Talk Thursday: The Fabric of Connections

For the better part of fifteen years I lived in the same neighborhood. Six kids on my block were in Mrs. Espinosa’s kindergarten class. I remember Michael and I sitting on the flagstone BBQ in my backyard staring at the school on the Mesa waiting for the morning kindergarten to be over so we could go to school. Excitement, I doubt I slept the night before. Our moms walked us – holding hands, envelops with milk money pinned to our shirts down the hill and the four blocks to the school. Five of those six kids graduated in 1974 - together.

Growing up we ran barefoot and wild, roaming our neighborhood from dawn till way past dark during summer playing hide and seek, ditch-it (on bikes), and Red Rover (not on bikes – duh!) There were swim parties at the Taylors and the Meyers, neighborhood sleepovers in my back yard, and when we were older there were parties- birthday, graduation, and finally my going away party.

Several years ago Ducky and I went back to La Mirada, to my old neighborhood. Despite 28 years past some of my old neighbors still lived there. Our names are still etched in the corner piece where Mr. Timmons had cemented because we spun on the street pole so much it wobbled and leaned. All of the olive trees are gone, pink stucco has replaced much of the avocado greens and butter yellows once worn by the track houses and now looking at the three blocks that made up our neighborhood, an area that had seemed so huge to me before, was in truth really quite small.

On September 26th several of us gathered again in Las Vegas for a reunion. It had been in my mind several years to invite all of the kids I grew up with to a gathering of sorts. Ducky and I had flown in just that day. My sister, her husband and their youngest son (he’s 28) had been in Vegas since Thursday, I was looking forward to hooking up with them for margaritas after dinner that night.

Never close to my cousins, I was envious of friends who had close relationships with their. I had none of my own to claim visual ownership to. So Judy and I became cousins. To this day she is my cousin, Psam calls her Aunt Judy, and despite time and distance we have remained close. Judy brought Lori with her for a long weekend. It was Judy that Ducky and I first saw as we checked in.

Despite having just said I had no cousins to be friends with, that isn’t entirely true. I have one cousin who is my age. Lynnie Furby. He lives in Ohio. See there’s the distance factor. But for one year Lynnie lived with us, went to seventh grade with me, made friends with my friends and then he moved back to Ohio at the end of school in 1970. Yes, it has been forty years since I’ve seen him, or really had much contact with him. Seeing him made me feel the loss again, while regaining him and his wife. I won’t lose them again.

Michael showed up looking like his dad. We’d played doctor together when we must have been four or so, I wonder if he remembers? I’m sure he remembers I broke is race car set in a snit when I was about six. Pretty bratty of me, I’ve often contemplated sending him a new one out of the blue.

Pammy was the sheltered kid in the neighborhood, but I really liked her. I have three songs that inevitably bring her to mind so I think of her often. She brought her husband and daughter along for the trip. Very down to earth, smiling people.

Growing up there were six Morin kids: Paul (Gene), Mike, Dale, Vicki, Julie, Janice. Sadly Paul passed of a heart attach July 29th. Mike, Dale, and Janice all showed up in Vegas bringing spouses and grown children.

Cheryl lived on the fringes of our neighborhood, but she and her brother Rod were always around. Her dad having passed just two weeks before it had been questionable if she’d come – but she did.

Eleven and company gathered three weeks ago in Vegas and had dinner, relived moments of our past, but more importantly we caught up on the people who’d been important to us on the road to becoming who we are today. They are my past, a part of my present, and thankful a part of my future.

Sadly my pictures did not come out as well as I’d have liked.

Sith,
Cele

100 Things About Me – 2009

1) I am peaceful,
2) Well maybe not if you’re one of my exes.
3) I’ve been eyeing a solar water fountain for my new garden since last summer
4) It is the only thing I wanted for my birthday
5) Well, except chocolate and that is a given.
6) I got a lot of truffles and a chocolate bear for Valentines day.
7) Let’s just smear them on my hips, that’s where they will end up.
8) For years, really years, I’ve only drunk Celestial Seasonings’ Bengal Spice
9) Now suddenly adore their Apricot Peach Honeybush,
10) A box of Perfectly Pear White tea is waiting, patiently to be opened.
11) What, suddenly at 53 I am embracing change again?
12) What’s that all about?
13) Wow, I didn’t come to snakes until number 12, that may be an improvement.
14) I have a freakish memory
15) When I was a child… er an older, I would make myself fall asleep by naming all the kids in my childhood neighborhood
16) House by house, street by street.
17) My favorite place to be is in my hot tub
18) Watching the stars
19) Hey, I didn’t say these were all facts you don’t know about me.
20) I am annoyed at the people who are perpetuating this economy
21) In the mean time I’ll keep shopping.
22) I have a Bassett,
23) He was named after a mellow, folksie music guy, Arlo
24) There are moments I hate him (my dog, not the folksie music guy) – which makes me cry
25) Really, he is incapable of being house broken,
26) He’s a retaliatory pisser.
27) I’m still not a vegetarian
28) I have begun liking my steaks pretty darn rare,
29) I will refrain from sticking Arlo on a spit and roasting him.
30) My dog, not the folksie music guy.
31) There are moments that I really miss my dad
32) He once put electric wire in his house because his dog couldn’t be house broken
33) He too, was a retaliatory pisser
34) It must run in the family.
35) I love the frosting on bakery birthday cakes,
36) And those really good mini cupcakes you can buy these days.
37) But we should just smear those on my butt too.
38) Despite the butt, 53 isn’t too bad so far.
39) BTW Natalie’s birthday is Tuesday.
40) Thank God my butt size is much smaller than my IQ.
41) Have you noticed there are fewer people who blog consistently over their out put of last year?
42) Sad, to paraphrase a folksie dude, “Where have all the bloggers gone?”
43) Being at peace with myself translates in to boring
44) I don’t mean to be boring, I just don’t get out much
45) I love it at home, with Ducky.
46) The last movie I saw in a movie theatre was Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull
47) I think the last movie before that was Second Hand Lions.
48) I told you I don’t get out much.
49) For vacation this year I think we are going to Vegas
50) a reunion of sorts for the people from my childhood neighborhood
51) You know how I say friends are gifts we give ourselves?
52) This year I gave myself the gift of renewed friendships
53) Such as Pammy, the girl who grew up the street from me
54) People are songs to me
55) Pammy is three songs: Angel on my Shoulder, Something Stupid, and Never On A Sunday.
56) And I am lucky she doesn’t remember what a bitch I was as a kid.
57) Last summer I put a courtyard around our hot tub.
58) This summer I have to pull it up and redo it….
59) There are so many waves in it you could hang ten on the south forty.
60) Last year I started a Teen Volunteer program at our local hospital
61) Five months later I may have our first teen volunteer
62) The speed of some progress is five slph (slug lengths per hour)
63) I may give up patience as my only virtue.
64) I am addicted to over the counter sleep aids.
65) Sad, but true, and I’m not likely to kick the habit soon
66) Addiction free lack of sleep is highly overrated.
67) I can get more work done on a Saturday air-shift when no one is there
68) Than in a whole day at work Monday through Friday.
69) Again folks, my name yelled loudly does not mean, “Come here quick my computer in put isn’t out computing.”
70) I cut my own hair
71) I burn out on hobbies
72) Except gardening, it appears.
73) My favorite flower is the Nasturtium and all it’s viney glory.
74) Jane Austin rocks
75) So does Duffy, Jason Mraz, and Five for Fighting
76) But Crosby, Still, Nash, and Sometimes Young
77) Is my favorite group
78) Followed by Cat Stevens.
79) I buy a minimum nine boxes of Girl Scout Cookies a year
80) One for each year I was in scouting
81) My favorites are Samoas.
82) I once had a monkey.
83) I phone flirt (everyone tells me so.)
84) I love deeply and forever
85) I can’t hold a grudge
86) Crap, I don’t want to hold a grudge.
87) I do at least two Suduko puzzles a day
88) Sometimes up to five or six
89) My best friend in childhood was my radio
90) As a child my half of the bedroom was immaculate; my sister’s really, really not so.
91) Today she is a better house-keeper than me.
92) Once, long ago, I was a negative personality
93) Not anymore (thank you husband number two)
94) Now I strive to always be cheerful and glorious
95) Some people find this grating – others love it.
96) You can’t please some people at all
97) But I still try.
98) In my fifties I am becoming a clothes horse
99) But all my shoes are still black
100) except my moccasins.
101) Wow, I only mentioned snakes once, that is truly progress.

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday: Groove is a place in Your Heart

I’m not sure what this means, I’m not sure what my groove it. Certainly there are times I am stuck in the past, and far too many times I want to rush into the future. But today my groove is definitely focused on the most precious gifts I received.

Happy Birthday, to my little girl. 33 years ago (at this very moment of writing) I was screaming my head off “Never again.” Thirty-six hours of hard labor that was most certainly worth it, I just wish someone had warned me there’d be no drugs; no spinal block, no joy pills, no epidural, and definitely no epithelium (?).

33 years ago Psam came physically into my life and I have never looked back at the figure lost – because now I can go anywhere and not get lost due to the relief map of the US that was once my flat tummy. Never afterwards have I been alone. Psam had been there through it all divorces, romances, toads, frogs, and princes. She while she didn’t always like the roads I drug her down she endured, learned from my mistakes, and became the strong woman she is, a great mother, a splendid person.

An independent little soul who would roam my parent’s trailer park in her own little jeep. Following my dad around like he’d hung the moon, then screech at the top of her lungs for my mother, “He’s doing it again,” when he’d flip his two front teeth out at her. Her sitting on the kitchen counter in my mom’s kitchen perched next to my little brother, Buddy, watching episodes of Gilligan’s Island, sharing a kypted RC Cola from my other brother, Butch.

She never complained about the homemade clothes, the second hand bike, nor the homemade presents. Despite her room being painted hot pink, she never once said she’d have preferred it to be in her favorite red. She rocked. I was blessed with a child who devoured books, stood up for herself, and was a tomboy, who could spend a full day climbing trees and sand dunes with the best of them.

For 33 years I have been blessed to a partner in crime, my duets partner for road trips in a musty VW that she abhorred. Singing Deep Purple, The Beat Goes On, Heart and Soul, Midnight Train to Georgia, and Shhh-boom, but never The Long Way Home. I will always hold dear the memory of her, her cousin, and their friend harmonizing at their eighth grade graduation Amazing Grace. Watching her from the bleachers as she advanced in school band and concert choirs.

Today she is a wonderful mother, an open minded woman who gives all of her heart and soul to her son, and then stretches it farther for every one else. I can’t imagine being more blessed.

The groove in my heart is filled with the blessings of lessons, love, and joy that come with the motherhood and friendship of Psam. Happy Birthday.

Love,
Mom

The Circle Game

It was early December, and suddenly at the age of twelve I wanted to start volunteering at the local nursing facility. Looking back I have no understanding of why I decided this, how the thought even came to me, I mean crap I was twelve. But it did and one afternoon I dressed nicely and walked my butt the two or three blocks to Mirada Hills Convalescent and Rehabilitation Hospital and applied for Candy Striper. Except, they didn’t have Candy Stripers.

So instead I became a Nightingale. Being only twelve they weren’t going to let me in except two things: first I turned thirteen (the acceptable age) in just two months, and secondly they didn’t have any Nightingales at the time – program yes, volunteers no. They let me in -now looking back, I wonder if they let me in thinking that I’d drop out after the first day. If so, they didn’t know me at all.

I remember the first requirement, after having the want, was to perform one hundred hours of Nightingale service. That was just to get my nametag. Two hundred hours to get my patch. No sweat, I did one hundred hours in two weeks time. I know pretty shocking right? I breathed, ate, and drank being a Nightingale. I had more than two hundred hours by the end of December. I think they were pretty shocked when I showed up on Christmas Eve, by Christmas day I doubt they were fazed by me.

All this despite the fact my very first patient died on me. Really, she died; I fainted the rest is history.

Mrs. Taylor must have been well into her nineties (but then I was twelve, what did I know?) my first duty was to feed her a late breakfast. That Saturday morning I’d dressed in a brown jumper and a pink plaid shirt, with a beige sweater (I know, one specific event all the way back in 1967, I remember exactly what I was wearing.) I wasn’t going to wear the sweater, (the jumper was made out of this incredibly heavy material) but my mom made me.

Major digression, poor Mrs. Taylor is starving by now. I slowly ladled runny eggs, pasty oatmeal, and this putrid puree stuff into her mouth, between dainty sips of her morning tea. Mrs. Taylor seemed like a really nice little old lady, she smiled and was patient with me when I went to fast. But suddenly she wasn’t feeling at all well, and damn, I was getting really hot. I excused myself to remove the sweater, picked up the spoon and tried to feed her another bit of egg. But she wasn’t having any of that. No, Mrs. Taylor wanted the nurse… just about the time the room started swimming for me. Picking up the call button, I rang for the nurse, excused myself again, walked to the doorway (I’m sure pretty much like a drunken sailor,) and passed out.

When I came to, Mrs. Taylor had expired and I had possibly the worst first day to start a career as a Nightingale. The urged me to go home, called my mom to come get me, but after less than an hour and one dead patient in my wake I was having none of going home. Two or three months later I earned my green striped jumper that signified I was a Nightingale. And by summer I’d earned my nursing cap.

Whether it was just filling room pitchers water with fresh water and ice or delivering and picking up meal trays I was eager to do it. I loved the patients, I loved the work, I loved being needed. These wonderful people with their cute stories and cherished pictures wanted me. But it was those same pictures that made my blood boil. I saw pictures of kids I went to school with, kids who never visited their grandparents, great grandparents. These people who lived just blocks or a few short miles away couldn’t come visit? These people, seemingly, looked forward to my smile, the flowers I sometimes brought with me, to my cookie cart, for just a hello. Before long I was recruiting more volunteers from my friends, and the program flourished. And that is not to say I take credit for that, I don’t, the job and the people just totally rocked. I worked there until just before I moved to Oregon, and never regretted a day.

Now you’re saying to yourself, “Nice story Cele, but get to the point.” Life is a circle, as I always say, where we’ve been is who we are. But it is also interesting at the points of our earlier life that lay a foundation for the points of our future life, hence the title of this blog “The Circle Game.” This afternoon while chatting with a woman I know at work, she mentioned she wanted to start a Candy Striper program at the hospital (she’s a busy person at the hospital, whom I adore.) I began rhapsodizing about how much I’d adored, loved, cherished my memories as a Nightingale.

After several questions, Di smiled at me and said, “You’re the one.”

She has wanted to start a Candy Striper program at Peace Harbor Hospital, but needed a volunteer mentor to work with these teenagers. She wasn’t about to start such a program until she had the right person, someone who’d been there and had a passion for it.

In truth I was blown away, almost started crying. Wow, I am incredibly honored, scared, and wow. I need to discuss this with Ducky, but wow, what an opportunity to give back to my community, even in a small way, and it’s something I loved so dearly.

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday - It’s Tailored Made To Fit

It’s the place I made, carved out of nowhere with words, emotions, my truths and opinions on the world through my eyes. Built in hues of lush opinionated greens. Truthed in simple words, complex thoughts, and my love. Free to all, open to diversity, shut to hate.

It is populated with people who feel a connection, a kindred response to the words in which I have carved this nitch. They consider my words and thoughts, feast on my pictures of flowers and bears, smile at stories of my past that have led to what I have become. People, who drink in who I am and come back for more.

They are on my journey with me. Sharing of themselves, challenging my ideas, my ideals, my values, and offer up their own. Who shape my consciousness with their individual ness and collective presence. A rainbow of talented beings who, on another plane, wear bodies of each shape, hue, and intelligence; on this plane they shine forth in pure and healing brilliant auras of purple and white. Soaring in skies of blue, yellow, and gray. Then again walking realms of concrete and clay, light and night, and all that is between infrared and ultra violet.

They are happy, passionate, sad, and haunted. They are human and brave, weak and alone, seekers and finders, lovers and rejoicers of life. They are my friends, of like mind, my kindred souls, my extended family, the binders of my world. They make me complete and make the interenet home.

Sith
Cele

Adaptation: The Ever Changing Me

When I was younger, you know the starry eyed teen and young mother, I was up for a change. A change of scenery, a change of jobs, a change of seasons, change my kid, my men, whatever – I was ready. From California’s sunny clime, to the Oregon Rain Festival, to Fruehlingsfest in Germany I adapted while morphing into the person I am today.

But in the five decades of my life I have learned that I am no longer as adaptive to physical location changes (outside of a week of summer vacation) as I use to be. Note: Summer warmth means I’m much more adaptive; snow vacations are probably not my cup of tea. Snow: pretty to look at, but cold feet, fingers, and nipples are not my bag.

The changes in my mental make up are much more profound. Before – in my hip, so sure, younger days – I was firm on my platform (unless they were shoes) and would argue till you were blue in the face. Today I am eager to argue my stance, “the argue for the pure love of arguing, but usually nobody is wrong type arguing.” It also comes with a flip side, the adaptive part of me will change my stance when someone gives me a compelling believable argument. Oh, wait, that is called listening skills, right? In some respects isn’t that what survival and progress are all about? Communicating? Listening? Adaptation? I like this part of change.

I’ve noted over the past few years, as my job has grown from lowly DJ to whatever it is I do now, that I have tried hard to take the criticisms put to me, incorporate the good, and throw out the rest. Sometimes it comes with a bit of resistance, other times it blindsides me, and sometimes it just confounds the people who know me. I am trying to be a good manager. My problem, I’m not a good oral communicator – I know, too funny for a person who makes their living talking right?

There is a big difference between talking and communicating. Seven years ago I knew absolutely nothing about computers. Moving the radio station into the new millennium and working with state of the art equipment made me learn. I am willing to learn. So what does that have to do with talking?

Everything and nothing. You want to know about rock and pop music? If I don’t know the answer I will search until I find it. Pop trivia is like a narcotic to me, I’ve got to know, I’ve got to have more. You ask me, I will seek, and get back to you with the answer. Damn I wish Jeff Probst still did Rock & Roll Jeopardy! That was my game.

In today’s music world (like everywhere else) computers run the station. Explaining to you our current computer problem status and prognosis is almost impossible for me.

This week was almost too much. I am a bad manager. Why?
1) I have no clue how to delegate and be happy with the outcome, so I carry the burden and do it myself. (kind of like cleaning your kids’ room once in a while.)
2) Because I can’t communicate, everyone feels I treat them like mushrooms and leave them in the dark. It’s not my intent but that is the out come. If I have nothing new to disseminate, I will say nothing. Therefore, I don’t know how to communicate that in an acceptable way.

So with one computer down, one pantomiming congestive heart failure, and a third forever leaning heavy on the crash cart I was to the end of my rope. My head was swimming with the details and events of each computer and trying hard (yet failing) to not confuse it all. I failed to communicate with my crew. This weighed heavy on me all afternoon and evening long, I’ve no idea how to fix this in me. It doesn’t bother me to have someone tell me I am failing to communicate, because if you don’t tell me, I don’t’ realize it.

Wow, am I digressing or what. This was suppose to be about changing and adapting.

I won’t harbor bad feelings about a person who points out my problems to me, or something I’ve over looked, it if is done is a reasonable manner. Shit, I don’t even hold grudges against the two guys who raped me, or my first two husbands. Note: they are not two and the same. I don’t hold grudges. I can’t, grudges make no sense to me. I’m sorry is an apology, when heartfelt it is accepted, end of story. The actions might change where we were in our relationship, because that is how people work, but I won’t hate you and hold it against you, for say, hmmm, ever and three days.

So, to those whom I don’t communicate fully, my sincere apologies. The main production computer is back on line, but don’t use the second CD rom, it bit the big one. My production computer is still hanging on to the crash cart but works. And the AM on air, well it’s waiting for a specialist. Please have patience and watch this spot.

For the rest of you thank you for letting me get this off my chest. Wow, I needed it. To my first ex who tried to kill me. Twice. I forgive you, now please would you give Psam the $8250 in back child support, she could really use it. To ex number two, I forgive you for ripping my heart out, destroying our lives, and leaving a wake of devastation. I do wish you happiness – life is far too long to not be happy. To Bob who raped me in my freshman year, I really do forgive you and accept that I had a responsibility to the act. To Mark H who raped me in high school. I forgive you, you asshole.

Hey I said I forgive, I didn’t say I forget.

Wow, I feel a great weight missing, but don’t you wish a heartfelt “getting something off your chest thingie” would equated to losing inches off your thighs or something? Gosh, think of the better condition the world’s thighs would be in. I could forgo obesity.

Sith

A Charges Leveled Introspective – you’ll find this boring

Friendships are an ever changing. Oh wait, you knew that didn’t you? My mom has always said I collect little lambs to take under my wing; to nourish, offer an occasional shoulder, to support. But I think it is what I get from the relationships that are important to me. The feeling of importance to another person, the give and take of thoughts, frivolities, humor, sorrow, and each other.

Through out my life, “best friends” or “bestest friends” have come and gone. What did I do? What didn’t I do? And how much should either side of a relationship have to deal with? In reality I don’t think it is any of these things.

I recently lost a bestest friend. We’d been buds for seven internet years, lived 2500 miles apart, spoke on the phone on occasion, and supported each other. We never met face to face. There were things about her I didn’t like, but the good out weighed the bad. There were things about me she didn’t like. See it’s a balance, the eternal give and take. And each time it is over I tell myself, “I won’t have another best friend, it hurts too much.” What a lie I tell myself. Despite being shy, I am a social person.

The good thing that comes of losing a best/bestest friend is the introspective period that follows. Considering all that has been said, can not be taken back, that will inevitably change who I was, shaping who I will morph into. Consideration of the charges:

1) That I always have to have the last word. I don’t believe that to be true, on the other hand most of my friends do not have to either, so it is a weird balance of last words.
2) That I can’t take a joke. My second husband said, as we were separating our lives and parting our ways, two things. 1) I have no sense of humor 2) I have no personality. Of all the things he said to me, besides I love you and good-bye, these have had the longest lasting impact on me. The I love you was a lie; good-bye has been long lasting and the truth; items 1 and 2 haunt me. So when my former bestest said I can’t take a joke, it rung like a death knell in the air. Maybe I can’t take a joke, I forever doubt myself or that I am not being understood and often let people know “that was a joke.”
3) That I run away pouting. I know that is not true. In the unspoken situation I left before I said words I could not take back. I do not intentionally speak words that will hurt. I do not enter into most arguments when both parties are mad; one of us needs to be grounded in calm.
4) And apparently I was throwing a temper tantrum. Hmmm, I guess a third party would have to decide that, and I’m not asking her to step into the middle of this, although I was accused of talking behind my bestest back, because I apologized to a third party about what was happening and told them I would be leaving if it continued. To her that talking about her verifies everything
5) I was also told that I critiqued others so harshly that I drove people away, and at least one person left in tears several times because of what I said. Of all the charges leveled at me, this one was the most serious to me. I have always tried to measure my critiques with a level of positive ness. So do I stand in judgment of the works of others that I am cutting and cruel? This will colour the way I look at the work of others and my critique for them for sometime. I have always tried to give two positive comments for every negative or comment of correction. Especially in poetry. Poetry is subjective, the levels of writing poetry are specific to the poet, as is the penchant of specific rhyme schemes. A five meter, every line rhyming scheme drives me crazy, but each poet has their own level of security, I in the past had commented on that, but in recent years only comment when I poet steps out of their personal comfort zone and ventures into their uncharted waters. It takes a lot of guts to do so.
6) That no one would give me input on my work, because I keep needing to be right.
Beyond asinine – I have no comment on this.
7) And her final salvo, beside I am not worth her time and effort was this, that I will write about our falling out. Hmmm she was defiantly right on that one. It took me time to think about it, consider, and weigh the words, intent, and content; to use the truths and throw out the superfluous, then to evolve from it. Writing about it helps me put it all in perspective, work it out. She will never read it, because she doesn’t blog, she doesn’t care, and I realize – because she is in self protect mode and defensive.

I will learn and grow from this. I will have more best friends (because I am a glutton that way,) but she will always hold a place in my thoughts and heart, for she was like a sister to me. Because she (and her influence) is part of who I will become tomorrow. I wish her the best, I wish for her someone who will understand her better than I did. I wish for her peace and good writing.

Sith

Growth verses Teenage Mentality

I feel we all need to give back to not only Mother Earth as good stewards, but to our communities. Ducky is in total disagreement, which makes me wonder sometimes how we ever get along. But we do, maybe opposites do more than attract.

I am so off course.

Every other Monday evening I teach, err.. maybe that is the wrong word, advise, no that would mean they listen to instruction, okay I baby sit a bunch of teenage guys during an hour long radio program. The concept is sound. They come in 30 to 40 minutes prior to 7pm and put together their show, go on the air, and produce a 55-minute radio program. It is their show and adults beware. No topic is apparently taboo, despite station policy.

They delight in changing up their music, having no concept in genre, continuity, or well for that matter anything. So last night was a bumpy musical trip, to say the least, as we went from Hansen to Queen, to some head banging Christian group whose name has been seared from my gray matter, to Marvin Gaye and Matchbox 20 (which was totally hacked) while discussing the merits of text messaging as a form of upper intelligence communication. I would love to believe this means they are expanding their musical horizons, and knowledge, but I know better.

Much to my dismay during the whole pre Queen discussion, the ring leader choose to do what he assumes is Freddie Mercury’s persona. Why he felt it was accurate or right I’ve no idea. I was appalled. Male teenage mutants are in total disassociation with the rest of a world that does not revolve around football and high school. They’ve no idea that their preconceived notions could offend or hurt someone and are truly shocked when such a possibility is pointed out to them. Maybe I am too sensitive, but I don’t think so.

When he wasn’t doing a stereotypical Freddy Mercury impersonation, he was dissing on one of the groups mom’s for not letting her son on the internet or to My Space. He sees no recourse for his comments; my discussion surely did not phase him or make a difference in his future thought patterns. And while I believe he will grow up to be a nice, probably well mannered slop, I have to wonder how that transformation can possibly take place when I see the idiot he is at the moment.

As I grow older I look back with total shame at some things I’ve done in the past to one or two people. I’m a nice person, but there was a time when I was not. I’ve always been a crusader for the underdog. And yet I could find a person to verbally abuse. I had my “little lambs” under my wing, as my mother would say, but there would be someone I would pick on. You know someone who just didn’t quite fit in, just like me. Why, in the hell did I think that I could abuse another sweet person? Who the fuck am I? I use to get my ass kicked all over the play ground when I was a kid, people would taunt me, make fun of my name – Furby is a difficult last name to grow up with. And in my middle teens instead of sucking it in and making someone else’s life a better world because I could be a nice, loving, caring person, I was a total fucking bitch.

I’ve learned, I’ve never let go the harm I did to others. I know I have grown because of it, and I would like to get the opportunity to tell one specific person how incredibly sorry I am for my past behavior. I believe in reincarnation. We are all here for a reason, and I’m here – AGAIN - because I’ve have life lessons to fix. Okay, just one, anger, according to my numbers, but personally I think two. I needed to become a kinder, gentler being. And through that realization and discovery I know there is hope for the mutant teens out there who live in their own little galaxies. I just hope they find it before they damage the next Kip Kinkle.

Sith