Decidedly Not Dead

I have started this post about 20 times in my mind.  The original effort keeps coming off as snarky, shitty even – and worse yet, I managed to once again get real comfy with doing what I do best:  Belittle myself and all the trappings that come with that.  Make light of my accomplishments.  Poo-poo my struggles.  Minimize my insecurities and my vulnerability.

To which I say, Fuck that.

And I can probably only write this from a place of honesty right now because a little podcast that is now absolutely ginormous and epic has saved my life and thousands of other lives.  This post may or may not turn out to be about that.

Shit’s hard, y’all.

My husband and I packed up and moved across the country. That was not easy. Being new, in a new job, in a new city, in a new state, Is not easy.  If anything, being new is definitely one thing:  It is vulnerable. I have had to get over saying “I don’t know how this works here”, I have had to get over being in the wrong lane 1000 times, And I have definitely had to get over not having enough room for all my shit.  If anything, I need less shit.  I want to go explore my new city, but I am so fucking tired.  It is literally all I can do to drag myself off the couch to eat something.  Which is another thing. As tired as I am, I still have had plenty of energy to gain 10 pounds.  No, we have not eaten healthy anything since we’ve been here, but time is of the essence and sleep is a hot commodity.  Cooking anything, healthy or not, has not been a priority.

None of my friends are here.

But I knew all this before we started.  I knew what I was up against.  I guess I just thought I wasn’t too old to do this, or if I was, I wouldn’t feel it.  Trust me, I feel every bit my age lately.  And It’s not like I regret the decision to move.  I don’t.  I know it was the right move to make.  I’m really glad that we did it.  I know that it will get easier in time.  That being somewhere 100% new doesn’t get comfortable overnight.  I know that I will have time to explore and do all the kinds of things that I used to, and not be so tired all the time.  But right now, I can’t see the light at the end of this particular tunnel.  Yesterday I woke up at 4:45 AM (my new wake-up time, SUPER NOT AWESOME) with a giant sleep wrinkle in my face, and it did not go away until 1 PM.  Everybody said DRINK MORE WATER!  Newsflash, I’ve been drinking lots of water.  The problem is I am almost 50 years old.  My skin just doesn’t do what it used to do.  It’s OK, I’ll get used to that too.

I’ve cried a lot.  Sometimes it’s a release.  Sometimes it’s because I’m sad.  Sometimes it’s because I’m frustrated.  I know I need to find someone to talk to – I was used to going to therapy every other week and add Find a Therapist to the list of Shit I Need to Do.  So many things are not the same.  All the old things were so…familiar.  Comfortable.  Easy.

And despite all of this, I am happy.  I do love it here.  It’s going to be great.  I’m just impatient, and I want it to be great right the fuck now. I know it’s going to take more time then I’m giving it.  So when I feel this way, I just have to slow down and think about all the great things. It’s beautiful here.  The ocean is right the fuck there.  I see it everyday when I’m driving to work.  I can walk outside at lunch and barely break a sweat.  There are a million things to do.  The food is fantastic.  I have not had a bad taco since I got here, and I have had many tacos in a month.  But I am tired.  And my perfectionism Is really trying to take over.  I won’t let it.  Things are not perfect.  They are not going to be perfect.  My need to show you something different – in writing, in what I say, or on social media – the need is strong, but keeping it real seems more important.  I’ll show you a tree.  I’ll show you the beach.  Occasionally you’ll see Tired Old Me.  And that is who I really am right now.

And oh, how’s this?  WE MOVED ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY.  We sold half our shit, sold 2 vehicles, packed up the rest of our shit, packed up 2 cats, drove across the motherfucking desert, lived without most of our belongings for 12 days, started new jobs, got drivers’ licenses, insurance, an apartment, HOLY SHIT WE DID ALL THAT!!!  I have to remember, this was a Big.  Fucking.  Deal.  Don’t play it off like “oh yeah well people do it all the time blah-dee-blah you’re not special.”  True, I am not special, and also true, people do it all the time.  AND YET STILL.  It’s a huge accomplishment that we did it.  Or even thought of doing it.  CELEBRATE, and FUCKING HOORAY.

I think sometimes my penchant for needless worry makes it hard for me to want to do anything outside of stay home and try to make the apartment look neat and clean, or do other things that really aren’t adding anything to my personal enjoyment.  So, circling back to that little podcast that grew into a monolith:  Every Murderino knows exactly what I’m talking about.  Karen and Georgia have made it possible for me to just do the damn thing, and not think about it.   WHO CARES IF IT’S NOT PERFECT.  IT IS PERFECT BECAUSE IT’S NOT PERFECT.  I was trying to live by this philosophy already, but then they came along and made it OK for everybody to do it. I’m just so grateful that they talk to their listeners about mental health the way they do, And make it OK for us to feel whatever we’re feeling, whenever were feeling it.  No one can dictate that.  I wanna tell you that this life that I have moved to is Instant Awesome. It is less than that at this time.  And it might not be awesome for a while.  Right now, I’m just trying to roll with the punches, get some sleep, drink some water, not go crazy.

And make it home.






May the 4th Be With the MFing Resistance

I am not sure how much more we can all take, those of us that want and expect decency to prevail in this Upside-Down we are in right now.  It’s all so gradual, right?  I mean, everything that’s happening may not have really touched you or a person you love yet.  You have health insurance from your employer.  You are in good health.  You are not an immigrant.  You are not a Muslim.  Or brown, for that matter.  Or a woman.

But there’s going to be a time when a category rolls around that hits you.  Because they are gunning for everyone that is not rich and white and male.

The Republicans of the House of Representatives, save 20, voted to repeal the Affordable Health Care Act today.  They have passed the American Health Care Act, which will leave millions of people without access to medical insurance coverage.  It also guts Medicaid.  While this bill would still have to go to the Senate, to committee, back to the House, blah blah blah before it passes, the point is:  Republicans cracked open a few cold ones to celebrate making dying for millions of people a more affordable option than paying for health care.

So I hope that goes down realllly smooth for ya, fuckers.  Come on back home to your constituents.  We are waiting for you.  If you want a class war, you might just get it.  The poor, the elderly, the women, the immigrants, we are all waiting for you.  Come back and face us at town halls.  Come back and hear more of the complaints that you’ve been hearing for months, except now they will be louder.  More vehement.  More desperate.  If you didn’t like it when women cried at your town halls or children questioned you, prepare yourselves.

I mean, what difference does it make?  You’re winning, right?  That’s what matters.

For everyone who is empathetic out there – for those of us who know in a short time, we too will feel the long poking stick of GOP “justice” and “freedom” – man your battle stations.  The sound in the distance is sirens.  If you have just been thinking all of this is a bad dream, now is the time to wake the fuck up.  There are elections for mayors and city council places happening right now.  Get educated about the candidates.  Vote.  Write letters.  Use Resistbot.  Run for office.  Do anything except think this is all going to go away.   Do anything except wait for someone else to save this particular princess, that statuesque lady in the Harbor that other countries used to look toward in order to find safety.

It happens gradually.  The Death Star wasn’t built in a day.


So What Will You Do?

As I stood in my bedroom folding towels while listening to thunder in the distance and rain actively – well, raining – I had a deep thought:  There will be a time in the future where my consciousness may or may not exist, or know what it feels like to fold towels while it’s raining outside, or what listening to thunder feels like.  Yeah, it’s that kind of Sunday.

I just finished Shit Townwhich got me to this exact plane of thought, I think.  If you have not listened to it, go.  Just stop reading this.  See you in about 7 hours.  It is an amazing look at one man’s life, a man who possibly understood both the finite and terrifyingly infinite concept of time better than many.  A man whose mind was, to say the least, tortured and complex.

It made me think about where I am now, in this very moment in time, in my life.  I have read hundreds of amazing books.  I hope to read hundreds more.  I have laughed so hard with friends that tears spilled from my eyes and my breath was hard to catch.  I have spent countless hours balled up in a small, dark place in my heart, paralyzed by failure, crushed by unrequited everything, unable and many times unwilling to dig into the marrow of what might be the cause.  I have witnessed selfless acts of encompassing kindness;  I have put myself square in the majesty of Redwoods; I have lived sometimes too cautiously and done enough reckless things to at least have some stories.

As I listen to the purr of the cat on my lap while the rain softens, thunder hums and a bird cries out nearby, I know I am changed.  I am changed by this moment, and every moment.  I am beyond grateful that I get to experience these changes.  I am in awe of sometimes every leaf I see, every duck I watch land on water, every time my cat snuggles up to me and lets me rub his belly, and the feeling I get when I hear my husband’s voice.

I don’t always show my gratitude for these moments, but I’d like to think that overall, my life, this journey that can be so frustrating and yet so inspiring all at the same time – that my life is full exactly as it is.  I would not alter one minute of this life.

I will do my best to be aware of the minutes remaining, and to always, always realize that the “big picture” is right in front of me.  All I have to do is be still and open my eyes.


Sometimes All We Have is Music

Oh hey, are you reading this?  Then my guess is you, too, are no stranger to disappointment or depression.  Are you human?  Alright then.  We’ve all been there – you got some less-than-good news, you had a bit of a soul-crushing defeat, someone you love has left you in one way or another – your friends see that you’ve put on a fucking smile anyway and then you know, you still gotta pay the stupid car insurance and go to work and buy toilet paper.  How do we keep going?  There are many answers to this complex question, and while I am a big fan in recent years of really feeling all the feels and figuring out why I feel the way I do and what, if any, action I can take, there are days when you just have to slap a motherfucking band-aid on that shit and say to life “WHAT ELSE.”

While you may really need that band-aid, I propose the theory that there is one thing that is that, but maybe more:  Music.

Music can get you out of a mood, put you in a mood, cause you to explore that mood, or shut out everything in your life that is just not a thing you can deal with right the fuck now.  As I blasted The Cult’s “Love Removal Machine” on the way to work this morning, I followed it with Deftones, Marilyn Manson, and Pantera just to get some fucking anger out of the way.  We all have our own thing.  There will be a moment in the next 48 hours in which I will probably sit bawling in my car to OH YOU FUCKING NAME IT, because my Spotify is filled with shit that will make you cry.  (Of course, when the dance-able joy of New Order’s “1963” makes me get teary, it doesn’t take much. Lyrics can hit me in the breadbasket.)

What I am trying to say is that for me, music is a key that can unlock numerous doors, or lock them back up if need be.  Sometimes you don’t know exactly what you need until that perfect song hits you.  There are other times where you know that if you roll all the windows down and turn up the volume, you’ll be allowed, in that space, to feel exactly what you need to feel.

Turn up the volume.  Either way, that guy next to you at the light totally wins.





“I Don’t Get Along with Women”

Yeah.  I used to say this.  I used to say it a lot.  I used to wear this phrase like a badge of fucking honor.  But it never was really all that true.

What the phrase should really be is “I am scared of myself.  I am scared of my own power.  I do not want to look in a mirror and see all the things I am too frightened to be or not be.”

Today is International Women’s Day, and I can say this:  I was wrong for a really long time.  It was never about not liking women.  It was about being uncomfortable in my own skin.  Then I joined roller derby, and I didn’t have a choice but to look in that shitty mirror every fucking day.  Roller derby served as a really great halfway mark between feeling extremely uncomfortable around women and conversely, feeling great around them.  But yes, it was only a halfway mark.  Just being part of a large group of women who loved the same sport did not bestow upon me the kind of affection and care I feel for the women in my life today.

Because looking in that mirror is hard, y’all.  I saw in every one of you what I hated about myself, and what I wanted for myself but was too scared/unmotivated/unwilling to go get.

So what changed?  Me.

My perspective shifted to one of gratitude and realization for all that this mirror has done for me.  To look through the mirror and to really dig down deep and find yourself in the faces and hearts of your sisters – that’s what has changed for me.  The ugly, the splendid, the spectrum of human frailty and emotion and strength is all there.  Was always there.  In you, and in me.

So if you also find yourself saying “I don’t get along with women,” maybe it is time to dig a little deeper into the murky pit of why that is.  It’s a little gross in that pit.  But I can guarantee you will come back out of it with something you didn’t have before:  You.

To all the women who have spoken up, fought, persisted, and just kept livin’ in my lifetime and throughout the centuries, and to all the women who have not found their voices yet:

Thank you.


Writing to Reach You

This may be a jumbled mess, and for that, I apologize.  My brother-in-law took his own life a few days ago, and I am doing all I can to process and help my husband process all the feelings and emotions that go along with suicide.  It is more than I can put into words.  I wish I could have given him more.  I wish he could have received what we all had to give.


I use this title knowing you would have scoffed at it, #1 Music Nerd that you were.  You would say that using a Travis song as a title for this little piece of writing is trite and frankly bullshit, as Travis is a band that got undeserved notoriety and they are melancholy and suck anyway.  I do not use it to spite you and your music taste.  (I can hear you:  “FUCKING TRAVIS????”)  Yes, Fucking Travis, because it’s me, not someone else.

I use it because I should have used it months, years ago.

I will remember you for just that – your ability to tell me how the Smiths were pompous (true) and how music is better when it’s not really recognized by the mainstream (sometimes?).  I will remember you for your passionate stances on God-or-No-God/Politics/World Events/Legalization.  I will remember meeting you for the first time with your brother, wondering who these smart motherfuckers were who were beating me mercilessly at bar trivia.  I will remember you at countless dinners we had, I will remember you dancing, I will remember you and the glimmer you sometimes would get for wanting a better life for yourself, and I will remember you for talking to our dog in a baby voice and loving him no matter how often you did or did not see him.  I will remember how you spoke of your daughters and how the love you had for them shone through no matter what, even in the midst of struggle.  You were uniquely you at all times, in defiance of norms, and despite your surroundings.  I will remember that there were indeed good days.  There were not-good days too.  I will remember those as well.  Turbulence is a force that sometimes does not quit or knows any bounds.  I can’t forget it.  But I can do everything in my power to forgive.

I would ask all of us, no matter who is reading this, that if you or a friend of yours feels like life is too overwhelming and cannot understand how to begin to pick up the pieces, there is help out there.  That if you or that friend has the ability to reach out, do the reaching.  Sometimes our reach to you falls short.  Sometimes it doesn’t have the impact we want it to have.  Sometimes, there just is no saving.  I know in my heart that you might not have known another way, right then, at that moment.  I love you because I just do.  Whether you let me or not.

I will talk to you now, even though it’s too late, in the quiet times of the day or night, in the wake of all our heartache, in the space you have left.  Repair comes when we let it come.  I will choose to repair, no matter how late it is, no matter how much it hurts, no matter what anyone else believes.  I know there is a part of you that will exist beyond consciousness, beyond human form, and I will do what I can to repair both our hearts in that open, grey, and imperfect space.  My guess is you might be calling bullshit on that, too, but you know what?  It’s what I’m doing.  If I could stand one more time in the blizzard of your wrath, I would do just that.  And then some.

I love you because I just do.  Whether you let me or not.






Thank You, Human Person

When they told us that we might be able to get our copies of The Audacity of Hope signed at a rally in Dallas in late 2007, we knew that there were a host of long shots involved.  We all piled up our books with sticky notes inside them with our names, and then went on to do the work of the volunteer:  Hand out stuff.  Talk to people.  Pretty much all the things I hated to do because, as outgoing as I seem, I do not enjoy foisting myself on the general public.  I was committed to getting him elected, even if he didn’t have a chance.

We stood in a large room at Gilley’s and listened to him speak.  I remember it was a weird time, early, like 5 or 6 pm on a weekday.  The room was packed, his mic wasn’t that good, and the crowd was energetic.  A few minutes before he was finished speaking, the volunteers were told to go out in the hall to anticipate the crowd as they left, to hand out flyers regarding when and where to vote, and how to encourage others to do so during the primary.  All of a sudden, a very stern-looking, diminutive but strong woman in a navy suit and short heels was headed straight for me.  It was hard to miss the fact that she was wearing a gun and an earpiece.  She said, “We need all the volunteers out here to line up!  He wants to say hello.”  And we did.  Quickly.  Before I had a chance to figure out what I was going to say, he was standing in front of me, holding out his hand for me to shake it, and he pointedly said, “And what is your name?”  I barely got it out.  It was a moment I will never forget.  We left with our books, each signed.

The night of the election in 2008, my husband and I went with a group of friends down to Bishop Arts where they had the streets blocked off and big screens in several locations to watch the returns.  I remember almost sinking to the pavement when they called it for him.  I had been an election judge for the primary.  I had never worked so hard for anything in my life.  I had risked my job by standing up to a boss who deemed Obama a Muslim terrorist openly and publicly.  My husband lost his job because he took a day off to work the primary with me.  I remember standing in a burger joint that night in Bishop Arts, tears streaming down my face, while watching him speak in Grant Park after the election results.

There is nothing I can write about President Obama that hasn’t already been written.  He had ups.  He had downs.  I spent the first few years hoping that he would not get shot.  He was not perfect.  He could not accomplish everything he wanted to do.  He had a hand in some things that were not good.  Despite it all, I was proud on the whole to have a very intellectual and thoughtful person in the highest office in the land.  I was proud that I had an incredibly small role in getting him there.

Given what we are facing tomorrow, I am – if nothing else – amazed and honored that I was alive to see the first African-American President of the United States serve this country in the best way he could for eight years.  I will miss him.  I will not watch the inauguration of an ill-educated, misogynistic, racist businessman.  I will set my thoughts to a higher purpose.  I will attend a Women’s March the next day.

I am unsure about where we are headed as a nation – the progress we have made in the last eight years seems vast.  Can it all be undone?  What I know is this:  There are those of us out here who are ready to fight, march, vote, and speak truth to power.  We will not let go of the idea that progress is something only we can forge.  That regression is not an option.  That this country, for all it’s failed experiments, is still ours to try to make succeed.

We are many.



One More Day of This Dumpster Fire Year

Well kiddos, it’s been a beautiful nightmare.  So much (fill in the blank with your favorite expletive noun) has happened this year that it only makes sense to count it down, say goodbye, write retrospectives, and come up with an all-time winner for worst fucking moment of 2016.  I’ve got quite a bit of reflecting to do, so go make your tea or grab a snack and sit on down to read one more piece on why so many of us have had pretty much the roughest year psychologically and emotionally in a long time.  If you read all the way to the end, maybe I’ll throw in a good moment or two.  Mmmm.  On second though, fuck that.  This is about setting fire to this piece of trash.

I give you the 10 worst moments of everyone’s 2016.  These are NOT in order of importance in impact to the universe or myself, because sometimes you just can’t rate losses of this magnitude (Although #1 really is #1, and the winner.)  Don’t think that if I leave your personal worst moment out, I am doing so on purpose.  I just think that this is a fairly comprehensive list of our collective groan into the void.

10.  David Bowie

While I wrote a short piece on how Bowie’s death affected me here, so many great writers and musicians wrote volumes around me about how his music spoke to them.  I was fortunate enough to see Henry Rollins when he came to Dallas for his spoken word show, and he also told an amazing story of an encounter he had with David Bowie while he was on tour.  Even though Starman was ill and knew his time had come, none of the rest of us were ready.  Leave it to David Bowie to be ahead of the rest of the world on everything, even his own mortality.  If you’ve never really listened to his music, I urge you to really put it in heavy rotation.  Decades of greatness await you.  He was and will remain an icon, and while it seemed TOO SOON! for the rest of us, there is a part of me that will always know that his star-dust is somewhere in the ether, just beyond my periphery, waiting to shower the world with a life that will last beyond the ages.  My gratitude overflows for all that his life brought to mine.

9.  Prince 

I haven’t been able to write about the death of Prince yet due to the outpouring of emotion about it every time I fitfully start and stop again.  I am 46.  To say I grew up with Prince is an understatement.  Before I even knew it was Prince, I undulated in a Utah basement to “Do Me, Baby” in whatever way a 12-almost-13 year-old girl can undulate.  Barely understanding what all the innuendo meant at that age, I learned soon enough that it was bad, bad, bad when my mom found the lyrics sheet inside the 1999 album.  Mortified, she freaked out, and it cemented my absolute infatuation with him forever.  An accomplished EVERYTHING player, writer, musician, style maven, I can’t say enough about what his music did for me – nay, to me, as a weirdo teen that didn’t really fit in anywhere.  There is a sense of freedom through pain in many of his songs, even if that pain is not evident.  Whenever I listen to “Last Night I Spent Another Lonely Christmas”, I am filled with a sense of heartbreak as if it were my own. Parade was another full album filled with nonstop hits, meaningful snippets, gorgeous writing and overall mastery of the exact moment in time in which we were all living.  From the super fun even if overplayed “Let’s Go Crazy” and “Little Red Corvette”, to the gospel vibes of “Seven” and “The Ladder”, to the sultry funk of “Erotic City”, “DMSR” and “Sign o’ the Times”, dude had a catalog of unending magic and rawness and ability.  The unrelenting wizardry of a generation’s anthem in “Purple Rain” will be covered, coveted, revered, and praised for years to come.  I could list songs for days.  Suffice it to say, people who tell me “I have never been into Prince”, for them I feel kind of sad.  You are missing out on an a musician that only happens once in a great while.


I think about what pain the Artist himself must have been in toward the end of his life, and I will for eternity be gobsmacked by his death.  I never wanted him to stop making music, producing, having other people tell crazy stories about meeting him – I never wanted it to end.  Like Bowie, he was an influence beyond time – and goddamn if I can figure out how to evoke all that his music meant to me.   His lyrics, and more even still his feeling – his use of dynamics and his vocal histrionics have a way of reaching through the space between me and the airwaves, and his voice pulls me through to whatever place he inhabits.

Give “Lady Cab Driver” a listen sometime – because the last line in that song will always speak to me:

“Not knowing where I’m going is galaxies better than not having a place to go.”

8.  Alan Rickman 

Goddammit, Alan Rickman.  I was not and still am not ready for him to be gone from this earth.  A superb, versatile acting talent with a voice that was at once distinctive, at once arresting, how can we count the ways and roles in which we have loved you?  Hated you?  While his portrayal of Severus Snape was the role of a lifetime, stuff of legends, I first fell in love with Alan Rickman in a small movie that I’m surprised even came my way in Closet Land.  It is a powerful, raw film of startling lasting power – I watched it some 20 years ago and will never forget it.  With only two characters in the entire movie – Rickman as a cruel, deft police interrogator and Madeline Stowe as a children’s author and Victim of the State, it is definitely an actor’s and screenwriter’s film – one based solely on acting talent alone, no scenery, no graphics, just two people giving forthright and intuitive performances.  Panned by critics at the time for its stark settings and overall in-the-face-ism regarding subject matter, independent films were not nearly as widely accepted or acclaimed then.  Had this film been released today, I would imagine a better reception.  Give it a watch if you can find it.  But beyond this little-known performance of Rickman’s, he enjoyed success at so many levels of his long career – accomplished stage actor and Tony award winner, hated villain Hans Gruber in the action classic Die Hard whom we are all too happy to see fall off a building, director, Snape.  Whether you read the books first or not, he at once assumed the picture in your head of Snape, a character we find out so late of his goodness, his purity, his devout love, and his frailty.  I have no doubt in my mind that Alan Rickman, were he to have lived longer, would still add to the massive list of career accolades.  His performances in so many films will continue to be among my favorites.  I have a friend who often says she would listen to Alan Rickman reading the phone book.  I concur.  That voice will stay with us even as he goes to whatever realm classically trained actors aspire toward.  I can only imagine a land filled with vast expanses of scenery for him to describe, other great legends who have left us to act with, and one unifying director that is the Universe to call him up.

7.  Carrie Fisher 

We have been hit hard in the last week or so.  Luckily, I will never ever forget standing in line in 1977 with my reluctant mother to see Star Wars – A New Hope at the age of 7.  The first images of the Princess as a hologram were figured into my childhood psyche and when The Empire Strikes Back barreled into my life with full force (heh), I was changed forever into the deep-seated nerdling I am down inside.  Her on-screen relationship with the debonair Han Solo, the back-and-forth quips, her outright femaleness in her portrayal of a strong, smart, gender-defiant rebel caught in love and in war, is a performance that will last a lifetime for me.  To learn later of her struggles with mental illness and to discover her prolific writing is a gem that I will just keep taking out and polishing.  And because When Harry Met Sally was a movie which spoke to me personally, her easy yet embattled depiction of Marie will always be one of my favorites.  “You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.”  I don’t know how many times I have uttered that phrase, trying to have the exact same intonations as her character.   But to digress to her more famous role, what young brunette girl didn’t dream of looking like Carrie Fisher in a golden bikini?  I know she hated it, and I was much more jealous of her General Organa outfit, but there’s a reason why men my age swoon at the thought of Leia and the idyllic embodiment of poise, strength, and flat-out sexiness.  She truly is gone too soon.  I feel like she would have had further roles in upcoming episodes of the Star Wars legend, and I hate not getting to see this come to fruition.

6.  Debbie Reynolds a DAY LATER 

At this I just say, what the fuck.  I mean, I guess it stands to reason that the death of her daughter was an event that she could not withstand, and while I am of a generation a little too late for the genius of Debbie Reynolds to have truly grasped me, I appreciated her long-standing performances in Singin’ in the Rain and The Unsinkable Molly Brown from a young age.  She has an extensive filmography, one that I will relish looking back on, and more than anything, I am saddened by her loss for people of my mother’s generation who grew up and older with all of these performances.  I suck because I can’t write paragraphs about Debbie Reynolds, but I know enough to write that her life was filled with talent, stardom, and constant work – a presence among female actors and a role model for many aspiring young women of her day.

5.  George Michael 

I had a poster – this poster – on my closet door (ha!) at age 15:

That fucking hair though

Look, I have vivid memories of loving Wham! even if all of their songs weren’t giant hits in the US.  I was listening to “Young Guns” a couple of days ago and heard the line “this young gun says caution pays”   BUT I REALLY THOUGHT HE WAS SAYING “ABORTION PAYS” and who knows, MAYBE HE IS, although that would be weird and you know, not pertinent to George Michael.  When I was in junior high, I was a cheerleader (gross) and had the everlasting pleasure of doing a choreographed dance routine at least one million times to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” and will remember parts of that dance until I am old and grey (much to my chagrin).  But as I got older, George Michael’s solo work had great prophetic meaning for me – his amazing cover of Stevie Wonder’s “They Won’t Go When I Go” haunts to this day.  His popular, mournful “Waiting For That Day” and “One More Try” are beautiful tributes with a voice that is like pop-soul honey.  Listening again to his who-knows-how-platinum hit “Father Figure”, it is a) beautiful, b) possibly creepy and mostly c) delivered with pure feeling.  Again, a master of dynamics, Michael soars and ebbs just when we need him to do so.  I didn’t know where he was for the last 10 years or so, but I sure as fuck didn’t think he’d just vanish.  A man whose voice was praised by Elton John and Freddie Mercury, don’t take George Michael for a pop star lightweight.  He has plenty of soul-wrenching material that only he could have delivered to us.  I don’t think it’s easy for many Americans to really understand the significance he had on British popular music, but his is a voice I will miss and revisit repeatedly for the rest of my life.

4.  Leonard Cohen 

Let’s face it, Cohen was also a little bit before my time, but I always have been in awe of his incomprehensibly vast amount of writing he has left with the world.  There is shit that is Cohen that you don’t even know is Cohen.  I can’t write a retrospective of 2016 and NOT include him, as there is a generation directly in front of mine who saw decades of the volume of work Cohen published.  Writer, poet, lyricist, singer, producer – Cohen was enigmatic and all-encompassing.  Delving into the heart of his subjects with a deft hand and an unflinching eye, his words span years of heartbreak, longing, joy and sorrow for all who dare to go with him on his journey.  Worldly, religious, introspective, prominent – his influence is one too great to ignore.  At 82 when he died, Leonard Cohen accomplished enough for 5 lifetimes.  Like Rickman, his voice is one that you cannot but peg, so distinctive and deep that it sounds as if it is coming out of the bottom of the ocean up through decades of gravel, mud, water and waves, until it breaks over us with the realization that life is finite and infinite all at once, and we are pulled back down into his undertow.

I am not sure where I read or heard this first, but it is beautiful, tragic, and exactly Cohen:

I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.

If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside the door.

From Let Us Compare Mythologies, 1956

3.  Gene Wilder 

I am quite sure that my first memory of Gene Wilder, even though his career was already in full swing, was the enigmatic and eccentric character that only Wilder could have pulled off in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.  Could I write paragraph upon paragraph about that performance alone?  Absolutely.  The somersault, the boat ride, the off-hand snide remarks to children (CHILDREN!), his effortless demeanor and his flawless physical presence in that role is incomparable.  Only later in my life did I come to appreciate his genius in Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, and Silver Streak.  He turned to writing in his later years, and kept his condition of Alzheimer’s a secret from the public – but at 83, Wilder died with an outstanding career to his credit and fans of every age due to his roles.

Shut your goddamn mouth.  

2.  Muhammad Ali

I can’t write more than has already been written about Ali.  I came to enjoy watching boxing in the last 20 years or so, long after he had fought, but the reverence with which people speak of this man is so deep, so prevalent, that I was drawn to listen to his memorial service which aired in full on NPR after he died.  Not one but almost every recounted tale from Very Famous People of how Ali was a presence in their lives brought me to tears.  Fighter in so many more ways than one, we can’t imagine the significance of the role he played not only in sports but socially, culturally – a poetic server of justice, a fearless yet real and rough man of morality and complexity, a Bearer of Truth for all who dare to look at it in the face.  I am not the one to write this.  He is eloquently eulogized by the one and only President Barack Obama:

“But I actually think the world flocked to him in wonder precisely because, as he once put it, Muhammad Ali was America.  Brash, defiant, pioneering, joyful, never tired, always game to test the odds.  He was our most basic freedoms – religion, speech, spirit.  He embodied our ability to invent ourselves.  His life spoke to our original sin of slavery and discrimination, and the journey he traveled helped to shock our conscience and lead us on a roundabout path toward salvation. And, like America, he was always very much a work in progress.” 

1.5 Sharon Jones

It was like I just found this voice, and then she was gone.  From the opening moments of “Stranger to my Happiness” I was very much SIT UP IN THIS CHAIR AND WTF FUCK THAT LET’S DANCE HOLY SHIT.  A female James Brown.  Everything I had been waiting to hear.  And fuck me, she’d been around for a long time and I was JUST hearing it.  Where had I been, where did this voice come from, who is she and how can I get more?  Just wow, if you have not listened to Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, you are missing some amazing music that will grow to be a permanent mainstay in your listening habits.  She is the embodiment of soul, funk, power, and unabashed joy for her art.  And stage presence?  Jesus.  It is a crime that I did not get to see her perform.  Even in her advanced illness, she did not give up or in.  What a fucking voice.  Unparalleled.  Standing – no, dancing amid the upper realms of what the Great Aretha created, the world gave us, for a brief, shining moment, this powerful, strong, gorgeous woman who sang her heart out Every.  Single.  Time.  bn-qw522_jones_j_20161118222027


 1.  Worst Moment Winner:  Trump for President

If we all don’t agree on that, get off my blog.

One more day, everyone.  Let’s get through it together, in one piece, and always remembering those who went before.



Right-Sized, Right Now

Every Saturday, I keep going to this cemetery.

It is a very quiet, run-down, not-taken-care-of cemetery in the middle of a nature preserve that sits on the edge of a suburban, outside-the-loop community.  It’s heavily wooded, and the path to the cemetery isn’t paved.  I have no ties to this cemetery.  A friend took me there in the dark one evening, which is pretty much not my gig, going to cemeteries in the dark.  As goth as I am, I am too afraid of getting ousted by authorities or getting mugged or raped in the woods.  As I stepped out of my comfort zone that night, I found it magical.  In more ways than one.

So I keep going back.  In the day, though.  For now.

I read the historical marker over and over again.  I want to go inside and sit on the little bench that is placed right next to the marker.  Instead, I am waiting for an invitation.  A sign.  Something that whispers to me that it’s ok to go through the pulled-back chain link fence and just sit.  That I am getting closer to being welcome.  I don’t know these people buried here, and the last burial in the cemetery was almost 100 years ago.  I imagine most of them hard people.  Rough people.  Pioneer people.  People who had to wear ridiculously oppressive clothing in blazing temperatures, who had to work this less-than-fertile Texas soil, who had to bury children lost to disease.  As I wander outside the locked gates of this place in my yoga pants and running shoes, I know I don’t have anything in common with those who are buried here.

But I keep coming back.  I keep looking for signs.  I keep waiting for the dead to reveal their mysteries to the living.  To tell me in hushed tones what to do with my life, how to be of purpose.  These souls that cannot fathom me, my life and times – who might have the power to question why I would hang around this place so many others have abandoned.

I bring them things.  A flower.  A hairpin.  A chunk of bread.

Say what you will.  We are all in uncharted territory in this life.  The more I do what feels right, the less scary that territory, known or unknown, becomes.

Whether a sign is real or imaginary, I am the one that defines its power.

I am listening.


We Are Majority. #Expectus.


There are, at last census in 2010, 157 million women in America.

There are 151 million men.

Now.  Men who are reading, this, let this next bit sink in: Every third woman you know has been sexually harassed, assaulted or raped in her lifetime.  Maybe all three.

Every. Third. Woman.

And believe it or not, there are women out there who don’t consider assault, assault.  On NPR this morning, I heard a woman who is a Trump supporter say “well, if they do (grab you,etc), just punch them in the face.”  You know.  Like we do, ladies!  Never fear, I am sure that will work out OK for you 100% of the time!

But just because you punch someone as a retort to their assault, THE ORIGINAL ACTION IS STILL ASSAULT.  Your response to it doesn’t change what it technically is.  It is sexual harassment.  It is sexual assault.  For every time a guy has slapped or groped our ass, or touched us without consent, brushed up too close to our breasts on purpose, or for fuck’s sake grabbed us by the pussy, it’s harassment or assault.  And I want to be the 100,000th woman to chime in on the rant regarding what the Republican Presidential nominee has called “locker-room talk”:  You are a fucking delusional asshole predator, Donald Drumph, and you and your entire tribe need to be denounced so loudly, so forcefully, that the entire world can hear and feel it.

I have worked in a male-dominated industry for over 20 years, and with that, have had my share of experiences ranging from sexual harassment to sexual assault.  I have had experiences outside of work as well – at the club, on public transportation, hell, walking down the street.  I’ll put it to you in a somewhat self-deprecating manner – I am no extraordinary woman.  I am, simply, a woman.  Which leads many men to believe they have the right to do whatever the fuck they want, because they are stronger/superior/more powerful.  And if you are not one of those men, then bravo for you.

If nothing else, this shitstorm of an election in this apocalyptic hellscape that is our American Politics has brought forth a discussion.  A discussion that, right the fuck now, we cannot let men define.   Just take a look at the numbers of responses writer Kelly Oxford received on Twitter when she asked women to tweet about their own experiences with sexual assault.  She received over one million separate stories.

For here is what happens when we let men define what sexual assault is or is not:

“I don’t characterize [grabbing a woman by the genitals] as sexual assault. I think that’s a stretch.” – Jeff Sessions (R – AL)

“Rape is kinda like the weather. If it’s inevitable, relax and enjoy it.” – Clayton Williams (R – TX)

“If a woman has [the right to an abortion], why shouldn’t a man be free to use his superior strength to force himself on a woman? At least the rapist’s pursuit of sexual freedom doesn’t (in most cases) result in anyone’s death.” – Lawrence Lockman (R – ME)

“If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to shut that thing down.” – Todd Akin (R – MO)

“FARENTHOLD: I’m not here to defend Donald Trump. I don’t like what he said, but …
HAYES: If a tape came out with Donald Trump saying that – if a tape came out with Donald Trump saying that, saying “I really like to rape women,” you would continue to endorse him.
FARENTHOLD: Again, it would, I — that would be bad, and I would have to consider – I’d consider it. But again, we’re talking about what Donald Trump said 10 years ago as opposed to what Hillary Clinton has done in the past two or three years.” – Blake Farenthold (R-Texas).

So you know, just guys talking about “conquests“,  haha, just banter, just words.  And to the co-worker who strolls in my office and says “well, is what he said really any worse than what Hillary Clinton has done?”  YES, MOTHERFUCKER, YES.  Because even though I am no raving fan of the Clintons and their Underwoodian lifestyle, I will stop you right there and say YES.  It is worse.  All of the things Your Precious Donald has said – his insults of Mexicans, of Muslims, of disabled persons, of veterans or prisoners of war – they are all reprehensible, all despicable, all disgusting.  But with this last tape, you’ve just managed to target the majority of wheelhouses in the country.  And this is why we must take our power now, stand up and define what is sexual assault.  Do not let this orange, ill-fitted-suit-wearing predator and his lackeys define it.  Because it is, quite simply, #notokay.

Here’s the deal, y’all:  We don’t need your fucking “words“.  Your words – just like your actions – mean everything and nothing to us all at once.

We have ballots.