Category Archives: writing

Joker, part 3: Making an Angry White Male Everyone Can Love

For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught To say the things he truly feels And not the words of one who kneels The record shows I took the blows And did it my way
For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows
I took the blows
And did it my way.
-Paul Anka, Frank Sinatra

Joker, Part 1

Joker, Part 2

We only miss something when it’s gone. But now the end is near for my three-part series on Joker. We’ve viewed this film through many lenses. What else lurks in the crushing, taut, shocking, and riotous abandon of this film?

By the end of Todd Phillips’ Joker (2019), the entire city is on fire, and anyone with a credit card is fair game for a mob of clowns. With a little help from an angry white man. Can you think of a better metaphor for our current dumpster-fire “society?”

Shootings by white males is a part of our society now. And Joker had to address that. We all remember the Aurora theater shooting during a showing of Christopher Nolan’s 2008 Dark Knight, with Heath Ledger as Joker. Ledger had recently committed suicide, and there were rumors that the shooter was dressed as the Joker.

Christopher Reeves will always be Superman. But Joker changes with the times. He can be Jack Nicholson or Mark Hamill. The Joker has to stand in relation to the culture he inhabits.

The power of Joaquin Phoenix’s Oscar-winning toure de force deserves a lot of credit. But he doesn’t bear all the load. How does this film with an angry, white male lead make a Joker that works for our current culture?

First, down play his whiteness: give him zero sense of privilege to show his feelings and use the white clown-face as an anonymous symbol. Make him completely alone, poor, mentally ill, beat up, abused, betrayed, and a bit too old: everything no one wants to be. You can also surround him with black women who at least tolerate him. Make him apolitical. And then question his masculinity. Bam! 👊🏼

Look around at the faces in this movie. Who is his therapist? His psychiatrist? Who decides he’s not a threat to her kid after reading Art’s card when he breaks into laughter on the train? Who is his imaginary girlfriend? Who does he dream laughs at his jokes when he does open mic? In whose eyes does he search for recognition? A black woman’s, in the form of his neighbor Sophie (Zazie Beetz). Ah. The elusive black female vote.

Now let’s look at the white males in this film. There is his co-worker Randall (Glenn Fleschler channeling Pete Boyle), who’s fond of making fun of Gary (Leigh Gill), the little person they work with. Randall had pushed a hot gun on Art as a “favor.” Midst owning “If You’re Happy and You Know It” in a hit performance to a children’s cancer ward, Arthur drops the gun. Randall tells their boss that Art had asked him about buying a gun. Betrayed, Art lies that the gun was a part of his act. There goes Art’s job.

On the train home in full clown, Art’s laughter boils up over three finance bros rapey treatment of a young woman. She leaves. But, unable to find his card, he becomes the immediate target of these blue-balled, drunken jerks’ ruffled sense of privilege. They rush him. He tries to fight back, but one punch and he’s down. Then a bullet hole explodes through one of the bros’ chest, and we see Arthur, gun in his left hand. He shoots the second of group down. Then wounds the last whom he pursues on the train and onto the platform where Art is at home, and his fleet feet soon bring him into range of his victim.

After this first burst of violence, Art runs to a public restroom. Echoing Buffalo Bill’s famous dungeon dance in Silence of the Lambs (1991, Jonathan Demme), his arms begin moving as on invisible strings, his dancer’s feet begin a graceful step. He curls into his body then pushes out in a ballet that ends with him standing, arms wide, head high, viewing himself in the mirror, at last, as Joker.

The only white woman in the film is his dreadful Mom, Penny Fleck (Frances Conroy). She tells him, “I thought you had to be funny be a comedian,” when he discusses his dreams. And persists in calling a grown man “Happy.” When he finally learns that she writes to Thomas Wayne constantly for help for “their son” who is a “sad boy,” he searches deeper. Did Wayne force her to sign fake adoption papers? Is Wayne really his Dad? He finally discovers she had been a patient at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, a record search reveals that he was neglected by his mother, who let her boyfriend abuse him to the point of brain damage and left him tied to a radiator. He decides she needs to learn about the thin and twisted line between “mother” and “smother.” With a pillow over her face.

And what about Dad/Thomas Wayne (puffed up with rich, male outrage by Brett Cullen)? Wayne appears on TV, reveals that the train bros worked for him, calling them “family.” But the report of a clown shooting down Beavis, Butthead, and Eric on the subway has already captured the minds of the mad as hell citizens of Gotham.

Wayne pours oil on the fire by declaring, as only rich white men can, “What kind of coward would do something that cold blooded? Someone who hides behind a mask. [Like Bruce Wayne/Batman?] Someone who is envious of those more fortunate than themselves, yet they’re too scared to show their own face. And until those kinds of people change for the better, those of us who made something of our lives will always look at those who haven’t as nothing but clowns.”

Soon everyone but Arthur is wearing a clown mask, and protesters hold signs like “WE ARE ALL CLOWNS!” “WAYNE IS NOT GOTHAM!” and, my fave, “KILL THE RICH!” Arthur walks through the crowds, beaming. Amazed at what he has caused. He ducks into an exclusive, black tie, screening of Charlie Chaplin dancing on roller skates in Modern Times (1936) because these people are unselfaware and awful.

Disguised as an usher, Art smiles at the screen in joy for a moment. Then, spotting Thomas Wayne, he follows him to the men’s room. Arthur introduces himself to Wayne, addressing him as “Dad.” But Wayne pulls no punches, calling Penny Fleck an “insane woman,” and then punches Art in the face. So much for paternalism.

Now completely alone, but still tuning into Murray Franklin’s (Robert DiNero) late-night show. “Check out this joker,” Murray quips in his monologue. He plays a painful clip of Arthur’s open mic performance. The light seems sucked from Art’s eyes. His dream came true. Murray acknowledged him, but played him for a clown and a joker. More betrayal! Like Smeagol and Gollum. Art is gone, only Joker remains.

Art’s also got some negative attention from a detective duo now. After climbing into his refrigerator doesn’t work out, Art picks up the phone. This time it’s a booker for the Murray Franklin show. So he books for Thursday, and prepares. And the gun will be part of his act.

On the big day, while a mass clown protest is taking place downtown, our boy puts on the flourishing touches. Stabs Randall, who came by to get their “stories straight” about the gun. But Art opens the door for Gary, who can’t reach the latch, to escape. Kissing his head he whispers “You were always nice to me.”

Cue the Gary Glitter! Yeah, he was a pedo, but there’s a reason why every stadium used to play “Rock and Roll Part 2.” After tracking his swaggering catwalk to the elevator, Art turns to camera, green slicked hair, full makeup. Dressed in the dark reds, sickly yellows and teals of his world. And Joker is cool! And kinda sexy. Now out and rocking, he thrusts, jumps, twists, turns and shakes his way down that damn staircase. Until the detectives spot him.

After a mini French Connection chase, with his speed, Art’s reaches the train. Where everyone is dressed like a clown. Finally, his essential anonymity, ability to navigate tight spaces, and years spent on that train become superpowers. He disappears in the crowded car, pulls a classic fight starting fake out. And a cop shoots the man Art set up.

Pure rage spills out of the train. A crowd of clowns pile on the cops, kicking and punching. Joker dances a happy little Vaudeville jig as he passes with a light-hearted wave.

Now, all that remains for Arthur is Murray. Art didn’t conjure the increasingly violent mob outside. They projected what they wanted on him. The man with nothing to lose, this nobody, symbolizes everybody, and the anonymity, freedom. For Art, this is his chance to be seen, and to set the record straight at last. As he told his therapist, “For my whole life, I didn’t know if I even really existed. But I do, and people are starting to notice.”

But I promised we’d talk about gender and masculinity. There is a man not in the film but is magically everywhere. Frank Sinatra. Several of his famous, Capitol and Nelson Riddle recordings, and the later Stephen Sondheim hit “Send in the Clowns,” play a big league role in Joker.

Frank Sinatra said he founded his singing style on the tragic black female jazz icon Billie Holiday. Billie Holiday was a torch singer. Perhaps the first to become famous to white audiences. She sang about heart ache, loving someone who doesn’t love you, loneliness, being left by your lover. And so does Frank.

When Sinatra began, he was young and pretty. Big hair, big blue eyes. He was the first Beatle or Presley. I have from first hand that the guys back in the day all called him what? Gay. But as he grew physically, through his film work, learning his developing voice, taking charge of who he worked with, while encouraging the idea that he was mobbed up, Sinatra earned a manhood pass for singing torch songs and playing a tap dancing sailor.

Frank Sinatra: the first of the famous, international playboys of 20th Century Pop. And that includes Pavarotti. But, while both men maintained their compassionate side, in other ways they acted like pigs. Which made it OK for a mobster to cry to “Vesti la Giubba” or “It Was a Very Good Year.”

But, while the film gives Art a case of the not-gays in his delusional relationship with his neighbor, Joker is noticeably more effeminate. He coyly asks Murray to introduce him as “Joker” because that’s how the late-show host introduced his video clip. He twists and grins, batting his white eyelashes.

Thin and lithe, he twirls his way onstage, flicking a cigarette butt, and taking a long time to kiss the Not-Dr. Ruth guest. Settling himself, he stares for a moment before commenting that this was how he always pictured being on Murray’s show.

Going full Blanche DuBois in mannerism and lilt, while maintaining that inscrutable face beneath the makeup, Art works his way round to his point. Joking about a mother losing her son to a car accident. Reprimanding the crowd for deciding what’s right and wrong, funny and not.

He confesses to the subway murders, launching into a manifesto. Claiming that Thomas Wayne’s “crying over” these guys on TV was the only reason anyone cared about them. He insists that if he were dying on the street, people would step over him, though he’s just like them. Like any other person you see everyday in the city. Everybody and nobody.

He shreds the notion that he killed out of any political motive. Announcing, “I killed those guys because they were awful. Everybody is awful these days. It’s enough to make anyone crazy.” Adding, “and they couldn’t carry a tune.”

Turning on Murray, he lashes out, “Have you seen what it’s like out there, Murray? . . . Everybody just yells and screams at each other. Nobody’s civil anymore. Nobody thinks what it’s like to be the other guy. [Facebook?] You think men like Thomas Wayne ever think what it’s like to be someone like me? To be somebody but themselves? They don’t. They think that we’ll just sit there and take it, like good little boys! That we won’t werewolf and go wild!”

As Murray struggles to regain control, Art plunges forward, insisting Murray is awful because he only invited him on the show “to make fun of me.” Snarling, “You’re just like the rest of them.”

Drawing himself in like a cat, he unloads over Murray’s attempts to shut him down, “What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner…with a society that abandons him and treats him like trash?…I’ll tell you what you get! You get what you fucking deserve!”

A gunshot. Murray is slumped back in his seat, bullet through his head. Arthur, still holding the gun, blinks, looks confused, then skips away.

As he rides in the back of a police car, his makeup a mess, Art stares out the window at the looting, fires, and violence with an awed smile.

The car passes a theater where Thomas Wayne, his wife, and son — and future Batman — Bruce hurry from a theater showing Zorro The Gay Blade (1981, Sam Medak). A man in a clown mask corners them, shoots Wayne and his wife, tearing off her pearls, while young Bruce stands in shock, blood splashed on his face.

Headless of what happened to the Wayne family, the cop driving the car shouts to Art, “The whole city’s on fire ’cause of what you did.”

Art smiles, dancing flames reflected in his eyes, “I know. Isn’t it beautiful?” Recognition at last.

But life has one more surprise for Arthur. A hijacked ambulance slams into the cop car. Anonymous clowns gather around the wreck. Seeing Art, they reach down, pull him from the car, and place him on its hood. Bleeding and dazed, Art recovers consciousness. Touching his fingers to the blood, he pauses, then paints himself a wide grin with his own blood. He stands and bows to cheers. Someone did pick him off the street as he was dying after all.

He can now rely upon the kindness of strangers.

Joker sucked the charged out the story of a character that has always represented white, male violence and insanity by making Arthur both everyone and no one. His makeup became a symbol. His anonymity a super power. A nobody becomes a somebody, and gets some kick ass revenge. I can’t imagine a more satisfying story. It worked for Luke Skywalker.

And thanks to the combined insanity, creativity, meticulous craftsmanship, performances, etc of Joker, we get a cautionary tale for our own world. A tale of the failures of run-away capitalism, toxic masculinity, racial and class divides, and the dangers of ignoring the weakest and most desperate among us. Ultimately Joker makes a plea for civility, kindness, understanding, and tolerance.

What did you think? How about the final scenes? How much of the movie, if not all, took place in Arthur Fleck’s damaged mind? And, does it ultimately matter?

Let’s celebrate the end of my tenure in clown town. Come on, grab a Rock ‘n Rye, and sing like it’s 2 am, and you’re the last guy on the karaoke machine at the Triangle Tavern on 9th and Passyunk.

Yes. This was my way.

-JL ✌🏻💚🤡

While you’re here: check out the wonderful work done by the people at The National Alliance on Mental Illness and donate.

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Joker, part 2: Boot-straps, Double-standards & Catch-22

If you missed Part 1 of my Joker series, hace clíc aquí

The 14th Earl of Gurney — Peter O’ Toole in Sam Medak’s savage 1974, The Ruling Class — declares “Behaviour which would be considered insanity in a tradesman is looked upon as mild eccentricity in a lord.” If you’re rich, you’re eccentric. If you’re poor, you’re crazy.

And as Joker (2019, dir. Todd Phillips) waltzes its way to the Oscars with three new BAFTAs, the film is getting a second, and deeper, look from everyone from psychoanalysts, to disability rights groups, critics, fans and movie goers. I can’t imagine a better time for it. Because, for better or worse, Joker has captured the imagination and feeling of this moment, the uncertainty, the fear, resentment, and anger all around.

So, Batman doesn’t have super powers. Or so I’ve been told. Batman/Bruce Wayne has the most super power that exists. He’s rich. Not simply rich, he was born ridiculously wealthy. Living off the fortune amassed by his father, the vaunted Thomas Wayne, respected citizen and weapons developer. He simply has an “eccentric” way of using his wealth. And while Joker dances around its comic book origins, the film definitely wants you to think about this. Going so far as to have Thomas Wayne declare on TV that anyone who reacts to the evil in their world similarly is “a coward in a mask.” Or clown makeup.

So, what’s Arthur Fleck’s (Joaquin Phoenix) super power? Or, more bluntly, is the only difference between Bruce Wayne and Arthur Fleck that one was born to be rich and privileged, while the other was not? One is “eccentric?” And the other is “crazy?” One nobody. One somebody. Somebody who has somehow earned some leeway? And a nobody expected to just shut up and tow the line?

Art doesn’t know much about himself. When his therapist asks him if he’s thought more about why he was hospitalized, we see a quick cut to him banging his head against a window in a white padded room. He answers, “Who knows?”

Arthur pursues the truth of his life and who he is because he hopes to be set free, but the truth has consequences. Oedipus was blinded by the truth. Arthur turns on the truth in rage. Oedipus was a king, like Bruce Wayne is the privileged son of a wealthy father. Arthur is a nobody who, he learns to the say as Joker, “If you saw me dying on the streets you’d walk right over me!” Arthur doesn’t know he has a to right to feel upset, or angry, or fooled, fall in love, be loved, even have one positive thought about himself or his life ever. He is the ultimate expression of what it means to be abused. And the different standards applied to different sets of human beings.

So let’s talk about double-standards. Let’s talk about pity, compliance, mental illness, and folks living on the edge of humanity. One of the “sins” those who live with mental illness stand accused of is “self-pity.” The same for the poor, the disenfranchised, and the left behind. Everyone and their mother can go on Facebook or Yelp! or Google and get a waitress fired over putting ice in their drink, and never have to face the woman who lost her job. But try fighting unfair, illegal, or abusive treatment at a mental health clinic, by the Department of Human Services, the police, the “justice” system, your school, your work, your family. You might get some tear drop emojis if you’re lucky. But hell no. No one wants to hear or think about that! Put them off the lunch they just posted a picture of.

“If you quit feeling sorry for yourself, and [get a job, work harder, get two jobs, and some boots with straps] then maybe [your concerns will be legitimate].” This society loves its bootstraps. Off course, the original phrase — “to pull yourself over a fence by pulling up on your bootstraps,” — meant something absurd or ridiculous. If you pulled up on your own hair, would you raise yourself off the ground? No. And you need boots (with straps) to pull on in the first place.

Which leads me to “compliance.” Compliance deals with the insistence in mental health treatment, the justice system, and folks who require any sort of assistance, to trust fully in their “betters” and jump through all of their hoops without complaint, simply to keep basic necessities. What if they want you to go “volunteer” to community service 3 times a week? Well, what if you don’t have a car, or bus service, or can’t afford an Uber? Too bad. Guess you’re walking five miles to the bus station. I don’t have bus fare. Well you don’t get your 194$ a month to buy food with. Do you think you’re crazy? Well, then you’re sane enough to fly a plane.

A therapist once told me, “Depression is anger turned at yourself.” When we meet Arthur, he’s so compliant. He has a job. He takes care of his Mom and humors her Thomas Wayne fixation. He makes his appointments. He takes his meds. He walks like “a compliant individual.” Do you know what that looks like? It looks like a person hand-cuffed to the front. Their shoulders pulled forward with no ability to stand erect like a human being. The only sense we have of what Art’s been shoving down all his life is that tortured laugh that erupts from him without his control. And the occasional lights in his eyes, like if a shark had a glint in those black, “doll’s eyes.”

The system lets Art down. In his second visit to his therapist. He finally vents about how bad his life and world truly are. She tells him that social services for his program have been cut. Getting real, she confesses, “They don’t give a shit about people like you, Arthur. And they really don’t give a shit about people like me either.” She’s out a job, he’s out a therapist and his meds, and everyone is shit out of luck. Except the Thomas Waynes, of course.

The two social supports Art is left with are his job, and his Mom, but he does have one thing he didn’t have before.

The gun his co-worker Randall told him he “could owe [him]” for. And like the Wizard of Oz’s “gifts,” the gun allows him to access the angry part of his personality that he always had with him. A sensitive, lonely, vulnerable man, unable to articulate his feelings, now finally has the one thing that our society values. The ability to be an aggressive male. Because real men don’t get sad, or feel lonely, or unloved and unloveable. Real men only express one emotion: anger. And Art is a volcano of anger.

Another repressed emotion now pops into Art’s life, now that he’s packing his new manhood. Art lurches up those weary stairs to his apartment, and is getting on the elevator. A female voice calls to him, “Hold the door. Please!” As the door closes, all we see is one, gracefully extended, shiny, black male dance shoe under short trousers a la Gene Kelly. Wait. Did Art just do something mildly attractive? Oh god, look at his face, no.

Art’s intro to his sexy but so over it, single-mom neighbor, Sophie (Zazie Beetz — who deserves way more recognition for this role), consists solely of her commenting on how “awful” the building is, as her daughter repeats “awful!” tugging at her mom’s coat. Rolling her eyes at Arthur, Sophie puts her fingers to her head, like a gun, and pulls the trigger. Exhaling “pshew.” Arthur tries to look down at his hands, folded in front of him, “compliant,” covering himself like Adam. But before they part, he summons the courage to turn and say “Hey!” He mimes shooting himself in the head. She twitches a smile.

Art is now alone, fidgeting with his gun. His fires his first shot, while pretending to dance with a woman, declaring himself, “a better dancer than him.” He aims at a horrendously racist Fred Astaire movie playing on the TV. The gun goes off, the bullet tears the wallpaper, and Arthur is brought back to real life, as his Mom shouts from her bedroom to keep it down. “Sorry, Mom!” He hollers in a panic.

But where before Arthur was a passive participant in his life, he has taken his first real steps towards self-discovery, and all that means. Now he’s actively taking notes at a comedy club. And while he makes observations like “slick hair???” “eye contact,” and “sexy jokes alwaze funny.” When the comedian makes a joke about not being hired for being a Jew, Arthur looks around at the room before he fakes a laugh. Some part in him knows that Fred Astaire’s white-washing of black culture is awful. That being poor is awful. That not being able to get a job because you’re Jewish is awful. He’s finally realized that all those feelings he stuffed down were correct. Awful.

Arthur looks over his notes at home. “Make funny observations.” He begins a sentence, writing, “The worst part of having a mental illness is,” dropping his pen from his right hand. Picking up a cigarette, he inhales in thought. And, as if pulled like a puppet on strings, his left had drifts to the pen. He takes up the pen with a flourish, and in childish, left-handed writing, scrawls, “people expect you to behave as if you D🙂N’T.”

And Joker is born. A man losing what little he had. Replaced by a persona made of his greatest hopes and fears. A man who has finally found a means of getting attention. And a symbol that others can follow. A man whose life suddenly means something. For better or worse? I don’t know. How many innocent people do you think were killed in Avengers? Or the new Superman films? What about all of those Storm Troopers Finn guns down? Isn’t he a former Storm Trooper? Didn’t he just meet a group of fellow, former Storm Troopers? But violence against nobodies doesn’t count.

What you need to do is shoot three rapey-dudes who tried to beat you up, but also worked for Thomas Wayne. It’s like he shot some other finance bros with high foreheads and slicked back hair. And suddenly, the town is on fire, and soon enough, literally. Everyone knows those guys are awful. And they don’t really care that they were subjected to the sort of thing they face every damn day. As a matter of fact, good. Why can’t bad things happen to bad people once in a while?

That is the main violence committed by Joker in the film. The question on everyone’s mind isn’t if the murders were justified. But how it is interpreted by the media. The important, and the unimportant folks reaction in the city. What does this killing touch off that turns a city against itself in a French/Russian Revolutionary frenzy? And what about Bruce Wayne? Where is he? How does he receive his “super power?” Why’s his daddy complex better than another’s?

Tune in next time to find out! Seriously, I just have too much to say on this film. So, since the film comes in such a neat and trim, perfect 2 hour, 3 Act format, we can all re-watch and learn more together. I’ve brought us to the beginning of the end. We’re well into “the point of no return” for Arthur Fleck and for this wonderful flick, Joker. We’ll wrap it up after the Oscars. And see what the Academy thought.

In the meantime, let’s remember what Sinatra sang on the subject:

That’s life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks
Stompin’ on a dream
But I don’t let it, let it get me down
‘Cause this fine old world it keeps spinnin’ around.

I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate
A poet, a pawn and a king
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing
Each time I find myself flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race!

That’s life, I tell ya, I can’t deny it
I thought of quitting, baby
But my heart just ain’t gonna buy it
And if I didn’t think it was worth one single try
I’d jump right on a big bird and then I’d fly!

– JL 👉🏼🤡

While you’re here: check out the wonderful work done by the people at The National Alliance on Mental Illness and donate.

Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff!

Got a COMMENT? Click below! I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, TAP the Star LIKE button below! LIKE and SHARE on Facebook. Follow and share on Twitter.


Hitler Hates Being Compared to Trump: Top Ten Other Bad Guys to Use Instead of Hitler

People often ask why I keep re-reading William L. Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. While others ask, “What good is a BFA in Film?” Well, here’s all your questions answered. I’ve had this footage from the film Downfall for a bit. I am not attempting to glorify Adolf Hitler. But instead to insist that calling everyone Hitler cheapens the evil this man wrought.

Both monstrous human beings and products of our imagination lie scattered throughout our species’ dodgy history to choose from when insulting Donald Trump, Bill Barr, random folks online, or your parents and Chemistry teachers. I recommend that all my friends take the time to look into my list of ten other really awful folks and characters you may consider using next time you feel that urge to toss a “Yes, mien Fuehrer,” at whoever mildly annoys you. “Heavy words are so lightly thrown.”

  1. Darth Vader: He wanted to rule the Galaxy, but was just a wormy dude in a mask. Death bed confession aside, I find Vader a go to for lawful evil, and imperialist intentions. Although I really sweat that Force Choke power. He is the ultimate embodiment of the man who has accepted his mask (persona) and role as a cog in the machine of evil that he himself has become, in the words of Obi-wan Kenobi, “more machine now than man.” He did kill the Emperor, until JJ Abrams resurrected him because JJ.
  2. JJ Abrams: Unquestionably awesome for his ability to establish both the main characters, themes, and mystery of “The Island” in the two-part “Pilot” of the series Lost. And in The Force Awakens. He has sinned against all Star Trek fans, recasting Kirk as an ne’er do well who somehow gains control of the Starfleet flagship Enterprise, destroying the Id, Ego, Super Ego relationship between Bones, Kirk, and Spock, and forcing Trek fans to accept action and special effects over the Trek brand of intelligent speculative fiction that reflects on modern issues. Good God man! It’s Trek not Star Wars! He is also the man known for complicated alternate timelines, disappointing endings, and Spock shouting “Khaaaaan!”
  3. Julius Caesar: He waged a savage campaign against the people of Gaul. And, while we all love his pithy, intelligent wit, and obvious charisma. He was a mass-murderer who waged illegal wars full of appalling inhumanity. He needed to stay in power to avoid prosecution for his many crimes. Instead he was stabbed by his “friends” at the feet of the statue of his old frenemy, Pompey Magnus.
  4. Brutus: The betrayer! The friend and “son he never had…or did he?” that literally stabbed Julius Caesar in the back. Brutus was looking to protect the rich Senatorial class, not the freedom of the Roman Republic or its citizens. His actions led to a vicious 10 year civil war that ended the Republic and ushered in the age of the Emperors.
  5. Napoleon: Don’t give this Corsican the, uh, short shrift! This former nobody rose through the ranks of the new French Republican Army, and then destroyed the Republic he fought for by naming, and crowning, himself Emperor. His successful quest for a way to preserve food aside, this guy began as a liberator, but ended up a conqueror and died alone on a rock.
  6. Al Capone: This repulsive individual wrote the book on organized crime. He ruled Chicago through terror, while little caring whether the booze he peddled made his desperately dry customers blind or dead. His code of Omerta (Silence), and demands for absolute loyalty from his “soldiers,” complete disregard for human life, money grubbing, and addiction to his own press lead to his ultimate downfall for, wait for it, tax evasion! And every Italian-American since has had to live under the shadow of this creep. Thankfully, he died a slow and horrible death due to syphilis!
  7. Pontius Pilate: Roman governor of Judea, played by David Bowie and Michael Palin equally well. His infamous “washing of his hands” of any involvement in the fate of Jesus of Nazareth, ranks him as the very first Quisling, and epitomizes the “eh, whatever” attitude of those who can’t be bothered to care.
  8. Vidkun Quisling: This Norwegian army officer’s name has become synonymous with “collaborator” and “traitor.” Nominally head of the Norwegian government during WWII, this particular jag-off was a Nazi plant and stooge, who helped jack boot out the legitimate government of Norway, and sold the nation and its people down the river to his Nazi overlords in Germany.
  9. Ahab: The first PTSD sufferer in literature. An undeniably great yet tragic man, who, unlike MacBeth or Oedipus, does not suffer from an inborn flaw, but instead suffers the results of a trauma. This fictional captain commanded the whaling ship Pequod. With a crew comprised of all faiths and races of Earth, he manages to unite the souls in his charge in his deadly personal quest for vengeance against a silent, monolithic beast of the unknown watery realms. Sending all, save one, to their death in his rage against what he perceives as the silence of an uncaring God.
  10. Jaws: The greatest terrorist. Yo. Jaws don’t give a fuck. Pretty young girl, a Chocolate Lab, kid on a raft, your wife’s holiday roast, awesome hung-over Irish actor? Jaws don’t give a fuck. Jaws is senseless evil. He embodies the power of nature and our animal impulses unleashed. He comes from the alien world beneath the water, the monster from the deep. The monster deep within ourselves, who will wreak havoc on human life if left unchecked. It takes Chief Brody — Ego — and Richard Dreyfuss — Super-ego — and the raging Id of Captain Quint to slay the beast and restore order and health to life. Both ancient and eternal, we all fear Jaws because Jaws is the ultimate unknowable. Jaws reminds us that monster within is always just lurking beneath the surface.

So, that’s my list of suggestions of other horribles, deplorables, and monsters to cite instead of Hitler. Let me know what you think of the video and my list! What would your list be? Tell me who or what nightmare fuel you’d add or remove in the comments below. And, remember, humanity has a deep bullpen when it comes to evil, both past and present. Heck, I didn’t even mention Stalin!

*First one to find the Easter Eggs in the video wins.

#neverforget

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Mental Health Issues? Check Your Rights Here

“And then they came for me.”

In my kindergarten, all girls came to school dressed up like JonBenet Ramsey. Curled hair, starched stiff dresses, crinoline underskirts. And then there was me in corduroys, Ernie shirt, pigtails. I sat at a table for six with two other kids: a shy girl, and a boy also rocking an Ernie shirt. Every day teacher would pick the best behaved table. Fancy doll girls again! And they got the fancy lollipops from The Happy Hippo!

One day my table was the best behaved. I was so excited! Fancy lollipop time! Teacher came over to the table and handed each of us…a sticker? What was this injustice! I went straight to the principal.

The young, bearded principal sat across his desk intently listening to my argument. It should be lollipops for all, or for none. One table out of ten consistently get fancy Happy Hippo lollipops, while my table receives stickers. The man showed respect for my speech for lollipop equity. And when I was finished, he told the teacher, lollipops for all or none. Victory!

I went on to become a pain the ass to teachers who wanted to teach Creationism or enforce prayer in school. To skinheads in Oxbloods and red laces.

My parents called me Ralph Nader, but they spoke politics at the table, and we all discussed the news, what we were learning in school, science, social issues. And my big mouth and soap box speeches were held up for discussion and debate with them.

I was raised a vocal, secular Democrat the way other people are raised Catholic. Obviously, my ideas, philosophy, sense of morality, ethics, and my political views have evolved. But I still am what my parents raised me to be. An intelligent woman with a mind of her own, who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. I’m proud of that.

And then November of 2016 came. The pussy grabber! Really? Electoral College steals the Presidency for the GOP again? I knew enough about Trump by the time I saw Home Alone 2 to cringe when he shows up. I learned “nouveau riche” because of him. And apparently he destroyed Atlantic City. He wasn’t popular in New Jersey, or in my house, ever. And he certainly was not welcome in my White House.

Yeah, mine, I’m part of the third person plural “we” as in The People, who supposedly run this joint. I was just shattered. Shocked. Terrified. Triggered. And positive this guy was an amoral, conman because that’s all he had ever been.

I know I’m not alone in this feeling that somehow we had fallen through a wormhole into The Twilight Zone. And the sheer rage I felt and feel, I know I share with millions of women. I’ve been in therapy for a long while for Depression, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, and PTSD. So, I turned to my therapist for help. And for the first time in my life, I heard “well, there’s nothing you can do to change it, so just ignore it.” Or some variation of that sentiment. Color, practice Mindfullness, but don’t you worry your widdle brain about it. I have mood disorders, there’s nothing wrong with my intellect. Talked to the shrink. Heard it again. This time it sounded like “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

I’ve switched therapists and psychiatrists since. I honestly feel that I need to talk about some of this stuff in therapy because I don’t want to be ranting about it all the time to random people. I don’t want to know who voted for who. I don’t want to know how often you give Confession or take Communion. I certainly don’t want to hear about the MAGA rally you went to over the weekend.

This isn’t Jersey, or Philly or even Lancaster. And as things got uglier, I became more afraid. I have family that still lives in the town named for my family and the university they endowed just across the bridge. But I guess I still smell of Jersey and Philly. And apparently being part Italian and raised in New Jersey is frickin hilarious to some.

So I bring these things up with my therapist. Heather Heyer’s murder. The Tiki-Torch mafia. Morons who hang a Confederate flag at the same height as the American, or who display it at all. But really, you do know that . . . nevermind. I’m hanging a Japanese Battle Flag. The MAGA bomber and MAGA shooters. Atatiana Jefferson’s murder in her own home! I mean forget all the illegal, corrupt gangsterism of this regime. There are kids sleeping on cage floors and drinking out of the toilet. Concentration camps.

Where is America? Where is the country that Hamilton glorified? That was blessed with prosperity and hope for a better, freer America under Obama? That glass ceiling not only didn’t break, it became opaque. With metal slats.

And then two weeks ago, I go in to see my therapist. It’s a Monday. My ride share bus is late. I’m waiting in pouring rain. But I get in on time, and take out my journal where I’d jotted down what I had wanted to speak about that session. And instead I spent an hour being brow-beaten by my therapist for not learning to be accepting of people who display that stupid flag of hate and treason. And suggesting that my belief in human rights and the basic freedoms and rights of every individual, Bill of Rights, women’s rights, etc is at odds with my taking of government money and services?!

I was thinking about the Social Contract, and Safety Net, and other basic FDR, LBJ type stuff, but I blurted out, “I’m a Democrat.” And this woman, my therapist, laughed at me. Laughed. Right in my face. And then added, “No kidding!”

My session was over then, and I mumbled something on my way out. Then I went and stood in the rain for an hour waiting for the shared ride service, and then in traffic for another 45 minutes. I did not know what to think or feel. I wanted to cry, and yet I was severely pissed. And I got screwed out of what I had hoped would be a session to help myself and Stan keep up on our own personal bits, our together bits, goals, short term and long. Stan and I had spent the summer working our butts off to restore sanity to our finances, and then begin to look at more improvements outside and inside the house.

And instead I got laughed at for being a Democrat, and encouraged to go hug a NAZI. To understand where they’re coming from. Because NAZIs spend so much time trying to understand others? She even drew a false equivalency between my horror at all of it, basically. And how Republicans were unhappy under Obama. Well, I don’t think Trump is from Kenya. And he certainly isn’t a secret anything because he’d have either Tweeted it, or had Rudy Giuliani go on TV and admit it. Heck, bring in Lester Holt and Trump will cop to it. That is not the same thing as Birtherism or accusing Hillary Clinton of running a child sex ring from a pizza shop.

And yet, there she was. My therapist. Telling me it is the same thing. That I shouldn’t worry because “I can’t control” the situation. Look, I have mental health issues, but my thinky bits are perfectly clear, and I have just as much right to reject this anathema to my soul that this Administration represents to all I care about as the whitest, WASP-iest, straightest, Christian male ever. I felt truly belittled. For my mood disorders. For my opinions and thoughts. For who I am in an essential, sine qua non, way. And the thing about being understanding of NAZIs. Yeah, no.

I have no idea what meeting with her next week will be like. And I’m still upset, depressed, angry. A friend suggested I look for a therapist at a Women’s Shelter. What will she do? Go tell me to track down my ex in the hopes that he’ll sock me one and steal my debit card? This must be the Twilight Zone.

Anyway, I’m a Democrat, by the way. My father was Italian and Greek, my Mom’s half Hungarian, and a bunch of German, English, Irish, Scots-Irish stuff. I grew up in New Jersey. Went to high school in Lancaster. College in Philly. Lived in Costa Rica for three years. I suffer from Anxiety, Depression, Panic Attacks, and PTSD, and last night I voted. See, I have control. I’m one of the people running this joint. I get to care, and I get a say. I get the fancy lollipop, because if folks like myself are denied their rights and dignity, then make no mistake. One day they’ll come for yours.

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Fifteen Pieces of Flair: How I learned to prefer not to care & feel OK

“I don’t need 32 pieces of flair to express myself!” declares Jennifer Aniston’s character in Office Space (1999, Mike Judge, dir.). As she proceeds to flip off her TGI-Fridays-ish manager who questions the lack of buttons, “flair,” her job requires her wear on her apron.

Her character is wearing the minimum amount of flair — fifteen — but not enough to express the enthusiasm her boss expects her to show for her shitty waitressing job. How much enthusiasm should you expect from this young woman with dreams and hopes, hopefully a personal life, and enough to trouble her without worrying about buying flair for work? One middle finger’s worth.

And that is what brings me to my Declaration of Independence from giving a flying flair for *gestures broadly*. There are obviously people and things I care about. But I needed a shorter list. Today I tell the tale of how I arrived at the momentous decision to go with minimum flair and prefer not to care.

I have not been able to publish any of the 12 plus blog posts I’ve written in recent months. I hadn’t been taking care of my physical or mental health. I was AND felt threatened not to write about recent experiences. So threatened that writing was giving me panic attacks. Now threats are off the 15 pieces list: Threaten away. I prefer not to care.

The end of August/beginning of September found me with pneumonia. I had it for two weeks before I finally asked for a ride to urgent care. I shut down entirely, sleeping 20 out of 24 hours for at least a week. Waking to pee and sip veggie broth. And, lying there in bed, listening to my wheezing/rattling breathing rearranged my perspective on what truly matters, and boy howdy.

After setting some legal bits right, such as who will make health choices for me if I were to become too ill do so. I simply laid out a few simple goals. The pieces of flair I need to foster my physical and mental health that in turn allow me to be more than a raw, quivering bundle of diagnoses and prescriptions.

1) Get up/dressed by a certain time. I’d been sleeping so much. I needed to get back to a normal schedule. And to prepare for the day earlier. Nix the 24/7 jammies look. Fixing my hair, a bit of eye makeup, and donning my Docs all make me feel good. I feel ready to face the day. Go outside. Accomplish something. Speak face to face with someone. I’ve always believed in the power of good hair, good shoes, and black eyeliner to make me feel more confident. And it works!

2) Eat during the day, smoothies count. I’m not a big day eater. But if I go without, I break down. Getting some vitamins, carbohydrates, and protein in me, while making something I enjoy builds on my health, and builds up my self image. And cooking more keeps Stan and I fed, happy and healthy. No surprise then I have more energy. My mind is clearer. I have been fixing more meals. Using our own and local vegetables to do some lovely fall dishes. I even canned sauce from tomatoes off our own vines.

3) Practice yoga for 15 minutes a day. I do practice everyday, but I needed to step it up. Besides, if I do more than standing poses, as usual, it forces me to clean the floors! And you know how it is once you make a clean spot. Might as well do the room. So Fall cleaning is getting done before the final button down for winter. It’s just great to be able to feel well enough to enjoy this time of year.

It’s a sine qua non deal. If I don’t take care of this basic human flair, how can address the more esoteric pieces up Maslow’s hierarchy? The relationships? The emotional fulfillment? My creative outlets?

I need that basic foundation first. And I’d neglected it. And I couldn’t build on the swamp I was sinking in.

I had instigated my spiral into illness, and the conditions that would force me to reckon with myself. I wasn’t enforcing boundaries. I was caring about too much. I cared what people thought. I cared what they thought of what I did. How I behaved. What I read. The music I listened to. My hair color and ‘do. How I was dressed. How I lead my life, and how I spent my time. How I expressed myself creatively. What folks were saying behind my back, or under their breath.

Any success I’ve had in life stems from not giving a damn about any of that nonsense. But suddenly I found myself kowtowing like an NBA coach to Chairmen Xi. Maybe because there are certain folks I desperately care about. And I felt that acquiescing to expectations, and biting my tongue to keep the peace, mattered more than my health. For most of summer, I felt as though I were walking around with a gaslight over my head, and everyone I encountered seemed to have access to the valve.

And then I made a friend. Let’s call them Jay Zed. Jay has unique but similar experiences to mine. And while we are each very much our own person, Jay possesses the qualities I value in friends. Wit, intelligence, creativity, a love of silly fun, a social conscience, and an appreciation for the art, drama, and romance of the quotidian, the everyday, overlooked and cast off, the old, the abused, the forgotten, the useless. And while Jay creates worlds of beauty from the cast-off remnants of rust-belt PA, they face many of the same battles as myself. Jay had some insights for me. But mainly, it was just that Jay was there, non judging, with their own everyday struggle, as I dealt with mine.

Between my amazing family, BB cousins & co, Jay and my therapist, who I saw less of than needed, I realized it was fine for me to be like, “Oh yes he did call me that word. I wasn’t ‘dreaming.'” “I remember every darn sec of last night, and I did not [insert moronic dude stuff here].” And, what on earth is wrong with my reading habits? The music I enjoy? Zero. I’m fine, you’re the one who sounds like Lindsey Graham on his fainting couch asking “why did it take you so long to tell anyone?” “Why didn’t you call the police?” “Why does your story seem muddled?” You’re the Steinbeck and Dickens fan who enjoys reminding me that “life’s tough,” and, of course, “you should be grateful for what you have.” It was the old “at least you have all your limbs” nonsense that I suppose relegated me to the “undeserving poor.”

Once the other ones realized that I was calling bullshit on the official narrative, they became so desperate as to question that which I can prove with documentation: I was a bad student!? Here are my school transcripts, and would you like to see my awards, grants, scholarships? Oh, and remember how I managed all that, and still graduated college even though my Father had just lost a nine year battle with cancer?

I remember how pissed off you looked when we went to Samosa after I walked for graduation. I know the sequence: exhaled huff through nose, tongue click, “Well, you know….” I had just pulled off a superhuman feat. I watched my Dad die, got into and out of opiates and heroin, and created a senior thesis film that won Best Senior Film Thesis and Best Senior Thesis. In less than a year. I was proud of me.

Do you remember how I invited you as my plus one to brunch with The Academy at the Beverly Hills Hotel? Or how you cried out when I thanked the Academy, and dedicated my award to Dad?

Once I was able to summon the courage to say, “No, that is not true in my memory or experience.” Once I did that, hey presto! Change! On one hand, he got real about what was bothering him. We began talking constantly, and got on the same chapter if not verse.

On the other hand, I lost any financial support and transportation I had. And that was what sent me into the tizz-nit that had me nearly kicked out of my mental health program for poor attendance, and ended in the pneumonia. Now that I have the basics of healthy living and vitamin pills and self-respect back in place, I need to speak my last piece of flair I’m willing to give on the subject.

You write, “You can’t tell me that…” Well, I can. I just did. OK? When I hear you criticize me for reading, READING. READING! And I call you out. Then hear that “I get too into things.” Yep, that is how I roll. I spend months down rabbit holes of history or literature or philosophy or language or a movie or herbalism or Jackson Pollock and fractals. I have been this way my entire life. What the hell is wrong with knowing that Julius Caesar needed to be Dictator for Life to avoid prosecution under the Roman Republic’s Constitution, which he then broke? What is wrong with knowing more about Dr. Goebbels and his tactics?

At any point in history, when is it a bad thing to know history? Marcus Aurelius (Roman Emperor/Philosopher, mid 2nd Century) speaks of looking back on Empires that had risen and fell, and attempting to learn their lessons, so as to peer into the future. Who the heck are you? And why should I care about your two lousy cents that you’ll write down next to my name on my running tab anyway? “Jessie, you now owe me 5,321 dollars, and two cents.”

So, I simply prefer not to care anymore. I still love you all. But, it’s enough that I can be well enough mentally and physically to meet life’s daily challenges. To suffer out this attack on all things American by a rogue and treasonous President and his criminal cabal. To attempt to have a loving and complete life, in a home I can call mine. To maybe someday go see Morrissey in concert, and on my own dime. To replace my worn out jeans before winter. To take precautions against getting a cold every time I have to take Paratransit to my mental health clinic. And to read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich as many times as I please.

And finally, I prefer not to heed your dire warnings about airing my griefs on my own damn blog. Lauren Snyder, my former therapist from PCS York who broke my trust and set my work in therapy back, warned me about honest posting regarding my therapy, noting “I mean I understand it’s free speech and all that…but, you know, other people read it.” Yes, that is the point. It’s the difference between kneeling for that racist doggerel, and kneeling by your bed. One does something. And it’s not the latter.

The First Amendment “and all that.” I’ve tried to write this blog a million times, until I was having severe panic attacks just opening my computer. But I prefer Freedom of Speech. I have a right to it. The same as I have a right to other basic forms of human decency and treatment. I prefer to express my creativity as I please on my little space of the interwebz. Shining a light onto abuse, trauma, mental illness, and what it’s like to live with that every day, no matter the consequences.

In short, I gave my 15 pieces of flair at the office. I prefer not to care what you think. I want your love, but not on the previous terms. I cannot be battered any longer for choices I made at 19 through 23. I can’t apologize myself out of existence anymore. I came too close to death too many times, and this pneumonia is the end. I offered therapy too many times, only to hear that I wanted it on “my terms,” meaning convenient for me because I don’t have any way to get around besides the short bus! So stuff it.

You too, youngling, the only peeps I hear from you are through the conduit of the Accountant of Blame and Shame, and monies spent on me. And, Medical Assistance does not pay for private therapy through video apps. That you said that shows how little you know or care about my experience and life. It ain’t pretty. And hey look, I didn’t ask for that which was given, it was offered. And I never once abused my privileges, except by ticking you all off.

This is me writing. This is me preferring to care more about my own precarious state of affairs, than how many pieces of flair you want to see me wearing for your satisfaction . This is me, preferring not to care for “Mean Girl,” high school games.

You are the one holding an innocent hostage to hurt me. And, while it kills me, I prefer not to negotiate with terrorists. I prefer to live, love and express myself freely. I prefer my dreams for me to your unending punishments. I prefer silence to your calls. I prefer to speak to someone who doesn’t hang up the phone as I say “Love you Mom,” as you shove me off your phone’s “family plan.” I prefer to speak about the books I read for no good reason, because, sister, I’m a poet. Oh, and if you want me to take part in dead carcass on the table days, I prefer to go see Star Wars and eat Chinese.

So that’s my fifteen pieces of flair:

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You Need to Calm Down: Dear all of US,

It looks awesome. You just need to calm down.

I’ve become a huge T. Swift fan. That’s a lie, obviously. She isn’t from England and/or Ireland. But the fact is that I was on my way to therapy, concerned that the driver was a bit late. When this song came on. It topped the hour of the driver’s station. Suddenly, and to my continued surprise, I found myself listening to the song on the radio. I had an idea that it was Taylor Swift only from reading about her lyrics, and sure ’nuff.

If you live under a rock like me, then enjoy the song and video here.

OK. So obviously this is about a certain Individual, we’ll call him Individual #1. The video added a colorful depiction of all sorts of folks doing their thing and just being happy. And the end has a pro-LGBTQ rights message. It was fun. I hadn’t seen the video before. But I’d seen headlines, the pictures of the dress and knew that there was some controversy over the entire thing.

So. Then my brain shattered as I had a terrific brainstorm in the back of the Uber. Everybody. You need to calm down. I need to calm down. So do you. And your mother. And your cousin Frank. (No offense, Frank. You’re calm.) Even the song and the dress became a big deal between pro and anti-gay and LGBTQ rights groups, and some simply criticized her for cashing in on Pride Month.

Let me tell you something. You need to calm down. It’s a damn pop song. And artists want to make money, LGBTQ or not. I couldn’t rock that dress, but she can. It’s cool. So you need to calm down. But so do I. I just gave several minutes of my life to typing the above sentences.

Enter the need to make more of an effort at being calm and doing your thing, despite the haters. Yes, The Hater in Chief, but also all of them. And quit hating on others and yourself. Just, calm down.

It may seem silly, but I found it cathartic to hear this woman slice into Individual #1 without apologies. And if that upsets you, then you need to calm down.

Wistfully pining for the death of Prime Minister Thatcher in Margaret on the Guillotine, by Morrissey happened. Biggie wrote a song in which he brags about robbing “pregnant bitches.” Um, John Lennon posed naked with his wife in bed. You realize that’s how they get attention right? Courting controversy. Famous people like attention.

Anyhow, this tune is dead basic pop. But its spirit and message is the response to the world and life that I have been searching for. I did anger, and depression, and I’m just over who said what on social media today. Blah, blah, blah. Life has become The Walking Dead, and someone needs to stab it in the brain. It just became too awful, too convoluted, too unbelievable, and just too painful to sit through any longer. It needs to stop.

Or I need to change the channel. I need to calm down. I’m just going to stay chill and focused on me, while you do your thing, and we’ll see how this turns out. It’s like feeding Tribbles. The more you feed a relationship tribble, the worse you’ll look and feel when all that tribble drama comes tumbling down on your head. When I am thinking about the Picard trailer, the more likely I’ll compare relationships to tribbles. See?

We all know the rainbow, glitter, star-studded video — or the rainbow dress — reflects nothing in reality. No one’s experience of life is that simple. If I could just calm down, I wouldn’t still require therapy or medication to help me work through and/on myself. But there is a nifty, gestalt, zen, Bob Newhart about “You need to calm down.”

We’re all like the guy in the joke who beats his head against a wall because it feels so good when he stops. We need to calm down. And, it is a wise-assed swipe at people who don’t help. Because, on top of the horrifying absurdity of life, do we need unhelpful people? They need to calm down or be out of my life.

The magnificent American, Carl Sandburg declared in his epic poem The People, Yes. “Sometime they’ll give a war and nobody will come.” I don’t know if that day will ever arrive, but these days, everyone is enraged and looking for a Casus Belli. And when you look for trouble, or violence, or war you usually find it.

Why go looking in the first place? Do you wear orange to a bar named Tir Na Nog on St. Patrick’s Day? And yet we have actual citizens calling for the deaths of — or actually have killed — other citizens. Over what? You need to calm down. Now. Nobody should die or be hurt or commit suicide because you can’t control yourself. Because you need that much attention. I don’t have it for you anymore.

There are those who will misread everything I wrote above as an attack. Like tile yields in a strategy game, they see the world through lenses of interest. I can’t help that. But I can stop seeing the world through their eyes. Let me show you the world through my eyes! I could worry about what my abusive ex is up to. I could communicate with him. But I’m not gonna. I don’t care. So, you know what? I got 99 problems, but that guy ain’t one. I need to calm down, and he wouldn’t help.

So, yeah, that’s the tale of my Taylor Swift related revelation in the back of an Uber. ” You need to calm down.” We all need to calm down. Down the line. Et al. Every single one of US. Because if we are all miserable in our private or personal lives, we’ll continue to cross new Rubicons on the social front. And the public strife works to make us terrible/miserable human beings. We cannot sustain relationships in this way, nor can we reestablish our nearly broken public trust in government and laws and morals. I promise to calm down if you do. You know, give peace a chance. 😉

✌💚🖖

-J.Lakis

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For Hate’s Sake I Spit at Thee: Moby Dick

The name Moby Dick is a byword itself. So why am I offering up my experience after reading it five times in a row since winter? It has been rough. A rough time. And I’ve been breaking my mind to come up with a response. But I have none. Except that I feel as though if I don’t find a way to express this growing surge in my chest, well there will be some trouble, is all.

This will be the fourth blog post I’ve written or rewritten since I last posted. I haven’t been able to publish one.

So, I am just going to write through this writer’s block by writing about my recent experiences with Moby Dick.  It reminds me of when I read Homer and think: ooooo! This thing everyone has thought was so awesome that it has lasted 3,000 years is really great! Bravo me? I just caught up to basically literate in 800 B effn C and E. There really need be no award for that. You’re simply punished if you don’t. I dunno. Maybe it’s some kink of Greek thing.

First off, there’s Ishmael. Now this guy is easy to like. For one thing, he is a depressed school teacher, who refers to whaling as “his shot and ball.” So basically, “I don’t want to shoot myself, so I’ll go do this crazy thing that’s sure to kill me!” But then his gentlemanly acceptance of Queequeg as his sleeping companion, stating that it’s better to sleep “with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian” makes him seem amiable, worldly and thoughtful. And so he proves.

Then, Ahab. He is great and terrible. This wounded genius and twisted greatness. He uses his skill at leading men to convince a cross-section of the races and religions of the world to madly rush towards death for him. And gentle Starbuck. With neither just enough courage to kill Ahab nor just enough capacity to convince him to stop through love. And, yes, I love Stubb. Who doesn’t love the guy who sees the world coming to an end, and his first thought is to strip buck naked? Ishmael says Stubb would face death as just another order from above his rank to be followed. So, Stubb just follows orders.

Ah. And the way Ishmael explains everything! It’s beautiful. Trying to show off. But I love his meditations from the look outs. I love to follow his mind out ranging over the azure below to where it meets the azure above. It reminds me of being lulled to sleep by the song Breathe before every clock in the world wakes you up for Time. On Dark Side? You get relaxed into a lack of care, before suddenly reality rushes back on you.

Oh, and duh, Jess. But there really are two Ishmaels. One is the younger man in the story, and the narrator says this happened “nevermind how many” years ago. So, finally I realized, Oh! so this is why I can hear Ahab speaking to Starbuck in his quarters.

My other big bangs from my recent reading of Moby Dick are more pop culture. Well, for one, Gregory Peck is Ahab. He just is. I know that’s not a faithful rendition, but it’s John Ford? Houston? I don’t know. Ahab is Ahab is Gregory Peck. In the big stove pipe hat.

And my second pop big bang is Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan. I realized that there is a coffin at the end of each. In Moby Dick, it’s QueeQueg’s coffin refitted as the life buoy that saves Ishmael. And in Khan it’s a photon torpedo outfitted as a coffin for Spock shot at the Genesis Planet where life renewed. Apart from Khan quoting Moby Dick the entire film, and having a copy in his bunker.

Oh yeah, and Jaws! Jaws is Moby Dick if Starbuck had lived or won. And the three day chase, the three whale boats, the three barrels. And both are a sequel for one character, so this time it’s personal. I love that movie. It has traumatized me for life though.

Not only am I glad that Ishmael gives us as much whaling information as we need to follow the action, but his  anatomical descriptions, particularly o fthe head. Because the head of this animal is like a monolith. Like THE Monolith from 2001. Unseeing, unfeeling, unstoppable, unknowable, with a jaw full of teeth attached to this monolithic front. It’s terrifying. And it’s white. The whiteness of the whale made a chapter name, why do you think the whale’s head is white?

Ha. I guess sometimes it’s just relaxing and easy to talk about a book because I could go on and on. What have you all been reading?

Comment and Like below! Trim topsails! Up anchor! Ten degrees to leeward laddies! Did I mention this book is both extensively brutal, with homosexual themes?

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It Doesn’t Matter What You Do: The Importance of Farting Around

My man Kilgore.

Depression paralyzes. We all know the story of the Prince of Denmark whose grief did passeth shew, but not enough for him to really do anything about it. Everyone dies in the end. It’s a mess. I don’t want to be like that guy or his dippy girlfriend. Except that I am. I’m wearing a long black cardigan over a Darth Vader shirt and listening to The Smiths. I am drinking tea I made from herbs I grow. But at least I’m doing something.

Putzing around, farting around, puttering, tinkering; I’ve done them all. I have big projects, one involving terracing out a garden on a hill. There is my guitar of course. I’ve been serenading the neighbors as much as weather permits. Breaking in my new Doc Martens. I’ve become quite a hand at making granola bars and veggie burgers on an industrial scale. Watching the tomato and other starts, start. Making and using my own potting soil, thank you.

I suffer from some hypo Depressions. So, I’ve adopted a “just do stuff” code. I mean, some of what I’ve been up to has been intense. I was on steroids for two weeks after I cleared out this one overgrown area behind the house. I had poison oak on my arms. It wasn’t that bad. The steroids helped. But yeah, I don’t care what I do, so long as I do something. Sure, I cleared that area, but I also worked out a lot of aggression!

I can’t sustain whatever overcomes me (sudafed) when I Hulk out on a hill or garden or whatever project. But I can sustain a good putz. Sometimes I do a small thing. Like clean and oil my fisker’s and lose them immediately. Sometimes I make a mental Scarlett O’Hara note: “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” But you know what? Aside from just getting me up an about and not languishing in the depths of despair, I do feel like I get things done. It may not always be a super lot, but doing stuff at any pace is good for me. I get to think “Hey! Look! I did this stuff!” And people are like “Nice stuff doing, Jess!” And I’m like “thanks.”

Putzing around has more benefits now than ever. I mean, did you notice the Constitutional Crisis and other troubling developments in the news? I did. So I just keep doing stuff. Breathing and doing stuff.

The more meaningless the better, really. Butterfly gardens. Blogging. Playing guitar. And now I finally have an idea for a bigger writing project I have in mind. We can talk about that later. But I have been out of writing form for about two years. It’s painful now. So I have to write. In this sense, the putzing lead to further putzing with the world, and now I have a new writing project.

Something else to do. Something to wrest my mind back from the anxiety and depression. And from yeah, That Thing. The Thing that won’t just frakkin go the frak away.

Writing is just a way to fart around, and give my brain a good long, meaningless problem to work out. It’s exactly what I need. Hopefully by the time I’m finished, the weird scary shit will have gone away. Especially the big scary man. ugh.

Nothing seems to matter anymore. And there’s not much we can do but look through our fingers for a time. So why not fart around!? I’m going for more brain activity, and some small rewards to help check my Depression and Anxiety. But I firmly believe we should all fart around. I mean, what else is there to do? Wait for Barr to be stabbed behind the curtain? Just go fart around. That’s an order.

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My Rock God Delusion Therapy

May kill fascists?

Oh you all are missing out! I’m telling you. If you were my neighbors you could enjoy the joyous noise of my totally sweet guitar stylings every evening. And, if you were super lucky, the dulcid tones of my voice echoing up through the valley. It’s so sad. I’m so sorry.

I haven’t had any official complaints yet, but it’s THERAPY. OK? So go ride your ATV around and let the dogs chase you, noisy. You’re missing out. Anyhow. It’s true. I live in a sort of natural amphitheater back here in a hill at the bottom of a big open valley. And I have a kitchen porch that is one floor up. And that is my stage. And on it I am a rock god, and all my neighbors, my adoring fans.

I can’t help it. I’ve experienced difficulties lately. This is how I’m adapting to my new reality since I moved here and, you know, when we fell into the Twilight Zone in November twenty billion years ago in 2016? There were two main offshoots of that. First was that I had no idea what to do. I felt overwhelmed and PISSED. I’m in a new house. Totally inundated. My dog had just died. I did not know what to take care of first. The second became an inability to be articulate. To speak, yes, but mainly to write! And that’s me. My thing. La cosa mia. Writing.

So much flew out of my control, and my world was turned around. I felt powerless. That spiraled into rage, constant anxiety, and abject depression. So, I tried a lot of things. Coloring, gardening, playing Star Wars Battlefront II, vegetarian and vegan cooking, making gardens with a pick axe, but I was also led back to the arts. I painted again. And then I picked up my Dad’s old guitar. And that was it.

I practice guitar whenever I have a moment. I always want to play my guitar. I always want to bring it with me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because music can express what other art forms cannot. A sort of soul-longing. And in general I play The Pogues, Woody Guthrie, other traditional music, and The Smiths. I have the same music as a Spotify playlist that I call Pissed Poor.

This music reflects struggle with a world that doesn’t really like the fact that you exist. Okies, Irishmen, Morrissey. And hard times and a bad place: The Dustbowl, the history of the Irish, Thatcherite England in a post-industrial town. Playing this music helps me engage with feelings that are similar to my own. It’s a way to sympathize and not be alone. Be connected by the feeling in the music.

Music became a new tool to experience and process more complicated emotions and difficulties than I could in words or pictures. Partly this is because it is instant. It appears, exists, then disappears. Like magic. But I credit the emotionally honest state that I achieve when playing with my complete lack of musical knowledge. It is by far my worst “art.” Medium. Whatever. What sort of medium is music anyway? It’s mathematical vibrations in the air.

I don’t get music. But I think that’s why it works for me. I know how to draw. I know how to write. I understand the concepts and practices of those art forms or media. So I can contrive to achieve a feel, but music for me is just raw, how it comes out. Like Shane MacGowan spitting out a song while wrestling with gravity.

It’s not important what I do anymore, so much as that I am doing something besides freak out with rage, depression, or anxiety. And music helps me achieve that. I have a system for my daily routine, but it’s wide about edges. I just need extra time. That’s all. I usually use the rule of three. Whatever you think it’s going to be in time, or money, or whatever, multiply that by three.

Music comes in because I want to squeeze every second of time for practicing. It gives me joy. So I look forward to when I can play. Of course, sometimes I cheat. But I can’t just drop a song I just picked up at prime time like that. Jeez. I have to have time to practice the song before I debut it. But I do that when no one can hear.

So this late Spring season we’ve added some Guthrie and Pogues, but my current musical therapy session is focused on learning “I Know it’s Over” by The Smiths. So my neighbors are no doubt happy about that. Lucky them. I don’t normally play six and a half minute songs. So my fingers get tired. But don’t you worry. I’m getting close to it. You’ll all hear the full performance, sobbing and all, someday, live, on my porch, in my rock god delusion therapy session. Lucky.

Check it out: I’m writing again, about music. Nice trick, huh?

While you’re here: check out the wonderful work done by the people at The National Alliance on Mental Illness and donate.

Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate.

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Paths without Glory: PTSD and The Neverending Now

Now you cannot escape.

You are trapped Now. Now you have no past. Nothing exists before Now. All your life is the inescapable hell of Now. You cannot remember when Now began. Now is with you when you wake. Now continues when you sleep. Now you cannot remember ice cream. Now you cannot remember the ocean. There is no vacation from Now. Now you cannot remember a smile. Now you cannot remember kindness. Now you cannot remember peace. Now you cannot remember love. Now you have no friend. Now is the inescapable foe. Now you cannot recognize the dead from the living. Now you forget which you are. Now you howl to no one. Now there is no one to hear. Now you are forgotten. Now you are utterly alone. Now is deaf. Now is dumb. Now is The Nothing stretching before you. That holds you fixed in its gaping stare. Now is The Nothing behind that pins you pitilessly Here in Now. Now is The Nothing of repeated repetition. Now is The Nothing that seeps into your soul, your being, the marrow of your bones. Now has no meaning. Now you are Nothing. Now has no past. Now has no future. Now never ends.

This is my experience of PTSD. And while the untouched have always struggled or refused to understand what has been called “The Soldiers’ Disease,” “Shellshock,” “Nam Flashbacks,” “Battered Wife Syndrome,” and just as often plain cowardice or an inability to “get over it,” I know this thing exists. I have seen it in films like “The Hurt Locker.” I have read stories of the Roman soldiers attempting to literally bury their heads to escape the slaughter at Cannae. I’ve read of the morphine addiction rampant among veterans of the Civil War. The alcoholic nihilism of Post-WWII Film Noir is rife with it. I have seen the homeless veterans of the countless savageries of war from Vietnam to Afghanistan living on the careless streets of the country they gave their youth for. Heroin, opiates, and alcohol have claimed more soldiers’ lives than any “enemy.” I have watched my Father carry a fly-swatter with him at all times. And when I asked him why bother over a fly, I heard his endless refrain. “Have you ever seen what flies can do to a dead man’s body?” I have heard my Mother tell of how her uncle, who cleared the tunnels at Iwo Jima, and her brother, who was wounded in Vietnam, break into tears at the mention of tunnels and pits and caves. The humor of the TV show M*A*S*H is the humor of the trenches. In Vonnegut’s “Slaughter House Five,” as the Germans and prisoners emerge from hiding into the rubble of Dresden, a bird challenges the meaning of human suffering with the call “Poo-tee-weet?” And Ahab chased the blind, dumb creature that took his leg and humanity around this circling world, a danger and a warning to all who witnessed his pain and rage. And, of course, there is Tolkien’s Frodo, closest to my heart. The author’s elaborate creation begun in the trenches, and so painful he constructed new languages just to speak of it.

I have never been to war. But I watched my Father wither from a robust, vibrant, keen and caring man into a skeletal mockery from cancer. I endured his final opiate-hazed days when he returned in his mind to Korea, and issued orders to my Mother, my sister, and myself. I remember how we pretended to obey his commands, lifting imaginary boxes of medical supplies that were desperately needed on some godless hill in the Frozen Chosin. That was how he earned his Bronze Star as a logistics Sergeant. Saving men no one remembers from slaughter in a war no one mentions on hill known by a forgotten number.

And I watched my Father die. And I had moments when I looked in the mirror and did not recognize my own image. I stole his drugs to kill my own pain. And when those were gone, ten dollars would buy a bag of mainlined oblivion for a day.

And then there was Him. Dark haired and dark eyed, tragically lost to the romance of the poppy, yet full of artistic promise. I thought I could save Him. But when he exchanged the needle for the bottle, well I wished he were back on dope. He never threw me down the concrete stairs in front of our apartment in the snow, half clothed, front left tooth broken by the gum line. Me with never a cavity. Those beautiful teeth. He never did that when he was on dope. He never pulled me from my bed by ankles and the long hair I will never wear again. Repeatedly pulling me from bed, slamming my face into doorways and tile bathroom floors. Right front tooth shattering with the tile beneath my face as he threw my head again and again and again against the cold surface. He never did that on heroin. I learned not to lock myself in the bathroom.

He’d have a beer or six and a drop of alcohol. And I would see his eyes lose focus. And rage rage RAGE at the world that he felt rejected his genius, and all fell on me. Sometimes I would hide outside. And he would scream and look for me. Sometimes he’d find me. Sometimes I’d sneak back into the apartment when it got quiet. Sometimes he’d wake up and again I’d be torn from bed or the closet or kitchen cabinet under the sink, which was spacious for a girl whose driver’s license says 5′ 1”. Again the beating, the sleeplessness, the bruises. Begging my landlord not to call the cops again. Lying to the police in Spanish somewhere in Central America that by all outward signs was a paradise. The safest, most stable and enduring democracy in Latin America. Full of Pura Vida and 90 year olds who loved to dance. Dinosaurs lived there. And monkeys! Real monkeys in the wild, swinging from tree to tree like one imagines monkeys would do. That I lived in Paradise at this time is probably the reason I am still alive.

But Paradise had a lot of cheap, pure cocaine, and cheaper alcohol. I don’t mind thinking of heroin, or seeing it on TV or in movies or in the news. It has no hold on me. But cocaine. No. When you carefully open tampons and roll your rent money up and hide it in the applicator tubes, then carefully hide the broken seal on the wrapping, and he bangs and berates you until you give it up. When your debit card and credit card are stolen enough that no bank wants your money. When you keep calling out of work. When the makeup can’t hide the bruises from your students, colleagues, or bosses. When you are just tired, and curl in bed with your dog and hordes of benedryl that you keep hidden but ultimately he finds and flushes anyway. When you’ve tried cutting with the razor but cannot. When you stop going to work. When you are unable to move. When you sit with your father-in-law and his “girlfriend” at a Christmas/birthday dinner you have prepared to please the in-laws, as it were, and he, Him, keeps leaving for an hour, two, more. And you sit ashamed before a white-haired, white-toothed, twinkling, blue-eyed Irishman wanted by the FBI and his expensive, young female companion whose tits he paid for. I say, when you sit at that well-prepared table in that company and feel shame burn and twist inside of you: you will feel the same about that “party” drug.

And when you’ve mastered playing ‘possum on the floor while a man with 12 inches and a hundred pounds on you spits venom in your face: worthless, useless, talentless, unfunny, stupid, fat, ugly, friendless, unloved, unloveable, a shame to your father’s memory, and “just like your mother.” It doesn’t matter how untrue those words are, or how tortured your mother has been, when all you are left with is the churning emptiness between your heart and gut. When you hold and rock yourself like a child, and howl like a street dog with a broken leg to no one. To silence. To nothing. When your only recourse is to beg money from your mother, your little sister, again, this time for a plane ticket home. To January in the Northeast. Freezing outside of PHL airport waiting for your mother who brought you a winter a coat. When you have to leave your dog. Your dog! With a man who’s sold your rings and necklaces and has bashed out your teeth. When you’ve been cheated on more times than you care to know. And yet you’ve stayed loyal in word and deed. When you leave him, and run from not your home to not your home. When you are drugged and sodomized by a “gay” couple renting out a room. And even still he chases you. Corners you outside of a drug store and tries to steal your prescription anti-anxiety medication. Hounds you when finally find someone new and good, and have a new apartment, and a job. When he waits where he knows you walk that same dog which you finally rescued, and greets you by saying “I see you’ve chubbed up.” When he uses your social security number to buy six iPhones, and you spend a year trying to fix your credit. I say, when that happens to you, you have experienced war, and it becomes your Now. And it will remain your Now forever. It may ease. It may improve. You may learn to adapt. But you are marked. Touched. Changed forever. As much as Ahab was broken and torn by Moby Dick. As much as Frodo lost his finger, himself, and received his wound that never healed. Your Now becomes and remains that moment you broke. The moment that meaningless, blind, begging, scraping, pitiful, lonely, raging suffering and violence that took the last of what you were. That becomes your Now, and as with Frodo or Ahab, your End.

I’ve been in some sort of therapy or counseling, and on psychiatric medications since I was about nineteen. I had some other troubles in my earlier life, and I don’t speak of them because the man involved is physically/mentally unable to understand what he did. And I’ve been mugged so many times I’ve lost count. But I recently appeared before an adjudicating law judge who began to ask me if there weren’t “some way, some therapy…because it’s been so long…” I wanted to scream at him that there are still Vietnam Vets, men in their sixties and seventies, living in VA shelters because their 18th year is still their Now. That to speak of “getting over it” to me is as monstrous as the French who shot men who would not “go over the top,” or Patton striking a soldier who had followed him from Africa through Italy, and then just broke down.

I don’t want what I have. But every time I wake up in a pool of cold sweat, from another dream in which He has taken all my money, spent it on drugs and booze, is with some other girl. And I am alone. Without a home, wandering the streets in the rain, unloved, unliked, unwanted, forgotten, useless, worthless, trying to navigate my way through mazes of bureaucrats and Nurse Ratcheds just to receive something, anything to help me continue to survive. I know my Now has not changed much. I will carry that weight and wound forever, as Frodo did. I may never find peace in the Shire again. And I will bear my eternal, mad, maniacal rage and pain as Ahab. A constant threat to the peace of those around me. A worry. A burden. Broken. A wary animal ruled by instinct. For if my chest were a cannon, surely such unholy madness as mine would burst from it and take all those who tried my patience with me. Save this blog where I told my tale in public first.

I have not written much lately here. I still struggle with accepting my new Now in my bed in my home. I still worry that I will lose everything. I worry about eviction. About losing utilities. About the time He lost the rent money betting on the Eagles. Who bets on the Eagles?! I horde food in bulk. I know what I can substitute for butter or eggs. And I lose sleep over when I only have one box of buillion or forget to plant or buy or dry parsley. I plant food. I pickle and can food. I carry at least one knife on me at all times. I have rebar wrapped in duct tape, and hatchets and machetes and baseball bats stashed around my house should there be an intruder. And I all of these items have names like The DiNero, or Killary. I can’t be in places with one exit. Ikea is my worst nightmare. I get nervous thinking of going to the supermarket, and rarely use ear phones. I have violent fantasies of taking down hostile men with some sort of Kung-Fu I obviously don’t know. But I know this house and the land it is on. And I know just how many doors I can lock behind me and still have an escape route like a roof. I check locks. I keep my house cold to keep the bills down. I spend hours throwing a pick ax to clear room for food gardens. Tear muscles raking. I diverted a stream with a shovel. I carry my weedwhacker like I’m Ripley or Vasquez or T2 Sarah Conner carried their weapons. I pack my backpack with first aid and mylar blankets and granola and fishing tackle, maps, and at least a liter of water. I purposefully overpack it and hike with it to build my endurance should I need to GET OUT. I instinctively note exits, and seat myself in public so as to have a clear view of the entrance, but behind the way the door swings should I need cover. Should I need to run. I can’t leave my house for long because my lack of a car and money leaves me feeling trapped and vulnerable. I have changed my appearance so as to not look inviting to men, and ensure I look and speak as white as I can with my mainly Mediterranean/Hungarian heritage. I live in the Appalachian foothills, and even if you knew my address, you couldn’t find me even with GPS.

But most of all, I hate my teeth. The bonding is old and beginning to crack on the first broken front tooth. And the bonding on the second tooth stains and needs replacing. And every time I see that stain, I want to put my fist through the mirror and his face. But life has punished him. And I have finally proved the medical necessity of crowns to my insurance, which is Medicaid, of course.

This is my Now. This is how I have adapted. But my family and long-time friend and love SP, and my therapist, have encouraged me to write again. My Mother gave me the money to renew this site and my domain. I was unsure what to write. Until this morning when I woke up more grateful to wake than any day I can recall. I woke up screaming and crying in a pool of sweat as I often do . He had spent all the money on drugs and was hanging out with some chick who was shooting up crack(?). I was living in my usual, lovely but changing cottage, by the landscape that is either near the ocean, or an old mill that has a good fishing spot, which he had destroyed. And the cottage was full of junkies and low lifes he’d brought around. And as I was crying and begging and pleading with him to leave me with something, he laughed at me. Laughed at how pitiful and pathetic I was. So I knew what to blog about today. Because I knew what he was laughing at. Now he had me trapped. This is my Now. This is my lonely path without glory. This is the story of my Neverending Now with PTSD.

-JL

While you’re here: Please check out the wonderful work done by the people at The National Alliance on Mental Illness and donate.

Check out my Instagram! There are pictures of stuff I like and hate.

While there: check out my BFF’s Instagram and share some love.

Got a comment? Click below. I love the feedback. If you like what you’ve read, tap the star LIKE button below, & LIKE and Share on Facebook. Follow and share on Twitter.


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