Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

(For the  Lupus Magazine : September 2011)             Two years ago, as I ambled through Istanbul and marveled at the sights, I eventually ended up at the Grand Bazaar as most tourists do.  Through the seemingly endless stalls and hallways selling carpets, jewelry, clothing, and a gregarious array of items my eyes caught many things.  One item, or items per se, that continually fluttered into my line of vision were glass lamp shades.  These beautiful pieces of handmade artisan delight cast irregular rays of light from their covers.  Colors of every shade shimmered, but the mosaics of the lamp shades made the light bounce and literally dance around the area.             The lamps are made from glass shards, blown glass, and colored glass.  Some are singular in color and others depict designs and images.  In the end, they are all connected through their beauty and simplicity....

Well...apparently during the Great Eastcoast Earthquake today hoodlums in Queens found a new way to vandalize. Seriously. Even better, this damned sticker is melded on like some kind of Houdini job. This site . . . a loose cadre of salacious NYC sex stories of co-ed age . . . I can only figure my car got tagged because of the five university stickers (yea, it's called contingent faculty. Laugh later). And here's what I'd like to say: Dear Little Bored Wannabe Hipster, Now seriously little shit head punks. I don't fuck with you and your spiked hair, kool aid colored locks, and body odor from your trendy desire to bathe occasionally. I don't blemish your BMX bike and critique your "taste" in music. Though, on another note, if I can hear it through your ear buds jammed in your ears you should consider turning it the fuck down. Don't vandalize my car with your so-called "new vandalism". It's the only real piece of property I...

Once upon a time, years and years ago, there was a curly haired dark-headed kid.  Her blue eyes gleamed as she looked forward to a birthday dinner of a T-bone steak seasoned with paprika and other spices, shrimp, sauteed mushrooms, and ice cream for dessert.  Now . . . now there is the dark haired thirty-something with bitterness behind those baby blues.  Why? The onslaught of Lupus has made her body think she is the enemy and normal activities become literal time bombs.  Her body doesn't process the proteins of meat correctly.  Her body thinks anything in the red pepper family is an enemy to the state.  Dairy makes her sad.  Shell fish has decided that it will lodge warfare on her body.  And . . . mushrooms make her nauseous, gassy, and all around ill. Motherfucker! Last fall the issue became more prominent.  There was an MD who said she was most likely developing an intolerance to them.  Sh...

I've been busy as of late, hence the lack of posting for a month. . . It seems the proverbial hours of time will never cease escaping me, leaving me in the bitter remnants of dust, and making me ponder the passage of hours and time.  Yet, production does occur, Lupus flares hinder, and life continues to turn.  About those flares . . . yea, as just about any Lupus patient will tell you there is a point that you either sit in a doctor's office or you don't. There is only so much MDs can really do for the aches, pains, and rashes.  Though, I will say that one major flare this past month had me bemoaning the aches of betrayal of my own body and forced me into in the fetal position for a spell.  The other one . . . relatively minor, though that may have been because it occurred after the seriously hinder-some one earlier in the month.  Yet, these are the courses of my life.  The norms and naturals of my existence. Sometimes I forget the your body is not supp...

Twenty bucks says there's typos.  Oh well.   While I most likely had every intention of brain dumping about my recent trek down Insanity 95, reading a piece on rituals made me think about things.  Particularly, my mind has been swirling around what rituals actually are and what they mean.  Rituals, in and of themselves, are strange beasts of memory, burden, and daily life I presume.  Yet, do all rituals look alike and do they all provide a sense of spiritual release, connection, and solace?  Doubtful, as I would say the face of the ritual changes with time and place.  My drives from NY to DC, always along I-95, change for meaning and purpose.  Yet, the trip never alters.  My parents live three plus hours south of DC, along the dreaded I-95, college friends live in Richmond and DC.  The bulk of my trips have landed me in DC, and they have not always been filled with the laughter and cheap beer that old college buddies bring.  Ho...

These days I'm contemplating the image of the solider verses the veteran.  Fun stuff, for the nerd in me.  Particularly, I'm looking at The American Legion Magazine , and mixed within these pages of patriotic valor and dutiful honor advertisements abound.  That is no surprise. Yet, a continual theme has arisen.  Advertisements for girdles, corrective footwear, and dentures abound.  The dentures  . . . a simple black and white photo of false teeth seems to jump off the page to startle and haunt me.  Gah. I think I was four or five when my Mom's Dad came to visit us in Washington State.  Visits with grandparents are just that: filled with presents, sweets, and good stuff.  Yet, Grandpa left his dentures in a glass on the back of the toilet (or maybe the bathroom sink).  I did not know he had dentures.  See where this one is going? I came running from the toilet with my curls flying screaming about monster teeth.  Good times....

Not long ago I made mention that I wasn't sure if I would want to have a beer with "the girl in Birks" who moved here in 2000.  Wild eyed with untamed hair in shades of auburn with blondish highlights, her peasant blouses with tattered jeans, and tanks with long hippie skirts, leather knapsack on her shoulder and gypsy scarf around her neck spoke of her age more than anything else.  In college she had read Jack Kerouac's On The Road no less than twenty-five times; always scenting the air with clove cigarettes and littering the desk floor, and any flat surface with beer bottles.  Sadly, or maybe aptly, they were not uber cool micro-brews.  Back then Miller and Bud Light called to her on Kentucky nights.  One of the roommates--Mere--"borrowed" the cherished book, but that should really read she "lost" the novel in the forlorn flat surface with papers, clothes, and trinkets.  Most just call it a desk.  Shortly before graduation the mysterious flat...