still full carafe of wine I was holding and poured it on him, “Sorry, sweetie, did I pour that on your dick?”

The manager came flying across the restaurant and hustled me into the kitchen before going back to the table, apologizing profusely and comping their wine and their meal. I didn’t lose my job, I had been working there long enough and the manager knew me well enough to know I wasn’t kidding, imagining, or exaggerating what had happened. If you’re thinking what a good guy the manager was, stop. This is the same man who, when I asked for a specific day off from work a few months later, told me he’d be willing to give it if I “popped his son’s cherry.” In retrospect, I’m sure the whole underaged thing played into the decision to keep me, too, not a scenario where he would want attention. It didn’t occur to me that by comping this man’s meal, he was rewarding him for being a pig, I was just grateful not to be fired. I’ll be honest, at that time, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to make a “bigger deal” of what happened. Sure I knew I didn’t want his hands on me, and I sure as shit could tell him to get his fucking hands off of me, but I’m not sure I knew I had the right to do so, and I had no idea that this was something that could be considered assault. If someone had floated the word to me at that time, in 1980something south Brooklyn, I would have either laughed or taken off, certain that I would be the one in trouble. Why? I don’t know, something about not having dangly bits and being the kind of girl who worked as a cocktail waitress.

I’m not sixteen anymore, and I know better. I know better, my husband and I have both taught our sons better, we’ve taught our daughter better. That doesn’t make us anything more than decent human beings, who’ve tried to raise decent human beings. Don’t you dare, anyone, tell me or anyone else, that Trump’s words are no big deal. I’m not offended. I’m sickened that anyone, male or female, is telling our children that assault of women is okay. I’m disgusted that there are women who are just fine with this type of behavior for themselves, their children, their loved ones, for the hussy down the street they’ve hated since the third grade. I’m saddened that people are perpetuating the myth that women are less than men, because that’s what you’re saying when you condone this message. I’m angry, because get your hands off my body! This isn’t about not-all-men speak this way, or think this way. This is about no woman should accept this as a fact of life, ever, and it is unacceptable for any man. Not if he’s older or younger, rich or poor, famous and powerful or a shlub toiling away in obscurity. #Notoneman.

It’s a Secret–Pass It On!

Everyone loves a secret, no need for truth or facts. The secret to weight loss, the secret to finding love, the secret to making money, the secret to success, the secret to being happy. If it’s big and juicy enough, it reaches conspiracy status–and there’s nothing Americans love more than a good conspiracy.

When Art Child was a toddler, she had a doll she loved above all 9,563 others. It sang, “¡Yo tengo un secreto y tu no sabes!” in a teasing voice, no mistaking the inflections whether you speak Spanish or not. I’ve got a secret and you don’t know it. Oh yeah, she loved that doll, almost as much as the other patrons in the local Dominican cafe loved seeing her with it, until the 138th time she pressed the button. The worst part? I bought the damned thing. What was I thinking? Not just the annoyance factor, but the message. ~~Thankfully~~ Sadly, the doll was lost at some point, just another casualty on the pyre of toys designed to torture parents.

Donald Trump is that doll minus the pigtails, and there are way too many Americans gleefully pushing his belly to hear him taunt. As I and many others have said, that’s the problem–not that he is who he is, and spouts the disgraceful, empty nonsense he does, but that he has god only knows how many supporters who are getting a thrill from watching the rest of us cringe. Actually I suspect a good number of his supporters are certain he’ll be having lunch with Elvis before taking the debate stage this evening. Because secrets! Conspiracy! And Donald’s going to tell us the truth, because nothing says honesty and integrity like someone who blatantly, repeatedly lies to paint the picture he wants to see.

I want to be fair, so let me share that it isn’t only on the far right that we’ve got gleeful conspiracy theorists singing about the moon landing being faked, the Holocaust was a lie, and of course, Obama is a secret Muslim who showed a fake birth certificate. Oh no, we’ve got our share on the left side of the political spectrum also, those who are certain Tupac and Jim Morrison will be sitting a few tables down from Trump and Elvis, cling to the belief vaccines cause autism, and share theories with those on the right about 9/11 coverups and the aliens in Area 51. Aaah, such a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach–pride in my fellow citizens, oh wait, no, it’s nausea.

Secrets and conspiracies–bet you can’t eat just one! And let’s go ahead and dip them in some delusion sauce while we’re at it. Those residing on the far right believe the lying, blustering, unqualified candidate who is Trump will save them. Yes, save them; cure their ills, make them rich, give them jobs, put all those pesky brown people in their proper place and show those dumb libs what the Constitution really means. Those residing on the far left are saying wonderful! Let him win, it doesn’t matter, Clinton is an equally poor choice, and besides, if he wins there will be a revolution on the streets and in three days’ time we’ll have taken the nation and all its riches back, distributing them to all those poor, unfortunate, ignorant souls who need us to save them.

Why am I writing now, at 5am on the day of the first Presidential debate, when I know my fingers will be itching to rant again by 10PM tonight? Because this has been such a horrific, unprecedented election cycle I don’t think the debates matter. Clinton will be fabulous, this is exactly where she can and does shine. Ok, maybe not like Obama, but still. She’s informed, she’s experienced, she knows how to keep her cool and speak well. Trump will be Trump, he’ll have no real plans to offer, he’ll bellow and attack while continuing to lie and going on the offense if anyone dares to call him on his lies. And his supporters won’t care. Regardless of what he does or doesn’t say, they’ll be crowing and trumpeting his “truth”, declaring him the clear winner.

Trump has spent his entire adult life selling hollow secrets, he became the Republican candidate by selling conspiracies. He’s good in front of a camera, he appeals not to our ever-changing American Dream, but to our American Fantasy of winning lottery tickets. He’s the American Id. In another time in America’s past, he’d have been under a tent selling snake oil. Let’s stop buying, shall we? Think about it, this is a man who’s telling you he’s going to give jobs back to the American people, he’s a successful businessman who knows how to do this, after all. So successful he’s declared bankruptcy three times, and he has indeed provided thousands of jobs–in other countries. When called on it, he said this stuff isn’t manufactured in the US anymore. Not true, some of it is, and more of it could be, if businesses like Trump’s weren’t putting profit above people.

We are a nation confused by its own adolescence, screaming that we don’t need childish toys and distractions while we paradoxically hold tight to them, trying to prove how very grown up we are by doing so.

This singing doll isn’t just a nuisance that gets on your nerves, it’s already leaking battery acid, in the form of millions of supporters for the rhetoric of fear, hatred, and greed. Leaking now, it’s too late to just dump it in a pile of abandoned toys. That acid is staining our political process, corroding the very freedoms Trump claims he’s going to provide.

How will we do this? I’m not sure. We’re certainly beyond pretending Trump is an isolated wing-nut. And it isn’t just within the boundaries of our country that we need to worry about. Which, of course, his supporters are loving–because there’s some confusion about the difference between respect and fear, authority and authoritarianism. For most of those supporters at the Trump rallies, he has validated, legitimized, and fed their fears and hatred so they haven’t cleaned up this acid leak, but instead spread it. I don’t know how to get rid of it, but I know for sure the first step has to be Trump losing in November. How about we put fear on hold, and begin with self-respect? If not it won’t matter which secret you were hoping to hear or what conspiracies you find intriguing, we will all lose.

Dear Chicks on the Right: You Talkin To Me?

A few photos from 23rd Street, just a bit east of where the explosion took place Saturday night.

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I had never heard of the Chicks on the Right before, and I’m pretty much the left leaning filthy hippy they rail against, perhaps even the “landbeast” or “moon bat” so charmingly defined in their chicktionary. But hey, I don’t live in an echo chamber and don’t want to, and these are apparently two middle aged women putting themselves and their beliefs out there in the blogosphere. I want to support that, wanted to find out more about them, being another middle aged woman who puts herself and her beliefs out there. Imagine my surprise when I actually read the post I had seen linked in my Facebook feed this morning. Now I’m sure they don’t know or care who Mrs Fringe is, I’m barely a spit bubble compared to the success of their big pink bubblegum blowing blog, but I’m a New Yorker, after all, and if you’ve got questions/thoughts/incorrect assumptions about life in the Big Apple, I’m your gal.

So let this cliched middle aged broad clarify a couple of things for you. I have a passionate love/hate relationship with this city, but when you’re born and raised here, you’re a New Yorker for life, even if you’ve long since moved to Timbuktu. I have never been to Indianapolis (the area these “chicks” appear to be from), so I don’t know what it’s like there. The only tv show I can think of that was set there is One Day at a Time, pretty sure that isn’t an accurate reflection. I, and all eight million of my neighbors, are indeed tough and resilient. What we aren’t is a hive mind. That’s the beauty of New York. Diversity. Is that a dirty word for your blog? Sorry, it’s the one that fits.

Not just diversity in faith, skin color, gender/gender identity, sexuality, ethnicity, but diversity in thoughts and beliefs, including political. Yeah, we’re a blue city in a blue state, but there are enough right leaning people here–and even more independent thinkers– that we’ve had a Republican mayor or two.

This isn’t my main issue or yours, not what spurred me to respond. The emergency text blasted out to all NY cell phones, identifying the name of the suspect wanted for the explosion that had taken place in Chelsea a few days earlier. For the record, I’m not a big Twitter user (though I think I will send you gals a tweet so you see this post), I hadn’t seen any of the ones you posted, let alone tweeted about it myself. That said, yeah, receiving that text falls under what I like to call icky-squicky-this-can’t-be-right. Not because I didn’t want the person responsible captured and prosecuted, but because it feels more than a bit Big Brother-ish. I’m a little confused, aren’t conservatives the group that complains about government overreach? I know you disagree, and I’m sorry for being dense, perhaps you can explain it to me. Simply, seeing as I’m a slow-witted New Yorker who doesn’t understand what’s in my best interests.

I was also taken aback by your expanding and clarifying statement, “Not only that, but these delicate snowflakes cried that something like this could lead to the Supreme Evil of racial profiling.” Sorry for causing more eye rolls, but my experience as someone who lives in this great diverse city means that yup, I’m also against racial profiling. Why? Because my neighbors, friends, children’s friends/classmates, family members, are a diverse (oops, there’s that naughty word again) bunch. Getting up and living their lives each day, I imagine much the way you do, and being profiled, stopped, too often falsely accused and arrested just doesn’t seem to represent the land of the free to me. Profiling isn’t “suddenly” bad. Perhaps you weren’t aware of it as an issue until recently. That’s ok, you don’t know what you don’t know. You know the nice part of being older? I’ve learned to stop and think; listen to the other side of issues, take the time and put in the effort to learn the subtleties. America is a big place, encompassing many different people, beliefs, and lifestyles. What works in a small town in Montana wouldn’t make sense in New York–and that’s okay. Damn I hope I don’t melt, being a snowflake and all, it’s hot in the city today.

But what really got my fingers itching to respond? “New Yorkers have traded in their traditional toughness for a safe space of politically correct social justice.” Here’s a bit of New York reality for you, our world has changed. We’ve made trade-offs, some I agree with, some I don’t, but yeah, I’ve changed. I assume you weren’t here in New York on 9/11/01. I was. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten the fear of trying to figure out what was going on. I haven’t forgotten running to get my son from school, finding a stream of parents flowing in and out of the school trying to get their children, the hushed panic of whispers about parents who worked in which towers. I haven’t forgotten my gratitude for the incredible calm and order the school staff had going. I haven’t forgotten the horrible, unnatural quiet in the streets. I haven’t forgotten trying to reach people I loved with no answer for hours that felt like decades. I haven’t forgotten watching the towers burn and the smell of smoke and the ash settling over EVERYTHING. I haven’t forgotten the first aid stations that were set up so efficiently that looked like not quite perfect movie sets–where are the extras?– because they were so empty. I haven’t forgotten the thousands of people staggering up Broadway like zombies, covered in layers of white gray ash made up of things we didn’t want to think about. Wondering if we were breathing in people. I haven’t forgotten the many, many people who didn’t get to go home. I haven’t forgotten being trapped on this island of Manhattan, no one other than emergency/official vehicles in or out. I haven’t forgotten the nausea and heart stopping this-will-never-be-the-same first time I saw clusters of armed guards in the subway, on the streets and by the bridges and tunnels. Not something to watch on a tv screen, not theoretical, but my city, my friends, my neighbors. Perhaps you think I should be embarrassed to admit this day changed my life and my city forever? That there is fear that didn’t used to live in my gut? Nope, not embarrassed at all.

Chicks on the Right, you have every right to disagree with my political opinions. You have every right to voice those opinions, vote for the candidates who agree with you, protest the decisions that go against your belief systems and values. You can join the millions of non-New Yorkers who are quick to lay claim to our city but have no clue what it is to live here, live side by side with all kinds of people, no idea how to make peace and have respect for those who live differently. But unless you were sitting next to me on the train yesterday, on my way to pick my daughter up from school, underground when the train stopped, vague announcements about a problem ahead, then listening to the announcement that all service had been suspended and thereby wondering if someone had fallen onto the tracks, or jumped, or if there had been another attack, trying to send a text to the school and your child not to leave the school because you were going to be late and you didn’t know how late, feeling the gratitude and relief when the car doors opened so you could run off the train, up and out of the subway and wait behind 342 other people trying to grab cabs on the same corner, knowing you were still on the wrong side of the UN and the President was here to speak there, enough of a New Yorker to then argue with the cab driver about the best route to take so you could get to your child, establish they and your city are safe, knowing you’ve got to get back on those trains to get home, do it again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, you don’t get to tell me how tough and resilient I and my fellow New Yorkers are not.

Deep Breath In…now hold it until you find sensible workout clothes!

Early yesterday morning I was extolling the virtues of yoga for back care to a friend, and the conversation goosed me to do what I’ve been putting off for a year, buying new workout clothes. Should be easy, no? Everywhere you look are women wearing yoga pants and capris, with oh so cute little bondage straps–err, sports bras.

I’m picky. Yoga gear should be form fitting enough that you can easily check your alignment, and not have everything rolling up, rolling down, and twisting under you. You should be able to move freely in whatever you’re wearing. I had looked online last week. Good grief, $100 for a pair of yoga pants? By the time $60 began to look reasonable, I knew it was time to step away from the laptop. And so I went to the local discount sporting goods store, where I was sucked into the vortex of fluorescent pink sports bras with perfectly coordinated checkered capris. A mere $75 for an outfit. No. Went home, went back online, found some things that were more reasonably priced, and purchased nothing. Better prices aren’t really better if I can’t tell exactly how something is going to fit, if it will actually be comfortable to move in but discreet enough to throw a long t-shirt on top and run the girl to school.

Yeah, I’ve seen some of those inexpensive pieces in person, and they’re barely opaque enough to qualify as tights. And the rest–including some of the very priciest ones–seem to be manufactured and promoted by the same sadists who came up with Spanx. How the fuck am I supposed to execute a smooth downward facing dog if I’m busy trying to force air into my lungs? Now I’m sure the idea is to hold in and hide all the rumply bits you’re trying to smooth away with exercise, but they seem to have forgotten one thing. That excess of skin/cellulite/*gasp*/flab? It doesn’t actually disappear with the bondage gear, just gets pushed up over the waistband and down under the rib band. Thanks, I feel so attractive.

And ah, the sports bras. I get it, if your workout is high impact, you might want something with more hold. But for yoga? With the way most of these things are structured, I expect mammogram results to pop out when I take them off. And why is the choice that either they come with pads thick and durable enough to walk by themselves or no room in the design for nipples, let alone breasts?

When, exactly, did workout clothes become yet another haute couture arena? This may be sacrilegious to say in 2016, but as long as it’s reasonable enough to get on and off the subway in, I don’t care what this stuff looks like. I don’t care if the sports bra matches the t-shirt matches the shorts. Maybe I’d feel differently if I worked out in a gym, or a class, and was being seen by others. Actually, this likely contributes to why I prefer to stick to the privacy of my living room. If you’re headed to an appointment, or date, or work, after you work out, go ahead and live a little by getting dressed in real clothes. They don’t have to be fancy, just yanno, clean–something you haven’t spent an hour sweating in.

So yes, I went shopping in one of the basic discount stores yesterday, determined to be successful. If I don’t care about the fashion statement, how hard could it be? First off, I thought it was the perfect time of year to replace my workout shorts (I like to wear shorts for yoga in the hot weather, sue me). There were indeed two racks of shorts in the clearance racks of the “athleisure” department. Are you freaking kidding me? Lycra microshorts. Just right for the woman who wants her already sagging butt cheeks to fall out during child’s pose. Fine, forget the shorts. I grabbed every sports bra, yoga pant, and capri that I could find that looked like it might fit, didn’t feel like it was made from that magical duck tape/spandex blend, was under $20 and headed to the dressing room.

I could have skipped the early morning yoga session, because just trying all this crap on certainly counted as a workout. Mrs Fringe is not a large woman. That said, as a woman-of-a-certain-age, I’m not as small as I used to be. These things are obviously all designed for the prepubescent among us. In real clothes, I wear a size 6 or 4, depending on the cut and the “designer,” usually need a petite (except in pants, my legs are oddly long for a short woman), and I needed– needed–mediums in this stuff. What the fuck? What about women who are truly curvy? Or, god forbid, a bit more than full figured? Are they banished to the dismal plus-sized rack at the back because they wear a size 12 (which doesn’t necessarily mean more than full figured)? When I came home I saw the brouhaha online about a well endowed teacher in a dress that covered her completely but was, ahem, form fitting. I wouldn’t wear it, but I like things that are roomy. Not sack cloth and ashes, but what I consider breathable. Appropriate for work? I don’t know, but I know for sure that is a woman who would be hard pressed to find something off the rack that fit her without being either tight or tent like.

Wikipedia tells me the goal of yoga is moksha–liberation. Looking at the western yogi-gear offerings, I suspect something has been lost in translation. If you’re wondering, I did wear my new gear this morning and got on the train wearing my new (see above photo) slightly baggy olive-green capris, crayola-box purple sports bra, and big ocean-blue long sleeved t-shirt. I left the falsies behind.

Halloween decor?

Aahhh, These Summer Mornings

Just me, my flowers, the occasional spider to watch the sunrise.

Seems peaceful, doesn’t it? Especially before I boot the laptop, read about the day’s atrocities and most current buffoonery of Trump.

Not this morning. Yesterday was long and busy. We’ve reached the portion of the summer where my anxiety begins to rise, knowing before I can weep Nerd Child will be waving goodbye, headed North to school, and I’ll be back to twelve trains a day shuffling Art Child back and forth. Ridiculous, we still have weeks, but there you have it. With Facebook friends all over the country and world, I’m already seeing the obligatory first day of school pics. There should be a way to block those until Labor Day, don’t you think?

With so many guests this summer, I’ve gotten behind on keeping the apartment neat and organized. Small space, lots of people in and out, packing, unpacking, beach bags galore and the general sloth of long hot days. Time to start getting it together, so I’m not in a complete panic in another two weeks.

Too late!

Man Child’s girlfriend, Miss Music, was here last week, came for a week after her band finished its tour. Fun. Except one morning, she was sitting on the couch with Art Child, turned to me and said, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

A mouse.

In my apartment.

IN my apartment.

In MY apartment.

Sweet mother of fuck, nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In my many, many years of NY living, I’ve never had a mouse in my apartment. There was evidence of them in our last apartment before we moved in, so we filled every crack and hole we could find, and then put down glue traps just in case. Big Senile Dog promptly got a glue trap stuck to his nose and each paw. Good times.

I grew up near the water in Brooklyn, huge wharf rats could be seen regularly on the streets. Yucky, but outside. There was also a large population of feral cats, so mice weren’t such a thing, between the cats and the rats I’m guessing mice didn’t have a chance. I see rats all the time on the subway tracks. Again, meh. Part of NY life.

Back to the other morning. We didn’t see anything, but we bought a few traps and put them down, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog only got 3 of them stuck to her, and they were much easier to remove than they had been for the big dog, because she’s used to being held to be groomed, and she’s got long hair. Plus, not as dumb as I’d expect, she steered clear of them afterwards. Zero interest in the mouse itself.

No further mouse sightings, until a couple of nights ago, eating dinner and holy shit! I saw a shadow fly over the living room floor. That was no migraine floater. The plan was to go shopping yesterday to restock on cleaning supplies and toiletries, both for the apartment and for Nerd Child to take to school. Needless to say I picked up more mouse traps.

Got home, tore apart the living room, dining area, and kitchen, filled every hole around every pipe we could find, and laid 16 mouse traps. When I say we, I mean Husband and Nerd Child, while Art Child and I steered clear and washed our hands every time those guys touched another trap. I am not taking any chances. I know, they’re a fact of life in NY, in most places, I guess, hence the city mouse/country mouse stories, but they’ve never been a fact in my personal space and I am not ok with sharing. This apartment is crowded enough, thankyouverymuch. Nerd Child reminded me I’m against the death penalty. Nope, only for two legged creatures. Twitchy four legged ones need to be erased. Period.

You know how high my anxiety levels are now, right? In case I needed a bit more, tonight is that open mic night reading.

So I got up, made coffee, went on the terrace, sat for a bit, and then prepared to sit at my desk. One of the glue traps under the radiator worked. But the critter was still alive, and had gotten two of my electrical cords stuck with it. I woke Husband, went back to hiding on the terrace. I was heroic enough to dispose of the whole thing, after it was bagged.

Yes, I took a pic of the mouse actually stuck to the trap, but I just can’t bear looking at it again.

The day has to go up from here, right?

Can We Stop Now?

Shrouded

I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to write any more posts about shootings for a while. Not mass shootings, not shootings of police, not shootings by police, not the ever-confusing shootings of and by toddlers. The horror of the shootings that make headlines is how easy it is, for most of us, to understand that it could be any of us. To understand something has gone wrong in our society, in our schools, in our definition of protect and serve. That’s been made abundantly clear. But somehow, as these incidents continue and grow, instead of addressing how to fix things, real discussion is at a standstill, and there’s a divide the width of the Grand Canyon where it seems no one is listening: “Black Lives Matter!” “No, Blue Lives Matter!” Sigh.

I want to post about my continued quest for the perfect moon photograph, the sad state of my tank, summertime in the city, how frustrating it is to be a peasant, finding laughter in the absurdity of the everyday, blather on about writingnotwriting.

But here I am, again.

The victim didn’t die, there’s nothing to debate, it’s a blatant fuck-up. I don’t have the words for this one, thinking about it wraps my intestines tight around my shins and makes agoraphobia sound like an attractive alternative to stepping outside. A man with autism, in Florida, was upset and ran away from his group home. He didn’t run far, and his behavioral therapist found him sitting on the street playing with his toy truck. Someone called the police, reportedly stating something about an armed suspect threatening suicide. Maybe that’s what the caller honestly thought, maybe they were just frightened and freaked out by the man. Either way, when the police arrived, Charles Kinsey, the behavioral therapist from the group home, was sitting/lying on the street with him. In some ways I’ve been Charles Kinsey, and I know what he was doing, working to calm his client, set him at ease, and get him back home safely. It’s a hard, frustrating job that can shatter your heart ten times a shift while it simultaneously fills you with hope and appreciation for the small moments and subtlest of victories. It’s exhausting. But of course, I’m not a black man.

After the responding officers were told by Kinsey what was happening, told the supposed threat was a man with autism holding a toy truck (not “even” a toy gun), and Kinsey was lying on the ground with his hands up, one of those officers shot Kinsey in the leg. To keep everyone extra safe, after shooting three times, they rolled him over and handcuffed him. It’s ok, though, an honest mistake, the officer had intended to shoot the (white) man with autism. *sarcasm* Kinsey was trying to convince his client to lie on the ground, but his client was sitting and rocking, very very common amongst autistic people.

I don’t want to hear how police officers all over the country are extra jumpy because of the recent shootings of fellow officers. I understand that, and every shooting, fatal or not, is tragic for those directly involved and our greater community. I don’t understand a police officer so poorly trained that he would shoot at an unarmed man lying on the ground who had already explained what was happening. I don’t understand why we have police officers so poorly prepared to respond to calls in the community one would think for a second shooting at a vulnerable, mentally challenged, unarmed citizen (with what is now a common disorder) is an appropriate response. Who was he protecting? Who did he think he was serving? Excuses aren’t reasons, and excuses don’t erase repercussions.

Yes, in the chorus of recent shootings striking chords, this one is an off-key aria that terrifies me. It’s terrified many of my friends; one of our biggest fears, spoken or unspoken, playing onstage now under a merciless spotlight. With or without a diagnosis of autism, many neurological disorders come with a processing disorder. CAPD–Central Auditory Processing Disorder. Processing disorders mean physical hearing may not be impaired, but sounds and speech are easily muddied, resulting in delays understanding what is being said, often requiring calm, quiet, PATIENCE, visual cues and clues, and repetition. Thousands (maybe millions?) of children and adults have this disorder, it goes hand in hand with many learning disorders, autism, epilepsy, add/adhd, developmental delays, and sometimes it’s the result of medications slowing cognitive function. There are also several seizure types that leave the person seemingly aware, standing, sitting, maybe even walking and talking, but in fact the brain has “checked out” for a moment, or three, or ten. FYI, autism and epilepsy often go hand in hand. I’m not sure I have any fellow special needs mom friends whose children (regardless of age) don’t have either CAPD or a seizure disorder. Without autism, that client, the intended recipient of three bullets, could have been my child. Could be my child tomorrow. Could be any number of friends’ children; yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Stop pretending police officers are superheroes, or are supposed to be superheroes. We don’t need superheroes, we need human beings with critical thinking skills and compassion, who are trained in crisis management and deescalation skills at least as well as Charles Kinsey. We need law enforcement officers who recognize and acknowledge the difference–before firing their weapons–between an imminent threat to their lives and a pain in the ass who’s making them run, the difference between someone pointing a gun at them and a child or mentally challenged individual holding a toy. Stop pretending every day on every street in uniform in America is equivalent to being dropped into a war zone.

Yes, being a law enforcement officer is an often dangerous, always stressful job. I appreciate those who choose to take the risk and join their local force. I would appreciate adequate vetting and training even more. If we can not and do not feel safe teaching our children to approach law enforcement if they are in need, we can no longer pretend to be a democracy, we are broken. Shooting those who are unarmed, shooting at our most vulnerable citizens, is unacceptable. Period. Stop pretending this is protecting and serving anyone.

Let’s Play!

I assume this is a bad hand, no aces or picture cards, no pairs.

I’m burnt out from the online political arguments. Tried distraction yesterday, went to the zoo (yes I did enjoy watching the gorillas, thankyouverymuch). That was nice, but not quite enough. Back to disgusted by 9pm last night. So this morning I was thinking, we need a game. A nice, game, old-fashioned yet modern. Naturally, LARPing came to mind. So much talk about the good old days, why not go back to them? Yes, everyone currently ranting, please join in. At first I thought everyone should play, but then, as I thought more about the premise, I decided that if I want to keep to the spirit being touted as proper American values–yanno, my rights and conveniences are of more value than those of my neighbors or society–I don’t have to give up my Housewives or torture myself into a corset.

What shall we call our game? Women in the Kitchen? Back of the Bus? We Don’t Need No Stinking Badges? Maybe we should just keep it simple, call it America. Though that might be exclusionary. How about, History–Revisionist Edition?

The 1930s. In thinking about what time period to choose, I wanted to be fair and really support those who are mourning lost values. I considered 50 years ago, but that leaves us at the beginning of the peace and love era, dirty hippies are certainly not pictured on the memes I see going around, and really, why distribute windowpanes to distance ourselves from this glorious trip down memory lane? 100 years ago? Hmm, that feels a bit too distant, electricity wasn’t common in American households until the ’30s, and it wasn’t until the 1920s that Congress passed the Emergency Quota Act and the Immigration Act of 1924. Yanno, immigration restrictions in the good old days, working hard to prevent Asian immigrants, as well as Italian, Jewish, and Slav immigrants from setting foot on our red white and blue shores. Besides, in the early 1930s, more people were emigrating from America than immigrating into it. (Is that the current desire and dream?) Great Depression and all that.

While I and my fellow filthy liberal hippies keep score, those who believe in traditional values like backsliding, giving away rights, hating your neighbors, yourselves, and equal opportunities will get to live the dream. If you are from a family of longtime, multi-generational wealth that didn’t go under with the stock market crash of 1929, I’m sorry, you are ineligible to play. Unfortunately for you, your place in our culture was, is, and always will be secure. Anyway, this is gonna be awesome. Tremendous, even.

Concerned that you won’t have enough people and ethnic groups to hate? Pfft, we won’t leave you without, plenty of ethnic groups and minorities to blame for…everything. Sure, the Land of the Free wasn’t quite as mixed then, but believe it or not, there were brown people. And for those who aren’t sure there were enough people of color to hate, we’ve got you covered, with the “wrong” white people until those numbers come up. Concerned about having to live without your AR 15s and AK 47s? I know, so sad, so SCARY. In exchange for giving up your inalienable right to be a one man army, we’ve got other, more traditional good old days guns and rifles. And beatings! Sure, not as splashy as a semi-automatic, but is there anything quite as satisfying as old-fashioned bones-of-the-powerless-and-disenfranchised cracking under your fists? Who says the right to vote for women need take away your swagger? Gratifying and manly, you don’t need any Latinos or Eye-talians to teach you about machismo.

In the very early 1930s, 25% of potentially wage-earning Americans were unemployed. Please draw a card to determine if you have a job or not. If your card is lower than a 5, you have no job. Luckily for you, there’re also no disgusting, Socialist (ooh, so scary) Welfare, Food Stamps, Social Security, Medicaid, or Unemployment benefits in place. I’m so glad you get to hold true to your values. Don’t worry, your family and neighbors will take care of you, if you draw an ace. They’ll throw you a rotting cabbage and a bit of chicken skin.

If you are employed, it is of course because you’re a harder worker than the guy in the next town over whose factory folded when the owner took a swan dive off the church tower after the Stock Market crashed. You deserve employment, you’re a real American. None of those commie unions to deal with, either. You’re secure in your right to work in unsafe conditions, your children working right alongside you without the unnecessary complications of health insurance, days off, overtime pay, or your right arm. No worries, the Black Lung will keep you feeling warm.

And it’s all ok. Better than ok. You’ve got all the time in the world, without the modern distractions of cable tv, video games, internet access, cell phones, or reliable refrigeration. You’ve got radio, that’s all you sinners who insist on entertainment need! If you’re in the Great Plains, you have an excess of time, what with the lack of farmable farmland in the Dust Bowl. If you’re a woman, that is excellent news, plenty of hours in the day for washing, drying, and ironing clothes, cleaning the house, gardening, cooking (all from scratch, no frozen dinners, take-out, or convenience foods, and taking care of the children–yup, plenty of children! (sorry, no birth control or D&Cs allowed during your month of gaming, that would be cheating. Unwanted pregnancy? Bad timing? No such thing, you’re a woman.) As a woman, you’re even allowed to vote, what more do you want?

Are you a recent immigrant? You might be a bit confused, wondering where we’ve hidden those streets of gold. And the jobs, where are those opportunities? Good thing you came here and learned English overnight, assimilating immediately and working without pause. I know this is true because your modern selves talk about this all. the. time. (“My Grandpa came to America and spoke English!” “I’m proud to say I can’t speak a word of any other language!”) Unless, of course, you were a minority, in which case, you were the first to lose your job, if you had landed one in the first place. You won’t be lonely, you’ve got plenty of company what with all the other non-immigrant minorities (including Native Americans, who invited them, anyway? They should never have made it through Ellis Island.) who lost their jobs. And recreation! I hear lynchings enjoyed great popularity in the early thirties. Good thing we all remember those good old days with such fondness and clarity that we can play this game.

A bit of clarity, if you’re thinking that you’re white, and therefore a welcome immigrant, you might need to look a bit harder. Jews? Suspect, and not welcome. Italian? Suspect, and not welcome–all kinds of propaganda being distributed due to the rise of Mussolini. Irish? Also suspect, no-Irish-need-apply. Enjoy your tenements! I mean really, so many of these Italian and Irish immigrants were Catholic. Papists! Frequent and familiar targets of the KKK in those days. It isn’t like we’d see a Catholic President in a mere 30 years.

No worries about Mexicans coming and stealing your job, either. A pox on those who say over a million Mexican immigrants came between 1900-1930 because of a demand for low-wage, unskilled workers when we didn’t have enough citizens to fill those jobs. No worries indeed, we rounded ’em up, beat ’em, and deported ’em back over the border. Damn it, now I’m confusing myself, am I talking about then or now?

More excellent news, you won’t be confronted by your child coming out to you. That closet is padlocked and sealed in concrete. You yourself are a part of the LGBTQ community? Don’t be silly, surely no one who belongs to a community that has been traditionally pilloried, still openly ridiculed, viciously attacked, and subject to hate crimes by many would be playing this game–allying themselves with political parties that want nothing more than to restrict their rights–that would mean they place their bank accounts and guns above their personal rights, to say nothing of the safety and security of their community. Just think, it’s the 1930s, no AIDS. Don’t despair, though, plenty of gonorrhea and syphilis to go around, regardless of your sex or sexual orientation.

Speaking of health and health care, remember, these are the good old days. If you or a loved one get sick or have an accident, you don’t have to think about where your insurance card is, how much the treatment will cost, or if you’re able to cover the copays. Chances are excellent that what you’ve got can’t be treated. And your friendly local doctor will make a house call. If you can pay him.

So, you live life as if it’s the good old days for one month. No cheating–those of us who believe in reason, justice, equality and science will be watching. If you make it through your month without dying from illness or a tragic accident, good on you, you win a bootstrap! If you make it through without starving yourself or family members, losing your home or throwing yourself off of a cliff before Roosevelt can push through one of his commie New Deal roads and bridges, you get a bonus bootstrap. I hear once you collect enough, you can use them to pull yourself up.

Hey Hey Mama!

Of the million annoyances I encounter daily through life in the city, I’m old enough and defeated enough to realize 999, 997 have nothing to do with me personally, don’t effect me in any way, and are none of my business. Sure, the number changes if you consider what I bitch about in my head, or to Husband, or even here on the blog, but to cause me to speak up and interact with strangers? Not so much.

New York is always under construction. Buildings going up, coming down, being renovated or refaced, streets being dug up or patched. Interesting if you’re young or new to the city, hours of free entertainment if you’re 3, good news if you’re in contracting/construction. I’ve heard people complain about “how much” construction workers earn. I don’t complain. First of all, the salaries vary widely–union/non-union, public or private project, white/”minority” worker–wrong as it is, last I read white guys earned an average of 20% more (I put minority in quotes because whites are not the majority in nyc), etc. Second, these guys* work incredibly hard, back-breaking work in freezing cold, rain, heat and humidity that has most of us hiding inside, sometimes questionable working conditions, and often breathing in shit that I don’t want to think about. Third, the majority of these jobs/workers are highly skilled, and their work is important. Fourth, the risk of serious injury is high. A few of the assignments on the sites aren’t labor intensive, they’re incredibly boring. Like being assigned to open/close the gates and plastic bumpers for pedestrians to pass through in between cartloads of crap being hauled from the fenced in site to the dumpster in the gutter. Boring, but they can’t blow it off or let their minds wander, because that would be a disaster, a law suit, and an unemployment line waiting to happen. Often while working this mind-numbing task, they’re being berated and cursed by veryimportantpeople on their way to veryimportantmeetings who can’t contain their annoyance at being detained for 7 seconds so they don’t get a steel beam through their skull.

See? Look up or look down–construction.

I pass several construction sites daily, multiple times per day, as I take Art Child back and forth to school. The nice part of being a woman of a certain age who’s allowed herself to go gray? I don’t deal with much catcalling anymore. I’ve heard there are a few who find it complimentary. There are also women who like to call their husbands/boyfriends Daddy and greet them at the door with a martini and a smile–but of course that all falls under the annoyances-I-keep-to-myself category, because it’s none of my business. At best catcalling is a background annoyance, often it’s rude and dehumanizing, and at worst it can be frightening. I see a lot of the same guys every day, they smile and say good morning, I respond in kind, and that’s the extent of it.

But the other day I was walking with Art Child and her friend, and one of the workers (who I didn’t recognize, not one of the ones usually on the gate) made a comment to/about my daughter’s friend. Well, of course not so much about her as about her body. My daughter looks younger than her age, her friend does not. Young teenaged girls. Of course she’s attractive. I shook my head, said “no,” and we kept walking. This man–was he drunk?–kept on, calling after us and followed. For the record, he was not a young man. Definitely old enough to know better than to make these types of comments to a girl who could easily have been his daughter. I understand, putting to the side the misogyny of catcalling, when it comes to girls this age, it’s easy to think they’re older, especially if you aren’t looking at their faces. I turned back and said very clearly, “she’s underaged, back off.” Would you believe he kept going, commenting and following a bit more? Of course you believe it, if you’re a female between the ages of oh, say, 10 and 100. Was he delusional? I offered him a couple more words and we kept going. Why did I keep going? Because the girls were creeped out and frightened, and I wasn’t sure if this girl’s mother would be okay hearing about a confrontation afterwards. If I stopped, I was going to get loud. It’s a balance and a judgement call. Sometimes it’s good for young people to see adults doing the right thing, standing up for them and themselves. Other times (when the option is there) it’s better to cool off a bit and deal with situations without young people present.

So I don’t know if this guy was drunk, delusional, or bitter about sweating his balls off in 90° heat. What I do know is that he was confused if he thought this would pass without incident. This morning I had a nice chat with the site manager/foreman, who was responsive, respectful, and took me quite seriously.

a)The word “underaged” holds more than a bit of power. Those 9 letters contain many implications; ethical, moral, and legal.

b) Site workers and managers pay very close attention when you stop and speak. If you’re blocking the pass through, several workers have to stop what they’re doing. Time is money after all.

Women, we don’t have to tolerate predatory behavior, and we shouldn’t.

Moral of the day: Most annoyances can and should be ignored, some should be addressed head on. Oh yeah, and don’t fuck with Mrs Fringe.

*I reference “guys” because while I do/have occasionally seen women working on construction sites, it’s still a field dominated by men–and I’ve yet to hear a female construction worker catcalling.

Playground Politics

I seem to have missed my train

Hello all. Yes, yes, it’s been a while. You know when more time than usual passes in between speaking to a friend, you keep thinking you should call, but the more time passes the harder it becomes to make that call? Yeah. First I was in a bit of a funk; there’s nothing to say, no one cares what I have to say, blah, blah, blah. Then, in the past few weeks, there’s been so much going on I couldn’t decide where and how to jump in. Nothing has happened to me/mine personally, it’s been wonderful having Man Child home, he has a good job, Nerd Child is in the last stretch of high school–drove north and saw his final production the other day–that young man is an excellent director! Art Child is well, Husband is well, Incredibly Stupid Dog continues to forget which end is supposed to be on the pee pad when she lets loose…all good in Fringeland. But the world around me? Prince died, which I took more personally than I have any right to. North Carolina has decided genital checks are in order because thinkofthechildren. The Bernie movement has faltered (to say the least), and Donald Trump has won the GOP nomination.

After two weeks of pretending that last tidbit couldn’t be real, I have to accept it. I have to get on the train. Not the train car supporting him, of course. I feel like it’s rush hour and the car open in front of me is suspiciously empty. If you’ve ever been a subway rider, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, let me give you a tip. When a crowded train pulls in, if the car you’re about to get on is miraculously empty with several open seats, there’s a reason–and that reason usually involves a stench so foul even the most weary and unsteady travelers would prefer to be squashed nose to armpit in the next car.

Yesterday I was having a conversation about this nightmare with a friend of mine, and I referenced playground politics. For me, this sums it up. Because it doesn’t feel like a train. I’m an adept rider; pains, nerve damage and all, I can keep my balance, squeeze into the most narrow space between two man-spreaders if it means a seat, and throw myself through the closing doors without getting my purse caught. This is more like a throwback to childhood, a concrete lunchtime playground where girls have cooties and with a choice between splintered seesaws, dodgeball, and a cement water fountain that dribbles rust. So here we are, this cycle of American politics where might makes right and he who spreads the most outlandish, the most vicious rumors wins. Where is the lunch aid? Where are the teachers? Where are the grown-ups?

As I’ve said previously, I like Bernie. I never thought he was a perfect candidate, and I had questions, but I thought he was the best choice. For a moment, I thought he had a real shot. That moment is over. I don’t love Hillary. I have a lot of questions and reservations about her that I don’t want to have. (I’m a feminist ferchistssake, a woman for President? Yes, please.) But I’m not hesitating to support her, especially when I look at the alternative. The alternative isn’t Bernie Sanders, it’s Donald Trump. A man whose positions take us from an unsupervised playground to Lord of the Flies.

While I wasn’t blogging, I did more reading than I’d done in a while. I even decided to read Infinite Jest, it’d been on my to-read list forever, and it seemed like the perfect time. I got about 600 pages in, and spent a good 500 of those pages feeling certain that I’m an idiot, because I didn’t get it. Not that I wasn’t able to follow the storyline, I was. Not that I didn’t notice and appreciate some lovely sharp prose, I did. But I really, really don’t understand the how/why this novel became the lauded, prized bestseller that it did. So I gave up, once again determined to accept that I’m just not that smart, and clearly incapable of understanding the publishing industry. If a friend had written it and given me the manuscript to beta read, I’d have suggested cutting about 500 of the 1200 pages. But the timing of my attempt to read this was perfect for today’s political climate, because today is when we are living the backstory of Infinite Jest. If Donald Trump becomes President of the United States, we will slide right into Subsidized Time, and tomorrow will become the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment. I may not be smart enough to slog through all 1200 pages, but I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to live inside them.

You’re frustrated? Me too. You’re broke? Me too. You’re tired of the status quo? Me too. But my eyes are open. And what I see is hideous. A circle has gathered around the combover playground bully. The circle is growing, gathering legitimacy and support, and it’s feeding on greed, racism, xenophobia, misogyny, and wishful thinking. I know some people speak of idyllic childhoods and pine for their lost youth. Me? I was glad to leave the playground behind, and I don’t want to return. The lunch aid isn’t coming. We have to turn away from the childish blowhards telling us might makes right, get on the train before it derails completely, and be the grown-ups. We may or may not be in the gifted program, but we’re smart enough to recognize the stench of fresh shit.

It’s Official, We’re Doomed

Critical thinking. In my opinion, it’s the single most important thing (after learning to read) for people to learn. It’s what allows us to make informed decisions, objectively analyze information, sift opinion from fact and learn to incorporate the nuances of life. Develop empathy, compassion because we understand (at least the facts of) all sides, whether we agree with them or not. Not just so we can make sensible charts and see patterns, but critical thinking also feeds imagination, promoting innovation, new discoveries, and progress. The higher the level of educational institution, the more critical the thinking should become. And it’s something we’re seeing less and less of. There isn’t a whole lot of room and time left for teaching critical thinking skills when public schools are forced to spend the majority of their days teaching to (high stakes, homogeneous) tests and teachers are evaluated based on how their students perform on said tests, and how well they design a bulletin board. That leaves college, right?

On one side, we’ve got Bernie Sanders, who wants to eliminate tuition, and offer free education at public universities. I like Bernie, and I agree with much of what he has to say. I would absolutely support free tuition at public universities. It isn’t unprecedented in the US, California public universities were free to California residents until the 1920s, with a nominal fee for another fifty years. In New York the CUNY (City University of New York) schools were free (I think some, but not all) until the 1970s. If I were king, I’d make it free for in-state residents, still charge for room and board for other than low-income students, and place GPA restrictions on the free tuition, both to get it in the first place, and then to keep it once a student is in. (And no more bullshit with these “weighted” high school GPAs, stop penalizing economically disadvantaged kids from poor communities who don’t have the opportunity to take 23 meaningless AP classes.) I think these types of restrictions and minimum requirements would have to be in place to avoid degrees from public universities becoming meaningless.

And on the other side, we’ve got this. Excuse me a minute while I puke, will ya? In a nutshell, concealed carry laws will now allow students to carry handguns on campus at public Texas universities. Because of this, professors are being told to avoid sensitive subjects, drop certain topics from their curriculum, and limit student access to them. Putting aside the underlying facts regarding guns, gun violence, and gun safety (because we don’t want to get involved in too many high fallutin’ facts here, it’s just a blog, after all), there is no way to look at this and not see how very wrong it is. College. What’s the point of it, anyway? A liberal arts education was intended to provide students with (drumroll) critical thinking. Different ways of viewing the world, figure out how to solve complex problems, communicate effectively, provide you with the ability to think for yourself. I suppose liberal arts is definitely out with this now, huh? Well how about an applied degree in science, mathematics, law? Nope, sorry, because any and all of those fields of study may include sensitive topics and be offensive to personal beliefs, they can’t be studied.

To be fair–and possibly even demonstrate critical thinking skills–despite my left leanings I also think the extreme on the other side is a bunch of bullshit. Excessive trigger warnings and attempts to “protect” students from subjects they might find uncomfortable or offensive effectively muffle debate, discussion, and analysis. This warm and fluffy blanket of avoidance isn’t doing us any favors.

I believe in education. Power, reasoning, and opportunities grow from academic discourse, exposure to new ideas, and studying history. That said, I don’t believe everyone should or needs to go to college. Some people aren’t academically gifted. Some people aren’t good at sitting in a classroom. *that’s me* It doesn’t make sense to me when I see help wanted ads for receptionists that want college degrees. Way to penalize people who don’t go to college. Skills learned outside the classroom are important too, and many jobs and careers that make our society keep chugging along have nothing to do with a BA, BS, MS, etc. I do believe everyone who’s capable of doing the work and wants to go to college should have the opportunity to do so without trading a degree for homelessness, life on the pole, or forfeiting any chance of ever using that degree to get ahead in their chosen field because they’re so in debt from it.

Regardless of the path chosen, and regardless of whether you lean left or right, aren’t we all saying we’re frustrated because we want better, we want more? Downward mobility isn’t just about economic status. One by one we’re burying the tools we need along with our heads in the interest of…what? Ignorance, narrow-mindedness, and divisiveness.

I don’t care whether your classroom of choice is a traditional one, online, or in the corner bar at happy hour. What matters is that we insist on continuing to learn, listen to all the sides and all the facts, and grow.

We need knowledge. Progress. Problem solving. Opportunity.