I Was a Better Person When I Was Nine.

When I was nine years old my father and I moved from a lavish, upper-middle class suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of Thornton, Colorado to a dingy trailer park in the poor white area of Van Nuys, California. When we went to enroll me in the neighborhood school my father was unimpressed with the decrepit building and it's minority-majority student body (my dad was a bit of a bigot).

Instead, he found a sitter (ironically an attractive, young Hispanic lady) up the road a ways that could watch me in the morning so that I could attend school in the suburban area of Northridge.

My dad would drop me off at the sitters' house at four or five in the morning, I would amuse myself there until 7 and then I'd make the walk to school. Northridge was cleaner than Van Nuys but the sitter lived near the poorer end of town so I had to walk through it to get to my snobbish little school.

Along the way every day I'd see them; people sleeping on benches, under bushes and trees, wandering around looking dirty and lost. I'd see them digging through trash cans and smoking rolled cigarettes. They never seemed frightening to me though I guess they probably should have. They just seemed different. I had already taught myself to believe that different wasn't bad.

I asked my father about them and of course he told me to stay away from them; they were dirty and lazy and could not be trusted. I thought on that. Sure, they were dirty sometimes but not a one of them I encountered ever so much as came within reaching distance of me. I didn't understand why my father called them lazy because if they weren't sleeping they were usually always doing something. As with most of my fathers' comments, I heard his opinions but I didn't trust what he said to be true.

It got to the point where I could expect to see some of the same people every morning. Like the older man that was always hanging out near the first intersection I came to. He had crazy (Einstein style) white hair and always had on a dirt-dusted white t-shirt and a pair of old brown polyester trousers. He never said a word to me but he did always acknowledge my existence and I would smile brightly at him before crossing.

Then there were the three that hung out around the Target parking lot; one woman and two men. At the time they looked like they were in their early thirties. All wearing ripped jeans and t-shirts. After getting used to seeing me pass, the woman, when awake, would smile and say "good mornin' suga". I always smiled and waved back and returned the greeting. The guys with her never said a word.

Then came the panhandlers at the 7-11 across from the Target. They never bothered me, after all, I was just a kid! They knew they wouldn't get much out of me. Sometimes I stopped in at the 7-11 to get the gum we were forbidden to chew in class. Other times, I just kept walking. Beyond the 7-11 began the residential district, lined with neat, tidy, picturesque complexes and houses. Sometimes I would see random homeless people walk through there heading in the direction I was leaving.

One morning, I had packed an extra PB & J sandwich for my lunch and as one of these guys walked by me I got up the nerve to hold it out to him. He looked at me funny, I assured him I had another one, he said 'thank you' and walked away. I looked back to catch him opening the baggie and putting the sandwich to his mouth.

The rest of the way to school I had this sort of high feeling. I couldn't explain it but I was really happy. The next morning, I again packed an extra sandwich, this time I tried to give it to the old guy at the first intersection. He declined and I didn't push. Instead I gave it to a panhandler at the 7-11; an older, crazy looking lady. I didn't say anything, I just walked up to her, handed her the sandwich and walked away.

I couldn't pass out sandwiches every day or my father would have gotten suspicious. Some days I took other things; fruit, yogurt, cereal--food my dad bought for me that he wouldn't miss. I didn't do this ever day but I did do it as often as I could. I didn't tell the kids at school, I certainly wouldn't tell my father and I didn't know anyone else. As a kid, I did it because it made me feel good and in my mind it was something nice to do for someone else.

My lack of fear or pretentiousness then didn't strike me as being anything great. I was a kid, they were adults; I was taught to respect my elders. I didn't see them as any different from any other adult and I treated them exactly as I would any other adult. Even when I did give them things, I didn't get all weird about it. It was like I was handing in a homework assignment. I gave them whatever it was and walked away. No fuss. And I treated them exactly the same the next day and every other time.

My father and I left Van Nuys at the end of that school year and moved back to the hoity-toity area we had lived before heading to Cali. So, I didn't see destitute folks anymore. Instead I found other ways to get that "high" feeling. I joined student counsel at school and headed a "program" of 5th and 6th graders that went to the K-2nd grade classes and helped kids with reading.

During my teenage years, I was confined to classes and home so I didn't have an outlet with which to do my good deeds. I became just like my fellow classmates; preoccupied with my lack of friendly social-status-with the kids that made fun of me, with my friends and my studies. I was always willing to do nice things for others but sometimes it wasn't enough.

Now that I'm an adult, I find that I often times forget that part of me which I held so dear as a kid. I was proud of that and I don't do anything to exercise that part of my personality and demeanor. Oh, I have here or there.

I used to work at a coffee-shop in the downtown area of my small-minded pretentious Midwestern "city". Anyone could sit in the shop as long as they purchased something and stay for as long as they wanted. All of us employee's did what we could. I was not above buying a cup of coffee for someone just to give them somewhere to sit and relax for a bit. Sometimes a co-worker of mine and I would hand out the left-over coffee instead of dumping it. That's the one thing I've always loved about coffee shops (I'm talking real coffee shops not that Starbucks corporate bs) -the sense of camaraderie and community.

There was an older man who'd been a patron of the shop since it opened; he wasn't homeless but he was damn close. He always paid for his coffee but we used to give him the leftover soup at night even if there was enough to save for the next day.

My friend F reminded me a few months ago of the time a local crack addict was sitting outside the shop and I came in before my shift, bought a cup of coffee and took it out to her. I didn't know anyone had seen me do it. The woman wanders through the downtown area every day, sometimes only half dressed asking for money and we all knew what for. We weren't supposed to let her into the shop which I hated but we couldn't let her panhandle the customers. Keep in mind, I don't feel bad for her but I feel for her because she's human.

That's true of anyone really. I think we as a society have forgotten that. Regardless of any other fact about any other person...we are all human! We all deserve respect, freedom, food, clothing, and shelter BECAUSE we are human. Where did that philosophy go?

I didn't ask for her gratitude and I didn't make a big deal of the situation. She would have preferred money but I gave her the cup instead of my spare change and she was respectful enough to drink the coffee and let me go back to my job. F told me that it was one of the things that made her like me as a person. Truth is, it was one of the things that made ME like me as a person.

I want to do more. I find myself in a crunch here because the local 'assistance' programs are run by the Salvation Army, an organization I loathe, and will, in no way, assist. There are the churches that help out randomly but I'm not a church-go-er either. Still, I didn't need an organization to do things as a kid and I guess I don't need one now. What is it about growing up that makes you abandon some of the things you treasured as a child? Have I really become so jaded?

Sure, I don't treat destitute people like crap and sometimes I do remember to help in any way I can at the time. But, I, like most of my friends, have also turned my head and pretended not to see them. As a kid, I at least had the decency to look them in the eyes and smile, say good morning and treat them as I would anyone else. Even if I don't have a dime in my pocket, they deserve at least that much. Something I innately knew as a child...so what the fuck happened to me?

Welcome to the new age of radio-broadcasting

Welcome to the new age of radio-broadcasting

With the invention of personal MP3 players like the Ipod comes a new wave of broadcasting everything from television news and entertainment programs to a sci-fi geeks revival of science fiction laden news and story time. Podcasts are available from many sites including I-Tunes, Podcast Alley, Podcasts.net and even the individual websites and blogs devoted to the programs. These broadcasts can be downloaded and played on nearly any MP3 player and/or computer.

My first experience with Podcasts came when I received my Ipod. My friends had finally convinced me to check into NPR programs and it just happens that NPR podcasts most of their programming. This meant that I could download the material and then take it to work to listen to at my leisure. How convenient! Most podcasts are free of charge, just like radio and like radio programming; some segments do include advertising spots depending on the availability of a promoter. NPR, sponsored by Acura, usually just gives a 20 second spot at the beginning and/or end of the program.

Once I got used to using my Ipod to catch up on Global news and Politics, I wanted to see what else was out there. So, I started investigating. To my surprise there is a whole world of independently produced podcasts all over the Internet. Even more surprising, it is these independents that spawned the interest in this technology. Of course the corporate world took note at its steadily rising figures and have since decided to join the club either by sponsoring or by broadcasting their own programs.

It appears, at least at this point, that podcasting enjoys a certain level of creative freedom from censorship making it twice as appealing as conventional airwaves. While traditional radio jockeys have to watch their mouths at every turn for fear of fines and other repercussions, Podcasting jockeys can pretty much say what they want. Furthermore, podcasts are not relegated to signals and towers, instead they exist via the internet making them accessible to anyone, anywhere on the planet with a modem.

And so, in honor of this new age of media broadcasting, let me introduce you to a couple of my favorite podcasts:

First of all, though NPR is not independent, per se, for those of you living in the US, this is your best bet for unbiased reporting of the goings on around the globe on all manner of topics. You can find a listing of NPR podcasts by visiting their website. For those of you in the UK and surrounding areas, the BBC also has podcasting available for all your news and political needs.

Now, my pick-this month - for an independent podcast worth every minute of the time it takes to find it, download it and enjoy is Feast of Fools hosted by Marc Felion and Fausto Fernos, a gay couple talking it up in Chicago. One of the first of its kind, the show airs five days a week and includes a cast of zany characters that perfectly accentuate the easy banter between the dynamic-duo themselves. So far, my favorite is the clever, in-your-face diva by the name of Miss Ronnie.

Not only do they chat it up about their lives and experiences; they discuss some of the topics going on in the world from politics to wedding dresses accessorized with birds. They also give listeners a chance to hear some independent musicians and give movie reviews of the quieter gay persuasion. They have an increasingly large fan base so much so in fact that recently, HBOs Big Love series sponsored the show, for about a month. These guys are witty, intelligent and definitely worth a listen.

So, go to the website Feast Of Fools, poke around and enjoy some quality entertainment. Buy a t-shirt (though the price is a bit steep) and get to know this funny cast from the windy city. If youre so inclined, feel free to buy Miss Ronnie an Ipod (shes a working student after all). New Yorkers have a chance of meeting the cast live and in person on April 13th, 2006. Details can be found on their website.

Other podcasts worth a mention here

Urban Coffee

The Bitterest Pill

~Originally featured in the April, 2006 edition of the Street Voice Newsletter.

Blog this...

WEB [as in: World Wide Web] - LOGS [as in: diary, journal, captain's log of events, thoughts, ideas etc...] a hyphenated phrase twisted-as is our fashion- into it's own ubiquitous existence [in the form of a contraction] into a word that is fast-becoming synonymous with virtual reality which conveniently is associated with internet dependancy . A state in which, any creature with access to and the barest of knowledge of a computer can become a writer--whether good, bad or ugly.

If the great literary minds of our history could see us now I wonder what they'd say. I excitedly invision them reacting in much the same way a postal worker who's put in a few too-many hours, for a few too-many years. In our heroes would march with their loaded semi-automatic weapons and just start shooting. 'Fuck it all', they'd say. "You bastards don't know the first thing about struggling, about writing so...BLOG THIS, BITCH!

Hahahahaha... The thought of Emily Dickenson holding a machine gun and uttering this phrase sends me into roaring fits of laughter, not just because of the silliness of the handsome-ness of the woman and the militaristic coldness of such a weapon but at the absurdity in the fact that our society in general deserves it!

We've commended these great minds for their bravery in telling such fantastical stories and condemned them for boring us to tears with their numerous pages concerning one blade of grass. Now, after years of reading classics written by someone whose writing was their own sustainence we'd rather read the rantings of a shunned prom queen vowing that prince charming showed up wearing the wrong designer jacket [and good lord, didn't rent a limo for such an occasion, got drunk in the bathroom with his buddies before sweeping her off to a hotel room; where she demurely insists on feigning virtue but Johnny already told Joey about that night beneath the glow of a street light when she blew him into next friggin semester].

After all, now everyone is a writer. We can all write our own anecdotes, stories and comic relief bits. Pretty soon, printing presses will become obsolete. Who needs pages when we have screens on which information streams to us with rapidly increasing swiftness. We can now have a pen-pal or partner in any country in the world. We can send a picture to Austria with the click of a button. Wow, imagine the mail order Bride schemes nowadays...oh wait...friend finder...no imagination needed. Fuck actually having to do anything like go outside and play, meet someone by chance on a street corner and invest a dollar in a cup of coffee in some seedy diner listening to elevator music from the seventies while enjoying real-life conversation. I have an instant messenger now!

Wanna know how I'm feeling...fuck it...just read my blog, I'm too tired from not talking to talk with you right now.

The point is folks, that the computer cannot, nor should it, take the place of real, live conversation with those you care about or those you may someday care about. If anything, the Internet should be considered a means in which we can connect with others that otherwise we would be unable to do. Using the computer as the primary means of communication with folks you could just as easily have contact with…is well, bollocks. As for creative writing…well, your blogs may reach a lot of viewers but they aren’t immortal. Let’s remember that some things are best read in print. Talk to your friends and give your readers something to hold.

~Originally appeared in the Street Voice Newsletter, March-2006 Edition

The Joys of Being a Lesbian.

When my co-editor sent me his request for the subject matter of this month’s column, I nearly blew soda all over my desk. ‘He can’t be serious’, I thought. Serious he was which left me with a very interesting way at looking at my personal preference. I had numerous conversations with my queer comrades under the query “What are the joys of same sex relationships?”

We all came up with the most obvious points…

For instance… when I first “came out”, rather, when I first accepted and acknowledged my sexual preference I was insanely happy that I would never again have to stick a penis in my mouth. Performing oral sex on a man was the worst thing about hetero-sex. I could go into why but let’s not and say I did. Not surprisingly, the thought of performing oral sex on a woman is precisely the thing that makes heterosexual women cringe.

Then there’s the fact that to me, women are softer; emotionally, mentally, physically. Their skin and lips are softer, their demeanor is softer, and their emotional and mental state of being is softer (generally). Sure, there are women that are lovingly referred to as “ball-busters” who give off this “Fuck-Off” vibe. However, as one who enjoys the company of women who qualify in these categories [as far as the male perception goes] I think these women are driven and determined and wonderfully soft and imaginative when not dealing with morons.

There’s the home-court advantage thing. Truth of the matter is…a female is more apt to know what a woman needs. Period! The same can be said for men. I mean, who would know how to fix your car better; a mechanic or the guy that built your car? Women can understand a woman’s needs. A woman can understand the effects of PMS and menstruation, giving birth, mammograms, hysterectomies, menopause, and of course-the sensitivity of the clitoris and the g-spot. Why? Because we all share these thoughts, issues, events and concerns. Even a woman who has never given birth would have a better understanding of the event than a guy. That’s just common sense. The fact that the whole world isn’t gay on this logic alone surprises me sometimes.

Here’s a fun advantage: looking for a little “bathroom break”? Not that sex in a stall is all that romantic, but sometimes, we all get those urges to just FUCK right then and there wherever we happen to be. Heterosexual couples have to choose a bathroom and pray they don’t get busted entering or exiting. How embarrassing! Two women walking into a bathroom and even into the same stall isn’t going to get nearly so many glances or hollers. Hee hee.

In a homosexual relationship between two women there’s never an argument about the toilet seat. I can call my partner and ask her to pick up tampons without thrusting her into a panic over having to be seen in public purchasing said articles. Some women can share clothing, shoes and personal effects such as the same flowery smelling soaps colognes and make-up. Chances are there are no embarrassing moments involving the contents of the bathroom trash-can.

The truth is that upon thinking about it, the real benefits were limited. By this I mean that most of the joy in my life comes from the people involved in my life, the things I do and who I am as a person—not the way I or they identify myself-themselves. I can be just as miserable in a relationship with a woman as a woman can be with a man. The real joy in being a lesbian is being comfortable enough with myself to know that being a lesbian doesn’t make me more or less deserving of love, affection, respect or the occasional thump upside the head.

This little article has given me the affirmation that being gay is really just a small part of who I am. (Thanks Steve!) The biggest obstacle is to accept it and me for what it is and who I am. Who I want to/choose to commit to, fornicate with, share my life with in an intimate way is only a part of the bigger picture. Though it does shape some of my life, in the grand scheme of things it’s just a summer rain falling into the depths of the sea. Makes you wonder what the big deal is, doesn’t it?

~Originally appeared in the Street Voice Newsletter, Mar. 2006 Edition.

"Hibachi Pizza"

My most memorable experience from childhood involves a man whose name I don't recall ever knowing. My parents moved us around a lot and in this memory we lived in a large 2 1/2 bedroom apartment in a small 6-8 plex apartment building with a mahogany-finish winding staircase. I never really knew the residents around us, in spite of the fact that on the first of the month, every month, it was my mother's responsibility, as the manager, to collect rent from the tenants. That was how we came to live in that amazing apartment. The nicest place I recall us ever living.

Anyway, this old man lived upstairs in one of the apartments I never saw. I didn't recall ever seeing him but one day, the sunday paper came accompanied by a pile of candy of various types. My sister and I shared it with sheer delight. Chocolate and sweettarts and peppermint patties coated with chocolate. Even before the candy had run it's course from wrapper to tummy we began to wonder where it had come from. As had our mother who examined it all with the appropriate (and devastatingly thorough) parental scrutiny before giving in and relinquishing it to our outstretched eager paws

Surely the newspaper guy/girl/boy hadn't brought it. It had never been there before. Who would leave candy for us? The mystery went unsolved throughout the week and the following Sunday morning was like Christmas. My sister and I ran to the front door to retrieve the paper hoping that the mysterious candy faery had returned. To our childish delight we found the same scene. There, atop the newspaper, was the comic section which had been used as a tray for a pile of sweets just like the week before.

Sunday became the day we spent our entire week dreaming about. The identity of the giver remained a mystery to us, though after a few weeks my mother stopped inspecting the candy for ailments (which makes me believe that she had already identified our mysterious prince).

One day, while wondering around outside my sister and I happened upon this old man sitting beneath the tree in the "yard" of our building cooking a frozen pizza on a hibachi grill. He was the picture of old folks at that time. He wore a short sleeve polyester-looking creme and brown collared shirt with brown polyester slacks and polished loafers. His graying hair was meticulously groomed and combed in a style that was popular in the 1920's; only his slightly unkempt beard looked in the slightest haggard. He had the warmest smile I've (to this day) ever seen on a man. We approached the man with the curiousity every child has at that age and he invited us to sit with him.

I remember realizing how queer it was that he was using a grill instead of the oven I was sure sat in his kitchen. (being older now I have narrowed this down to two possibilities-the logical and the romantic--The logical explanation is that it was summer and the building did not have central air so turning on the oven would have made an apartment roast. The romantic version is that he sat out there hoping to run into us. After all, we weren't allowed out much at that time, so its sort of bizarre that on that day, we had been allowed to venture outside) In any event, he offered to share his pepperoni and sausage slightly burnt pizza. We secured the proper permission and happily joined him.

I don't recall the specifics of the conversation. I remember only that he didn't talk to me like a child, though we discussed childish things. He was polite mostly listening to the banter between the two of us with a look of content so radiating that even at my age, I knew that this kind, gentle man was enjoying without the slightest hint of perversion, the company of two goofy little girls.

We never saw the man again, though we recieved candy like clockwork for two more weekends. Neither he, nor my mom ever told us that he was giving us the candy. But I knew before we got up to go inside that day that he was responsible for those giddy mornings. And when I thanked him with a zealousness and sincerity uncharacteristic of a child my age, I hoped he understood that I meant thank you for everything.

Then one day, while leaving our home I saw a frumpy, irritated looking man my parents' age putting cartons into a truck from somewhere in our building. I knew who he was, why he was there and whose things he was clearing out even before I turned my teary eyes in my mothers direction (my mother, monster that she is capable of being, has never been surprised at this wierd occurance with me-she has never questioned it or me and has never made me feel stupid for it. In fact, in some bizarre way, i believe she always expected it and took me at my word even when she didn't know the truth for herself). I looked to her hoping that she would, just this once, tell me that I was wrong. She gave me that sad look she always gave me when she couldn't.

I started crying uncontrollably. Before we pulled away I wanted so badly to run up to that young man (the old man's son) and tell him just how lucky he was to have such an amazing human being for a father. Even if he had been rotten to the boy, even if he'd been a jerk his entire life. Perhaps he was doing his penance by being kind to a couple of kids. I wanted to tell him that his father had forever changed my life and become something of a hero in my eyes for showing unconditional and unsolicited kindness to two little girls who so badly needed that sort of attention and example. I didn't get to tell that man about how his father had shown me the kind of person I would aspire to be.

It wasn't the pizza or the candy. It was the selfless act of kindness from a stranger. It was the curious way he seemed content that day beneath the tree with his frozen pizza and penny loafers. I will remember that day long after I forget my own name. I will never forget!

~Featured in the February, 2006 edition of the Street Voice Newsletter.

Vermont Judge Upholds Sixty-Day Sentence in Child Molestation Case.

I sat down to write an extensive article regarding President Bush's lack of brain power. That was my very best intent. Then, while perusing the news currently getting media attention, I came across the steep criticism of Vermont Judge, Edward Cashmans, leniency towards a man who confessed to at least three acts of sexual abuse involving a pre-pubescent girl.

The victim: a 6 year old girl at the beginning of the abuse, now ten. The perpetrator: A family friend of the victim, who confesses to oral-genital and genital fondling actions with the girl on at least three occasions over four years. Cashman, with 20 years on the bench and quite an impressively stern record stands by his decision citing that "Sentencing is not the end of a problem," he wrote. "It should be the start of a solution." He clarifies that the offender had the emotional maturity of a 12- to 14-year old and didn't understand why others were so upset by his actions.

As a sort of side-note and equally as hair-raising, I would like to point out the fact that all of this might have been prevented before the child had come into harm had her parents had a better attitude towards the situation. When the parents were consulted about the claims they gave statements that, not only did they KNOW the defendant was interested in the little girl but they were also aware of him sleeping in the same bed as the child. Being a family friend is one thing. Sleeping in my childs bed is quite another. Why did these parents turn what seems to be a blindeye to the situation. Why was the offender allowed near the child if the parents were aware of an interest in the child? I am sincerely hoping that the statements I found from the parents were sorely misinterpreted by the media.

Okay, so Im in agreement with the Judge that a mentally or emotionally unstable predator needs more than a jail cell to make any sort of rehabilitation possible. The problem is, of all the research Ive done on this case, I havent found a single note suggesting that the Judge attached a clear demand for the defendant to seek the professional help he needs. If the sentence was meant as a means for the offender to get help, why havent I heard about the insistence by the court for this man to do precisely that?

Judge Cashmans decision was particularly based on the fact that the state of Vermont doesnt have many laws directed at this particular type of criminal. The small rehabilitation group available to the state also admitted that treating the accused man would be impossible while in prison. Does this make sense? Why? In a lot of ways, I almost feel as though the laws as they stand are designed to let a Judge or Jury take the fall for any mishaps that may occur from these cases.

Ultimately, whether obtaining rehab is an issue or not, 60 days simply isnt enough for a crime as heinous as the sexual exploitation of a six year old. The man is sick and needs help. Fine! That childs innocence is still worth more than 60 days confinement. I mean, really?! Sixty days is the equivalent of smacking the guys hand and saying, Now, dont you go molesting little girls anymore. It doesnt work with children and it certainly isnt going to work with a grown man; no matter how immature he is.

That said, no matter how much I agree with the judges sentiment that curing the 'disease' in the offender is priority .. One, I am also of the opinion that the man should still serve more than the petty sentence he's been given. A certain level of atonement (for lack of a better word) should still be served and I think sixty days is rather insulting. Who's looking out for the child in all of this? Certainly not the defendent, it appears the parents aren't. Then, at the judicial level, the victims hardships, are demeaned once more. Further insisting a long standing notion that legal system cares more for the defendants than they do for the victims.

This man has potentially ruined-no, not potentially-he has ruined at least, parts of this childs past, present and future life. The damage he's inflicted with his perversion will be with this girl forever. Besides, the sad truth of the matter is, rehabilitation of sexual predators has a practically non-existent success rate even worse is the knowledge that they roam our streets freely seeking out their next victims long before the victim has recovered from it.

In spite of public outcry and harsh judgments from politicians, media reps and judges alike from all sides of the spectrum, Judge Cashman stands by his decision. "I am aware that the intensity of some public criticism may shorten my judicial career, to change my decision now, however, simply because of some negative sentiment, would be wrong.

"I owe it to the judiciary and to my own conscience to maintain a stand that I believe is the best possible option in a very difficult situation."

~Originally appeared in the February, 2006 edition of the Street Voice Newsletter.

So, the month of February is upon us. That means we've already lived through the first month of the "New Year". How are those resolutions holding up? For those of you going strong, I say "Cheers" and "Congrats". To those of you who've already given up the ghost, well, better luck next year.

I had a couple of pet projects that I had hoped to have completed by this issue, tragically, scheduling conflicts and a bit of a rough period have left them lacking and so, I hope to offer them up to you, dear reader, by the next edition.

My most hated Holiday is just around the corner. Ugh. How I despise the day of St. Valentine. I mean, I'm all for the history of the day. The man was martyred for doing what he believed to be right and so on. However, it's the modern usage of the day that greatly offends me.

While Hallmark, Florists, Restaurants and Taverns, Jewelers and Box Office's alike make a ton of capital from this horrid event, thousands upon thousands of others are ridiculed and reviled and made to feel worthless for not celebrating in this ridiculous tradition. Many a single person sits alone or in groups of other single persons feeling tragically left out of the events of the day. Society as a whole feeds off of both sides like a parasite. It's disgusting. Perhaps this is more a trait of the good ole USA. One can hope!

Still, people give it the attention these commercialist bastards want and hey, who am I to really argue with tradition. However, I have a wonderful suggestion to those of you that celebrate this travesty of a holiday.

Instead of buying chocolates and flowers, spending all that money on expensive dinners and entertainment, not to mention the thousands spent on "presents", why not give your partner a gift of charity? Make dinner at home, it's much more private anyhow, and contribute a donation to your partners favorite cause in their name. You could even ask them to do the same. You'll have the added bonus of doing something great to go along with your date.

Rock On!


~Intro to the February, 2006 edition of the Newsletter Street Voice.

4am

Forget-me-knots (purposely misspelled) and I forgot to find the feelings that went along with this catastrophe...and still I want, like a pet, like a thief, like a country without regret and for just a second I glance behind me to see the silhouette of who I thought I was. Lately, the cheshire cat grin that I flash so famously seems empty against the twinkle-less blue of my stark-numb eyes. You walk a fine line between my reality and my insides and I still don't know who it is you see when you look at me.

I gave up looking for that explanation the day the President lit up a foreign sky with his devastating fireworks and our billions-serving army. I gave it a chance, gave it a whirl and lost my insides when he launched a war. Fuck it, he doesn't care so maybe I shouldn't either. I didn't send those boys a packin...didn't put em onto buses and trains, ships and planes. The bastard politicians did.

Does that remind you of a time...long ago...no, it wouldn't. You see, I was alone then. Without family, without friends, without feeling at all. The world was narrow and chaste, as was I. Before now, it was then and I don't recognize that person from that time...I think she died before I had half a chance to know her...makes not a lot of difference now...it was a lie anyhow.

I used to twirl my long hair between my thumb and forefinger. I've replaced hair with nipples and I can't say I have a complaint yet. Even if I somehow go nuts in the gaze of one... women are impossible...impossible to understand, impossible to resist and impossible to forget. But maybe that's just one of a thousand cliched perceptions of a reality that exists only in my head... still...

I've become an amalgamation of pop-culture, alternative scene, queer, social;y-phobic attitude and stagnating wit. I am a walking contradiction of anything and everything that can be said of me. What goes up must come down and what is can always be undone...all I have to do is breath the word and the change will be mine. At least that's what I'd like to believe.