Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Two years roundabout, I published a little piece on naked yoga, life, dating, and the dances we all do. The zine is now gone, as these things happen, but I have the rights back. As June tries to swallow me whole, with good things and a swarm of busyness I can't fully comprehend, I thought it would be fitting to re-publish this here.  I'm days away from two months in Greece, with writings, books and plans, and a million other things on the fire. Will I end up naked in Greece? In the shower, certainly. Elsewhere? Who knows. This is me, after all, the perpetual Lifetime Movie in the making.  This piece has remained one of my favorites--aside from a novel I'm hunting for an agent on--and as it's crossed my mind, again and again, I still ponder the simplicity of it all.  It was a perfect evening, one that was meant to last for a moment--as so many relationships and vignettes of life do--but it served a purpose outside of its intent.  It reminds of freedoms and inte...

It's been a while, is an understatement.  Then again, those who know me remember last year.  2019 entered with double pneumonia and quarantine for a false TB scare, a month later I broke my foot and double tore the plantar fascia, the hits kept coming, and in December I had surgery to repair the foot and ended the year with influenza. Last year tried my soul, nearly killed me, and I was barely standing when it ended. Damn. I shut myself down, and I compartmentalized to survive, to find a laugh, to capture a sight, and to carry-on.  Then, by late February, I was finally coming out of the ashes, getting life back, moving again. I got back into shoes and some heels, made it back to pole dancing classes, but then the world stopped. COVID-19 hit. Well, it came. Hard. First, the suburbs of Seattle--my first hometown--and then it grew. Now, as the world knows, NYC is the US epicenter, and Queens is the epicenter of the epicenter. I live here. I call this ten-story town...

As January is only eighteen days in, and I'm failing at life and 2019, I sit here wondering when the swells of damage will subside.  Perceptions will always fool you. In seven days: I lost one of my emergency contacts as she made it clear she wanted to know my contingency plan.  Well, it was never for her to take care of me.  So, I won't bother her again.  That one rips me to my core as I've never asked anyone to take care of me.  I'm done being there for people, as in the end . . . Had someone comment, more than once, that we've known each other for a long time.  Well, we've known each other so long that he lied to my face.  Even more: he doesn't know me.  At all.  He doesn't know my brother's name, my favorite color or flower, doesn't know that he's a big reason the occasional date usually ends as a dud as the dude across the table falls flat in comparison.  He doesn't know I still remember the day he told me to call him by his...

As the air chills, well freefall to six degrees above freezing, I find myself drinking tea in my favorite NYC cup with fuzzy socks on and my favorite university pullover.  My hair is up in a messy bun, and since I'm not planning on washing it tonight, the said style should make it bouncy for tomorrow.  Or . . . Or it will be a dry shampoo Monday, which sets an entirely new tune for the week.  You probably think I'm listening to rap and white girl rolling it out.  Not today, my friends.  It's late on a Sunday.  Sunday's are no place for rap.  Mondays, now, are a different story.  Instead, I've got an even whiter mix of mellow and slow songs going that I've had on repeat for two days.  I make no apologies, as sometimes we just need the same twenty songs to move us along.  Sometimes.  This is all sounding pretty white bougie right now.  I probably shouldn't tell you I had a gluten-free blueberry bagel this mo...

Dating, or failed and semi-failed attempts, still circle the air these days.  Of the best of the best, here are a few moments that make you wonder why you bothered to shower, flat iron your hair, or wear heels instead of a pair of hole-riddled college sweats and a wife beater. Instead, the weak nature of humanity--and yourself--seek companionship, and you continue to hate and torture yourself . . . Time and time again.  I've had my share of duds and everything in between, and tonight I broke down and asked an old friend what the fuck is wrong with my profile to attract every asshat clown this side of the Mississippi. He assures me it is not me.  I think he's being kind.    I still feel like it is me, as it always is.   Doesn't help that two weeks ago I found out the dude I've been keeping up long distance texts with since August is a racist, wall supporting, anti-social program fucktard.  As the truth unfolded in his ill-punctuated texts, I...

I can’t remember when, but years ago—or long ago as the literary vein would muse—I found the ideas of Sunday’s in the park to be romantic and the dream. As for the park, I’m not going to lie ... Central Park it is.  Leisurely strolls, bike rides, and perhaps runs always struck me as the ideal, epitome to a weekend’s end. Of course, to be blunt and a snob, scores of other New Yorkers find it the same. Today, I—with those New Yorkers and tourists from the four corners of the globe—found my source of vitamin D and sensory delights within the former pig boiling grounds and Native Lands. Perhaps Frederick Law Olmsted’s crown jewel of his parks, the rush of the city, the pace of life, and endless streams of people typically find a kinder, more peaceful balance within the bricked interior. Of course, not all people know how to—oh I don’t know—look both ways and cross the paths properly, but overall it’s pretty hard to remain beaten and angr...

As the life of the dater goes, I should say some days are better than others.  Yet, in this case, they are not.  I look around and wonder what in the name of hell I ever did to deserve all of this.  I have to discern an answer.  In the end, as it always is, it must be me.  These days I'm done and unsure of why I try.  The odds of me getting a connection who wants to talk to me is pretty slim, as the rate I get unmatched on a mere hello is astounding.  Astounding.  Then, as these things go, the meet up never happens as either the male in question flees and becomes as mysterious as Big Foot.  To be rumored but never seen.  Or, a few chats later and then he unmatches me.  The last two, well . . . I sent them a link to a travel lit piece I wrote, which led to my page here and my Instagram.  The one I just sent him Insta.  Yeah, as anyone who has been around here for a half a second knows I've never bothered to hide the Lupus...

When summer began, it came in with a series of blows destroying the crops in their wake.  Looking back it paints like a series of farm stands, succulent and fruitful from afar but upon closer examination, the wells of fruit have wilted and rotted under the sun's eye waiting for the next unsuspecting onlooker.  Well, technically that was the end of spring and beginning of the upcoming season.  A couple of months later I'm waking up front the jolts, gasping for air, and--as usual--looking at the changes, carnage, and circus of it all. The summer began with learning a cousin died . . . Another one this year.  This one, one I was fairly close to for years and years died at 49 . . . On his bathroom floor, I hear.  Lessons of the past I don't have it in me to go into, he and I parted angry ways half a decade ago.  Addictions and misgivings left a lot of the be said.  A lot to be desired.  Damage was done, to everyone and especially me, and with h...

When my last book released, another academic marvel and a monograph this time, someone asked how my book party was and where it was at.  I stood there, rather stunned, as--well--there was no launch party.  None of my books, articles, or literary forays have ever gotten a launch party or social nod.  Instead, my reviews and critics have generally been kind and warm with notes of praise, yet when you are me, and always on the outside looking in there is no one to throw a party for as we say.  I'm still taken aback by the question.  Still shocked by how hard it hit me. Yet, the reality has long been there.  Waking up alone is one thing.  Always being alone another.  Never having anyone to celebrate with . . . well, that's a marker in and of itself. Though, as any socially adjusted adult does (I use that term loosely) I attempt to engage in adult activities, socialize, meet people for drinks, and do this tango from hell called dating.  I...