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coffee and MRIs

i don’t want to be ungrateful.  it’s important to me to be thankful for things in life, and to try to see the silver lining in everything.  focusing on the positive is a good thing.  very nice. 


we’ve sent people to the moon, and created a communication system that flies thorough space invisibly but manages to connect us to someone clear across the world, and we’ve even made nasty tasting stamps into stickers, so we don’t all die of glue poisoning;  you’d think we could figure out a way to make construction machines, devices, and vehicles more quiet. 

again, i’m not trying to be ungrateful.  thank you, construction workers, for fixing my road.  and making the sewer system better so that my neighborhood doesn’t smell like a piss pot from the 1800’s.  thank you for fixing the potholes in my street so my car doesn’t get a flat and my neighbor doesn’t spill coffee on himself when he is driving, drinking, and texting on his way to work. 

thank you, city workers. 

but, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you have to do all this at 7:30 in the fucking morning?

it’s not like you’re beating the traffic rush; every other fucking person on the planet has to be to work at 8 or 9, so they are already out on the road, spilling their coffee down their shirts after they drive over one of the potholes you guys will be fixing next week.  in someone else’s neighborhood.  where you will be waking up other innocent, slumbering folk with your loud fucking trucks and hammering machines that turn my morning into a three hour MRI that tells me no information about myself, except that i am a surly, grumpy bitch when i don’t get enough sleep. 

but thank you, for fixing the roads.  this is important to me, because i drive on them.  and i will be driving on them later today, as i take my grumpy ass to work, and continue to complain because you guys were also working this weekend – ON A SATURDAY – early in the morning, when good people should really be in bed working off a hangover, and there you were WORKING HARD outside my window at 8 am.  wow, you guys are dedicated.  and now, now that i am half awake and stumbling through the house looking for caffeine, and resigning myself to 5 hours of sleep instead of the much preferred and needed 10, you are taking a coffee break, and there is glorious silence throughout the land.

i’m not being ungrateful; but tomorrow, when you do all this again, could you maybe have your coffee break and lunch at the START of the day, and delay working on that awesome road until at least, i don’t know, 7:55?

accidental happiness: poncho

so those of you who have been reading my post may already know about “Poncho”.

when i walk in the mornings Poncho is in the first park i come to.

when Poncho was first planted, i was worried he wouldn’t make it through the winter.  i suppose that was silly, but he looked so small compared to all the other trees in the park, and he was just a baby!  so i sat with him one day and talked to him, and circled him with something, i don’t remember what.  stones?  acorns?  flowers?  i spread something in a circle around him, like Linus puts his blanket around the Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas episode.

and now he’s the cutest tree ever!  look at those eyes!  how does a tree grow eyes like this?  he looks like one of the characters from the movie 9!!

anyway, i wanted to share his pictures, ‘cause he’s so handsome.

two things

one:  i thought i posted that blog about the pizzaria, but it was still in my somewhere from a month or so ago.  ooops.

two:  that last post before the fantasizing pizza post (god, do i like food?)  was sort of a drunk dial.


minor rebellion – speeeed

It’s warm in here.  The hot summer sun beats down on my world and gives my arms a farmer’s tan while I drive.  I honk my horn and curse at the people around me.  Stupid idiots; where did they learn to drive,  the school for the blind?  I curse again, because it’s cool, and because I can get away with it since my dad doesn’t know I’m here.  No one knows I’m here.  No one except my cohort in crime, Colleen, who sits to my right commenting on various oddities.  Clearly I’m the better driver of the two, and thus I’m in the driver’s seat.  My life has given me lightening quick reflexes and suspicious eyes, which means I can see danger up ahead on the road, from a hundred paces out.  I love sounding like an old western. 

Except today I’m not riding horseback.  And I’m not in a sweet Steve McQueen ride either.  I’m driving a bus.  School bus, city charter bus, it doesn’t really matter; I’m the driver, which means I’m in charge.  And none of my occupants are complaining that I’m only 11 years old.  I look years beyond my age anyway, I’m sure they wouldn’t even notice.  Except there are no occupants.  It’s just me and Colleen, and our flourishing imaginations.  We drive this bus 100 miles an hour.  I’m sure it can go that fast in real life, because I live in LA, and everything in LA can go 100 miles an hour.  And despite the fact that this bus is abandoned for some unknown reason in a back parking lot at a five and dime store by my house, it seems perfectly functional to me and Colleen.

True, we had to sneak in through the little side window by the driver’s side.  Colleen is skinny, so I made her stick her long, lean body half through the window until she could pull the lever that would open the passenger door.  And then I was able to come in, and simulate dropping money in the money box, and wave at all the make believe passengers that know me because we all take this bus every day.  Except we don’t.  Because this day is the first time I’ve ever seen the bus here. 

Why aren’t there forty other kids playing in this bus?  Are they crazy?  This is the treasure hunt of a lifetime!  Hot sun baking the insides of the bus a nice toasty 400°.  Loud obnoxious horn to honk, though we try not to do it too often, so as not to draw attention to us.  I don’t want some other smart ass punk forcing his way into our pleasure center.  Especially since it took us a good hour to get in here.  Or half hour.  Telling time is tricky when you are eleven. 

I turn the wheel madly, because some idiot on the road can’t seem to see my huge looming frame careening down the highway.  Time for some glasses, you old geezer.  Geesh.  Had the movie “Speed” been invented yet, I would doubtless be pretending I had a bomb under my bus’ carriage, but I’m light years ahead of that movie.  I don’t know, perhaps Sandra Bullock isn’t even born yet.  Or maybe she is off somewhere making out with some pimply boy for the first time ever.  I can’t worry about boys right now; I have a huge damn bus to drive. 

This breaking into a bus business makes me feel like one of the Bowery Boys, and I imagine myself as a New York/Jersey type Italian mob kid, off for a joy ride in a stolen vehicle.  Yeah, see?  Or maybe I’m in a Hitchcockian short, and play the part of a murderer, desperately running from the law after brutally murdering an inconsiderate boss who overlooked me for a promotion.  Better yet, I might be one of the detectives in Hitchcock’s “The Three Detectives” series, which I LOVE.  Though of course they are all young boys my age.  But maybe my daring acts, quick thinking and stupendous sleuthing skills would convince Hitchcock to write stories about a GIRL detective.  Hmmm….I wonder if he is even still alive; maybe I could write him and pitch him the idea.

I have all day to come up with these fabulous ideas, and force Colleen into playing the sidekick to my hero.  My fertile imagination is rippling like a frothy sea, eager to come up with a thousand scenarios for this bus ride…until the evil old man down the alley spies us in our luxury vehicle, and threatens to call the cops on us.  On us?  On eleven year olds?  We didn’t leave this stupid bus here.  And sure I’ve been wiggling the gear shift around all over the place, but it’s not like the keys are in here and we’re gunna take the bus to the beach.  Like no one would notice on the road that they can’t actually see the driver of the big bus, because the head of the driver isn’t visible over the dashboard?  Hello?  Old man, are you serious? 

Oh.  Shit.  Yes you are, and here you come wagging your old saggy arm at me!  Guess this early minor rebellion of mine is over for now, but hopefully it can be continued later in life…

saving my life…

This is the intro and first chapter to the autobiography I am writing:…

I didn’t intend to have this illness, this MEN-ITIS that I’ve had all my life. When I was a girl people called me boy crazy, which made me laugh. When I was a teen people called me fickle, which was probably – well, certainly true. When I was in my twenties people called me a tease, which was mean. But sometimes accurate, because though I didn’t intend to, I did in fact send out mixed messages. I was trying to be good, trying to behave. I was going to be a virgin when I got married. But what can I say? I love men.

Men are fabulous and fascinating, dark and dirty, intoxicating, impossible, and sometimes just plain idiots. And I love them. They have brought me laughter and pain, they have delighted and devastated me, but through all of the ups and downs of loving men, one thing I can say for sure – they have kept me alive.

Oh for sure, some of them have tried to kill me. Or at least threatened to do so. So it hasn’t all been hearts and kittens in my dealings with the opposite sex. But because of my predilection for falling in love, I have been able to withstand a strange, wobbly, sometimes bizarre life, and come out fairly balanced.

Some people survive their difficult experiences with the help of religion. Some with alcohol. People use sports and gambling, sex and drugs, and sometimes overcoming issues to overcome their issues. Everyone needs something. My vice of choice has been love. Not lots of love, as in I’m a porn star. Or too much love, as in sex-addict. Just falling-in-love, which though up until now has not produced my better half, has nonetheless undeniably saved my life.


Chapter 1 ~ My First Kiss

If my life had been a reality show, and people could have decided which early childhood experience would set me on the path of infatuation and adoration of the male being, I imagine most of the votes would go toward:

A. My First Kiss. I suppose some viewers might choose B: May 18, which is my birthday. These would be New-Agers, who know that being born in May makes me a Taurus (sensual) and being born on the 18th of May makes me the horniest of all people (look it up). Still others might choose C: born in the year 1969. After all, the sixties were all about love. Free love, group love, experimental love, all kinds of love (and don’t pretend you didn’t notice the significance of my particular year of birth). But the correct answer, and the one with 90% of the votes I’m sure, would have been A. My first Kiss.

My first kiss was incredible; the stuff movies are made of. Magical, romantic and thoroughly imaginative. I don’t profess to have a great memory. I do, in fact, have a dissociative disorder – meaning that when I got into situations, experiences or environments that overwhelmed me as a kid, or perhaps involved emotions I couldn’t understand or process, well I just removed that information. I’d grab up the situation at hand and tuck it into a corner of my mind. Or sweep it under the bed of my brain, hide it in the bottom of my drawer of thoughts, or sometimes just toss it into the bin of bad ideas. This is incredibly helpful when you are a small person and living in a chaotic household. Not so helpful when you are older and are trying to remember various details in life. Some times of my life I just don’t remember. Things I’ve done, people I knew and may have hurt, or facts I should know just can’t be recalled and seem to be erased from my memory bank.

But not the kiss. The first kiss I remember. I’ll always remember.

I’m five years old and a sort of free spirited child. My older sister Angie has a thing for this boy Dan, and while Dan’s okay it’s his brother Monty that I have my baby blues set on. Lucky for me Angie and Dan are sort of sweethearts, which means every day we get to play together and the chance of me running into his brother is greater because of it. Dan is about my sister’s age – just two years older than I am – but Monty is twice my age. I’m already five years old, and he is the sexy older boy at a whopping ten. Oh, the allure of dangerous men!

We all live in the same large apartment complex, with its identical little homes all promising conformity, their outer brick skins suggesting protection and safety as well. Untended mounds of dirt and pits of unfinished construction work sit in the sun like abandoned toys. There are fabulous areas to roam and play at this apartment. There is a playground with swing sets, bars, wide open spaces and a merry go round. There are tennis courts that seem marvelously mature and forbidden, and a swimming pool always full of scantily clad beings and hyperactive children. I love the smell of the pool, with all the suntan lotions and sun-kissed bodies. The big fashion statement right now is crocheted bikinis with little peek-a-boo cutouts in the butt or on the breast. The girl in the red bikini has a little heart shaped hole on her butt, where her tanned skin pokes out, winking scandalously at all the boys. Some of the girls have butterflies or suns that are carved out of the fabric, and I wonder how the material stays together around it. Shouldn’t it come unraveled right around the empty hole? And what would everyone do when that happened, when her little boobies are suddenly flying in front of everyone, or her one ass cheek is hanging in the wind with a tiny tan heart on a bare white bottom. The radio sings Afternoon Delight while all the boys in sight dream of little freed boobies, and the warm noisy atmosphere tastes like summer.

 But today I am not at the pool, I am at the playground, where all of us kids like to hang around and work on burning off our sugar high from breakfasts of Cocoa Puffs, Count Chocula or Fruity Pebbles. There is also the delightful Cap’n Crunch with Cruchberries, which leaves a strange ripped up feeling on the roof of my mouth, but tastes like heaven. I will discover later in life that I am allergic to strawberries, and wonder if it was the juice from the delicious berries that caused this uncomfortable flayed feeling after a delicious bowl. But for now, I revel in the sweetness and ignore my mouth of ribboned flesh.

We are playing around with something. Monty and I are over at the jungle gym (or monkey-bars, I don’t know where you live so I’m not sure what you called them growing up). He is being a show off on the bars, and I laugh, eyes wide and full of admiration for his reckless abandon and masculine strength. I pretend to be busy with other things, but I can’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye; he’s so cute. My grandmother would probably say his dark hair is too long and shaggy, but in 1974 he is very much current with the styles of the day. Anyway, Gramma always appreciated a good head of hair on a man, so I think she’d find a way to forgive him. Is Monty calling me over to talk to him? Or is it just that I can’t ignore the pull of the male essence? Perhaps it is the light breeze blowing on my skin and the sound of the leaves on the trees rustling, banging up against one another in a little frenzy of leaf ecstasy that makes me stare at him so intently. Something draws me to Monty, and I find myself standing in front of him, while he continues to show off for me, now hanging upside down in a gravity defying, high wire, trapeze artist kind of way. And then suddenly, he is pulling me to him and planting a big fat kiss on my lips while he dangles upside down.

Very romantic. Very sexy. Very Spiderman, super-hero kind of moment, and if you don’t get the reference there’s another fun thing for you to look up besides the astrological significance of my birthday. Now with all of that involved in my very first kiss – the amazing energy, the age difference, the creative positioning and the playfulness behind it all – how can I help it? How can I resist? With a first kiss like that, it is virtually impossible for me to escape a life of incorrigible boy chasing and villainous man admiration. This kiss has changed my life forever, and set my feet on a particular path, and like the prince waking Sleeping Beauty with a soft press of lips, so has this boy whispered the secret of life into the mouth of a small and wounded little girl.

teeny tiny feelings

sometimes i struggle with myself. duh. i’m human. but i feel needy, and small, and like a little invisible person who isn’t sure of their place in the world. and i look to people that i care about, and hope that they see…something. something of value. something worth loving. something that makes them smile, and hold my hand, despite the times when i feel very unlovable.

what makes us feel this way? we are all the same, are we not? we all have issues. we all have hurts. we all have feelings that get their fur ruffled, and emotions that jump onto our sleeves when we’re trying very hard to keep them tightly in our chest pockets. what makes us feel insignificant, or dirty, or a blob of nothing that can be passed over by the world?

i know who i am… i’m brilliant, and beautiful colorful and vibrant. i’m ridiculous and obnoxious and childish. i’m funny and ornery and full of depth character and fire. but can you see that? can the world see that? i guess the best thing for me to do is pick up the hand mirror, and tell myself of my greatness.

Psychic gifts from hell

I have the sight.  I have to admit it.

And I love it, quite honestly.  I love knowing things spontaneously and without prompting.  Like the fact that I should pick up a pack of mustard flavored pretzels at the store, because my sister will be trying some at work in about an hour and will want some for her own.  I love knowing that one of my sisters is pregnant before she even finds out.  I love talking on the phone to people and knowing what they are wearing and whether they have their hair in ponytails or straight.  And I love telling people that someone they know called Anna needs to get ahold of them, or someone they know that has just painted their living room yellow wants to talk to them.

I also love more important information, like that a friend will be dating someone soon, or will succeed in getting the job that they want.  I love knowing that someone will successfully receive a hard earned scholarship for the school they want to go to.

Often this information comes to me because I am doing a psychic reading on someone.  I’m actively seeking information on the querent, and so pick these bits up out of the stratosphere somehow.  Other times I’m just sitting in a Taco Bell minding my own business, when I suddenly am prompted to tell a complete stranger that something wonderful is coming into her life.

And usually my information is greeted with thanks.  People are almost unanimously grateful for the input that my quirky psychic bones get to them.  Still, there are those times that my information is awkward, if not off putting.

Like the time I had to tell a friend of mine that she should give in to her husband about something in the bedroom.  Well ok, I didn’t really tell her she SHOULD, I just mentioned that the topic was coming up in the reading.  Turns out her husband had been badgering her about a particular position to try every since they’d gotten married.  He finally got his way.  However, they divorced a short time later.  Ooops.

My little gift jumps out of my mouth from time to time.  I wish it were predictable, like some of the shows on TV make you believe.  Where the world around you goes all fuzzy or cloudy, or you start getting a headache, or colors change and shift.  Then I would know I was having a psychic meltdown, or moment, and I would know how to behave accordingly.  But that’s not the case.  True, sometimes I can see the information inside my head, like it’s on a billboard or a marquis.  But often I just blurt something out, before the thought has even solidified itself in my brain.  One minute information is not there, and the next it just is.  Which is great.

Except for when I accidentally blurt out something that is a true statement, when I think I’m only being funny.  Like, “oh that guy likes to wear women’s underwear”, and it turns out to be true.  Ooops.  He probably didn’t want everyone finding out quite like that.

Well, I guess you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, what with the nasty horse breath and all.  So I will just have to take the knocks that come along with all the fun psychic information.  It wouldn’t hurt if I could find a way to slow down my big mouth before it starts spewing out information that could get me into trouble.

But then, that just wouldn’t be me.

my own brand of crazy

I keep telling someone dear to me that I am crazy. Which is funny for several reasons: 

a. It’s not like this is some big secret. He knows me. He’s seen me in a variety of situations. I’d have to wager that he already knows how bloody fucking crazy I am. It’s sort of one of those things I think people can pick up off of me. Not that I mean it’s contagious; just that it sort of resonates off of me. One girl I worked with years ago used a phrase I have since borrowed and loved: I’m touched with fire. (thanks for that Emily) 

b. It’s funny that I keep telling him, reminding him, in case he’d suddenly forgotten. In case he ran into a wall of Alzheimer’s and couldn’t wipe it all off of him, and now he’s miraculously oblivious to all my nutty antics and wacky behaviors. And just in case he isn’t completely scared off from me yet, why don’t I remind him again of what a psycho nut job case I am? ’Cause that’ll reel ’em in every time. Who doesn’t love a crazy chick? 

c. Who am I kidding? I throw this around, this phrase “I’m crazy” like it’s a special badge, or a golden ticket to a carnival that includes flying elevators and chocolate mixed with things that ought not to be mixed with chocolate and men who wear strange hats. I wear my little crazy badge like it’s something I’ve earned in the Girl Scouts (though really i never was a Girl Scout. i tried to be a Blue Bird for about one day, but the lady scared me off. still, i like their cookies) But really, anyone can earn the Crazy Girl Scout Badge. It’s not all that hard. 

d. And that’s the thing. Aren’t we ALL crazy, when it comes right down to it? We are “crazy in love”, because really how else can it go? Love makes our minds completely silly; we can’t remember what we’re supposed to be doing. We forget to eat. We can’t sleep. And then if it ends badly, we go crazy with upsetness. We want to die. We want revenge. We want to disappear into the atmosphere like the bubbles in a Coke commercial. And if it isn’t love making us crazy, it’s our goddamn relatives, because who doesn’t have some crazy nuts in their family tree? (sorry about the curse word there, whew. it just fit right in so nicely) But everyone has that dad that drinks too much, or the uncle that’s just a little too stalkery, or the kleptomaniac grandmother. Ok fine, I’m talking about my family, but it COULD be yours. Or maybe yours is the sister that sleeps with every breathing thing, or the brother that has to be better than everyone else at everything else. Whatever, when you mash us all together in a family reunion, there are fights and words and bruised egos, and they all make us crazy in the end. 

e. And that’s what happens. We are all crazy in the end. Maybe not certifiable (speak for yourself. i’m trying to get that padded room with the view, so don’t EVEN try to claim it) Maybe not all of us have to take meds (mine aren’t even very fun colored. grrrr…) Maybe some of us try to pass ourselves off as ‘normal’ (i’m completely over that stage of life, thus the Crazy Badge wearing episodes) But when we get right down to it, we all still do the some crazy things we tell ourselves not to do. Fall in love again. Open our hearts up to people. Hope in the future. Believe in the impossible. Trust in the beauty of another day. Crazy. Just like everybody else.  And that’s ok. I just have my own special brand of crazy. 

who will be voted off next?

well heck, i wrote this heated blog about Survivor a while back.  after Boston Rob got voted off.  i tried to post it on the Survivor site, but it never went up for some reason.

So despite the fact that this rant is several episodes old, I still want it somewhere.  so here you go…

In an unprecedented move, Survivor puts out one of the most biased and personally attacking episode recaps ever aired in its twenty seasons. After the surprising removal of an old fan favorite, Boston Rob, Jeff Probst reads off a lengthy tirade aimed at pinning all of team Villains woes on Russell, who spearheaded the plot to vanquish Rob. Potentially alienating loyal viewers, Probst offers up a slanted and horribly skewed version of events that can in no way be validated by the previous episodes shown to viewers. Citing Boston Rob as the diligent, hard working and loyal Villain leader, Probst sets Russell up to be not only Rob’s arch nemesis, but the underhanded and deceitful kingpin of the crew that finally blind sides Rob.

Probst’s recounting of facts doesn’t ring true, however, at least for this loyal viewer and her family. After watching every season of Survivor, and finding this season to be the standout in competition, intrigue, and interesting characters, I have to say that I’m disgusted at the blatant siding of one contestant over another in the opening credit air time.

First of all, I want to say that I have been a fan of Boston Rob since he first came on Survivor, and I loved him on this season. He is an amazing powerhouse of a person, and is a force to be reckoned with, whether in the game or in life. I admire and respect him, though I have to remind viewers and J.Probst that he IS on the Villains team, and there is a reason for that. While it’s true that he almost single-handedly led the team to each of their victories, created fire for them, built their shelter and basically kept them alive, assuming he is loyal, trustworthy and valiant in this game is to disregard his game playing techniques in the past. This IS the man that gave his word to a FRIEND and then flipped on him later, just so he could get what he wanted, and further himself in the game.

I also love Russell. While I admit I wasn’t his biggest fan in the beginning of the last season, Russell’s drive, ambition, tenacity and brilliance quickly grew on me, and I found myself enamored of his antics and shrewd thinking. No one has EVER played the game like Russell, finding immunity idols without clues, crafting three way votes that upend tribal councils, and winning the hearts of millions of viewers. And while it’s true that many viewers hate Russell (a view that is obviously held by whoever wrote the opener of last week’s Survivor), Russell has also garnered untold numbers of fans, and if memory serves me, won the Fan Favorite award for last season.

What bothers me about the opener is this:

1. Jeff says that Russell makes his move out of jealousy. Really Jeff? How do you know that? In the episodes we see as viewers Russell doesn’t seem jealous of anything. Maybe he is paranoid, maybe he is vying for dominance, maybe he is trying to best Boston Rob to prove that he is the best. I don’t recall Russell ever saying he wants to have to be the leader of this crew of people; he comments that he is happy to be playing with the best.

2. Jeff makes it sound like the Villains go on a losing streak because of the demise of Rob. However, by the time Boston Rob goes home, the Villains have OBVIOUSLY already lost (or else they wouldn’t be at tribal council!)

3. Has Jeff forgotten that Russell led a team of FOUR to the end of last season’s Survivor when he was battling an opposing team of EIGHT?? It shouldn’t really matter if the Villains lose a few challenges; they are still up in numbers, and with Russell, anything is possible. I don’t see how Probst can possibly try to pin the losses of the Villains on Russell.

4. Jeff and the production team CLEARLY make Boston Rob out to be the good guy, by replaying Rob’s announcement that his idea of loyalty is very different than Russell’s.

Russell, however, made a good point that he offered himself up to save Parvati, and he was sticking to his own alliance loyally. While Rob may not like Russell’s decisions and alliances, you have to give credit to Russell for being true to his word.

5. And give Russell credit for going BOLD FACED to Rob and telling him his plan. He approached Rob openly to talk through their differences, to which Rob replied, “Watch your back”. Russell seemed to me to be trying to work together.

6. Which he also showed when on the beach with Rob, Courtney and Sandra. He suggested that he and Rob join forces and make the Villains as strong as they could be, by voting off the weakest players and keeping the tribe physically competitive. Again, Rob treated him with disrespect and disdain and then plotted to vote Russell off the island.

7. Having intuitively determined that he was the next target on the list, Russell masterminds the most convoluted elimination I have ever seen on Survivor, and apparently upsets the producers, Jeff, and the writers of the show, who then immediately make Russell out to be the super Villain, instead of applauding him for one of the most interesting and unforgettable episodes of Survivor ever.

I don’t know what the problem is here. In all of these seasons of Survivor, I would think it would be well known by now that this is a GAME, and people all take different strategies to move further in the game. If you want to complain about underhanded workings, try looking to the Heroes, whose members like J.T. have become increasingly sneaky and crafty; James, whose hostility toward another member, Stephanie, was downright offensive; and Colby, whose competitive anger even caused Probst to call him out in a challenge.

Why is Survivor against Russell? He is playing the game like many who have gone before him. He is using wits and words, and sometimes trickery. Not unlike many of the other players in every season. While “Survivor; the entity” is backing Boston Rob and slamming Russell, it is unclear to me what the purpose behind this is. Rob is not more loyal or trustworthy just because he got voted out and Russell didn’t. Or because Russell out-witted him (that IS one of the tenets of the game, after all).

Russell has never presented himself as the Boy Scout. He has openly and honestly played a dishonest game. He wants to win, he wants to be the best, and he wants to do it his way. He’s made no bones about this. This, in fact, IS honesty. He is what he tells you he is; a player. If the Villains team can’t survive without Boston Rob, then each of the players deserves to go home. This isn’t the Final Four, where the whole team must lead each other to victory. There can only be ONE Survivor. If you want to make Boston Rob the honorary god of Survivor, go ahead. I love and admire him completely. But while you’re building a monument to his glory, don’t drag Russell through the mud just because he’s the one that got Rob voted out. He’s playing his game, and that’s why so many of us love him.

I have always admired the way Jeff navigates the tribal councils and calls people out for what is going on in camp. I imagine this wasn’t even Jeff’s comments, but a writer’s. Still, to side so strongly with one contestant against another is bothersome. Had this opening been more factual and less emotional or slander oriented, I wouldn’t even be writing this. I’ve never written in to Survivor before, and probably won’t again. I just hope that the show doesn’t continue to bash worthy, brilliant, and fearsome competitors in the future, regardless of how they decide to play the game.





there are eyeballs in

the back of my head

but i don’t know who they belong to.

they frown

and scold me all day

reminding me that i’m doing

something wrong again.

they tell me

in subtle scowling tales

that i am not the true owner

of this body.

somehow i managed to get this

skin shell

while the real owner wasn’t



i tricked life into letting me

borrow this vehicle

and run it around town

with the rightful owner

locked in the back trunk.

the eyes look quizzically

at everything i do

wondering what i am


and why i keep getting

away with it.

but since i have

so much hair

no one else

notices a thing

and i spend another day

in my stolen




(unremembered date, 2009)