Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

The state of this current generation of college students and twenty-somethings scares me. Their general sense of nothing requires work, that they should get gold stars for just doing something (mind you not even well), and that they are entitled to anything they want bemoans disaster. Apparently, if they ask, whine, cry, or threaten to go to a higher up whatever they desire will materialize. They complain for half a point, they believe Wikipedia and Google are the only way to look up anything, they won't read more than 200 to 500 words without saying it's too long, and they say that only business and medical degrees will earn them a "profit." They snicker and sneer at my PhD in history, telling me they'd never spend that kind of time and money for something without immediate gratification. Far too often, there is no passion and drive in them. Senses of entitlement are so overwhelming that its stench can kill you. They live at home, trading material possessio...

Monday began with a status update from a friend from college proclaiming "It's officially Steak and Blow Jobs Day today!!!  Don't get offended girls . . . you have Valentine's Day."  Should I note he lives in Denmark?  So aside from my mouth falling agape and laughing out loud, then texting friends who don't know him and texting one from college for her to look at it, it was more humerus than not.  Normally, on any other day of the week, it would be a marker of funny things to come.  Not.  Not today.  Yea, my first class started out as planned and then a student who came past the ten minute marker refused to leave, made a pain of himself, and security was called.  Drama.  I'm pretty sure I can't talk about it yet.  Drama.  For the record, I said drama NOT trauma.  Security was called because he was a disruption, not a threat.  Then one of my major students remarked that I looked "off," and I made mention it was a bad d...

When you learn a language the text books and dictionaries can only take you so far.  For the most part, those prove to give you the basis of the understanding the language.  But, as anyone who speaks multiple languages can tell you, really learning the language comes from use and conversing with natives.  The expression that natives always know it best certainly rings true . . .  Such is the case with Turkish. A few years back a friend, who I had just met, was being discussed to me by someone else.  She was a few feet away, and someone (I can't remember who) wanted to know how we met.  This person kept calling my new friend Pembe.  Um, pembe means pink.  So I was utterly confused because I knew my friend as Gözde.  So, in my slightly inebriated American mind, I kinda thought pink was some kind of slang name for women . . . you know, kinda like peaches is used in the American South.  Now that I think back on it, I bet I either came ...

Friends with iPhones tell me that the auto-correct function changes fucker to duchess.  I have to take their word for it, as I am a Crackberry user (for the moment) and I do not use auto-correct.  I use spell check, but no auto . . . None-the-less, when fucker becomes duchess it turns to a point of humor.  Snickers abound about "That duchess stood me up!" "That duchess lied to me!" or "I saw that duchess in traffic." Yesterday I schlepped out to Stony Brook to see an old friend, and in the course of my life a short little venture "out East" couldn't be crazy free.  Out on the depths of Long Island, not within the comfort and restless (yet peaceful) noises of my 'hood and devoid of the Manhattan backdrop along the East River, I always feel like I am putting my memories and sanity into the hands of reckless agents of wary laden moments of self-destruction.   We already know I have seen a certain ex in traffic twice now, and yesterday mad...

The past few days have brought far too many bumps in the road, and tonight I intended on writing a blurb about those maladies.  Instead, lackluster and crap turned into a silver lining.  I haven't written about the chest pains, rashes, and general malaise of Lupus in awhile . . . trust me it is all still there.  These days I use three layers of make-up--yes, three--to hide the butterfly.  If you are wondering Aveeno tinted face lotion, Maybelline Mouse, and Mary Kay mineral powder do wonders to cover and leave me looking more natural than not.  But . . . something good did happen.  No, no securing of health insurance and a full line, but something good for Lupus in the larger spectrum.       Fifty-two years ago Eisenhower was president, Great Britain recognized the independence of Cyprus (that's more  relevant to my research than a tid bit), Alaska and Hawaii became states in 1959, the Dodgers won the World Series, and in March (nearly...

In March of 1996, very close to the date now, I sat in a subway car enviously and frightfully starring at the people around me.  I was baffled that the cars were so full, I was frustrated that I couldn't get a seat or fully grab the knack of hanging on while standing, I was tired from "touring" the city for days, and I was a dreamer.  I remember a thirty-something blond sitting across from me, and she sat with her legs crossed, her briefcase on her arm, and her body language spoke of ease, comfort, and familiarity.  Several college students--as tags on their packs attested--loudly discussed notes for an upcoming exam (fittingly, it was a performing arts crew from NYU) as the train chugged along underground.  A man leaned on one of the poles and read his folded newspaper; he had the "subway fold" that is common to the old school crew who still read the paper version of the Times.  Then, then that blond pulled out a book and casually began to read.  I let out...

In the world of females a hairdresser can mean a variety of things. Cultural understandings and conceptions place the hairdresser as the equivalent of a woman's bar tender. The labored male, tired from life's trials and expectations, seats himself lazily at the bar. The apt bar keep absent-mindedly wipes the bar top down while pouring a drink and asking him "What's your trouble?". He's a sponge-like wall, absorbing all the drinker has to say. It stays within the bar, under layers of bourbon, scotch, and beer. The over spill tray, filled with remnants of an evening's work, is cleaned and washed at shift's end...much like the soul seeking a drink. In contrast, the hairdresser laborers over and on the customer. She gently brushes the hair, lifts it off the face, removes unsightly strays, and hides markers of age. She can even turn lackluster noir locks into golden bounces of light and luster. Her fingers massage the head, often making the customer rela...