Letter to My Old School Republican Friends:

To My Old School Republican Friends:

Wage a war.

Enough kidding. A Trump candidacy (or, gulp, presidency) is starting to look like a possibility and at some point we, lefties of all stripes and Grand Old Party righties, are going to have to figure this out.

So, I'm calling for a truce, temporarily, and I’m asking you to pick another enemy.

My astute, traditionally republican friends, many of you are as fearful of Trump (or Cruz – but that’s another note) as my party (or parties). I know you would never vote for Bernie as I could never vote for Bush III. But we also know that a Trump White House would be more than disastrous on many levels. What do we do?

We're stuck, right?

Wrong.

Fight. Fight for the soul of your party. Look at my side: I know you abhor what he believes, but Bernie is fighting for our souls.

Bomb your biggest "loser." Do you have options? Sure. McCain may be benched by his age and Mitt is sidelined by his defeats, but you still have viable options who want to lead: You still have Kasich, you still have Paul, you still have Christie, you still have Rubio, and you still have, egads, Bush III.

These are politicians. Yes, yucky, but they are professionals. Kasich is, I believe, an earnest man. He lacks that unhinged rhetoric that attracts the disillusioned, disgruntled, and, in many scary cases, the delusional, and he often seems stuck somewhere between hangover and constipation; but he's bright, relatively tested, and, really, everything a GOPer is at your core.

Paul is not a card carrying GOP member. He appeals to your libertarian streaks, or did until he started toning down his rhetoric, shifting his belief system, and/or kowtowing to special interests groups. [What happened to him?] If it weren't for Trump and Cruz, he would've been your fringe lunatic (and, on a few issues, mine). Why him now? If he returns to himself and his ideals and you’re still yearning for a part time populist, why not? Hey, his campaign slogan is, “Defeat the Washington Machine, Unleash the American Dream.” I can agree, in my way, with that.

Now Christie, the Catholic who challenges the pope, would make for an entertaining choice -- he has the vocal range to trump the Donald. All bluster and ire; but if you dive beneath his fearmongering [sic] and his hypocrisy (anti-choice for women (although, back in the 90s he referred to himself as a “nonthinking pro-choice person”) but pro-death penalty), swims a man with executive experience -- he may sink due to his weighty Jersey legacy, but he belongs in the pool.

Rubio is a dick, but his politics are reasonably in line with yours, from Tea Party to traditional. Let him carry his flat tax folly to the Oval Office.

And Bush III looks like the swollen-eyed seven-year-old who pooped his pants after a spanking. Still, at least he has legitimate policies and experience -- the only "liberal" in the bunch and someone who I would accept if his last name were Tree or Flower or, even, Shrub.

Attack! I know you want to... but now you need to.

Vote Kasich! I despair his ideals and I will do everything I can (which isn’t very much being that I live and vote in NYC) to help defeat him in a general election; but he's a true conservative, governs a big state, and didn't outrightly reject the Affordable Healthcare Act.

Or back Paul, Rubio, Christie, or Hedge. Take back your party… please.

For now an ally,
Brian

Eye Sauce

Yesterday, while bottling the Carolina reaper and scorpion/ghost pepper sauces, a stray bullet of mash flew directly into my eye. Immediately, panic took hold. I could feel the pulp as I instinctually rubbed my eye – spreading the fire like a thick film. The burn instantly set in. “Maria, I need milk!” I called out.

“What? Why?” she calmly responded to my panic with 27 years of experience.

“The sauce! My eye!”

“Flush it with water,” she instructed as I ran blindly to the bathroom with my hands covering, but not touching, my face.

“It really fucking burns!”

“I bet it does.”

“No, the water is making it worse.”

She started pouring milk into a shot glass.

“Here.”

“I can’t see,” as I bathed my eyeball. “I’m blind!”

“Want to go to the hospital?” This must be the 88^th time she’s asked me this over the years.

“I dunno. It’s now burning my other eye!” Even my cheeks were scalding.

“Relax.”

“Really. I can’t see.” I could. But I couldn’t. Really blurry – no sense of depth. [I panic easily.]

I flushed out my eyes for 15 minutes and they eventually cleared up. The pain, however, lasted for a few hours.

Would you believe me if I wrote, “My sight seems much clearer today”? I shit you not.

Trumpy's Theme Song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPRfP_TEQ-g

Watch the above vid.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to transcribe this… this utter and complete piece of Nazi shit. I may have missed a few words, but this is the best that I can do with the little amount of time I want to devote to the ugliest stuff that America produces:

Cowardice

Are you serious?

Apologies for freedom

I can’t handle this

When freedom brings [Lost me here]

Answer the call

On your feet

Stand up tall

Freedom’s on our shoulders

U.S.A.

Enemies of freedom

Face the music

Come on boys take ‘em down [“Boys!?” Aleda screamed]

President Donald Trump knows how

To make America great

Deal from strength

Or get crushed every time

[Posturing and fake clapping sequence]

Over here

U.S.A.

Over there

U.S.A.

Freedom and liberty everywhere

Oh, say can you see

It’s not so easy

But we have to stand up tall and answer freedom’s call

[Hand dance]

U.S.A.

U.S.A.

U.S.A.

U.S.A.

The land of the free and the home of the brave

U.S.A.

The stars and stripes are flying

Let’s celebrate our freedom

Inspire probably freedom to the world [Lost me here too]

Ameritude [I shit you not]

U.S.A.

American pride

U.S.A.

It’s attitude

It’s who we are

Stand up tall

We’re the red, white, and blue

Fiercely free, that’s who

Our colors don’t run

Nor sirree

[Square dance, boxy style with cheerleader jump action]

[Johnny Travolta circa SNF]

Over here

U.S.A.

Over there

U.S.A.

Freedom and liberty everywhere

U.S.A.

Oh, say can you see

It’s not so easy

But we have to stand up tall and answer freedom’s call

[Salute]

[Applause]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPRfP_TEQ-g 

I am a blockhead.

I am a blockhead.

Okay, I swear, this is the last time I write about my hair. But it took me almost three years (with a couple of homestyle trims) to grow and I was quite attached to my locks. Cutting 'em off felt like removing an organ.

I’ve grown my hair to hippie length five times throughout my life: by curiosity (end of high school through sophomore year of college), by vanity (early 20s), by rebellion (late 20s), by vanity again (mid 30s), and then, these last years, by fear. 

I am more attached to head hair than any other feature on a person. Sure, wit, humor, sweetness – these traits win the day; but in re to actual features, I am all about the hair. It’s the first thing I notice (or don’t, if you don’t have any) on everyone. EVERYONE! And I’m not opinionated about it, other than my own hair; it’s simply what I see (or don’t) first. It’s my sightline and my comfort. In the most pathetic way imaginable, hair is how I remember people: Not their dimples, not their brown eyes, not their high cheekbones, not their double chins; NOT THEIR PERSONALITIES. Their hair.

And so I demand a lot of my own.

Again, I have a blockhead. Really. The back is flatter than a brick and the frontal is a poorly made shelf (you could almost rest your wine glass on my forehead). If I were bald, you would notice, maybe not comment, but notice the pressed particleboard that is my head. My uncles and male cousins have beautiful domes; but the mix of Katz and Timpone left my skull wanting. So, me – a square container for a head. Hence, my need for hair.

I’ve lived in fear of balding since I was a boy. Blessedly, the men who made me – my father’s sable and my grandfather’s mink – led me to believe that I would be okay, that I would hold on, in some capacity, to my hair.

At the end of high school (Xavier and the bobby pins I used to tuck my hair up to avoid detention) and the beginning of college (Bennington, yay), I grew my hair long. And it was a fine feral ferret – wild and weasely. It felt good, and I would’ve kept it if I hadn’t gone for a trim… a trim that turned into a styling; and a styling that turned into a hairdo; and my inability to live with a hairdo which meant clippers and my first real experience with the shape of my pate.

Not good.

In graduate school (Columbia, boo), I was little… insignificant. Those were rough years – working full time, schooling full time, trying to socialize full time. My art wasn’t holding up, but I knew I had something that could out-glamour the sheen of 116th St.: My hair. So, I grew it long again.

My art improved.

Then I cut it off for a teaching gig.

Then grew it long again because I fucking couldn’t give a shit about what THEY thought of me (but I was terrified that they didn’t like me).

I cut it off because Maria kept telling me I needed a trim (and I really did!) and I remembered what that meant.

Grew it again after Aleda was born because I could and it looked so pretty.

Cut it off because I needed a trim…

And then, three years ago, I saw a thinning on my crown and I started to take every supplement that encouraged hair growth, let my “freak flag fly,” panicked endlessly, saw the recession, kept going, and then… folded.

I was done.

At around 9:00 pm last night, I cut the tail from my occiput, hacked at the mop with clippers and scissors, asked Sara Jane to help me with the strays, and gave up on my vanity.

[I’m just not that kind of proud enough to be “vain”; but, surprisingly, I’m confident enough to cut my own hair.]

I know it’s kind of gross to look at, but this clump of fur is being sent to Locks of Love (http://www.locksoflove.org/) tomorrow morning. At least my fear can be used productively.

Dog Wins!

Sheba came to us about four months ago – a senior Brittany with no training, terrible habits (like eating her own excrement), no ability to read people or commands (“no” means “yes” and “yes” means “YES!”), unfamiliar with other dogs, vastly overweight, riddled with lipomas, restless, desperate, and fixated on (and with an insatiable appetite for) all forms of feces. (As you can tell, her poop thing is a major concern/discussion in our household.)

Living with her is not easy. She knocks everything over, roots through every bag, walks like a whirlwind, and finds a way to climb the table to eat the batch of 30+ chocolate chip cookies we just baked.

But she’s very sweet. Even now, she is resting her head on my lap as I write this.

Still, she is so damn difficult that I can often feel my frustration move to anger.

A couple of weeks ago she bolted out of the front door, unleashed, lead by her need to find feces, squirrels, and pigeons in Tompkins Square Park. Ten minutes later, after she blindly crossed busy streets and tore through the park, someone was able to grab her. There was a moment, maybe more than a moment, when I was okay with her being lost to us.

Then tonight, walking along 10th St. with Barley in tow (her hind legs like parking brakes) and Sheba bouncing from scent to scent, I just gave in. This is who she is, a beast of impulse. She’s a birder, a hunting breed stripped of her purpose, formerly cooped up in an apartment for 10 years with an owner who loved-loved her but, due to immobility, rarely (if ever) walked her, fed her poorly, and relied on veterinary care to make up the difference in his inability to properly care for her. This is who she is – an ungovernable ten-year-old puppy – and I just learned to accept her for her unmanageable self.

Her personality beats my exasperation.