LOOKING BACK...

...at not only the past year, but down through the decades, continuing to wonder why I'm here, is there still a mission or purpose I've yet to discover, or is it all just one cosmic and stupendous accident? When all is said and done, has my presence here made one whit of difference, or will I just disappear, return to dust, only to be forgotten?

I always loved to visit cemeteries, imagining the lives behind the names, their struggles, their fleeting moments of sunshine, how important everything must have seemed during their time here ~ and how impossible it is for anyone in the present reading their names to know all the hills and valleys of their lives.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make..." (Lennon/McCartney)

Also in the end, we are all reduced to ashes or holes in the ground, with or without love. Does anybody care? No. You're dead. Not to be morbid, but really, how much of any of this thing called "life" really matters?

I (reluctantly) arrived on this planet in the year 1946, and can only remember searching-searching-searching for answers at every turn of my life. Some questions have been answered, too many remain as they were. Always and forever wondering...did I make the right decisions, should I have married so-and-so and had children or stay single (as I did,) am I 'happy' now...? Well, the answer to that last question is an unequivocal yes. So I guess those haphazard decisions made along the way have contributed to this current state.

2013 was the most restless year of my life. I could no longer tolerate the insanity and hectic pace of New York City and made what most people considered a "reckless" decision to just finally get the hell out and live closer to nature and real people. Granted, it hasn't been easy. This late in life, change is difficult, but also exhilarating. Getting to know new people, acclimating oneself to a totally new environment, finding the rhythm of a new existence, hoping people will accept you, warts and all, is no easy task.

But leaving one's entire 'family' behind doesn't even enter the picture; I did that long before I left...or maybe they left me behind when I was still among them as they continued to play make-believe-family when and if I ever contacted them. No big deal either way.

So here I am, on the cusp of what sounds like a year straight out of science fiction, 2014. It's a long stretch from 1946 any way you look at it, and I must say I preferred beginning the years with 19 but there ain't a whole lot we can do about that.

"So here's to life, here's to love, here's to you....." 

(Songwriters: Phyllis Molinary/Artie Butler)

THE GREAT 'MURRKN CORPORATE WHORES SELLOUT

Whatever happened to MADE IN THE USA? Every GD thing I pick up these days is either "Made in (still-Communist) China" or some other godforsaken place where people are paid slave wages for their labor, and we are forced to buy the cheapest junk big corporations can sell to fatten their already-despicable profits.

Kind of reminds one of the 'MURRKN Old South, doesn't it? Slave labor, fat cat corporation-'people' sitting on their virtual verandas sipping their green-for-money Mint Juleps, having a big old laugh over how they sabotaged their own country's economy by selling out the very people who keep them in business, and got obscenely wealthy doing it.

What the HELL is going on in what used to be perceived as "the greatest country in the world"...??

Case in point: SEARS. Incompetent, disrespectful to their customers, AND selling products stained with American blood (via Vietnam) where 58,000+ kids had to die to satisfy the insanity of America's Masters of War and, in the end, for no good reason at all. As for Sears, if the order is incorrect? Tough luck, "it's a third-party vendor, so we, Sears, take no responsibility for it."

Hey, corporate whores, why don't you advertise WHERE your crappy merchandise is made so people can make informed decisions?? And if you insist on using "third-party vendors," YOU take responsibility for THEIR mistakes; don't tell your CUSTOMERS to get involved. Ever hear of "the customer always comes first"...?? Or is that part of the rapidly-disappearing America of old too?

This is NOT the America in which I grew up. Post-war America (just to be clear, that's World War II ~ there have been so many undeclared wars since 1945, it's hard to keep track) when unions and corporations-with-a-conscience allowed middle-class families to live a frugal but decent life. And we all know which way unions are headed these miserable 'MURRKN days...to hell in a bucket, as the harlots of big business tell us all "If you don't like it, fuck it, because we just DON'T CARE." So much for corporate conscience.

I am beginning to believe that there is a method behind this Ronald Monster Reagan-inspired madness. Low wages (if you can find a job at all,) prohibitively expensive food (providing Monsanto hasn't usurped every natural seed in the world and transformed it into Frankenstein-food) and that lovely new 'MURRKN word, outsourcing ~ ie, sending every damned thing that used to be MADE IN  AMERICA, with PRIDE, to other countries while leaving us to die on the vine ~ well now, just what message is that sending to Americans?

What a sad and tragic ending for what used to be "the greatest country in the world." Yeah, right...these days, you have to live in China (or Vietnam) to believe that one. We have become an international joke and you know what? We DESERVE to be.

Karl Marx was right on when he said, "Workers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains."

But, UH-OH, that was considered communism, a very very bad thing (for big business, maybe.) But, excuse me, isn't China, our main corporate buddy these days, also a communist country? So, are we for communism or against it? I guess it all depends on the M-O-N-E-Y, doesn't it...?

This country, the (former) land of opportunity ~ this "United States of America" ~ is beginning to feel like a gigantic Ponzi scheme. And it is also beginning to unravel right before our eyes. The have-nots are accustomed to doing without.

It's the haves who are going to ultimately pay the price. And it's not going to be very pleasant.

POSTCARD FROM.....

Leroy!

P-P-P-Pittsburgh...! (as David Bowie would sing it.)

Why Pittsburgh? Well, for one thing, you don't see wildlife on the streets of New York City ~ except for rats, with four (and two) legs, although I infinitely preferred the former over the latter. That's my friend Leroy at left (pronounced Lee-ROY! for his strut and attitude) and thus far, I have spotted wild turkeys (Leroy and his girls,) raccoons, a jack rabbit, possum and a deer who returned the next day with her fawn...what's better than that??

For another, as I answered a former neighbor in that disgusting NYC egg crate co-op apartment building where I used to live, "To start with, it has 7 million less people" ~ something I do NOT want to change in spite of our new Mayor-Elect Bill Peduto's promise to revitalize Pittsburgh's image and standing among American cities. YOU try going to the Dept. of Motor Vehicles in the center of Manhattan and not only find a (free) parking space on the street, but also be greeted by a smile and good manners by DMV employees who speedily do their job (sans snotty attitude) and then be back home in TEN minutes. HA! Fat chance. Yup. From the city to the country, just like that! SNAP!

A friend recently told me about a TV sitcom that had its star frantically looking for "the cheapest flight to any American city" (but the one he was in) and when the airline came up with Pittsburgh, he answered "Okay, what's the second cheapest flight?" Fine with me, even though it further contributed to my new hometown's negative reputation. After living 60+ years in a city of 10 million people, please DON'T come here or you might discover a funky, funny, diverse and eclectic little town that remains 70% forest because, just like La La LA, it is spread out and allows wide open spaces to remain that way. Not to mention its excellent colleges and universities...University of Pittsburgh, Carnegie Mellon, Duquesne...shall I go on?

Not to mention P-burgh was the home of Andrew Carnegie, Andy Warhol, Arnold Palmer, Billy Eckstine, Art Blakey, Gertrude Stein, Gene Kelly, Errol Garner, Fred Rogers...the list goes on, and Mister Rogers must have been singing about his home town neighborhood. Never in my life have I been greeted with so many smiles, waves, and open arms. "A wonderful day in the neighborhood" indeed!

And I (of course) wound up in a little enclave chock full of some of the most eccentric, hilarious, truly 'salt of the earth' people I've ever met. Having grown up in the Arthur Avenue section of the Bronx (Little Italy in the Bronx) when it still was Little Italy, also filled with eccentric, hilarious, salt of the earth people, being here is a little bit like going home...

Stay tuned, more to come! Lots more!


PS,
And, former co-op, I'm allowed to have a dog now, so I think you know what you can do with your BS rules & regulations.

TO CATNAP OR NOT TO CATNAP...?

That is, indeed, the question.

I've always had a problem about taking a nap during the day. It made me feel guilty...I'm supposed to be up and doing things, not passed out on the couch, wasting time.

Someone once told me, "Oh, a nap is never a waste of time!" but I still can't shake that feeling, and it's difficult to drift off to sleep when your overactive mind is racing faster than the speed of sound. Hell, I'm lucky I can sleep at night, never mind during the day.

"I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!" is what my brain transmits to my guilt-ridden reclining body, totally opposite of the supremely unconscious cat pictured here. Oh, to be able to sleep like a cat...! Not 18 hours a day, but their ability to sleep always amazed me.

I never had a problem taking a nap on the NY subway (back in the day before it became a combo dining-car-disco-pigsty-on-wheels) and people actually read books and newspapers and behaved like civilized human beings. I hated when I fell asleep on other people's shoulders, though. And there's always the lovely possibility that you might drool which would keep me awake for sure these days.

One night on my way home from work, I fell into such a deep sleep, I completely missed my stop and the train conductor had to wake me to say it was the last stop!

But now that I can nod off whenever I want to? FUGHEDDABOWDIT! Sleep has become my own personal Holy Grail, the elusive butterfly and the 'impossible dream' except, of course, when I AM sleeping but dreaming that I am awake, TRYING to fall asleep.

How's that for convoluted dreaming...?

Phew...think I'll take a nap now.

YEAH, I'M A LUDDITE. SO WHAT?

From Wikipedia:
Luddites were 19th Century English textile artisans who protested against newly developed, labor-saving machinery from 1811 to 1817. The stocking frames, spinning frames and power looms introduced during the Industrial Revolution threatened to replace the artisans with less skilled, low wage laborers, leaving them without work.

Well, DUH. It's 200 years later, and guess what? We now have even more less skilled, low wage laborers, except they're in other countries, leaving Americans desperate to find a decent job. And leaving me to conclude that each 'revolution' further screws the people of this world.

We all know what happened to farms and farmers when the Industrial Revolution hit. What on earth is going to be the ultimate result of this creepy technological take-over?? I sometimes wonder if the big switcheroo from analog to cable for this country (under the guise of 'national security') was just another way of observing us right in our homes. It's entirely possible if you think about it. I think even George Orwell would be shocked by how invasive the world has become.

Seriously, I don't even own a cell phone yet, and hope I never have to. I hate the intrusive little bastards. IF the telephone had to be invented, the graceful one pictured would be what I'd use (although I really do wish it stopped at smoke signals.) The 'technological revolution' has, in my Luddite opinion, not only radically changed but also totally ruined life and 'society' as we once knew it.

My reaction to any and all new stupid "app" gadgets is similar to Downton Abbey's Dowager Duchess (Maggie Smith) who *sniffs* her disdain, with understandable exasperation, for newfangled phonographs and telephones, and longs for simpler, more civilized times.

What on earth is going to be the ultimate result of this truly bizarre technological invasion??

Nah, I'll take the good old days any day of the week. Call me whatever you wish, but I prefer to have all of my senses at full attention whenever I venture outside, or drive or shop or do ANYTHING that requires a focused brain.

Others may stuff their ears with pods or (good grief) have computer chips implanted in their brains, but this particular 'Lud' will continue to resist, kicking and screaming all the way.

As for 'texting'...try lugging this around instead.

FARE THEE WELL, MISTER MOOSE...

It was November 1966, and I had just turned 20 years of age when, to my utter shock, a chance interview with CBS-TV turned into a job working for the popular 'Captain Kangaroo' show.

I loved the fact that the show was not at stodgy CBS headquarters (known as 'Black Rock') but at the Broadcast Center on West 57th Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues...far enough off the beaten track to actually become friends with a police horse (they were stabled around the block from the Broadcast Center and I couldn't have been more thrilled.)

And I especially loved the fact that I was surrounded by so many brilliant, talented and well-educated people. Working for Captain Kangaroo was my college education. It was the mid-60s so the conversations, still vivid in my mind, were often about Vietnam, politics (JFK's assassination was still fresh and raw) and of course, the hippie movement sweeping the country at the time. My co-workers and friends, Carol and Sam, actually attended the first 'Be-In' at Central Park in 1967. That solidified my love and admiration for them both!

Of all the puppet characters on the show, I think everyone loved Mister Moose best. He was such an irreverent little screwball, especially when he teamed up with Bunny Rabbit and cooked up yet another plot to drop ping pong balls on the poor Captain's head. Whenever I visited the studio, I always expected the Mister Moose puppet to come to life, that's how real he seemed to me.

Sadly, the man behind the puppets ~ Cosmo ('Gus') Allegretti ~ has passed away at the age of 86. Gus was a talented guy, but had the personality of a cactus. Not an easy person to get along with, we still struck up a friendship that lasted pretty much till the end of his life.

The Captain, Mr. Greenjeans, and now Mister Moose (and his other puppet characters) are all gone now...I hope to a sparkling new Treasure House in the sky. Be sure to give my love to Phoebe.

And thanks, so very much, for the memories....

POST CARD FROM ______________?

Well, all I can say is that any and all dealings I have had with my new home town-to-be have earned that stamp of approval. Be they banks, moving companies, medical offices, each and every response was respectful, informative and friendly.

Wow. After living in an increasingly rude New York City my entire life, nice people are certainly welcome at this point in time!

So are mornings so quiet, all you hear are birds singing...I can't even imagine what peace that will bring after hearing barking dogs, car alarms going berserk at all hours of the night, fire engines (do they really have to use that ear-splitting HONK while their sirens are going full-blast??) and all the other nerve-shattering noise served up by the "city that never sleeps" 24 hours per day, 7 days per week.

My ears HURT!

I once met someone who was born and raised in a rural area. She said the NOISE of NYC made her "feel alive" and part of a city. Say WHAT? Would you care to trade places for a while? Because no place can be rural enough for me. Birds, crickets, wild life...and the trees communicate their spiritual beauty in silence, or through the soothing whisper of their branches when ruffled by a breeze. Winding roads, exploring new territory with more trees than buildings and, when you absolutely must interact with society, NICE people! What a concept.

I'll admit, it's a little scary to leave a city in which you were born and raised. But there is harsh truth in the saying "Familiarity breeds contempt" because I cannot remember disliking New York City as much as I do now.

So where will my new home be?? Sorry, I still cannot divulge that detail until I am physically there.

To quote Bob Dylan from a recent '60 Minutes' interview: "I don't like putting stuff out there that hasn't happened yet. The universe will steal it from you."

And I can't go against my lifelong mentor's advice now, can I?

EARLY AUTUMN

Johnny Mercer wrote one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs about autumn, an even more haunting and beautiful season...

"When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze, and touches with her hand the summer trees, perhaps you'll understand what memories I own..."

It's actually a song about love almost lost, with a plea to never have an 'early autumn' again in their relationship. But how well its melancholy tone lends itself to what is the most bittersweet season of them all...exquisite but tinged with sadness, a new beginning but also another goodbye.

I was born in October, so I'm an 'autumn baby' which could account for it being my favorite time of year (except for school starting again!) As a child, I remember saying "It looks like God turned some of his paint pots upside down and poured them on to the trees!" ~ the colors were that vivid and alive. With the exception of summer meaning no school as a child and as a sun-worshipping human lizard until my mid-30s, I was never a fan of the hottest season of the year. The older I get, the more I dislike it...too uncomfortable, too sweaty, and far too many people out and about!

But as August slowly wends her way toward September, so do the first harbingers of fall make themselves known...the screeching cicadas herald summer's imminent end, the days grow ever shorter, and one can literally feel the difference in the heat, even during the "dog days of summer," because the sun has already begun its ancient journey in the sky, moving off to warm other places, and leaving us to enjoy her sister season in all her glory.

Yes, there is a melancholy aura to it, and that often painful, bittersweet feeling of yet another summer gone, tucked away into the chapters of our lives. But, like everything else, you take the good with the bad, and we don't really have much of a choice anyway, do we?

As for me, I will welcome those first crisp days of needing a light jacket, the incredible fall foliage (and that great crunchy sound of stepping on dried and fallen leaves,) buying peanuts for all my little squirrel friends so they have a good supply for winter, and all the other lovely sights, sounds and smells of the season.

And as for the melancholia it inevitably brings with it, a musical collaboration between Rod McKuen and Frank Sinatra produced a song called "Empty Is."

I always recall these words at this time of year...

"Empty is a string of dirty days, held together by some rain. And the cold winds drumming at the trees again. Empty is the color of the fields, long about September, when the days go marching in a line toward November..."

Yes, but they will continue to march in a line toward spring again too, so enjoy each and every season for what it has to offer and be happy that you are here to greet another.

WHEN YOUR SUBCONSCIENCE GOES TO THE MOVIES

If there's one thing you must be able to do in this exercise in insanity called "life," it's to be able to SHUT DOWN your mind at the appropriate times. Much easier said than done.

When I started this late last night, I was on the verge of falling asleep right on top of my keyboard. But the mind was racing 800mph (even with 'mother's little helper' kicking in) so what to do, what to do?

Write about it. What else?

Insomniacs the world over can identify with this issue. Good solid sleep has been replaced by "nocturnal awakenings" as one doctor described it (yeah, I wake up 10-15 times a night ~ same thing isn't it?) and sleep deprivation is used to torture people, so we all know what it does to your brain. Fried egg, once over.

If you DO manage to fall asleep, your dreams may include those scary little clay characters (think Saturday Night Live's 'Mr. Bill'......"oh noooooooooooo!") coming at you from all directions, distorted wee people who may resemble friends or members of your family.

"Oh noooooooooooo!" for SURE.

If not little clay creatures, you may get to see a million re-runs of your life, all presented in mysterious ways, and all for you to interpret. Is it day residue (something you heard or saw during the day and unknowingly 'recorded' in your mind) is it your subconscience desperately trying to send you a message, or is it more simple than that? Spicy food, eating too much before bed, stress...who knows?

My dreams have always been vivid, extremely detailed and bizarre. I even took a course, 'Dream Interpretation,' at NYU to see if I could figure out what the hell was going on inside my head when I was asleep. That's where I learned about 'day residue' so it did help to sort out the nonsense from the message.

I dream a lot about the past...so much so, that there are times when I wake up and think I'm actually in my old room as a teenager. I've read that if you dream about the past a lot, that means your spirit is longing to return to a simpler time, when life was sweet and uncomplicated as it can only be for a child.

How lovely it would be to dream about the happiest summer of your life, and then never wake up.

But that's a special kind of heaven, isn't it...?

To quote just part of Paul Williams' song (recorded by Frank Sinatra):

"Dream away child

Let your dreams run wild

Or a lifetime of worries 

Might claim you

Dream away, child

Let your dreams run wild

Or the years

And the tears shed

Might tame you..."

"NEIGHBORLY" OR NOSY??

I grew up in a neighborhood where, if you asked too many questions, you were either bluntly told to mind your business or asked the question, "Are you writing a book? Leave that chapter out."

But for the past 20 years, I have been living in a building with 'neighbors' who remind me of Sting's song, "Every breath you take, every move you make, every step you take, I'LL BE WATCHING YOU..."

And if there is one thing I can't stand, it's nosy people who have no good reason to ask anything except for the fact that they love to gossip. I, not an inherently rude person, have had to become extremely rude over the years in order to fend off these mindless, manners-challenged people who just happen to live in the same building but assume that every GD thing I do is fodder for their inane attempts at conversation (and the ensuing gossip.)

If I'm outside on the terrace, I get "reports" of seeing me tending my plants, or my cats' activities. Fine. I put up a trellis, covered by a bamboo roll-up shade and lots and lots of big fat silk grape-ivy leaves to block the terrace viewers. Think they got the message? Ha! "Your terrace looks very pretty." Uh, can you maybe think of another reason for my blocking your view other than beautification?

If I bring something downstairs for recycling and happen to bump into one of the building's official Big Nose Brigade, it's 20 Questions Time. Excuse me, if you WANT the damned thing, just take it and don't bother me with stupid questions that do not require an answer.

And now that I am in the midst of relocating to another state and all that that entails, some even had the unmitigated gall to come to my apartment and "see" what they could grab for themselves. HELLO? Did I post a MOVING SALE sign anywhere? Because I sure don't remember doing that, and I certainly do not recall inviting you to annoy me. I'm not even safe walking to the supermarket these days, the interrogation is relentless and irritating as hell.

It's going to be a totally exhilarating experience to actually live in a private house, with a private laundry room and polite neighbors who know enough to wave hello, occasionally stop by for a friendly chat, and then take their leave without asking a single question that they already know is none of their business.

I don't know if this is an "Italian" thing, or something ingrained in me because of those early years, but I think it's safe to say that I am the living embodiment of "You can take the girl out of the neighborhood, but you can't take the neighborhood out of the girl."

And Robert Frost was right: "Good fences make good neighbors." 

ESPECIALLY if you live in an apartment building.

BETTE DAVIS EYES? WHAT RHYMES WITH CREPE PAPER EYES??

We all know the song made famous by Kim Carnes, "Bette Davis Eyes." An appropriate tribute to a woman who more than earned her place in movie history, taking on movie moguls who thought she was 'not pretty enough' to be a real star. She showed them, didn't she? 'Pretty' pales in comparison to sheer talent.

And those eyes! Those magnificent, intelligent and expressive 'Bette Davis eyes' that took in everything...both in movies and real life.

Sadly, those same eyes suffered the fate that we all do, disgusting gravity along with the stupid excesses of our youth. Smoking, drinking, drugs, too much time spent in the sun...they all take their toll and, suddenly, you look in a mirror and you're staring at Miss Davis again, but this time as Baby Jane Hudson. AAACCCKKKK, how the hell did this happen??

Well, if Bette Davis could deal with it as well as she did in her old age ~ "Old age ain't no place for sissies" ~ so can the rest of us.

Oh, but how I LOATHE the crepe paper eyes...try putting on makeup. You start out looking like Baby Jane and, after a few hours, wind up resembling Alice Cooper as said makeup slowly makes its way into the nasty little cracks, crow's feet (who invited them?) and rivulets that now surround your peepers.

Because I am myopic (near-sighted) I was able to fool myself for a long time by not standing too close to the mirror. Kind of blurs things out, like putting Vaseline on a camera lens. Now I just thank every spirit in the sky that I wear both regular and sunglasses, because the more camouflage, the better! Maybe those 1950s hats with dark veils will make a comeback! That would be swell...

In the meantime (in between time...) we trudge on, crepe paper eyes and all, making the best of it as naturally as we can. No tacky "work" for this kid. No botox shots-fake-frozen-face, no outrageous plastic surgery (although I would consider tightening up my eyes...) no cellulite fish-lips, and certainly no multiple face-lifts that make your skin look like it's ready to tear open at the slightest touch. YUCK.

According to Popeye, "I YAM WHAT I YAM" and that is how I shall remain.....unless I can afford a (wink) eye job!

With much love to Bette Davis, then AND now!

GOOD MORNING ANXIETY!

The Scream ~ Edvard Munch

(...with enormous gratitude to artist Edvard Munch for perfectly capturing that pit-of-your-stomach quicksand feeling of gut-wrenching anxiety.)

Of course, the song "Good Morning Heartache" will forever be attached to the brilliant Miss Billie Holiday who knew, all too well, what heartache meant. Anxiety too, for sure.

So, replace 'heartache' with 'anxiety' and there you have it. Not quite as poetic-romantic as heartache, but given the current state of the universe, infinitely more applicable.

The hilarious Mel Brooks did a movie called 'High Anxiety' which is exactly what I lived with for as long as I can remember. Because living with certifiably crazy people in a constantly volatile atmosphere can do that to a young person. 

And 'growing up,' but still embroiled in crazy family dynamics not only exacerbates the problem, but also allows it to continue. It took a ruptured colon and emergency surgery to finally wake me up to the toxic effects of certain family members and their negative contributions to my life.

And when my mother (Miss Eternal High Anxiety Queen of the Universe) passed on, I was left with two choices: either cut the demonic cord and strike out on my own, or continue to allow miserable people to dominate my life. Take a guess what I did. If you guessed the former, bingo! 

Didn't totally eliminate the anxiety, but certainly decreased it to a more manageable level. I mean, seriously, who needs energy vampires in one's life?

So.....

"Good morning anxiety, you old gloomy sight. 
Good morning anxiety, thought we said goodbye last night. 
I turned and tossed 'til it seemed that you had gone. 
But here you are with the dawn. 

Wish I'd forget you but you're here to stay. 
It seems I met you when my [life] went away.
Now every day I start by saying to you
Good morning anxiety, what's new...?"

And to all les miserabs who were left behind?

The pit of my stomach thanks you, my colon thanks you, my cat thanks you, and I thank you!

FROM PROMISE TO PROMISE...

...that is the title of a song written by Rod McKuen and recorded by Frank Sinatra on their collaboration, "A Man Alone."

And here are the lyrics.

"I sometimes wonder why people make promises they never intend to keep. Not in big things, like love or elections, but in the things that count ~ the newspaper boy who says he'll save an extra paper and doesn't. The laundry that tells you your suit will be ready on Thursday and it isn't. Love? Well, yes, but like everything else, we go from day to day, and we move from promise to promise..." 

Promises have always meant a great deal to me personally. If I give my word to someone, I've always done my best to keep it. (Barring, of course, evil external forces that cause emotional trauma. Then all bets are off.)

I used to work for a record company that had a highly-respected 'classical' catalog. When a doctor I was seeing told me he loved classical music, I promised him a surprise on my next visit. As I gleefully handed over an extensive collection of classical records to him, I will never forget his words:

"Paula, you are going to have a very difficult time in life." When I asked why he said that, he replied, "Most people will tell you things and then forget them. Very few keep their word, as you did today. Because of that, I'm afraid you are going to experience many disappointments in this world."

Decades later, in retrospect, I guess I've had more than my share. And being an extremely sensitive and sincere person, each and every broken promise also put another little crack in that fragile little place where one's heart is located.

The first broken promise that shattered my heart was when I was in high school, and a neighborhood friend casually said that he'd drive by the next day and pick me up in  his car. That was such a big deal, to be picked up by someone with a car, I could not wait until 3:00!

My friends had all left, but I waited and waited outside the school exit until, at 4:30, I finally gave up and walked home, absolutely devastated that someone I loved so much could 'forget' a promise. I cried until I had no tears left, but I continued to believe in promises...I never could vanquish that trusting little child inside, regardless of how many times my heart was broken.

These days, I no longer get as upset as I did when I was young; but I have become a lot more circumspect (if still hypersensitive) about 'promises' and the terrible sinking sensation I continue to feel inside whenever a promise is broken.

The final lyrics of Rod McKuen's song:

"I've had a good many promises now, so I can wait for the harvest. And some of them to come about..."

That would be a nice ending, wouldn't it.....?

THIS IS A TEST: POSTCARD FROM ________________?

Compared to tar and cement?? HA!

As already explained in an earlier blog, I refuse to divulge the identity of my new digs for fear of making it sound too attractive and thereby increasing the population.

And also because a negative connotation of its faded past continues to stubbornly cling to its name, in spite of the fact that it has been rated among the top American cities for safe, affordable and clean living many times over in the recent past, once even coming in at numero uno!

That said, the picture above is just a hint of the difference between __________ and Cement City, also known as "New York City, the capitol of the world!"

Yeah, right....but only if you have the capital of Donald Trump to afford living in the land of sky-high buildings/taxes, absurdly expensive rents (even in the poorest sections of the five miserable boroughs) incessant nerve-shattering noise of the "city that never sleeps" (or bathes...don't even think of using the famous NYC mass transit system in summertime without a gas mask; a haz-mat suit is also recommended) and home to some of the most corrupt politicians ever to exist in modern America, including and especially the state capitol, the infamous Albany, NY.

I am a "native New Yorker" (or New Yawker, if you will) so I am qualified and allowed to not sing the praises of an overcrowded, crime-ridden, noisy, rude and filthy city that I have come to loathe late in life (not that I EVER "loved" it.) And I am not alone, that's for sure. Most native New Yorkers find it almost impossible to leave their "home town" in spite of all the negatives that come with the miserable territory. But not this NNY 'cause in my head, I am "already gone" ("and now you'll have to eat your lunch all by yourself!" ~ Eagles.)

Food prices? Out of sight on the scale of affordability. Public transportation, bridge tolls? Forever going up-up-and-away! The afore-mentioned rents? By far, the 'cheapest' (and poorest) borough for rents is The Bronx. Try $950.00 per month for an "old fashioned apartment just one block away from the world-famous Bronx Zoo" ~ well, that's where I was born and raised, and back then, even the $32.00 monthly rent was too much for what we got in exchange, especially the lack of heat on frigid winter mornings. And what a quaint way of describing an old dump of a building ~ "old fashioned, just one block away from the (uber-expensive) Bronx Zoo." Aww, now that just warms the cockles of me heart!

And now that the past and current mayors have virtually destroyed every last open space in order to build-build-build (= taxes, taxes, taxes!) not to mention turning Manhattan into a warped version of Disneyland, and a new mayor on the horizon (most likely the one who enabled the current mayor to steal a third term) this place is doomed.

Sorry, Billy Joel, but I have serious doubts if I will ever again be in a "New York state of mind." The very thought of it gives me a powerful case of the skeeves (an Italian derivative of a word that translates to disgusting.)

"Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood..."

Yup, but this time the "holiday" is going to be permanent, thank every spirit in the sky.

And so ends another POSTCARD FROM ______________? and my new home!

INDIVIDUALS, TRIBES AND NEITZSCHE

"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high for the privilege of owning yourself." 
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Yup, I can attest to that for sure. And so can many of my friends who, unafraid to break the mold of mediocrity, also broke free of the 'tribe' that continually attempted to control them, resulting in a LOT of people left behind. 

Especially and including fair-weather, wimpy friends and emotionally/mentally limited family members who never strayed from the path set by their parents, grandparents, all who came before them.

Kind of boring, don't you think? I guess playing it safe is less scary than striking out on one's own path, always taking the 'road less traveled,' curious as a cat to know more about life, wherever it may lead, whatever it may bring.

I always gravitated toward the individual, not the tribe. And I never measured 'success' by acquisitions or the size of one's bank account. It's painfully obvious by now that no amount of money can buy happiness, and acquisitions are merely things that will momentarily enrich your life, but for how long? And how 'enriching' are cold (expensive) objects in reality? Can they fit into your coffin for the 'afterlife' as the Egyptians believed? Do they really matter, when the whole of life is but the blink of an eye?

That's not to say you have to live a spartan existence to be happy. One can have nice things that are not ultra-expensive, but with a little touch of imagination and whimsy, can be quite individualized and attractive.

And, as much as I dislike money because of its inherent evil, it is a necessary evil in this world, so collect as much of it as you can, but use it wisely to secure your own existence, and help those who really need it. 

"Mama may have and Papa may have, but God bless the child who has his own, who has his own..."

So, yes, I certainly have been "lonely often, and sometimes frightened" ~ very lonely and beyond frightened ~ but I never did let go of the distinct privilege of owning myself, and no one was ever able to put a price on that because it is just not for sale.

This is one person who is still letting her freak flag fly! 

WHY SQUIRRELS ARE ALL NAMED 'JERRY'

As an inner city kid who loved animals, I cherished any wildlife we had. I absolutely adored squirrels for as long as I can remember. Gray ones, brown ones, red ones, black ones (I sound like Eric Burdon) I just wanted to take them all home and keep them safe and warm.

They're sweet, lovable, playful, cute as a button, and when they put their little 'hands' together, waiting to see if you're going to give them a peanut, well...that just melts my heart.

One time, on my way to bring some Christmas oatmeal raisin cookies for the office, I came upon a squirrel and had no peanuts...he looked at me, tiny hands pressed against his furry belly, and my heart sank. But then I realized...oatmeal raisin cookies would be a Christmas treat for him so I opened the package, gave him a cookie and he loved it! I just had to explain to the recipients that one cookie was missing (they all laughed.)

The squirrels where my parents lived later on knew me so well, they'd all come running as soon as they saw me visiting...one even took the peanut right from my hand, his own tiny hands encircling my finger!

Now, getting back to why squirrels are all named 'Jerry.' We lived one block away from the world-famous Bronx Zoo, which was a wonderful thing for all the kids in my neighborhood. Because we both loved animals, my father would take me every Sunday morning and we'd walk, hand in hand, as I observed the chipmunks and squirrels scooting by.

I must have asked him what their names were because I remember him stopping and, looking down at me, saying "Kid, God named all squirrels 'Jerry.'" And that took care of that.

So every time I see a squirrel now, I say "Hi Jerry!" and think of my father's eccentric and hilarious sense of humor.

And that is why all squirrels are named 'Jerry'...!


                   

MOVIN' ON!

Just heard a radio announcer proudly tell us that New York City hosted 11 million tourists this past year...wow, just what a city of 8+ million people needs: MORE people. UCK.

As a native New Yorker (or New Yawka,) I have grown extremely weary of the chaos of city life, particularly in this 'capitol of the world' (but only if you have barrels of capital) and have decided to put it in the rear view mirror of a moving truck in the very near future.

And as much as I'd love to write a blog all about my new home and adventures ~ "Postcard From __________" ~ it ain't gonna happen, unless I keep that blank line blank.

Know why? Because I do not WANT to make it sound wonderful, affordable, clean, respectable and pretty or I may risk increasing the population, which is quite perfect at its current level, thank you very much. Now you see me, now you don't!

The moving process is, to put it mildly, arduous and exhausting. But it is also exhilarating to be able to clear out the closets of your life and just put it all in one huge dumpster. There is very little I'm taking with me, all reminders of a past I'd just rather forget. My parents' old family pictures? Pfffft! Dumpster City. I was a sentimental hoarder, and saved birthday cards, Christmas cards, notes, letters, you name it, some dating back 30 years...geez! Who needs all that crap? GONE.

Moving is also very cathartic. Out with the old, in with the new, and all that jazz. As tiring as it is, I feel energized and happy to finally get the hell out of Cement City, USA.

This morning, for the very first time in the 20 years where I am currently living, I was able to actually go out and arrive back home not drenched in anxiety-sweat. The external stimulation of so much activity and noise always put me on high red alert. Not so now...because I know that, with each and every foray out there, I am one step closer to never having to take that particular dreaded walk again.

Because of the above, my communications may be sporadic for a while but to quote General Douglas MacArthur, I shall return! 

And a special thank you to all the people around the world who are reading this little blog...from Russia to China, Indonesia, Australia, England, Ireland, Italy, Croatia, Armenia, South Africa (and more!) I am humbled and sincerely grateful to all of you.

Centanno!

MY NONON, A TYPICAL ITALIAN GREAT-GRANDMOTHER!

Maria Rosa Mastroianni

This is my great-grandmother, Nonon, circa mid-1950s. She was my grandfather's mother (thus, my mother's grandmother) and lived with her son and  his family from the day my grandparents got married. That was just the way they did things in those days. She helped a lot with the kids, who totaled eleven when all was said and done, but I don't think she was too crazy about her great-grandchildren.

When my dear friend John LaRose saw this picture on facebook, he said "I wouldn't mess with this woman." I was amazed that he picked up on it so quickly, but he's right. She ruled with an iron fist...and a sewing needle!

We were a gang of cousins, close in age and rambunctious (as children can be) so whenever she had enough of us, she'd stick us with her omnipresent sewing needle (she was always sewing something) and that slowed us down good. Her nickname became 'Pinch Grandma' because of that.

She was also fiercely independent, extremely old-school Italian, never liked it here in 'Amer-i-cah' and refused to ever learn English even though she lived to the ripe old age of 88. But BOY, did she know how to get around both New York City AND upstate New York, where she had 'paisans.'

One time, Grandpa bought a radio for the whole family to enjoy. She was absolutely livid with her son for "wasting money" and took off for an entire week, never letting anyone know where she was until she decided to return from Syracuse, NY!

She was also very mysterious. I have researched the Ellis Island records top to bottom, inside out, multiple times and I cannot find a trace of her or her son (still a boy at the time) who arrived here around 1900. When I checked the 1930 census, every single member of the family was listed EXCEPT you-know-who. I guess she just didn't trust the government knowing anything that was 'none of their beeza-neese.'

She outlived both her son and daughter-in-law, and passed away in 1958.

As John LaRose said, I'm sure, wherever she may be, ain't nobody messing with this woman!

PICKING UP THE PIECES...

...and carrying on.

I had a heart once. A heart of such pure, unadulterated gold, it would have saved Neil Young an awful lot of time and trouble in his famous search.

But gold is a cold, hard metal. As is platinum. So I think any comparisons of my former heart would have to be made against the softest objects ~ objects that have the texture of marshmallows or pink summer clouds.

Now, this is not to say that I don't still have this very same heart. Oh no, it may have been shattered into millions of pieces over the course of one lifetime, but nobody escaped with even one shard of the heart they all helped to break. No souvenirs, not for the evil ones. Not for anyone, really. Not anymore. It's way too fragile and vulnerable to ever be exposed again to none but the most trusted (and tested) of people.

My former heart, tattered and in so many pieces, is now safely ensconced into the cocoon that has slowly, through the years, formed inside my chest, in the place where the heart is commonly thought to reside. Only I know its exact location for, if it is to survive, it must be resolutely protected until the body in which it lives departs for a better place, where we can both become whole again, without fear, without pain, without yet another soul-shattering, gut-wrenching betrayal of love and trust.

I feel kind of bad, even guilty, about the cocoon because it does not allow newcomers, or anyone really, to know the real me inside. That's the price one has to pay for finally putting your own self ahead of everybody else. Your own feelings, your own protective shell, that elusive thing that I could never quite find in this world, leaving me open and terribly vulnerable to the cruelties of both life and certain individuals who could not care less what terrible hurt they so cavalierly inflicted, or on whom.

But getting back to the cocoon, it's approximately the same size and thickness of a coconut shell, and twice, maybe three times as hard to crack. It also does not suffer fools gladly, allows no one two strikes, and has managed to protect its precious cargo as a tigress protects her own cubs.

Someone very dear to me actually used that as a comparison when our souls were still touching and entwined. "You remind me of a tigress, the most solitary creature in the world. Except when she has cubs. The she is also the most dangerous..."

I like that description; I like it a lot. Only someone who truly knows, and sees into the deepest parts of every secret of the soul ~ visible to his eyes only ~ would understand the crushing necessity of why a person sometimes has to be a solitary creature.

As for my heart and all those deep, cloven-hooved and hideous scars left behind by the countless stomping of different people's own peculiar black boots...some wounds have healed, soothing and reassuring to be sure, but still, so much damage can never completely heal. Thus, gently wrapped inside a pastel-colored blanket for safekeeping, all tucked safely within that coconut, lined with ultra-durable bubble wrap so not even the hardest blow can possibly hurt it again, in any way.

It is beyond reach...on bad days, it is also beyond my own reach, which is not good. But, again, that is the price one must pay for its safety. My heart and I have no options left. Neither one of us can allow another injury or we will both die. But maybe, just maybe, we will both wind up in a soft place of marshmallows and pink summer clouds.

Wouldn't that be the final and most perfect of poetic justice, though?

And on my tombstone would be:

HERE LIES PAULA

SHE HAD TO CROAK TO FINALLY BE HAPPY

Hahahahaaaa!!! Didn't end so badly now, did it?

With a nod and a wink! 

THE HORRORS OF COMMUNAL LAUNDRY ROOMS

That picture could have been used for an Alfred Hitchcock movie poster as far as I'm concerned. A horror movie. Because every single time I have to interact with the so-called human race, whether it's communal laundry rooms or 'beauty parlors,' I start feeling like I'm in the shower with Janet Leigh, heart pounding, ready to scream bloody murder.

I know my extreme distaste for laundromats is shared by many people, especially these skeevy days. I have one friend in Manhattan who brings a can of Lysol before he allows his clothing to even touch the inside of a cart, machine or dryer.

I line my own carts with plastic, never knowing if someone's brat in the building decided to 'ride' inside them with dirty shoes. UCK.

Growing up in the Bronx, 1950s, we all had our own washing machines, but no dryers. Outdoor clotheslines in the warm months, and indoor clotheslines for those winter days when your wet clothing froze into baccala if you hung them outside. And people also used the lines up on the roof (when we could still go up there.)

My mother was a genius at having as many lines as she could possibly fit...two from the kitchen window, and one from the bedroom extending all the way over to a sturdy post my father put on the fire escape. And then there was the back courtyard line, but she didn't like using that one, too dirty.

So I am still resentful about having to share a laundry room with people, most of whom talk too much about nothing and are more annoying than gnats on a hot sticky summer night.

As for 'beauty parlors'...my very first trip was to a neighborhood place called Chez Joey on East 187th Street, just steps away from Arthur Avenue. It was 1961, I was graduating Junior High School 45 and attending the prom, and a ridiculous hair style known as the 'artichoke' ruled the day. Because I was intensely shy and had zero self-confidence, I just allowed Joey to cut, style and spray my hair until it was harder than a soldier's helmet, in agony the entire time. I HATED it but bit the bullet, wore it to the prom, but could not WAIT to wash that crap out of my hair and do it the way I liked it.

Getting back to laundry circa 1950s, we also invented the very first version of the internet, and it was far more fun than the current one!

See what I mean??

THE MYSTERIOUS 11:11

Several years ago, I began to notice something happening that, at first, I attributed to mere coincidence. Then, after it happened far too many times to ignore, I researched the subject and found that an amazing phenomenon was taking place around the world.

Many many people in countries all over the globe began to report seeing 11:11 (or some variation thereof, ie, 1:11, 2:22, 4:11, etc.) when they happened to glance at a clock. They, too, refused to accept "coincidence" for this mysterious but intriguing anomaly.

My research, of course, brought up a host of spiritual reasons for it, including the fact that only 'certain' people were allowed to see it ~ why I do not know. But the very fact that I was chosen by the universe as one of its favored children renewed my hope and faith that, at long last, I had finally found the right path, after searching for it my entire life.

Some information suggested that seeing 11:11 meant angels were touching your shoulder to say that a blessing was coming your way, and that a prayer and wish for something be made every time one saw the mysterious numbers. And so I did, thanking the invisible angels with love each time.

For the past month, I've been struggling with a life dilemma...to leave the city in which I was born and raised (but always loathed) and begin life anew in another place, with a brand-new family. Not an easy choice to make in one's older years, but I have grown extremely weary of both hectic city life and the increasing loneliness of living alone.

Frank Sinatra once recorded an album of songs written by Rod McKuen. One of the songs, 'Some Traveling Music' included the following reflection...

"How can you say something new about being alone? Tell somebody you're a loner? Right away they think you're lonely. It's not the same thing, you know. It's not wanting to put all your marbles in one pocket. And it's caring enough not to care too much. Mostly, I guess, it's letting yourself come first for a while..."

Well, I've done that ~ let myself come first ~ for a very long while now, and I think it's time to move on.

As I was agonizing over making the final decision this morning, I walked into my bedroom, my mind preoccupied with a thousand thoughts. I just happened to glance at the clock and froze. 11:11.  

The angels have given me their blessing, and I look forward to sharing a real home, not an egg crate apartment, with a real family of friends who love and care about each other and have accepted me as not only their friend and roommate, but house mother as well!

One final picture. (I'm heading west.)

"ABOUT MY 40 ACRES AND MY MULE..."

Oscar Brown, Jr. had it right when he wrote and recorded that song live (1964's "Mr. Oscar Brown Jr. Goes To Washington.")

Scathingly sarcastic, speaking for a "man on his street" and his ancestors, he tallied up the labor, years and interest on that most egregious of broken promises, and figured to hell with the land and the mule, he'd take the money. 

To wit:

"...now ain't no tellin' how much work was done by my ancestors under slavery's rule. But sure as hell, the total's got to come to at least 40 acres and a mule! Now I'm not saying this to see folks sweat, because I'm not bitter, neither am I cruel...but ain't nobody paid for slavery yet...about my acres and my mule ... 'course, interest's gotta go on, just like rent ~ I may be crazy but I ain't no fool...one hundred years of debt at 10% per year, per 40 acres and per mule! WHOOOWEE, look at that! No wonder y'all call Great Grandma a jewel! Just pay me that and call the whole thing square. Lordy, 40 acres and a mule!"

Just IMAGINE how different things could have been had that simple promise been kept. Instead, President Lincoln was assassinated, all his plans thrown out the window, freed slaves just cast aside to fend for themselves in a hostile environment, and nobody had the integrity (or courage) to carry out what would have been an excellent plan for the freed slaves: each family would receive 40 acres and a mule to give them a fair start. 

Since most were deliberately kept illiterate by their former owners, the only real work they knew, and could excel at, was working the land and farming. A small colony of freed slaves was, indeed, formed and thriving on the outer banks of the Carolinas until the bastards of American government allowed the former owners (and confederate rebels/traitors) to "reclaim their land" and chase them out at gunpoint. 

That single act of betrayal ~ a broken promise ~ to a people who were trapped in their native land and brought here shackled in filthy ships, to be treated like nothing more than livestock, is a stain on American history that will never go away.

Now, let us play make-believe and pretend that President Andrew Johnson (Lincoln's successor, and the most hated man in Washington DC, for good reason) did keep the broken promise, allowing these people to make their own way, with a little help from a government that wronged them so horrifically? Do you see what I see? Wow, beautiful farms, lovingly tended by decent, hard-working families and not very much 'black crime' at all...because they got a fair deal and were able to make it own their own.

How the hell can anyone know this history and not see the WHOLE picture??

And speaking of farming, America is now reaping what was sown well over a century ago. How different it could have been if a simple promise was kept, and basic human decency prevailed.

PRICE GOUGING: IT'S THE AMERICAN WAY!

I recently bought store-brand peroxide at my local pharmacy. The bottle has not only been downsized to half its former size, but the price has been upsized. What used to cost 99 cents is now $2.79. And, cynical me, I immediately knew why.

It seems regular old hydrogen peroxide has been discovered as the new wiz kid for household cleaning ~ household tips galore, and now Lysol is utilizing it in its products, so of course, the price shoots up astronomically. That is price gouging, pure and simple. And greed. And, pardon my salty tongue, bullshit too.

Great for the stockholders, but yet another nail in the coffin of 'regular' Americans, most of whom are already struggling to get by. Way to go, capitali$m! Screw the people, just grab whatever you can to fatten your already-fat coffers. I guess we weren't far off when we called you "capitalist pigs" back in the Sixties, were we?

When I saw 'Wall Street' and heard Michael Douglas give his "greed is good" speech, I literally hated his guts (that's how good an actor he is) until he redeemed himself with 'Falling Down.' (Now who can't identify with that movie, especially these disgustingly avaricious days?)

And greed is part and parcel of the nefarious "new" America, the seeds for it planted by Ronald Reagan who conned-forced us into thinking that his "trickle-down" theory would work, that giving corporations free reign would allow their employees to share in the profits. Really? All it did was make corporations even more greedy than they were before, giving them permission to run amok, rewarding their own with billion-dollar CEO deals, and who cares about the employees?

I have no clue as to why so many Americans 'revere' Ronald Reagan; he was a horrible president who, along with Miss Wide-Eyes Nancy, ushered in the selfish 'Me Decade' and virtually destroyed the middle class. But that's how stupid Americans can be ~ they're so easily charmed by snakes, they can't see the forest for the trees. And please don't give me that bullshit about the Berlin Wall...the people  would have torn it down, whether he said something or not. Reagan should have stuck with his B-grade movies, and never been elected to anything more than Mayor of Dogpatch, USA.

The only "ism" that seems to be working almost flawlessly in today's world is (OMG, she's going to say the S-word) socialism. America has lost its way and can no longer be viewed as the "Land of Opportunity"...unless, of course, you're a corporation.

As for corporations upsizing their prices? UP YOURS, WITH CAT CLAWS.

NIK WALLENDA...ARE YOU INSANE??

Uh...I don't really think I need that sign when it comes to 'crossing' over anything connected to the Grand Canyon! I get vertigo just crossing a street (that's a big jump from the curb down) so the mere thought of what Nik Wallenda is, at this very moment, attempting to do has me at a complete and total loss for words.

First of all, we have laws in this country mandating the wearing of seat belts when driving, helmets when riding a bicycle, the installation of safety baby seats in cars, ad infinitum...but it's okay to cross the Grand Canyon on a wire, with no safety net or other safety precautions at all? Sounds nuts to me.

I don't know...is there a certain gene that causes people like the Wallendas, Evel Knievel, and all the maniacs who think breaking bones, risking their lives, walking around active volcanoes or climbing Mount Everest is some kind of grand achievement? Is it for the thrill alone? What's so thrilling about possibly falling into a churning vat of volcanic lava or freezing your ass off so high up, you can't breathe without oxygen? I don't get it.

Even if Mr. Wallenda signed off as to any responsibility should he, heaven forbid, not make it all the way across, WHY would anyone in their right mind even want to do something like this? Of course, the very first reason is fame and fortune. And, in Mr. Wallenda's case, this kind of daredevil behavior has been his family's claim to fame that goes back (I've read) to the 1700s, so I guess he's just keeping family tradition alive.

Unless he winds up at the bottom of the Grand Canyon: SPLAT! 

In which case, he might land even further down, at the bottom of Alice's Rabbit Hole, which is exactly what this latest stunt feels like.

"But we're ALL mad here..."

Sure seems that way.