It Will Never Be Funny

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“Nazi’ing”?!  Nazi’ing? Are you fucking shitting me?!

I saw the above on a friend’s Facebook page and had to comment.

You want to ask yourself if they have no idea of what they do. For a split-second, you’re praying they really were just that ignorant as to what they do. But the fact they created a tumblr blog page for this is indicative of their blatant complicity in it. There is no reconciliation of how culpable the Bang Bang Blog and TUKS FM radio station were for this. The non-chalant way in which this was displayed was appalling to say the least.

“Planking” and “Owling”, be they ever so marvelous examples of how inane some of us humans can be, there is relatively no harm to any one other than the individuals engaged in the stupid acts. These acts of nazi’ing insulted millions of people in one fell swoop. Millions. We have come so far in humanity and then shit like this rears its ugly head to remind us of just how far it is we have to go. We will never be far enough removed from such atrocities of humanity as the Holocaust that this will ever be in the most remote way possible humorous. The term Nazi became something foul as a noun due to the acts of many who wore that title proudly, it should never be a verb.

The good news is apparently enough people were as outraged as I about this. I did a Google search and the above page is gone. It is replaced by rexing (I’m guessing doing something that impersonates a T-Rex by the photo). Rexing is something as equally stupid looking and relatively harmless, as planking and owling, but not as reprehensible as the above.  There is some hope for us, after all, but the shame of it is that this ever existed as a source of humor (however briefly), in the first place.

For Amy

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The first time I heard Amy Winehouse’s voice was on the Soundtrack of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, with her mellow, but nonetheless beautiful cover of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.


I loved her then, strictly on the merits of her talent. It was a good year before I learned about Winehouse’s first LP Frank, cementing my love of her voice even more.  Then came Back to Black. I had You Know I’m No Good on my personal replay the way every one is now currently loving/bitching on Adele’s Rolling in the Deep. Amy was somewhere in a world only Janis, Billie and Ella could touch previously and people had taken notice. Amy could have taken that talent anywhere. Regrettably, as it seems with so many of the really great ones, she had her demons and they took her first.

Learning of her death Saturday gave me pause. I have learned, for the most part, not to read the comments section on most online editorials. Somehow, the shock of it made me temporarily forget and I was quickly reminded why I avoid such. The public never fails to disappoint in how vicious it can be at such a time. For every heartfelt RIP there were numerous “well no surprise there” type comments. And I have no words that would fully encompass the anger felt for the anonymous douche(s) that chose such a time to lay blame to Amy’s parents for not doing enough and to riff on “Rehab“.

Was the way she died a surprise? No. Was still a tragic shame? Yes.

I read various online articles. I was a little dumbstruck by it at first. I was waiting…for the retraction…waiting to read that it was a mistake, a hoax.  I really expected to someday relatively soon to read, hear that she was getting better.  That she was in the studio recording. That her new single/CD would be out. I was waiting…

From my Facebook, after I read the news, on Saturday:

Oh Amy, I was really pulling for you to prove all the naysayers wrong and come back swinging. May you now rest in peace in the afterlife that you were not able to find in the too short 27 years of your life here on earth.

I really was waiting for her to take that one cleansing breath. You know the one, when you know you’ve hit rock bottom, it can’t possibly get any worse, so you just breathe. In that breath comes a clarity that gets you to do nothing more than take another breath, but that first breath is the cleansing breath of hope that says you can do this/get through this as long as you’re breathing.

Alas, days later, I sit here with my iPod, breathing through various Winehouse singles, duets etc shaking my head at the loss of the woman, the talent, the potential that could have been Amy, who I will still love tomorrow and I can’t help but think…

Just one more breath Amy, it might have been the one …

After-cation

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I just returned from an eight day vacation in Las Vegas and saying it was AWE-SOME really just doesn’t cut it. However, it is now official. Two days back at work and I am in the midst of a serious post-vacation funk. And let me tell you, the rumored funk is so very real and is near inevitable in the life of any vacationer.

All the fun I spent months planning for, saving for and laid awake with great night-before-Christmas anticipation for is… over. The photographic proof of my good time is now on my Facebook and the laundry is out of the suitcase, in the hamper, waiting to be done.

Mind you, this funk does not occur overnight. It is something that seeped into my conscience slowly and before I knew it I was completely mired in it. Yet it feels that all of a sudden I am knee-deep in the reality that I are not: A. Independently wealthy, or B. Free from that most horrid obscenity called Work… with a capital “W.”

When I first arrived home, a tired traveler comfortably surrounded by the familiar sights, scents and sounds of my belongings, I couldn’t help but experience that warm There’s No Place Like Home feeling of sleeping in my own bed. Oh, the bliss!.

Then next yesterday comes, I’m back at work and it is a flurry of activity. I am answering emails, returning calls with a well-rested glow that only a true getaway vacation and not a stay-cation can provide. I’m still in the chillaxin’ zone that comes from spending eight days swimming, partying and just being in Vegas baby. By the third recounting of the details of my grand fun I am progressively losing my voice through the chain-smoking hooker stage straight through to Macy Gray with laryngitis. By 9:15 am I have concocted the following sign:

Granted, work expects that I will be “at the top of your game” since I’m so well-rested, when in reality my head is still in the pool (or on the Vegas Strip, or at any of the various parties), minor gaffs are hopefully forgiven. Hey, it took a solid minute and a half to remember my log on password and you want a briefing on what?

Day two brings with it the mofo that is Reality (with a capital “R.”). The alarm sounds for the second time since I’ve been back and I remember that this was why I went on vacation in the first place – to escape that frackin’ alarm and the daily grind that follows it.

Day two is the same as the day one, only worse. The alarm clock goes off like a Star Trek red-alert reminding me that yesterday was not a fluke or a bad joke. I. AM. HOME. And it is only Thursday. I’ve already begun the self-flagellation of: “Where Was I Exactly One Week Ago?” Let me tell you, it is no where near as enjoyable in retrospect as “Where Will I Be In One Week” was a fortnight ago in anticipation.

Sigh…

I’m beginning to entertain flights of fancy about how I might achieve the life of a full-time vacationer. What if I just disappeared? Is it too late to get a degree in Recreation or Hospitality and Tourism Management? How much DO they pay those people who change sheets and fold towels into the awesome animal shapes, anyway? In the interim – I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.

They say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and finally Acceptance. They are not necessarily experienced in order. The bereaved might vacillate between the five for several weeks or months languishing for a time at one stage or another. So far I think I have experienced all of them and it has yet to be three days.

I know by Monday I will be resigned to my fate and will have quietly accepted my life just the way it is, but I do not like it. I can’t seem to stop playing the “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago Today?” game. Every time I look at the CSI:The Experience highlighters I purchased and brought to work to remind me what a great time I had there – I want to cry.

Is it wrong that I have not been back a solid three days and I am already plotting my next escape?

The Best Days

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Had a gal named Sadie; she be one bow-legged lady
Big ol’ gal named Sadie; thick-thigh, bow-legged lady
Could drink many a grown man under the table
But the only way to look at her was drunk
If you was able

Had a face so fulla craters, she look like a ‘tater
Whole face just fulla craters, she look like a ‘tater
But in the middle of the blackest night
With them bow-legs wrapped around
She be one pretty sight

Woke me up early one morn, just this side of dawn
Oh woke me one morn, just this side of dawn
And threw some tiny pair of panties at me
Saying I hope she worth the time
So who they be?

And them be the best days, yeah the best days of my life
Oh they be the best days, yeah the best days of my life

Well I was so outta luck, so I ran, got in my truck
Oh I was SO outta luck, I just ran, got in my truck
But she stood in the doorway holdin’ the key
Yelling boy you ain’t takin’ a thing, nary a thing
That belongs ta me

She say boy I told ya twice, in fact done told you thrice
Yeah she had told me twice, in fact done told me thrice
If I was ever stupid enough to get caught
I’m a lose her and everything
She ever bought

And I knew it weren’t just talk, so I started to walk
‘Cause her shotgun know how to talk, so I started to walk
But she said boy them clothes you gots belong to me
And all she let me keep were my guitar
And my skivvies

And them be the best days, yeah the best days of my life
Oh they be the best days, yeah the best days of my life

I’s followed by Lucky, our one-eyed pet that’s mangy
Yeah good ole one-eyed Lucky, three-legged and mangy
But Sadie just whistled twice and that ol’ dog
Sat down in the middle of the road
Still like a log

Not knowing what to do, I walked down to Sue’
What else a nekkid man goin’ do, I walk on to Sue
But ‘fore I can even say what’s up Luvva
I greeted by her new man and his gun
Name of Bubba (Dang!)

So now I ain’t gots no wife, just my guitar and barely my life
No I ain’t gots no wife, no truck, no dog – just guitar and my life
And I start ta thinking halleluiah I’se now free of pain
I looked up inta the summer sky
It had started to rain

And them be the best days, yeah the best days of my life
Oh they be the best days, yeah the best days of my life

========

One Stop Poetry Form Monday — The Blues

Too Many…

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Pass me the green ones hon, would you please?
Not the celery, much too light.
Not that moss, much too tight.
Not the mint, it won’t match with what I’m wearing.
Not the Jade either, it’s much too daring.
No, the pine, the hunter nor the apple will do.
Geesh! Not the Khaki! What’s wrong with you?!
Oh, I’m so not wearing the alpine,
I’ll not have folks think I’ve lost my mind!
No! Not the forest, not the teal, not the pea.
Just what are you trying to do to me?
The GREEN one! No, the green one right there!
I’m beginning to think, you just don’t care…
What’s the difference?! That’s lime not chartreuse!
What do you mean I have too many shoes?

====<>====

No, I do not have any shoes in the above colors (yet). 😀

One Stop Poetry Perfect Poet Award Week 48dVerse ~ Poets Pub | It’s Not Easy Being Green and Also Poetic. (Or, Is It?)

untitled… (Subway)

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As if rush hours on the train are not bad enough, I left my iPod on my desk and of course, since I’m running late, I not only didn’t get to pick up my paper, but I am now sardined against the doors. Because of the crush of bodies any chance of feeling the air conditioning is close to nil at this point and I just pray my suit is not an offensive half soggy mess when I finally disembark. To the side of me is an older woman with enough Aquanet in her hair, that if they actually wanted to hive there, I seriously doubted bees could have penetrated the hirsute turban. And oh fracking hell already!!!! Did this guy next to me pour every ounce of cologne in existence in a tub and immerse his entire body in it? Gee-shush!! Pinching the bridge of my nose while trying hard to keep my eyes from watering from both toxic scents, I stare down into the long expansive blackness of the tunnel before the next stop.  The immense dark was very fitting to my mood indeed.

Looking for any distraction to try to pull my mind out of its funk, I notice this gorgeous woman in shades in the glass’ reflection. I could just barely make out the shape of her eyes behind the dark lenses, but couldn’t really see them. She made up for it by having beautiful lush lips, emphasized the more with whatever gloss she was wearing. They looked as though she drank water not even seconds ago and I all but expected an errant liquid drop to fall. I couldn’t tell if my sudden thirst was for this unseen water implied or for the lips themselves providing that implication. She’s seemingly staring straight ahead, but I can’t tell if she’s really staring ahead or doing the non-dance we commuters without personal diversions do of looking at anything, but seeing nothing. It’s a lovely few minutes of I’m looking at you, but I’m not looking at you to while away the time.

As the train is pulling into the station she slowly lifts her shades and stares up quizzically. It was her, at first what the…? rapidly increasing to OH MY GOD, expression that finally made me stop looking at her reflection in the glass and actually through the glass itself. Her confusion then shock is rapidly matched by passengers waiting on the platform as the train starts to slow.  Mesmerized by their expressions, my mind does not fully register the crimson streaks snaking their way down the panes.  As the train jerks to its stop, the bloody body that suddenly slides from the curved roof of the train, to be caught on God only knows what and now dangle hideously in front of me just as the doors open, setting off screams inside and out of the train got my attention fully. The front of the skull was slowly turning towards me and with a slow sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, that had nothing to door with the bloody horror dangling before me, I realized I recognized what was left of the face attached to it.

====<>====

This is an entry for a  challenge to write a story opener for a murder on a train. So? What do you think?

Each Day Anew…

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I wake and start each day anew
I shake myself to clear my head
I take on faith I’ll muddle through
I make myself get out of bed

The day is as it was before
The play of life’s dramas unfold
The clay of my face gets new scores
The way it will for days untold

Time flaunts with me in its cruel way
Time wants me to think I’m all right
Time daunts my tears in light of day
Time haunts me then in dark of night

Can’t lie my pain will soon be through
Can’t fly away until it’s gone
Can’t buy back moments to redo
Can’t die so no choice but go on

It’s true that heartache ends, but when?
It’s few the days I feel it cease
It’s due I know, but until then
It’s through my pen I find release

I know I have the strength to cope
I go as heart and soul say to
I sow my seeds of faith and hope
I grow and start each day anew

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[written several very short, yet long years ago – about six weeks after becoming a widow.]

The form used is called a Lento. Strictly speaking a Lento is two quatrains of eight syllables (a Double Lento has four quatrains, or as I have done, a Triple Lento with six quatrains). A Lento requires that you rhyme the very first word of each line in the stanza and have an ending rhyme of abcd. As you can see I took a little creative licensing here by repeating the first word and rhyming the second words instead and having an end rhyme of abab.

dVerse Poets Pub | Poetics: The Beautiful Sadness

The Only Thing…

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The scratch behind the record playing
Hear it on the radio?
That susurrus? What is it saying?
Is it your mind about to go?
The ragged chill running down your spine
On a most warm and sunny day
The nagging feeling in your mind
That takes the words you want to say

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

A sense when you walk in a room
That simply rubs you the wrong way
A sense of an impending doom
That turns the swiftest feet to clay
A little sense of something strange
That remote something not quite right
A sense that danger’s within range
That makes you turn on all the lights

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

A feeling raises your neck hairs
It’s one that shakes you through and through
The touch you feel, when no one’s there
That makes you wonder is it you?
The tap, the tap upon your pane
That starts to freak you to your core
The tap that’s more than simple rain
You’re on the fifty-second floor!

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

The creep who lives,
Across the hall
The one whose look makes your skin crawl
That tiny bug
Oh! Does it sting?!
You’re scared of every little thing!
The door that slams!
The glass that breaks!
The sudden loss of breaths you take!
The terrors!
Won’t just let you be!
What is the reason?
Can’t you see?
The only thing to fear

Is me!

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

===================

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: POETICAPHOBIA

Random Acts — But Why?

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Several friends have asked why would I of all people would reach out to a total stranger as i did yesterday. I was the perfect person to reach to him.  Even I did not understand why until this morning when I read the following…

“Sometimes you really feel alone with your pain, like no one’s there to comfort you in just the way or ways you need.”
— Allyson (part of her comment on yesterday’s Random Acts post)

Dear Lord, how many of us have felt like this over our lifetimes?!

It took Allyson’s comment to bring back a memory…

The week I went back to work after my husband passed away, I was that man on the subway. No sound, no heaving shoulders, just tears I could not stop from streaming down my face for a few minutes.  Unlike the guy from yesterday, this was still winter, I had no sunglasses to hide behind. I couldn’t even pretend I was reading a book and something moved me to tears. I was just sitting there crying.

On a crowded New York City subway during rush hour all alone and no one said a word to me.

I accidentally caught the eye of a woman sitting across from me. She realized I saw her and she immediately looked away. Not just averted hers eyes, but turned her entire face to look elsewhere. I could not decide if she was embarrassed at having been caught looking at me or if she hoped she didn’t add to my embarrassment by being witness to it.

As I stated above, the whole thing was only for a few minutes. Three or four train stops at the most before I was as back under control as I could be given the situation. By the time I made it home, no one who had not seen it first hand was the wiser.  I put the whole thing behind me until now, this being the very first time I have ever spoken about it.

I had put it so far out of my mind, that even yesterday, it did not register as I responded to another crying soul on the subway; at least not consciously.  But obviously the soul remembers, even what the mind does not. I would like to think I still would have responded thusly to the guy yesterday regardless of the coincidence of our situations.

I responded to another that the Powers-That-Be arranged it so that I would be the one standing in front of him. Who knew they kick-started this moment years ago? Ah, karma, sometimes it’s not always a bitch.

Random Acts

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“Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knees
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please
Begging please”
Eric Capton – Tears in Heaven

I’m on the train, going to work this morning.  It’s one of those rare days I’m standing because I gave up my single seat to a woman with a leg cast. To give the woman leg room (*ba-da-dum cymbal crash*), I moved to stand in front of some guy that was seated on the other side of the door from where I was. He’s an attractive Latino, goateed, around my age.  He had that physique of a male who used to be muscular but has gone soft over the years; fat over a solid core. He didn’t look thuggish, but definitely not someone you want to step up on.  Yeah, I was checking him out for a moment  – shoot me- I can only pretend to not see what’s dead in front of me, but for so long before my eyes get tired of staring hard left or right.  I was listening to my iPod (metal mode in full blast), and had pretty much dismissed him mentally.

Fully engaged in the I see you, but I really don’t non-dance that we subways riders not reading or sleeping do, it took a couple of stops before I happened to look down and realized his face was slightly shining.  Holy shit, I think he’s crying! He must have heard my thoughts as that was the exact moment he raised his head removing all doubt before lowering it more trying to hide that very fact. I looked to the woman sitting next to him, but I had already established that they did not know each other. What got me was in the microscopic amount of room allowable, she seemed to be trying to put as much space as possible between the guy and herself without negatively infringing upon the space of the woman on the other side of her.  I did not understand that withdrawal. It was obvious he would have preferred to be anywhere but there at that moment.  This was not the type of man who wanted to be caught on the verge of a breakdown while trapped around strangers on a NYC subway.  I didn’t even think about it, I simply reacted.  I got down on one knee reached out for his hands and held.   Obviously, he tried to pull his hands away, but I wouldn’t let go.

“Whatever it is, it will be okay…” I said quietly.  I have no idea what expression my face held, but when he looked at me, he stopped trying to pull away.  In fact, he gripped tighter as he tried to regain control of his emotions. “No, you need to let go now”.

When I kneeled, I accidentally pushed into a woman’s space behind me. Before I could say anything, I heard her mumble a nasty comment and push back, holding her ground as it were, but I ignored her.  I’m guessing she turned around at that point, accessed the situation and thought about it because I felt space open up around me.  He looked at me, opened his mouth to speak, but only a barely audible sob came out.

“Just let go…” I said a little more forcefully to him, and he did.  It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t manly, it was just raw and my hands took the brunt of the punishment as this man did everything short of bawl in his pain.

I don’t remember what train stop we were between when I initially reached out to him. I know I was there for a several stops, making people navigate around me as we were right by the door. The woman who initially attempted to distance herself now touched me on the shoulder and offered her seat.  Not letting go of his hands, she helped put my purse in my lap as I sat. I had presumed she was exiting at the next station, but she stood in front of us for a couple of stops before disembarking.  Other than to nod my thanks to her, I did not take my eyes from him as he cried. Someone else silently slipped a pack of tissues in my lap, because they just appeared, as I saw no one put them there, so thank you whoever you were.

Eventually, his shoulders stopped their subtle trembling and he reached for the tissues with one hand, still gripping mine with the other. It was another couple of stops before he was in enough control to pull out a pair of sunglasses and cover his eyes.

“Thank you” His voice was understandably raspy.
“You’re welcome.” I nodded finally withdrawing my hand, flexing my fingers.
“Did you miss you stop?” He sheepishly half-smiled at my finger flexing.
I looked up, realized where we were and grimaced, “Oh hellz yeah”.
“Then why?”
“Because you needed me.” I shrugged, it really was the only answer I had.

We both exited the train at the next station.  As I went for the stairs, I felt him grab my hand and squeeze lightly.“Don’t you even want to know why?” he asked when I turned.
“No.” I shook my head honestly. “That wasn’t needed to help. Like I said, “Whatever it is, it will be okay””
He gave his thanks again and let go.

I looked for him once I was on the other side and saw him sitting on a bench further down the platform. His posture now better suited to the image I initially had when I first stood in front of him.  With his sunglasses on covering the pain in his eyes, he was just another guy on the subway again.  My train pulled into the station and I boarded, finally on my way to work.

He didn’t need me anymore, I was free to go.

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”
Tennessee Williams – A Streetcar Named Desire