Me: I don't know what I'll do when you're not here anymore.
Her: Well, first of all, honey, if anything does happen after, I'll be there. I don't know if it does, but if it does, I'll be around. And even if I'm not, you have my DNA. That's a scientific fact. So I'll always be with you. Forever. And you never have to be afraid.
Me: Okay.
Showing posts with label universe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label universe. Show all posts
Monday, October 5, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I asked for a sign and. . . .
today I learned how to draw a bat. And a popsicle and a Studebaker and a few other things. And one of the biggest frustrations I've had my whole life -- I can't draw -- parted curtains to reveal the prize -- I haven't learned how to draw. And more than that, I never accepted that things are achieved in tiny pieces: an arc, then a ball, some dots and wingtips, and voila, you can fly and shoot sonar from your head and sleep upside down. And even if it's just little line drawings of bunnies and cakes and bats, I am so thankful I can watch my hand move across the page and result in something that doesn't let me descend the ladder into the neverending River Styx of shame and perceived inability where I so like to splash about.
Did I mention I can draw a bunny now too? And when I can draw everything -- and I mean everything -- then I'll put a little something up here for you.
Thanks, Joy.
Did I mention I can draw a bunny now too? And when I can draw everything -- and I mean everything -- then I'll put a little something up here for you.
Thanks, Joy.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Let the Cranes Fly
In this week's PostSecret the very first postcard asks for a sign. My first impulse was to somehow be the sign for this person. I can only hope the card or something else sets into motion the events that furnish them with their sign. But maybe that won't happen. We don't get the answers on our timetable (unless you are Paul).
When D and I got married we decided to fold 1,000 origami paper cranes and have them included among the reception decorations, a traditional Japanese symbol of patience and trust in a marriage. We were engaged just before 9/11, and we also appreciated the symbolism of peace and renewal. They were in the flower arrangements, hanging from branches, perched atop the cake. Guests took home what they wanted, and we took home the remainder.
A few of them were scattered around our apartment but the rest sat in several shopping bags in a closet. And sat and sat. One bag became our cat's napping spot and were crushed into misshapen, brightly patterned horrors. These became the ass cranes, having suffered such indignities beneath the cat's fat tush.
After including some of them in thank you notes and holding a proper funeral and burial for the ass cranes, we didn't want the rest of the cranes to meet the same ass-tacular fate.
So, in the early evening on 9/11/02, rolling with the peace theme, we decided to let them fly. We got on the subway with our shopping bags, and left the cranes all over New York City for people to find. We left them on subway seats and platforms and newsstands and lampposts, on car hoods and restaurant tables and in parks.
I wonder still what happened to them. I wonder who threw one away, who took one home, who ignored. If somebody found a little gold and pink paper crane with a slightly crushed nose and was amused by it, or helped by it. I wonder who took it as a sign.
So hey Universe, let the PostSecret person get their sign. And since I can't give it to them, howzabout letting me provide somebody's sign. I definitely owe. I'll mull over another random act of signs and this time see how to track them as they fly.
When D and I got married we decided to fold 1,000 origami paper cranes and have them included among the reception decorations, a traditional Japanese symbol of patience and trust in a marriage. We were engaged just before 9/11, and we also appreciated the symbolism of peace and renewal. They were in the flower arrangements, hanging from branches, perched atop the cake. Guests took home what they wanted, and we took home the remainder.
A few of them were scattered around our apartment but the rest sat in several shopping bags in a closet. And sat and sat. One bag became our cat's napping spot and were crushed into misshapen, brightly patterned horrors. These became the ass cranes, having suffered such indignities beneath the cat's fat tush.
After including some of them in thank you notes and holding a proper funeral and burial for the ass cranes, we didn't want the rest of the cranes to meet the same ass-tacular fate.
So, in the early evening on 9/11/02, rolling with the peace theme, we decided to let them fly. We got on the subway with our shopping bags, and left the cranes all over New York City for people to find. We left them on subway seats and platforms and newsstands and lampposts, on car hoods and restaurant tables and in parks.
I wonder still what happened to them. I wonder who threw one away, who took one home, who ignored. If somebody found a little gold and pink paper crane with a slightly crushed nose and was amused by it, or helped by it. I wonder who took it as a sign.
So hey Universe, let the PostSecret person get their sign. And since I can't give it to them, howzabout letting me provide somebody's sign. I definitely owe. I'll mull over another random act of signs and this time see how to track them as they fly.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Is The Ether Made Better For Our Asking?
After a morning of mistakes I'm wondering if all this yawping into outer space is anything like talking to your plants. Is the ether made better for our asking? Prayer, desperation, favors -- it feels like a river of pleading. Yet the synchronicities, the strange coincidences and the out and out results must say more than "We're listening, yo." What could the symbiosis be? How is the ether made better for our asking?
I'm self-medicating with Cat Power and thinking about a musician we met a few months ago. His story will come along eventually when it's done with dinner, when it's done brewing. He told us the only thing he could do was play music, that he didn't know how to do anything else. He seemed to feel a certain failing in this, like who would want to listen? I said, you know, you're a minister and we're the congregation. So play and know we're all better for it. We need you.
He thanked me. Hell if I know where that came from.
I'm self-medicating with Cat Power and thinking about a musician we met a few months ago. His story will come along eventually when it's done with dinner, when it's done brewing. He told us the only thing he could do was play music, that he didn't know how to do anything else. He seemed to feel a certain failing in this, like who would want to listen? I said, you know, you're a minister and we're the congregation. So play and know we're all better for it. We need you.
He thanked me. Hell if I know where that came from.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Brokeness of Us
We were at Newark Airport. It will never be Liberty International Airport to me. While I like that it is smaller and more navigable than other New York area airports, it has not been liberated from anything, any more than fries became free.
Everything that could have gone wrong did and it was entirely on me. Our dream vacation in Mexico, in January, had itself fallen out of the sky and out of the hearts of generous friends who invited us to join then. In the mushy cold and brokeness of us just-after Christmas, it was like winning the lottery.
Now we were on line for our airport security check, two days later than we were supposed to be. My passport had been mangled in one corner and we were refused entry on our original flight. We then spent two days living at the Newark Marriot and hunting for silver linings for our son (indoor swimming pool! dinner in bed!) while my husband and I procured a new passport for me by smiling our way through tens of tenuous bureaucratic conversations. We got a new flight. We were finally going.
And then we were directed to a different line on the security check. And it was the same line as the airport workers. So after about 30 airport workers were directed to cut us in line, missing our flight was becoming a real possibility. We could not get into the other line, where now every other passenger was being directed. So I cut the line, and got through security, to the consternation of the airport workers I cut. I was pissed, and I was a jerk.
When I got through security, my boarding pass was gone. I don't know if I misplaced it, or what, but it was gone. I sat down on a bench and began a howling, keening, unstoppable cry. 7 TSA workers standing nearby turned in unison to get a look at the crazy crying woman, determined I wasn't a threat, and turned back away to continue their conversation.
I sat there, having destroyed our vacation again, I thought, and was dimly aware that my husband and son were now standing next to me. My son asked my husband why I was crying. My husband tried to explain, and after deciphering my snuffling explanation about the boarding pass, left us together on the bench to go see what he could do.
I kept crying. Because I can never do anything right. Because nobody will help me. Because the world is a stupid place with never-ending lines that never get you to the beach.
"Mommy, you're crying. Mommy, don't do that."
A pause. My hair was stuck to my face with tears.
"It's ok, Mommy, I will help you, I will help you."
The Buddha climbed on the bench and took my hand in his. I looked over at him mostly because of the shock of his touch.
"I'll help you, Mommy."
He wiped my tears off my face with his other hand. I stopped crying and put my hand on his cheek. I looked to my left and saw a TSA worker, a woman of about 60, had stopped what she was doing and was leaning up against an X-ray machine, watching us and smiling, and crying. The Buddha didn't say anything else, just pet my hair and wiped off my tears.
I sat there with my son, who has all the good stuff within him, and calmed myself down. My husband got me a new boarding pass. Eventually we got to Mexico, and that was really nice, too.
Everything that could have gone wrong did and it was entirely on me. Our dream vacation in Mexico, in January, had itself fallen out of the sky and out of the hearts of generous friends who invited us to join then. In the mushy cold and brokeness of us just-after Christmas, it was like winning the lottery.
Now we were on line for our airport security check, two days later than we were supposed to be. My passport had been mangled in one corner and we were refused entry on our original flight. We then spent two days living at the Newark Marriot and hunting for silver linings for our son (indoor swimming pool! dinner in bed!) while my husband and I procured a new passport for me by smiling our way through tens of tenuous bureaucratic conversations. We got a new flight. We were finally going.
And then we were directed to a different line on the security check. And it was the same line as the airport workers. So after about 30 airport workers were directed to cut us in line, missing our flight was becoming a real possibility. We could not get into the other line, where now every other passenger was being directed. So I cut the line, and got through security, to the consternation of the airport workers I cut. I was pissed, and I was a jerk.
When I got through security, my boarding pass was gone. I don't know if I misplaced it, or what, but it was gone. I sat down on a bench and began a howling, keening, unstoppable cry. 7 TSA workers standing nearby turned in unison to get a look at the crazy crying woman, determined I wasn't a threat, and turned back away to continue their conversation.
I sat there, having destroyed our vacation again, I thought, and was dimly aware that my husband and son were now standing next to me. My son asked my husband why I was crying. My husband tried to explain, and after deciphering my snuffling explanation about the boarding pass, left us together on the bench to go see what he could do.
I kept crying. Because I can never do anything right. Because nobody will help me. Because the world is a stupid place with never-ending lines that never get you to the beach.
"Mommy, you're crying. Mommy, don't do that."
A pause. My hair was stuck to my face with tears.
"It's ok, Mommy, I will help you, I will help you."
The Buddha climbed on the bench and took my hand in his. I looked over at him mostly because of the shock of his touch.
"I'll help you, Mommy."
He wiped my tears off my face with his other hand. I stopped crying and put my hand on his cheek. I looked to my left and saw a TSA worker, a woman of about 60, had stopped what she was doing and was leaning up against an X-ray machine, watching us and smiling, and crying. The Buddha didn't say anything else, just pet my hair and wiped off my tears.
I sat there with my son, who has all the good stuff within him, and calmed myself down. My husband got me a new boarding pass. Eventually we got to Mexico, and that was really nice, too.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
About the Noise
Hey Universe,
I keep asking you for silence. I understand there would have to be some kind of foxy force majeure at work to actually make that happen here where I live, 15 feet from a major highway and bordered on one side by a New York City local truck route. That the trucks are local does not make them somehow more charming or organic, it merely means they originate or terminate here in Brooklyn.
It seems to more I ask for silence the more noise I get. Today the street outside my front window is being repaved and there is a generator running that has emitted a constant tone that has not stopped once for a breath once since about nine p.m. last night. It sounds very similar to the shabbas airhorn that sounds every Friday evening at the shul two blocks from here, the call to prayer. But a never ending call to prayer, without vibrato, like an earnest folk singer's end note, held too long, trying to keep the crowd there long past when interest has faded.
So there's a never ending call to prayer going on outside my window and I keep asking for the noise to stop. And according to the neglected piano here to my left, it's a high C.
I'm going to go answer the call to prayer now, even though it won't make the call stop. The call will keep on calling, endlessly, asking us to step in and take part, and I'll find something new to ask for, since the answer for now is clear.
I keep asking you for silence. I understand there would have to be some kind of foxy force majeure at work to actually make that happen here where I live, 15 feet from a major highway and bordered on one side by a New York City local truck route. That the trucks are local does not make them somehow more charming or organic, it merely means they originate or terminate here in Brooklyn.
It seems to more I ask for silence the more noise I get. Today the street outside my front window is being repaved and there is a generator running that has emitted a constant tone that has not stopped once for a breath once since about nine p.m. last night. It sounds very similar to the shabbas airhorn that sounds every Friday evening at the shul two blocks from here, the call to prayer. But a never ending call to prayer, without vibrato, like an earnest folk singer's end note, held too long, trying to keep the crowd there long past when interest has faded.
So there's a never ending call to prayer going on outside my window and I keep asking for the noise to stop. And according to the neglected piano here to my left, it's a high C.
I'm going to go answer the call to prayer now, even though it won't make the call stop. The call will keep on calling, endlessly, asking us to step in and take part, and I'll find something new to ask for, since the answer for now is clear.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hey Universe
Hey Universe,
I've been like an old white wall for the last six months. Blank but marred, scuffed up, getting by on the appearance of having once been shiny and new. Not one word to put in here or out there with you has crossed my brain.
I've been a good listener. I've always been a good listener, a good observer, a creepy starer, looking for details -- with my public relations clients, it's key differentiators. How are you different. How are you special. How do you matter.
The trajectory of my life, the whole shmegegge, is like the bastard lovechild of William Faulkner and Jackie Collins with a bit of Goodbye Columbus thrown in there for flavor. How on earth could I have nothing to write about? My own life has stunned me still. No dad, tragic and troubled family with enough heart warmth to restart a failed sun but tape and string where there should be bones.
I'm afraid one wrong word could kill them all, wipe out my tribe, so I say something crazy, then shut up, say something offensive, then shut up. Sit very still, say the crazy things to the other family I've assembled on the side who thank God thinks the great majority of what comes out of my mouth is alright.
I am very grateful, Universe, for all the good and I'm grateful for all the bad. I'm grateful for my addled brain and I'm grateful for the people I loved who died. I'm grateful to live in this incredible country where everything can go ragged and putrid and you have the opportunity to open your mouth and fight for it. I'm disgusted, today, watching the teabaggers (but thank you so much for the nom de stupide) who see an iota of their entitlement slip away and suddenly think secession is patriotic.
And here's where that crazy trajectory comes in. One of the people leading the teabag movement assaulted me years ago. Seriously, who is writing this stuff?
What I'm grateful for right at this moment:
I am grateful for the husband who is smarter than anyone else I've met yet and has the same dank humor and righteous indignation that I do, who hates hypocrisy and somehow loves sloppy strange me.
I'm grateful for my American best friend, in many ways the love of my life, the stranger whose eyes met mine across a room, who by God gets it gets it gets it.
I'm grateful for the British best friend, the keeper of our history, the earth mama philosopher, who I don't give enough to and I expect it to bite me in the ass one day.
I'm grateful for the beautiful child put in my care and I'll just say it here and spit between my fingers as I type- he is the smartest, the tallest, the wackiest, the brightest, the most incredible by far, and his mama -- your mama, Buddha -- would reach across time for him.
So hey Universe. Let the synchronicities continue. Let the nonsense pour out me. Let seekers sift through it until they find something to hang on to. Or not. Let me talk and talk and talk and not hold back for fear of what it will do to them, or me, or you, what anyone will analyze or refute or pass along.
Universe, open up, I want back in.
I've been like an old white wall for the last six months. Blank but marred, scuffed up, getting by on the appearance of having once been shiny and new. Not one word to put in here or out there with you has crossed my brain.
I've been a good listener. I've always been a good listener, a good observer, a creepy starer, looking for details -- with my public relations clients, it's key differentiators. How are you different. How are you special. How do you matter.
The trajectory of my life, the whole shmegegge, is like the bastard lovechild of William Faulkner and Jackie Collins with a bit of Goodbye Columbus thrown in there for flavor. How on earth could I have nothing to write about? My own life has stunned me still. No dad, tragic and troubled family with enough heart warmth to restart a failed sun but tape and string where there should be bones.
I'm afraid one wrong word could kill them all, wipe out my tribe, so I say something crazy, then shut up, say something offensive, then shut up. Sit very still, say the crazy things to the other family I've assembled on the side who thank God thinks the great majority of what comes out of my mouth is alright.
I am very grateful, Universe, for all the good and I'm grateful for all the bad. I'm grateful for my addled brain and I'm grateful for the people I loved who died. I'm grateful to live in this incredible country where everything can go ragged and putrid and you have the opportunity to open your mouth and fight for it. I'm disgusted, today, watching the teabaggers (but thank you so much for the nom de stupide) who see an iota of their entitlement slip away and suddenly think secession is patriotic.
And here's where that crazy trajectory comes in. One of the people leading the teabag movement assaulted me years ago. Seriously, who is writing this stuff?
What I'm grateful for right at this moment:
I am grateful for the husband who is smarter than anyone else I've met yet and has the same dank humor and righteous indignation that I do, who hates hypocrisy and somehow loves sloppy strange me.
I'm grateful for my American best friend, in many ways the love of my life, the stranger whose eyes met mine across a room, who by God gets it gets it gets it.
I'm grateful for the British best friend, the keeper of our history, the earth mama philosopher, who I don't give enough to and I expect it to bite me in the ass one day.
I'm grateful for the beautiful child put in my care and I'll just say it here and spit between my fingers as I type- he is the smartest, the tallest, the wackiest, the brightest, the most incredible by far, and his mama -- your mama, Buddha -- would reach across time for him.
So hey Universe. Let the synchronicities continue. Let the nonsense pour out me. Let seekers sift through it until they find something to hang on to. Or not. Let me talk and talk and talk and not hold back for fear of what it will do to them, or me, or you, what anyone will analyze or refute or pass along.
Universe, open up, I want back in.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Answers From My Buddha
I am normally very reticent to blog anything about my son, who I'll call The Buddha (his dad calls him that sometimes, it's not a reference to Five Corners). I'm pretty reticent for him to have any kind of virtual life, because, at the age of three, he has no control over it. However, he spoke the truth yesterday, so I'm writing it here.
My friend The Goddess Devi has been having some troubles of late. Most goddesses, and literary heroes for that matter, have to go on an involved series of adventures or a quest in order to become the king of their own lives. They have to fight their way out of their father's head, or figure a way in and out of Hades. They have to suck all the blood out of the demon Raktabija. In The Goddess Devi's case, they have to go live with their parents while they await, have, and recuperate from surgery, and life goes into a numbing stasis that breeds uncertainty, doubt, and an increasing suspicion that doom lives in Toronto.
So The Buddha and I were playing with his toy trains yesterday afternoon, and since he has a talent for knowing what's bothering people and animals, I said to him "Buddha's name here, is there anything I can do to help The Goddess Devi that I haven't thought of?" And without looking up from the wooden tracks he said "Um, give her medicine, and music, and books, and Sesame Street. That's all anyone ever needs."
TGD, an email package is on the way. Buddha, thank you for being the Universe, and for being you.
My friend The Goddess Devi has been having some troubles of late. Most goddesses, and literary heroes for that matter, have to go on an involved series of adventures or a quest in order to become the king of their own lives. They have to fight their way out of their father's head, or figure a way in and out of Hades. They have to suck all the blood out of the demon Raktabija. In The Goddess Devi's case, they have to go live with their parents while they await, have, and recuperate from surgery, and life goes into a numbing stasis that breeds uncertainty, doubt, and an increasing suspicion that doom lives in Toronto.
So The Buddha and I were playing with his toy trains yesterday afternoon, and since he has a talent for knowing what's bothering people and animals, I said to him "Buddha's name here, is there anything I can do to help The Goddess Devi that I haven't thought of?" And without looking up from the wooden tracks he said "Um, give her medicine, and music, and books, and Sesame Street. That's all anyone ever needs."
TGD, an email package is on the way. Buddha, thank you for being the Universe, and for being you.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Universe, Thanks For The New Talent. Yick.
My mom is empathic, but it's in a way that I've always been able to accept, because she's my mom. Like when I was in Woodstock on vacation a few years ago and got a sudden toothache, and called her two days later and mentioned I'd had a tooth pulled and her response was "The second tooth from the back on the lower left?" Yes, Mom. .
My mom has been doing stuff like that my whole life, and because it's my mom and we're very connected anyway, and also because it's a little annoying in that way only your mom can be because she seems to know EVERYTHING, it never struck me as all that strange.
Except now. Athena is ill and I went to see her a few days ago. It was a bit like that scene in "Be Kind, Rewind," where every time Jack Black walks by the television the static goes in waves because he's magnetized. I went near her, I felt sick, she felt better. I walked away, I felt better, she felt worse. I'm assuming she got her appetite back yesterday afternoon, because I was ravenously hungry for no good reason.
If nothing else, it's an eye-opener about how 'one' we all really are. And Mom, I'll never make fun of you again. This kind of sucks, in the coolest possible way. Love you, Mom.
Peace,
Jen
My mom has been doing stuff like that my whole life, and because it's my mom and we're very connected anyway, and also because it's a little annoying in that way only your mom can be because she seems to know EVERYTHING, it never struck me as all that strange.
Except now. Athena is ill and I went to see her a few days ago. It was a bit like that scene in "Be Kind, Rewind," where every time Jack Black walks by the television the static goes in waves because he's magnetized. I went near her, I felt sick, she felt better. I walked away, I felt better, she felt worse. I'm assuming she got her appetite back yesterday afternoon, because I was ravenously hungry for no good reason.
If nothing else, it's an eye-opener about how 'one' we all really are. And Mom, I'll never make fun of you again. This kind of sucks, in the coolest possible way. Love you, Mom.
Peace,
Jen
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Post 100
"When a question is posed ceremoniously, the universe responds."
--Chinese Proverb. Came across it noodling around online today.
Here we are at the 100th post, and I've been blogging here for just over a year. Since I promised to not only pose questions to the Universe, but also post the results, here are a few.
The blog was a good idea.
He's gone, but he's been right here the whole time, and I know it now.
Sometimes poetry actually helps.
Jenny just moved to Italy.
And I am now singing and doing yoga and jewelry-making, all the things I wanted to do and couldn't figure out how to do them. I've managed to drop the veil of the 'how' and just 'do,' and that took alot of help.
What has thrilled me most is other people asking to post here. It is a growing group belief, or at least hope, that throwing a bottle with a message in it can change something. You can call that speaking your piece, or speaking your peace, or the law of attraction, or prayer, or whatever else you want. What has thrilled me is what people want -- health, peace, purpose, understanding, an end to conflict, for themselves and for others. To put it in the ground.
I've moved into the thinking of our generation's only brilliant popular philosopher to date, Yoda, who said it best. Do, or do not. There is no try.
I've learned only one thing, really, and that's that all of the questions I could ever ask here have already been answered. It's a matter of who said it in the way I can hear it. I'm working on improving my hearing, so the method matters less.
Be well, thank you for reading,
Jen
--Chinese Proverb. Came across it noodling around online today.
Here we are at the 100th post, and I've been blogging here for just over a year. Since I promised to not only pose questions to the Universe, but also post the results, here are a few.
The blog was a good idea.
He's gone, but he's been right here the whole time, and I know it now.
Sometimes poetry actually helps.
Jenny just moved to Italy.
And I am now singing and doing yoga and jewelry-making, all the things I wanted to do and couldn't figure out how to do them. I've managed to drop the veil of the 'how' and just 'do,' and that took alot of help.
What has thrilled me most is other people asking to post here. It is a growing group belief, or at least hope, that throwing a bottle with a message in it can change something. You can call that speaking your piece, or speaking your peace, or the law of attraction, or prayer, or whatever else you want. What has thrilled me is what people want -- health, peace, purpose, understanding, an end to conflict, for themselves and for others. To put it in the ground.
I've moved into the thinking of our generation's only brilliant popular philosopher to date, Yoda, who said it best. Do, or do not. There is no try.
I've learned only one thing, really, and that's that all of the questions I could ever ask here have already been answered. It's a matter of who said it in the way I can hear it. I'm working on improving my hearing, so the method matters less.
Be well, thank you for reading,
Jen
Friday, August 8, 2008
Guest Post From Mr. E
Here goes:
"A friend of mine just moved home. At least back to his home town. He got a job supposedly in his field, but finds himself dong all the grunt work and none of the things he went to school or trained for many years to do. He's pretty miserable about it because what was supposed to be a creative position has turned into a job plugging numbers and doing exactly what his boss wants with no input from his part.
On the social front, he's tried to connect with his old friends since moving back, but they've moved on with their lives over the year and a half he was out of town. They've gotten married, had kids, moved away, or have settled into a conservative lifestyle that has no room for him. He's working a lot and has no time to meet girls, so he languishes coming home late from work tired and playing video games to fill the time before he crashes out on his couch.
He's tried looking for a less demanding job, and he's tried to reach out to his old friends which are his only connection to the town( His parents moved out years ago) but he's sinking into a distinct depression and frustration.
He wants to throw everything away, move again, start over, but I keep telling him that if he can't make the changes in himself where he is, he won't make the changes whereever he moves. He may be in the same situation with even less connection.
I want him to get his job situation fixed, and figure out his social situation. I want his old friends to be more open and recognize that he's back. 'd like him to be able to find the friends he needs and to be able to build a happy life He's one of my best friends, and on the phone sometimes he sounds like he's losing it with depression. If I lived closer, I would help, but I'm not able to.I'm asking the universe to help him out. "
Go, Universe, Go!
"A friend of mine just moved home. At least back to his home town. He got a job supposedly in his field, but finds himself dong all the grunt work and none of the things he went to school or trained for many years to do. He's pretty miserable about it because what was supposed to be a creative position has turned into a job plugging numbers and doing exactly what his boss wants with no input from his part.
On the social front, he's tried to connect with his old friends since moving back, but they've moved on with their lives over the year and a half he was out of town. They've gotten married, had kids, moved away, or have settled into a conservative lifestyle that has no room for him. He's working a lot and has no time to meet girls, so he languishes coming home late from work tired and playing video games to fill the time before he crashes out on his couch.
He's tried looking for a less demanding job, and he's tried to reach out to his old friends which are his only connection to the town( His parents moved out years ago) but he's sinking into a distinct depression and frustration.
He wants to throw everything away, move again, start over, but I keep telling him that if he can't make the changes in himself where he is, he won't make the changes whereever he moves. He may be in the same situation with even less connection.
I want him to get his job situation fixed, and figure out his social situation. I want his old friends to be more open and recognize that he's back. 'd like him to be able to find the friends he needs and to be able to build a happy life He's one of my best friends, and on the phone sometimes he sounds like he's losing it with depression. If I lived closer, I would help, but I'm not able to.I'm asking the universe to help him out. "
Go, Universe, Go!
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
God 2.0 and TMI
I just took my first look at #21 in awhile, where I reference not being to listen to the Garbage song #1 Crush without thinking of my friend Owen. As I was reading it, I was listening to the little radio station on Fred Flare, where I'd been looking for an alarm clock. As I'm reading #21, #1 Crush came on the radio. It's 1 of maybe 60 songs on the whole thing. So, thank you God 2.0, or thank you coincidence. Either one works.
I'm getting down with my kumbaya roots (raised by wolves dressed like hippies, that's the short version) and asking for world peace today, which is a little like asking for the fabric of the whole world to be ripped to shreds and rewoven with a tighter and softer hand to it, maybe out of the undyed wool of very cheerful sheep. But I want war to end, I want everyone to go to bed with a full belly, I want torture and rape as a war weapon to stop, I want people to stop getting killed over land or God or ideas. It's what I want, and it's not well thought out or remotely logical, but I'm pretty okay with the fact that I'm basically hurtling emotions with curly hair. I have to be okay with that; I have to wake up with me every day, and I'm done changing.
I'm always asking for the little things, hoping they'll add up to the big things. Now here's a big thing. I hope it helps all the little things.
Love --
I'm getting down with my kumbaya roots (raised by wolves dressed like hippies, that's the short version) and asking for world peace today, which is a little like asking for the fabric of the whole world to be ripped to shreds and rewoven with a tighter and softer hand to it, maybe out of the undyed wool of very cheerful sheep. But I want war to end, I want everyone to go to bed with a full belly, I want torture and rape as a war weapon to stop, I want people to stop getting killed over land or God or ideas. It's what I want, and it's not well thought out or remotely logical, but I'm pretty okay with the fact that I'm basically hurtling emotions with curly hair. I have to be okay with that; I have to wake up with me every day, and I'm done changing.
I'm always asking for the little things, hoping they'll add up to the big things. Now here's a big thing. I hope it helps all the little things.
Love --
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Universe, We're All Beautiful. Show Us.
Well, I have a wonderful neighbor named Sharon who survived cancer and over a year of painful treatments. One of the things that got her through it was subscribing to every fashion magazine in exsistence and letting her eyes wander over the lipsticks and hairstyles and other things of no consequence, just to look at something pretty, just to be somewhere else. She is in remission but still has all these subscriptions, and when she's done looking at the magazines, she leaves them on my doorstep.
Now, I'm a speed reader, plus your average issue of Lucky is more or less a photo montage with about 500 words in the entire magazine, all of which are at a sixth grade reading level or below. It takes me twenty minutes to finish one, but those twenty minutes are candy-colored mindless bliss compared to the rest of my life, and it's an old unbreakable habit for someone who started reading Seventeen at age 11.
This month's In Style, which Sharon dropped off last night, is mostly about finding your personal style. One of the articles had interviews with various fashion designers on the subject. Remember, fashion designers meet all kinds of women, but they meet many women in the upper echelons of the 'rich-beautiful-thin' bracket.
So I was especially stunned to read this quote from one of the designers: "I don't know one woman who likes her body. Not a single one."
Ladies. Universe. I know there are bigger problems. But we're in the society we're in, and it happens to be one where our bodies block the exits and don't let us walk out the door into the world for some dancing in the streets. So think about this. Not one woman likes her body the way it is. Isn't that horrendous? All those people whose bodies you've wished you had -- not happy either. It's a giant trap.
Ladies. Universe. I know this is not that simple, and even less simple for anyone whose body and mind are particularly locked in a struggle with eachother, whether that is an eating disorder, fear of being attractive, an absolute belief you are ugly, or just your average battle with your weight.
Let's operate from the assumption that you are beautiful right now, as you are, as you showed up, as you have become. You are beautiful. You are beautiful. I know you are. And I am too. What happens next?
Universe, your turn.
Now, I'm a speed reader, plus your average issue of Lucky is more or less a photo montage with about 500 words in the entire magazine, all of which are at a sixth grade reading level or below. It takes me twenty minutes to finish one, but those twenty minutes are candy-colored mindless bliss compared to the rest of my life, and it's an old unbreakable habit for someone who started reading Seventeen at age 11.
This month's In Style, which Sharon dropped off last night, is mostly about finding your personal style. One of the articles had interviews with various fashion designers on the subject. Remember, fashion designers meet all kinds of women, but they meet many women in the upper echelons of the 'rich-beautiful-thin' bracket.
So I was especially stunned to read this quote from one of the designers: "I don't know one woman who likes her body. Not a single one."
Ladies. Universe. I know there are bigger problems. But we're in the society we're in, and it happens to be one where our bodies block the exits and don't let us walk out the door into the world for some dancing in the streets. So think about this. Not one woman likes her body the way it is. Isn't that horrendous? All those people whose bodies you've wished you had -- not happy either. It's a giant trap.
Ladies. Universe. I know this is not that simple, and even less simple for anyone whose body and mind are particularly locked in a struggle with eachother, whether that is an eating disorder, fear of being attractive, an absolute belief you are ugly, or just your average battle with your weight.
Let's operate from the assumption that you are beautiful right now, as you are, as you showed up, as you have become. You are beautiful. You are beautiful. I know you are. And I am too. What happens next?
Universe, your turn.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Wow
God wrote back (see comment 3)! At least, one of the faces of God. Still waiting on you, Morrissey.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Universe, I Need A Raise
Please know, dear blogosphere, that I've had a really strong cup of coffee.
I told my husband this morning that last night I gave up. I was up with our son for about an hour in the middle of the night helping him settle down after a nightmare. Drew (The Husband) thought when I said "I gave up" that I had somehow lost my parenting marbles at 3 in the morning and plunged Will (The Son)'s head into a hot fudge sundae and then built a ball pit in our bathroom.
"It's OK that you gave up. It was late and whatever you needed to do to get him to sleep, I support you."
"Oh, no," I said, "That was fine. I meant I gave up on all my hopes and dreams last night."
Short pause as he pours coffee, then "Ah. Way to go, Job."
And I did by the way actually lie in bed last night (after having helped my son rank the twenty-five different angles at which his feet could possibly be tucked under his blanket) and say, out loud, "Universe, I give up. I give up. I give up."
I'm not sad or depressed or despondent. I think life is pretty awesome. The people in my life are exceptional. Drew and I are happy. My son floats around on a tiny little motor-powered cloud and emits sunshine and I have to keep my mouth shut about how fabulous he is 90 percent of the time I'm thinking it so I don't sound nuts and so the women (or men, whatever works) in his life in the future have half a chance.
However, there's a lot of half-fixed stuff in my life that I thought I was going to complete through sheer willpower, or chutzpah, or by singing a song from Mary Poppins (and I do the most awesome Julie Andrews accent, which is all the better when it comes out of a Jewish-Puerto Rican person like myself). My apartment is half-nice, but then you open the door to our bedroom and the zombies fall out. Our kitchen cabinets are about to FALL OFF THE WALL (it's kooky) and we don't have the money to fix them. We're halfway out of an enormous debt. My current job is cool, but I'm still really broke, and it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life. I don't blog enough and I haven't finshed a big project for my dad's business that I promised him I would do. I got all the plants in on our deck but the deck itself looks like the opening credits of "Sanford and Son". My husband is sick right now, and just lost a big client, and I feel like we're blankly staring into the future, blinking occassionally, not really knowing how to pull it off.
I'm out of optimism. I need it all to come together already. I've spent ten years saying it will, and some of it plain hasn't and just might not. I need a clean, completed house, I need a rollicking career. I need, it seems like, a hundred thousand dollars to politely climb up my yoga pants leg and into my pocket. And Universe, you know me, I'll pay this jazz back tenfold, but really, I give up.
Help, please. You know where to find me. Still love you, Universe.
Jen
I told my husband this morning that last night I gave up. I was up with our son for about an hour in the middle of the night helping him settle down after a nightmare. Drew (The Husband) thought when I said "I gave up" that I had somehow lost my parenting marbles at 3 in the morning and plunged Will (The Son)'s head into a hot fudge sundae and then built a ball pit in our bathroom.
"It's OK that you gave up. It was late and whatever you needed to do to get him to sleep, I support you."
"Oh, no," I said, "That was fine. I meant I gave up on all my hopes and dreams last night."
Short pause as he pours coffee, then "Ah. Way to go, Job."
And I did by the way actually lie in bed last night (after having helped my son rank the twenty-five different angles at which his feet could possibly be tucked under his blanket) and say, out loud, "Universe, I give up. I give up. I give up."
I'm not sad or depressed or despondent. I think life is pretty awesome. The people in my life are exceptional. Drew and I are happy. My son floats around on a tiny little motor-powered cloud and emits sunshine and I have to keep my mouth shut about how fabulous he is 90 percent of the time I'm thinking it so I don't sound nuts and so the women (or men, whatever works) in his life in the future have half a chance.
However, there's a lot of half-fixed stuff in my life that I thought I was going to complete through sheer willpower, or chutzpah, or by singing a song from Mary Poppins (and I do the most awesome Julie Andrews accent, which is all the better when it comes out of a Jewish-Puerto Rican person like myself). My apartment is half-nice, but then you open the door to our bedroom and the zombies fall out. Our kitchen cabinets are about to FALL OFF THE WALL (it's kooky) and we don't have the money to fix them. We're halfway out of an enormous debt. My current job is cool, but I'm still really broke, and it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life. I don't blog enough and I haven't finshed a big project for my dad's business that I promised him I would do. I got all the plants in on our deck but the deck itself looks like the opening credits of "Sanford and Son". My husband is sick right now, and just lost a big client, and I feel like we're blankly staring into the future, blinking occassionally, not really knowing how to pull it off.
I'm out of optimism. I need it all to come together already. I've spent ten years saying it will, and some of it plain hasn't and just might not. I need a clean, completed house, I need a rollicking career. I need, it seems like, a hundred thousand dollars to politely climb up my yoga pants leg and into my pocket. And Universe, you know me, I'll pay this jazz back tenfold, but really, I give up.
Help, please. You know where to find me. Still love you, Universe.
Jen
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Guest Post: Faith With No Fear, Please
A guest post from the lovely and talented JP! With an addendum, no less! Because I should have posted this like a month ago and lost the original email! Yay!:
"I have been thinking hard about what I would ask for from the universe. I have been surprised because the answer does not automatically come.
"In giving it so much thought I have made an alarming discovery. I am smart. I have a wonderful husband, a delightful dog, remarkably talented and supportive friends, I am close to finishing my master's degree (something I have wanted for a long time), The people in my inner circle are, for the most part, happy, healthy and free, and yet, I am often at a loss for faith.
"I realized that I don't know what to ask the universe for because I don't feel like I deserve to ask for anything. Isn't that just the worst thing you have ever heard? I am so lucky in my life and yet I am so scared of the future. I want so much and yet I worry that I haven't earned the right to ask for any of it. Somewhere along the way I learned that life is supposed to be difficult and challenging and that blood, sweat and tears is the only way to get results. I have spent a lot of my adult life not trying because if you never try you can't really fail.
"So here it is.
"I want to ask the Universe for faith in my own future.
"I don't want to be scared of what comes next because I don't want to find myself too scared to pursue my dreams fully. I want children. I want to make a living doing what I love. I don't want to make compromises that give me excuses for settling for less. I don't want to look back in ten years and have regrets about what I did with my time. And most importantly, I don't want to waste any more time worrying that I might not achieve all of the things I just listed.
"So there you go, my friend with the ear of the universe...... faith with no fear please."
And the addendum:
While reading your return to the blogoverse, I dug up my "ask the universe" piece to re-send you. I have attached it below..... BUT interestingly.... in the world of sort-of-success-stories, I think it would be prudent to also include that the following things have happened to me since I came to California three weeks ago (now the proud holder of a masters degree)..... I received a letter from the chair of the Brooklyn College Theatre Department telling me that I have been recommended by the department to be an Adjunct Lecturer in Theatre for the fall semester... AND it looks like I will be teaching two or three workshop classes in period acting styles for a summer theatre program for teens run out of Queensborough Community College when I get back to NYC in July. Way to go Universe!
---
Exclamation point mine. I love you, JP.
Peace,
Jen
"I have been thinking hard about what I would ask for from the universe. I have been surprised because the answer does not automatically come.
"In giving it so much thought I have made an alarming discovery. I am smart. I have a wonderful husband, a delightful dog, remarkably talented and supportive friends, I am
"I realized that I don't know what to ask the universe for because I don't feel like I deserve to ask for anything. Isn't that just the worst thing you have ever heard? I am so lucky in my life and yet I am so scared of the future. I want so much and yet I worry that I haven't earned the right to ask for any of it. Somewhere along the way I learned that life is supposed to be difficult and challenging and that blood, sweat and tears is the only way to get results. I have spent a lot of my adult life not trying because if you never try you can't really fail.
"So here it is.
"I want to ask the Universe for faith in my own future.
"I don't want to be scared of what comes next because I don't want to find myself too scared to pursue my dreams fully. I want children. I want to make a living doing what I love. I don't want to make compromises that give me excuses for settling for less. I don't want to look back in ten years and have regrets about what I did with my time. And most importantly, I don't want to waste any more time worrying that I might not achieve all of the things I just listed.
"So there you go, my friend with the ear of the universe...... faith with no fear please."
And the addendum:
While reading your return to the blogoverse, I dug up my "ask the universe" piece to re-send you. I have attached it below..... BUT interestingly.... in the world of sort-of-success-stories, I think it would be prudent to also include that the following things have happened to me since I came to California three weeks ago (now the proud holder of a masters degree)..... I received a letter from the chair of the Brooklyn College Theatre Department telling me that I have been recommended by the department to be an Adjunct Lecturer in Theatre for the fall semester... AND it looks like I will be teaching two or three workshop classes in period acting styles for a summer theatre program for teens run out of Queensborough Community College when I get back to NYC in July. Way to go Universe!
---
Exclamation point mine. I love you, JP.
Peace,
Jen
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Interverse, Keep Listening
I have a very large and swirling essay taking shape that may take awhile to work out so my posts are going to be short right now.
There was a horrible story over the weekend here in Brooklyn that made the national press. A three year old boy was apparently so horribly abused by his guardians that they killed him. It also seems that people in the neighborhood were aware of the abuse and did not report it. My son is three. My first thought was, I would have taken in this child.
My husband and I have spoken in vague terms over the years about becoming foster parents somewhere down the line. We've now agreed to find out what that would entail and if we could make it work. If we can't, we will then find out what form our desire to personally affect children's lives in a positive and nourishing way would take.
Here's what I want, Interverse.
I want to have a direct effect, through direct action, on changing the horror out there in the world. One tiny piece. Whatever I can handle. Give me the thing I can change, whether it is an action I can take or a person I can love. I'll know it when I see it.
And if you can work it, I'd like to see the horrible stories in the news affect others this way too. I'm tired of hearing people sigh and gasp over things that are horrible; I'm tired of reading blog rants that make the ranter feel like an activist when all they've actually done is relieve themselves of their rage.
Action. Action. Action.
Be well,
Jen
There was a horrible story over the weekend here in Brooklyn that made the national press. A three year old boy was apparently so horribly abused by his guardians that they killed him. It also seems that people in the neighborhood were aware of the abuse and did not report it. My son is three. My first thought was, I would have taken in this child.
My husband and I have spoken in vague terms over the years about becoming foster parents somewhere down the line. We've now agreed to find out what that would entail and if we could make it work. If we can't, we will then find out what form our desire to personally affect children's lives in a positive and nourishing way would take.
Here's what I want, Interverse.
I want to have a direct effect, through direct action, on changing the horror out there in the world. One tiny piece. Whatever I can handle. Give me the thing I can change, whether it is an action I can take or a person I can love. I'll know it when I see it.
And if you can work it, I'd like to see the horrible stories in the news affect others this way too. I'm tired of hearing people sigh and gasp over things that are horrible; I'm tired of reading blog rants that make the ranter feel like an activist when all they've actually done is relieve themselves of their rage.
Action. Action. Action.
Be well,
Jen
Monday, June 9, 2008
Hey Universe, et al
I walked out of this dark, warm friendly place about two and a half months ago into the glaring sun and tried to figure out exactly what I wanted when I came back here. I didn't. But I missed writing, and thank you to the people who wrote me to say the writing was missed.
Blogs are puzzling. You either chronicle your every waking moment, or comment snidely on someone else's every waking moment. Or you write about a broad obsession (food) or a narrow one (your adventures in becoming an expert in making, I don't know, vegan sausage, that then becomes a crazy trend in your tiny town and suddenly there's a 200 person waitlist to get into the monthly tempeh-casing-stuffing meet-up being held on your back porch). The word "I" makes many appearances. You only have to have opinions, or be a smarty-pants about something in an effort to be read by all the lesser smarty-pantses.
I started this blog with one intent: to trick myself into doing something (writing) that I feel guilty about not doing enough by setting a constraint (make a wish every day! piece of cake!). As tends to happen when you are me (just wait til you are me, you'll be glad I gave you these instructions), the simple trick unfolded into an endless moibus strip. Because now I don't just want to write every day to appease my sense of guilt*. I want to write my way out of a corner and into the everything. I want to write my way into understanding what we want as individuals, as members of the American family and as a planet. I want to be one window into understanding the meaning of life and what our purpose can be -- and I know there are already many windows out there, but it looks to me like many more are needed.
My hope, Universe, is to become one more window into you. And to write the word "I" alot less. And for this to eventually be what I do all day long.
I know this is vague, but like everybody else, I'm struggling to find the words to describe the mystery. In the meantime, send a postcard. A care package would be nice too. If you sent me a query for the universe and don't see it here, resend it. My computer died and is being revived in Memphis, TN. Hopefully it will get to visit Graceland when it's feeling better. If you want something and think God 2.0 might hear you if you yawp it out in cyberspace, send that here too.
With love for everyone, everything,
Jen
-----
*And I could cop out here and say it's Jewish guilt, which for me would be more like culutral quarter-Jewish guilt, but really it's not. It's the guilt of a native New Yorker, the guilt of not having as much ambition as everyone else who came here to get themselves on every square of the Monopoly board. As a result you berate yourself about not having the ambition, or you fake the ambition, or you move to the suburbs. EOM.
Blogs are puzzling. You either chronicle your every waking moment, or comment snidely on someone else's every waking moment. Or you write about a broad obsession (food) or a narrow one (your adventures in becoming an expert in making, I don't know, vegan sausage, that then becomes a crazy trend in your tiny town and suddenly there's a 200 person waitlist to get into the monthly tempeh-casing-stuffing meet-up being held on your back porch). The word "I" makes many appearances. You only have to have opinions, or be a smarty-pants about something in an effort to be read by all the lesser smarty-pantses.
I started this blog with one intent: to trick myself into doing something (writing) that I feel guilty about not doing enough by setting a constraint (make a wish every day! piece of cake!). As tends to happen when you are me (just wait til you are me, you'll be glad I gave you these instructions), the simple trick unfolded into an endless moibus strip. Because now I don't just want to write every day to appease my sense of guilt*. I want to write my way out of a corner and into the everything. I want to write my way into understanding what we want as individuals, as members of the American family and as a planet. I want to be one window into understanding the meaning of life and what our purpose can be -- and I know there are already many windows out there, but it looks to me like many more are needed.
My hope, Universe, is to become one more window into you. And to write the word "I" alot less. And for this to eventually be what I do all day long.
I know this is vague, but like everybody else, I'm struggling to find the words to describe the mystery. In the meantime, send a postcard. A care package would be nice too. If you sent me a query for the universe and don't see it here, resend it. My computer died and is being revived in Memphis, TN. Hopefully it will get to visit Graceland when it's feeling better. If you want something and think God 2.0 might hear you if you yawp it out in cyberspace, send that here too.
With love for everyone, everything,
Jen
-----
*And I could cop out here and say it's Jewish guilt, which for me would be more like culutral quarter-Jewish guilt, but really it's not. It's the guilt of a native New Yorker, the guilt of not having as much ambition as everyone else who came here to get themselves on every square of the Monopoly board. As a result you berate yourself about not having the ambition, or you fake the ambition, or you move to the suburbs. EOM.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Universe, Please Bitchslap The Stupid
An extra request from The Husband. In general, having stupidity met with a neverending backhand sounds like a good idea, but I love the specificity (although I cannot pronounce 'specificity') of asking the Mighty Nothingness to collar four idiots who perpetrated an idiotic crime, and one that is plain embarassing to fellow humans.
Boston, we still love ya. I'm WELL aware that NYC has its share of people who do dumb things (see: former Governor Spitzer, for one). And sure, was it smart to wear the Yankee cap into the bar? No. But was it about a thousand times stupider to beat someone to a pulp because he likes a sports team you don't like, according to his hat? Yes, a thousand times stupider. And assault-ier, and crime-ier, and hopefully jail-time-ier.
EDIT: And one more thing. On the long list of How To Fight Fair, kicking someone in the head while he lies on the ground is at the absolute bottom. Cowards.
From The Husband:
When you have a moment, would you please ask the Universe to identify to the Boston PD the four idiots in the article below? Not because they are Boston fans, but because this sort of thing needs to stop and maybe an arrest and actual time served might do SOMETHING to deter others. Crap like fanatics and mob mentality actually makes me nauseous.
Today's Sports Idiocy, courtesy of Pregame.com .
Red Sox Fans Send Yankee Fan to Hospital
by RJ_Bell on 03/09/2008 9:03 AM
(from the web) Cambridge - The official start to the 2008 baseball season is about a month away, but the age-old rivalry between the Yankees and Red Sox is already getting ugly.
A group of men some with Irish accents beat up a 23-year-old Cambridge man and sent him to the hospital after they spotted him sporting a Yankees baseball cap.
Witnesses told police the group of apparent diehard Red Sox fans beat up the victims after an argument inside a Central Square bar. The group then ran away on Mass. Ave. towards Harvard Square.
The Yankees fan was transported to the hospital March 2 at 1:41 a.m. for medical treatment for head injuries, including swelling over his entire face and several facial cuts, according to police reports.
The victims sobbing girlfriend told police the couple went to the Cantab Lounge at 738 Mass. Ave. midnight Saturday. The couple was inside the bar for a while when a large group of people came up to them and started arguing with the victim because he was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, according to police reports.
The couple left the bar without further confrontation, but the group allegedly followed them outside on the street as they walked home, according to reports.
Then the mob of Red Sox fans allegedly threw the victim to the ground and repeatedly kicked him. The girlfriend and a couple of women who were with the suspects unsuccessfully tried to pull the Red Sox fans off the victim, according to police reports.
The victim told police he could not clearly remember what happened and only recalled getting into an argument about his baseball cap, leaving the bar and lying on the ground while the men kicked him in the head.
The attackers are described as four white men. One of the men was last seen wearing a blue and white striped shirt.
Boston, we still love ya. I'm WELL aware that NYC has its share of people who do dumb things (see: former Governor Spitzer, for one). And sure, was it smart to wear the Yankee cap into the bar? No. But was it about a thousand times stupider to beat someone to a pulp because he likes a sports team you don't like, according to his hat? Yes, a thousand times stupider. And assault-ier, and crime-ier, and hopefully jail-time-ier.
EDIT: And one more thing. On the long list of How To Fight Fair, kicking someone in the head while he lies on the ground is at the absolute bottom. Cowards.
From The Husband:
When you have a moment, would you please ask the Universe to identify to the Boston PD the four idiots in the article below? Not because they are Boston fans, but because this sort of thing needs to stop and maybe an arrest and actual time served might do SOMETHING to deter others. Crap like fanatics and mob mentality actually makes me nauseous.
Today's Sports Idiocy, courtesy of Pregame.com .
Red Sox Fans Send Yankee Fan to Hospital
by RJ_Bell on 03/09/2008 9:03 AM
(from the web) Cambridge - The official start to the 2008 baseball season is about a month away, but the age-old rivalry between the Yankees and Red Sox is already getting ugly.
A group of men some with Irish accents beat up a 23-year-old Cambridge man and sent him to the hospital after they spotted him sporting a Yankees baseball cap.
Witnesses told police the group of apparent diehard Red Sox fans beat up the victims after an argument inside a Central Square bar. The group then ran away on Mass. Ave. towards Harvard Square.
The Yankees fan was transported to the hospital March 2 at 1:41 a.m. for medical treatment for head injuries, including swelling over his entire face and several facial cuts, according to police reports.
The victims sobbing girlfriend told police the couple went to the Cantab Lounge at 738 Mass. Ave. midnight Saturday. The couple was inside the bar for a while when a large group of people came up to them and started arguing with the victim because he was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, according to police reports.
The couple left the bar without further confrontation, but the group allegedly followed them outside on the street as they walked home, according to reports.
Then the mob of Red Sox fans allegedly threw the victim to the ground and repeatedly kicked him. The girlfriend and a couple of women who were with the suspects unsuccessfully tried to pull the Red Sox fans off the victim, according to police reports.
The victim told police he could not clearly remember what happened and only recalled getting into an argument about his baseball cap, leaving the bar and lying on the ground while the men kicked him in the head.
The attackers are described as four white men. One of the men was last seen wearing a blue and white striped shirt.
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