I should've listened to the dog

I once dated this woman-a beautiful woman who turned out to be bat shit crazy and mentally abusive, and I fell prey to it. I can now say that I successfully was a victim of abuse. It wasn't for very long, maybe 5 months. My dog hated her. I should've listened to the dog.

My dog loves people. She was the hostess at one of the bars that I tended. I once was at a crowded street fair with my dog when a guy I've never seen before in my life, walked past us and said, "Hi Molly," as he patted her on the head. Molly is loved, and loves, but Molly didn't love this gal. At first, her expression was one of suspicion then outright defiance. Her ultimate act was to knock a recently cooked turkey off the stove and onto the ground. This would be something that would cause Molly to cower in shame, but she wasn't the least bit sorry. She stared at me defiantly, "the bitch had it coming" was what her eyes read.

Like a dumb ass, I ignored this huge neon sign and found out for myself. An example for those wondering-she changed the top lock so that I can only come in (I lived there with her and paid rent) when she felt I was worthy. I found another home. I couldn't understand the drastic change in her personality. I wasn't perfect, but also didn't deserve to be treated so cruelly. I think, now, that she had to be mentally ill.

But what a gorgeous personality, at first. Funny and romantic, but seriously flawed and dark. No one else saw the darkness, but a quick look at her paintings would have tipped anyone off except for me who was lost in the fantasy-in the mind blowing sex. But our relationship was pure fire and eventually the flame would catch the drapes and incinerate the straw house that we'd built. It wasn't healthy, but putting out fire after fire never is.

I moved some stuff out and was still with her when I went to pick up more things, only to find that her ex had spent the night with her. Make no mistake, I didn't doormat all the way through. The final showdown was her thinking that she could be Attilla the Hun when I snapped and tapped into Evil Me. I couldn't help it. I'd had enough. I show up for the final stuff and there are roses all over the house from her ex turned current girlfriend then the Hun tried to intimidate me with getting in my face, enjoying my confusion when something crossed over inside me and I caught myself smiling at her, and softly daring her to lay a finger on me. At this, the Hun, backed up then upped the stakes and starting flinging my stuff out the door to which I began picking up rose filled vases and dropping them on the floor-a splendid, splashy crash soon followed. It made her stop. She ran away-upstairs to her neighbor who lay in a body cast after a failed attempt to kill herself by jumping out the window-poor thing is in agony and has this nut who was, no doubt manipulating her fragile mind with how evil I was. I cut the cords to two of her Hitachis-one was still plugged in and a loud, burst followed by a flash of fire. Oops. I wasn't trying to burn the place down. I unplugged the remains of the cord then left to prevent any further spark then left. She made out with my crock pot and a near full bottle of Talisker. I wasn't going back for it.

Word got out among her friends, particularly the dinosaur dykes (she named them that, not me-true friend that she is) that I was the bad guy. One dinosaur, Betty, who wore a leather jacket with Betty Boop on the back but she looked more like...well, not cute, accused me of getting my Mexican mafia friends (I knew a girl who was from Central America and one from South America who suddenly became part of my faction of La M (e-me-softe) ) racist bitch that Betty is, she then threatened me to leave the poor little psycho (my words, not hers) alone. Then another gal of the methy variety got tough with me and asked me to leave a bar that I was in the same night that Ugly Betty offended me. Good times. There's no point in trying to explain yourself to people who have the hots for the bad guy that you were in the middle of a hideously, messy break-up with, and it was she that was the bad guy-very mean and unmedicated.

I saw her several months later and felt myself jump. I was in my car. Why did she affect me that way? I can only imagine that it was that damned fire between us. I was thankful for my friends at the bar. Up to that point, I'd been fairly, sober. After that point, I was fairly drunk and reckless for a good year, maybe more. There were some fun times in that drunkenness. Who am I kidding? I had a blast.

Sometimes I wish I could run into her again just to see what would happen-to get some sort of recognition; something, anything to tell me that I didn't deserve that-even a grunt, a nod, a kind word. But it probably won't happen. I look at my dog after I write this last part, and she shakes her head. I know. I should've listened to her. The turkey on the floor was poetic though. Who knows what she did to Molly when I was at work. Whatever it was, Molly got her back.

I hope she's on medication today, probably not. She's probably smoking her American Spirits down to the nub, taking extra deep inhales of each drag, stuffing her stacks of cash into her boot in her closet, painting in her art room, sculpting, working the crazy into something that people can be in awe of, her black hair perfectly coiffed, Italian blood pulsing through her veins in passion, making fabulous meals, roaring fireplace in her cold San Francisco flat, warm heart, twisted mind, making jokes and keeping them laughing then locking her door at night and letting out the psychosis again and again. Night and day...Wow. I should've listened to the dog.

let's see...2012

2012 let so many fanatics down. The Mayans SAID...Damn! Now they have to fish out a new end of the world date. I'm curious as to when that will be.

There were some good moments, but I lost my grandmother, which means that my head and heart caved in. I'm damned with an excellent memory in feeling and thought, and damn it, I miss her extraordinarily. I'm looking at everyone suspiciously, wondering when that person will drop dead, when the next torture session will begin. Morbid, indeed. I'm working on not doing that, but after experiencing one of the worse day of my life, well, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

My poor dog is now the focus of my obsession to keep her well. She's 11, sharp as hell, and gives me this look, as though she's thinking, "Get away from me, W-E-I-R-D-O, I'm fine!" Poor thing, is getting lumpy, as many older pups do, but she still has that baby face and those alert eyes-she is aware of everything. She was there when I got the news about my grandmother. While I broke down, she sat on the couch next to me and howled in unison with my own retching and phrasing of agonizing expression.

She is THAT dog. The intelligent type that could've been in pictures. Unique and beautiful and now I'm pestering her. She had an abscess the other night that ruptured and I stayed up with her until the wee hours, cleaning and hot compressing, all the way thinking that I need her here with me for, oh the next 45 years or so.

After my grandma, I lost two friends. Meanwhile, my fb feed was flooded with people expressing loss with this and that person-famous and personal. This year death took center stage, and managed to take a significant person from every genre of celebrity and private circles.

In 2012, I gained excellent employment, got a cool apartment, reconnected with an old friend, reconnected with new friends...I am aware of the good fortune that I received. I hold onto that. I count on that thread, which I plan to hold onto.

I had to say goodbye to a dear friend with raging alcoholism, and had to say goodbye to an aunt and three cousins, one who had claimed best friend status with me but, apparently, it didn't stick and after reading countless facebook posts of hers, declaring love for all mankind and similar rhetoric, I got irritated with the thick, gooey, hypcrisy because her actions towards me show the opposite of who she claims to be. It's awful to see the ugliness in that. Of course, there's a lot more to it, and it bothers me, but you can't make everyone happy, and when one expresses the truth, you can make even more people unhappy and verging on the edge of venomous-true colors come out and denial no longer has a grasp on you.

My 2012 was a year of goodbyes, truth, facing my mortality, and setting my destiny in motion. I'm heavy hearted and feeling the weight of those tears. I need them to dry now. I suppose I'll always feel the sting, but that's life isn't it? My goal is to be ridiculously happy. The Mayans never said it would end. It's more like now is the time to begin. I guess it starts with getting out of bed, which I'm doing. So far, so good...

It Aint Over 'Til It's Over

I received a late birthday gift today-a front row near center seat at The Palm Springs Follies. Singers and dancers that ranged from 54-80 years old and in prime condition. Their bodies, lithe and agile and smiles, broad. At first, I was waiting for a heart attack during the high paced choreography then I just got lost in it. I found myself smiling as wide as these inspirations. Former Broadway/television performers with top notch presence, specific arm gestures, graceful maneuvers that would leave me winded today-most of them in their late 60s and 70s.

The emcee and founder, a comic Riff Markowitz jokes about the perils of old age and all that goes with it, but damn it! If he's going, he's doing it gracefully. It ain't over 'til it's over and this show is proof of this. I got singled out being the only one on the front row below 60, and of course, the shtick of ribbing "the young person."

Young person? Me, who sees my biological time clock racing faster and stealing my breath, letting others wrapped in social media, convince me that I'm a horse about to get put out to pasture. No longer the confused, cocky 19 year-old and not necessarily wanting to be. Thinking death is all that lies ahead until I'm reminded of the ride-the trip along the way, and suddenly I stop thinking I'll be dusty, smelling of moth balls, wearing nurse shoes and humming New Edition when-if- I turn 84.

These people before my eyes may struggle but if they do, it's in glitter and under stage lights. They will dance from cradle to grave and oh, the journey is worth the pain of birth, the fear of death. Everything that we can see if we allow ourselves to try. All the living that can be done-that will be done as trivial as kicking rocks on a dusty road en route to the movies on summer vacations in Juarez before it was called murder city, weaving past sidewalk foot traffic and gazing up at The Ansonia thinking "one day", Griffith Park sky lines and views to my Los Feliz digs that promise dreams coming true, San Francisco days at Dolores Park and in the Sunset reeking havoc then moonlight hikes up Bernal Hill, Vancouver sunset on Wreck Beach, Portland stroll on Mississippi Ave, San Diego Trolley ride to Henry's market, Park Slope-dog run, Prospect Park, New School and AMDA, fertile ground that sprung my dreams to reality, friendly bodega on 5th and Sackett-4th floor President St walk up and a kooky landlord, Fremont Blvd leading to Secret Sidewalk-Irvington District-Pathfinder Village-the wild child's stomping grounds....and it's not over...no where near.

I'm looking at these dancers and one day I am them...I'm not going gently into that good good night. Hell no. I'm not old. I'll never be old. Maybe a little ragged around the ages, but the kid will always be dancing in the moonlight young.

LOVING GOOF AND SOUL MASSAGER

Hekyll has Jekyll. Bullwinkle has Rocky and I have Karina (not like that...dirty mind!). She is my Dean Moriarty-fueled with life and adventure; rambling about, daring, half crazed with laughter in her eyes except unlike Moriarty, she has a softness, a caring that when you push through her wicked humor, there appears warm sensation. Her loving, caring nature as beautiful as a Rain Forest waterfall where one wants to stay forever.

It's pure uncomplicated love. No romance. A kindred spirit, and the one who lit the flame in my soul which jump started me with a POW and life began. I was a nice little horse, warm under my saddle until she opened the stable door and encouraged me to run unbridled. 

We rode on a magic carpet into madness, and just when we thought we couldn't return, we did, dings and scraped making both of us all the more charming for the next fellow traveler who crosses our paths.

Karina-goofy bastard-the cosmic sister of Jim Carrey and where my laughter comes from-that sacred place, that once it's awakened, rolls out the kind of delirium and good spirit that can make you forget any dreadful moment that has ever occurred.

There were many times when I was close to taking life too seriously, and there she was, right in front of me, looking at me and prodding me with absurdity until I'd forgotten my existential crisis and remembered that life is love and laughter. It's silliness and finding the sacred goof in everything. It's remembering the flowers in their full bloom, not their later wilted state because these flowers never wilt.

My seriousness and intensity could go deep and far, once launching into anger that compelled me to throw a marble ash tray into a swimming pool and continue to wreck the apartment's swimming pool area until she came, unafraid and hugged me. That's all I needed-soft, mustard yellow sweater soothing my face and comforting my eyes as the wearer filled my every pore with the sustenance that my soul needed. 

My soul thrives. I am happy. I am approachable. I am loved. I am creative and I carry my secret weapon to give all of this color-Karina-my constant muse. Arizona, churchy mom (possibly through cloning)and wife, do-gooder, repented, mischief-hearted, musical, sincere, humble, humorous elemental who could never be summed up by anything that I have to say-ever.

Partner in crime, mirroring adolescent siren, not accepting no, pissing over cliff sides while holding hands, dancing around a tree in the Bay Area summertime and making it rain outrageously-we kept dancing, soaked from beer, rain, youth, life in full throttle...Water pistol suicide pact, standing in the street, back to back until we figured out the perfect way to take ourselves out at the same time-one blast of water from the gun, and the activity was forgotten. Away we rode in cars that blasted radio heaven which included our own rendition of a song that cured hang overs and sailed us into smooth waters with a gentle sun and lapping waves that splashed droplets on the raft that we painted with child fingers splashed into paints that held dreams of today.

I do not see Karina in my current days, More days than not in our 30 years of knowing each other, I haven't seen her, but she is here.  I know her. I've known her. I will always know her. Eventually, one of us will hold the gate open for the other and lead into the next journey, but not now. 

I see her in every blade of grass, "orange butter cat", child swimming, cartoon glasses, Fall California street, certain songs, dinner surprise, smiling friends, half eaten Kool-Aid bag with lemon dipped inside...I see Karina in everything good as she saw in me her own spirit-the ultimate gift my bio-dad-her bio-mom could give to soothe the absence that led us onto the road where we met in the first place. 

Life un-serious, smile in place and laughter waiting under the tree that looms over our lives. I fancy a swing, a climb and crunched, colorful leaves and savor the moment that I learned to witness through the muti-colored perspectives that I discovered and nurtured while spending that chunk of time with my friend, Karina. "Friend" "Love" seems so light in description...

I write. I write. I write and that perfect phrase isn't coming out. It's not enough or said in the way that sums up what's inside...the only thing that comes to mind is ,"If I go first, will you get rid of any shred of evidence that..the notebook, the purple notebook-burn it!"

Until we meet again, keep inspiring them, and keep making them laugh. Laugh until the tears come to your eyes and the silliness is sprung free to dance and twirl....

If time were for sale

What if time could be bought and sold? Or would it be for sale at all. I imagine it being owned by one sole proprietor, and on occasion, their would be a charitable contribution of time donated to the starving children of Africa this way they would starve for a longer time. That's the type of person who would own time. This would also be the same type of fella who would collect souls. There's something perverse in wanting to own the majority of anything. Perhaps there's a tingly sensation to it.

If time could be acquired. It would far outweigh the demand of any drug. People would have their children enslaved in trade for just five minutes. We would extract time from piles of worthless slop who have been sucking up valuable air. The death row inmates would be the first to be sapped.

There would be time knock offs sold next to fake Gucci purses. They would be in fancy flasks labeled TIME because, after all, it's not what it could that counts, it's that one can afford it.

TIME magazine person of the year would go to the one who can determine how much time each person has left. It would read like it does on our cell phones with a little alarm going off when we only have 10% left.

There are two things, that, upon thinking upon too long make me unhappy-time and money. So then why do I do it?

Courting Eternal Sunrise from the Center of a Field

I remember the days when I recklessly burned bright. I thought the weeds were as beautiful as the flowers. Being pricked by a thorn would cause as much excitement as the silky feeling of the petals against my cheek. I remember being intrigued by idea of dancing with madness and being unafraid to hold hands with those who had the scent of the edge of sanity wafting off of their thready, cotton clothing.

My eyes shined with enthusiasm as I waited excitedly for the next act of mischief that awaited me. I wore a poet's shoes, and they stayed shiny even in muddy walks. I sang and got drunk off of the moon. I felt life. I loved life, and I never wanted to stop living. I welcomed the unknown. When I cried, I cried loudly, dropped to my knees then cried more because of the skin that the asphalt ripped off of me. When I laughed, it was such a joyous laughter that every star in the sky would lean a little closer just to catch the luminescence that surrounded me.

I saw sunrises in fields in the middle of a metropolitan neighborhood with like-minded friends at an age when I should've been scrapbooking and daydreaming about prom night and 16 magazine subscriptions (the magazine for girls younger than 16.) I burned candles at both ends then placed the flame in the middle to see how sturdy it was. I took the words from dozens of my notebooks and took action. I lived what i wrote so that I could write about how I lived. I created rainbows over pits of quicksand to keep from sinking, though many did, but the thought never occurred to me that I would so much as lose a hair to despair.

While my contemporaries were carefully training in thought and step, I was crawling under barbed wire obstacle courses just to see if I could do it without getting too mangled, and the spots where I was nicked became trophies with tales that I could tell myself in later days when I became too afraid to wrinkle my responsible clothing. My education became very unorthodox as I made even the loneliest garbage strewn stranger one of my teachers. I made everyone my teacher and student. The world was my university then one day my planet cracked wide open.

I became saturated in the underbelly of madness. I became medicated. My body looked medicated. I surrendered to a forced sobriety from alcohol, from drugs, from the moon... the stars became distant as they started to feel me cold and sapped of passion because I became too afraid of the wonders of the world because the troubles in my mind became an overgrown forest that weaved itself into every crevice.

I cowered. I forgot how to breathe, and for the first time ever, I locked myself inside a dark room and refused to come out or let anyone in. There I remained. Occasionally, I would peer out and taste the world only to chase myself back inside again.

Now, I find myself ready to bust down the door and live again, only, this time, I'm retiring recklessness and refining my approach. The middle. I seek the center. I only hope balance allows me to participate without falling. I only hope my mind has had it's fill of attacking me so that my soul can flourish again. I only hope... Because it's lonely without the stars nearby to remind me that I'm one of the favorites. It's up to me to awaken daily to that notion and believe it once more. It's up to me to shed the skin of the sickly and become vibrant AGAIN. I can hear the hum coming from within. Soon my soul will sing AGAIN, and it will never be quiet again.

Flowers and Prayers

I give 2012 the award for giving the most psychological and spiritual beatings I've ever witnessed. It's been brutal. I have seen loss in life, marriage (Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman?! WTF!!! Is nothing sacred?) and friendships.

The number pulled on me this year (It was rough for many others that I know, too) has deeply wounded me, bled me, tossed salt on me then walked away chuckling.

When the tail spin stopped, I hobbled towards what kept me from stealing a car and crashing it as many times into as many things before I stole another one and repeated the process-God-spirituality-spiritual cleansing. Oprah's Super Sundays was designed especially for me. I clung to comfort where ever I could. My vision has become painfully sharp. My awareness, already acute, has pin point accuracy. I understand the thin veil between life and after life. I've also taken in copious amounts of Ghost Adventures, Celebrity Ghost Stories and anything else that would give me a stroke if any of those stories actually ever happened to me.

When December rolled around, I let out a giant exhale. As though the miraculous line between December 31st and January 1st will be the magic bullet that will solve it all. Even if that's not the case, I need to believe that it is. In the state that I'm in, if anyone so much as tells me that the Easter Bunny isn't real, I'm going to beam them in the head with a two by four. I need to believe in all that is good and happy more than ever. I need rainbows like never before. I'm willing myself to feel love. I'm ready to exchange fear for joy; to believe that humanity will prevail and rise up out of this darkness.

Then I woke up on Friday, December 14, 2012 to discover that a hopeless maniac murdered the curators of our future and large ripples of our future-a principal, psychologist, teachers and little children. It's no surprise that after being hit at this magnitude, we've all run for cover and clung to each other shivering from the sudden awareness of how cold this world can really be. Just two nights before, the Hurricane Sandy relief benefit concert had occurred. Everyone seemed to be on the same page. From here on out, we were going to get better and hold our hand out to our neighbor-unite and rebuild. No man or woman left behind.

Now the question of why he did it swirls among us all as we struggle to make sense of it. But guess what? The harsh reality is that he did it because he wanted to. Even worse, he's not a monster. He's human. Experts say he was mentally ill. I say, "no shit." Really geniuses? These people get paid to make these theories. If a sane person suddenly commits an unspeakable act, for the time that this act was done and forever afterwards, they are now criminally insane. End of story.

Instead of spending all this time on what was a poor excuse for a human being, let's figure out how we can help the families; how we can do something to help fix the things that we can change for the better. As I write this, I am aware of the sudden wave of shooters since that day. Last night, fire fighters were gunned down by another loony. It's like the bag of nuts has been opened and all these deviants have spilled out everywhere.

In the meantime, the NRA gets silly, and I only wish I can just tell them to shut the f*^k up and do something useful like pick up all the blood splattered shell casings that lay scattered everywhere, and while they're at it, they can throw on some hazmat suits and do some crime scene cleaning once the bodies have been bagged and the evidence has been taken. Our nation is currently being held hostage by this morbid trend. The lyrics to the Pink Floyd song Brain Damage is our new anthem, especially this part, "the paper holds their folded faces to the floor and every day the paper boy brings more."

Now I wake up Christmas morning and dully wonder where my holiday spirit is? A little bit of it collapsed when my grandmother passed. Some more of it was drown in Hurricane Sandy. Then more of it got shot up by dip shit who was born in the 90s who had mommy issues.

Do I still have holiday spirit? Of course I do, but right now I'm tired. I need to recoup, reassess, release and rejuvenate. I've decided that once I am ready, I'm going to dance, sing and laugh more-every day if possible. What else can I do?

Come next Christmas, I hope to be the initiate of a Conga line. I want to wake up with glitter in my underwear and an empty, extra large bottle of bubbles on my night stand. My cats will be wearing wigs and the doorbell will play Groove Is In the Heart by Dee Lite in it's entirety. Am I saying that I naively expect nothing horrible to happen? No. I'm just hoping that the Grim Reaper has reached his quota for a while (let the good ones live for a while, dude), Mother Nature will take anger management courses and the dick heads who are inclined to shoot up a mall, movie theater, school etc will inexplicably drop dead. That also goes for rapists and pedophiles. Let there be a disease that strikes those despicable characters dead two hours before they act out on a vile, nauseating fantasy. Die Psychos Die, but before anyone innocent gets hurt and after they've donated themselves to science.

Let's get up, dust ourselves off and pay respects to those who left us. Flowers and prayers need to be given to the living because we need it to heal our breaks and bruises. We need it to lift our spirits. We need it now... 2013-please be gentle.