Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Late last week, an encounter with a student set the stage--so to speak--with the roller coaster du jour.  In short: Student: "Mrs. Babic. . . " Me: "Mrs. Babic is in Jarratt, VA." Student, looking befuddled and sighing while rolling eyes, "Well, Miss Babic . . . " Me: "Miss Babic is in Fayetteville, NC." Student, with a huff, "Well, then, who do you think you are?"* Well . . . I'm your professor.  But . . . the point: when I told a later class about this encounter mouths did drop open, but--as with so many times before--"Do you want to get married?" was assaulted my way. Good grief.  There are many things I could say, but . . . My weekend boded with work and more work.  Then, somewhere along the way, a neighbor friend died.  He played guitar, was a teacher, and was generally nice.  More pointedly, he didn't just die.  He killed himself.  Word is that it connects to him loosing his job.  In reality, in a selfi...

I stood in the cold in February 2003 and voiced my mind against an ensuing war. The NYPD pushed us into barricades, to let the horses come through, and then released us into horse manure streets. My friends and I reveled in the glory of it.   In March of 2003 I lied down in DC for a die-in. My Dad, in town for a NRA meeting, told his friends his daughter was out protesting the war. I was there for research that weekend. Very few know that a cop yanked me from the ground seconds after a chalk line was made, I got lucky that weekend. Even luckier, since I was protesting without friends of my own in the crowd. I downed Jack and Cokes all night as I listened to the stories of "my finger was on the nuke button" from the NRA crew. The RNC Protest of 2004 took me from Chelsea to Madison Square Gardens. It was hot that day. My halter top was too hot. Booing, and feeling the sounds of thousands, was something to not forget.   On Saturday 25 September 2011 I went to voice...

An old memory has been haunting my memory as of late...that of a manager at Denny's in Las Cruces (Shush, it paid the rent thank you very much--not much else though). Anywho, while getting my MA I moonlighted there. That was also the semester I got into Stony Brook. I knew I was moving to New York. I was elated. The desert was fun, but my time was on a proverbial time line...when I told my manager, or really he heard through the grape vine as someone had seen me celebrating at a bar the weekend before, he was filled with disgust. He called me into his office and said, "I heard you're going to NY." "Yup." I was still smiles. "Have you even been there?" "Yea, in..." Cutting me off, "Well, I don't think you really know. I took my daughter there and when I asked for directions a cop told me he didn't know, that everything takes an hour or more, and I was told to 'fuck off' by people on the street." At this poi...

In light of other things . . . the greatest of the ooze that comes my way. I got this lovely from Mount Sinai Queens Hospital: So while my health insurance comes back sooner than not, I wouldn't go back here if someone paid me.  Aside from an asshat nurse, a doctor who borders on incompetent, a billing department that sent me a letter last fall saying they wanted me to call my insurance company and see where its payment was (for real!), and a lab that lost my blood-work and then the doctor called to say everything was fine (when two other MDs said it was not) . . . get the drift? I'll roll around in bloated Lupus hell first.   Yet, what is so perverse is the underlying implication that either it is ill-willing my not being ill and falling down on its door or that someone there knows I have days to live and won't let the secret out.  I vote that these chumps are just greedy bastards with a piss-poor PR team.   But, this is not my only encounter o...

Someone, not long ago, asked me when I was going to write about 9-11.  I had no response, and I expertly avoided the question.  Why? Well . . . here's the best I can do. That day, a decade ago, still seems too close for comfort, too surreal to be true, and like a dream.  I didn't loose people that day, but friends of mine lost cohorts, lovers, and confidants.  To be cliche, we all lost a sense of stability, bliss, and cohesion.  Yet, for scores of people not located within this mecca then, or now, the 9-11 day doesn't ring with the same level of sobriety, somber, and dismay as it does for those within a stone's throw of its ashes. I remember what I was wearing, I remember what I was teaching when the first planes hit, I remember  . . . hours waiting in a computer lab constantly hitting refresh to find a message from a friend.  I remember sitting in shock, lying in my bathtub long after the bubbles had died, the water had gone cold, and th...

(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...