The Republicans are coming! The Republicans are coming!

As I was watching the Republican debate this week, I learned a few things. Or rather I should say I was reminded of a few things. They are things that I already know but often forget in the heat of the moment when my blood is boiling because some “Conservative” said something that pissed me off.

First let me start by telling you that I am not now and never have been well-versed in politics. I believe what I believe, I know what I think is right and that’s that. In spite of the atmosphere I was raised in, I’ve always been very liberal. And although I am not a Democrat—in fact my political and world views align much more closely with Libertarianism or Anarchism, even though I realize that neither would work in our present-day society without first having to nearly obliterate the human race from the planet and start over—but I digress; that’s another story for another day. Even though I’m not a Democrat, I have always voted for Democrats. It just always seemed to make far more sense to me than the alternative. I also don’t think I’ve ever watched a Republican debate before, but with the world in such a volatile state nowadays, I figured that it’s probably in my best interest to at least be somewhat aware of what’s going on and who might be our next “leader.”

Now, like I said, I am mostly ignorant when it comes to politics. I had heard of most of the Republican candidates before, but to be honest, most of what I thought I knew came from angry Facebook posts. I knew who Jeb Bush and Chris Christie were and Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz, Mike Huckabee and Rand Paul are all names I’ve heard before and I’ve heard some of what they have to say and know what they generally believe, but I honestly couldn’t tell you a lot about them.

While I was watching the debate (and actually for the past several months), I had a bit of a different view than I’ve had in the past. Well, maybe not totally different, but definitely more open-minded. Whenever I would see Conservatives speak in the past (usually catching a glimpse unintentionally while my husband was watching the news; I never watch it), I was mad before they even opened their mouths. I just knew that they were going to spew some ridiculous rhetoric that I didn’t agree with and I would want to throw something at my TV.

Last month, I finished a run of Bare Naked Angels. For those of you not familiar with BNA, it is a class that I teach where I take actors through a four-month process and guide them in writing their own autobiographical one-person show. I then break the pieces apart and glue them back together, creating an ensemble piece. One of my actors, a very bright and politically savvy guy started writing about politics. But not really in a way that I’ve ever heard before. Maybe it was because I was never listening, but who knows? Joe talked a lot about the horrible things going on in the world and urged his audiences to think about why things are the way they are. He was not shy about displaying his disgust with many of our current systems. But what he did for me was to make me really take a hard look at why I feel the way I do about certain things. I realized that I didn’t even really need to know somebody to dislike them. All I needed to know was what my liberal friends thought. Because hey, we’re all liberals right? So we must all think the same and support the same things and hate the same people, right? Of course to an extent, that is true. But it should not be absolute.

I know most of my liberal friends will probably cringe reading this, but at the beginning of the debate—much to my dismay, by the way—I actually liked and agreed with quite a few of the things that these Republicans had to say. And dare I say it—even Donald Trump. I know, I know. Absurd, right? Now, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying I would ever trust—or god forbid, vote for—Donald Trump, because I think the vast majority of things I have heard come out of his mouth are idiotic, but I think there’s something to be said for having an open mind when people speak. Even if they are your sworn enemy. I’m just saying that it would behoove us to at least listen to what the other guy has to say before automatically disregarding him because he belongs to a different party.

One of the other things that Joe talked about in his BNA piece was the influence that comes from the media, politicians, our family and friends and what an impact that has on our decisions. To quote a line from his script, “When did we start making decisions based on what side someone is on instead of how we interact as individuals?” Good question. He goes on to say “It wasn’t always like this. It doesn’t HAVE to be like this.” He’s right. Granted, group mentality is a hard thing to break away from, especially when you’re so immersed in it that you don’t even realize the effect it’s having on you. It’s funny, but a lot of the people that are in favor of teaching our kids to be “independent thinkers” are the same people who are the first to dismiss someone because they don’t belong to the “right” group. We need to stop being sheep. We need to learn to think and make decisions based on our own research and beliefs rather than just follow the herd.

And social media has made everything so much worse. People see things posted on Facebook and take them for truth. One good example of this is when Jeb Bush said he’d put Margaret Thatcher on the ten-dollar bill. This has spiraled so far out of control, it makes my head spin. All you need to do is go on Facebook or Google it and you’ll see all kinds of headlines telling you who’s pissed off at Jeb Bush and who’s insulted by Jeb Bush and blah, blah, blah because he “wants to put Margaret Thatcher on the $10 note.” No. No, no, NO! That’s NOT what he said and that’s not AT ALL what the context of the situation was. Now, far be it for me to defend anyone in the Bush clan (yeah, NOT a fan,) but for anyone who watched the debate, you know that is not what happened. When Jake Tapper posed the question, he prefaced it by saying that it was a “lighthearted” one. It was meant to bring the room up a little; to break up what had been nearly 3 hours of heated debates. I thought it was brilliant to end on a note like that. It’s a good way to remind us all of our humanity. So first of all, it wasn’t a serious question. And Mr. Bush treated it as such. In his answer, which he delivered in a “lighthearted” way, he said “probably illegal, but what the heck, it’s not gonna happen.” And the damn media took it and ran with it. Not outright lying, but skewing the facts to put a spin on it that was never meant to be there. And that’s the kind of social climate we live in. Sorry, but that’s fucked up. So my point here is this: even though I may not like Jeb Bush, if I take what I see in the media as truth, nothing changes. But if I know the actual truth, maybe I realize that good ol’ Jeb isn’t as evil as I might have once thought he was. Evil nonetheless, but not AS evil. Does that make a difference? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Now again, that doesn’t mean I would ever vote for him, but it gives me a little more clarity and understanding and brings what might be two adversaries just an inch closer, and that’s progress.

One of the sweetest, most loving people I have ever known in my life is a Republican. My Uncle Bruce. We’re not related by blood, but he’s been my Dad’s best friend since before I was born and I grew up calling him Uncle. He is one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. And he always made me feel protected. When I was with him and my Dad, I was invincible! I remember one time when I was a kid, long before I knew the words Republican, Democrat, Conservative or Liberal…we were up at his house in the sticks of New Hampshire and some kids from down the street were yelling at my brother, my cousins and I. One of them threw a bottle and it hit me in the head. That was the only time I’d ever seen my Uncle Bruce mad. I thought he was gonna rip that kid’s head off. He was clearly concerned for my well-being and would have done anything to protect me. He was someone I grew up looking up to, respecting, loving. Today, I see things that he posts on Facebook that I absolutely, 100% disagree with. How do I reconcile the fact that he’s “one of the bad guys?” I can’t, because he’s not. Why is he different from any other? I’m not sure I know the answer to that, but it’s definitely something to ponder.

I remember when I was younger and I would debate with my Dad over liberal vs. conservative (he is a steadfast Republican.) He would always tell me “you vote for the man, not for the party.” Let’s ignore the fact that women are left out of this equation all together (again, another story for another time) and really think about that. At the time, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me because if he was a Republican, then obviously his views were going to align more closely with a Republican candidate than a Democratic one. But it kinda makes sense. It’s kinda the same thing Joe was saying in his piece. You listen to all the candidates and you make a decision based on what you believe is right, based on whose ideas most closely match your own. Makes sense, right?

Now, please don’t misunderstand; I am not at all saying that you should stifle or censor yourself in any way or stop fighting for what you believe in. I still think Mike Huckabee is a douche. “[If I were president] Abortion would be no more; it would be as much a scourge in our past as slavery is.” Whatever dude, bite me. I can’t even have this abortion debate anymore, it’s just so ridiculous. And Carly Fiorina. Really? She actually had the cojones to talk about Planned Parenthood like they are some sort of baby-organ harvesting factory, when in fact the video she was referring to is clearly nothing but propaganda. Yeah, I watched it. I had to see what all the hoopla was about. Granted, it’s not for the faint of heart and you should definitely not watch it if you’re sensitive to things like that, but to be completely honest, I was a thousand times more disgusted at the fact that this crazy bitch is using footage like this to skew the facts in favor of her agenda than I was at the actual footage in the video. What. A. Crackpot. That lady’s got some screws loose. I for one am thankful for Planned Parenthood. When I didn’t have health insurance, PP is where I went for my checkups. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have had access to any kind of health care. It sickens me that a woman doesn’t get that.

So I guess what I’m saying is that it’s still okay to be passionate about the things you believe in. It’s more than okay. It’s your right and your duty as an American. And it’s okay to vehemently disagree with someone who doesn’t see things your way. It’s not okay, however to name-call and belittle. It does not solve anything. Even if it does make the Bloodthirsty part of me feel better.

FOOTBALL...F*ck Yeah!

My relationship with football is a complicated one.

Like any relationship worth having, we’ve had our ups and downs. But what I’ve come to realize is that ours is a bond that can never be broken.

When I was a little girl, I was a huge Boston sports fan. As a grammar school kid, my Krushelnyski jersey was my most prized possession. I could tell you the name and number of every Bruin: Mike Krushelnyski #25; Steve Kasper #11; Ray Borque #7; Pete Peeters #1; Rick Middleton #16; Terry O’Reilly #24, Barry Pederson #10. That’s how big a fan I was; that information is eternally burned into my memory over 30 years later and I can recall it with almost no effort. Amazing the useless information your brain retains, isn’t it?

I was a Celtics fan during the Bird-Parish-McHale-DJ-Ainge-era. My mother used to work at the Town Hall in Lexington, which was the next town over from where I grew up in Woburn, Massachusetts. Lexington was kind of a rich town (yes, it’s the same Lexington that Amy Adams’ character in The Fighter refers to as “richie-rich Lexington.”) As an employee of the Assessor’s Office, she was privy to information regarding the sales of homes. I remember when she came home and told us that Dennis Johnson had bought a house up on Solomon Pierce Road, a brand-new development in Lexington scattered with houses so grand that we could only dream of living in them someday. We used to drive by his house and marvel at the fact that we knew where one of the Celtics Greats lived.

I went to tons of games at Fenway, and on an October afternoon in 1983, my Aunt Carol surprised my brother, cousins and I by taking us to “Yaz Day,” Carl Yastrzemski’s last game and a celebration of his Red Sox career.  Walking down Yawkey Way, my senses were overloaded by the smell of Sausages, Peppers and Onions and carts with various Red Sox paraphernalia: books, cups, hats, flags, t-shirts and the like. It was a party in the streets with the most rabid sports fans in the country.  Bleacher tickets to a Red Sox game were $6 then. Yeah, it’s been a while.

Oddly enough (especially to anyone who knows me today,) the only Boston team I wasn’t obsessed with was The Patriots. I remember that Steve Grogan was the Quarterback and I remember trying to watch Monday Night Football with my dad on occasion, but on the East Coast, MNF was on so late and I never got to watch more than the first quarter of any game before my mother would make me go to bed.

All this Boston influence somehow passed over me when it came to football. I don’t quite remember when or how it happened, but all of a sudden, I was a 49ers fan. Joe Montana was my hero. The Greatest Quarterback to ever play the game. I still have the very first Niners shirt I ever bought: A cotton jersey with the SF logo on the front. I remember bringing that shirt to Coleman’s (the sporting goods store down at Four Corners—or Fawh Cawhnas if you’re a native) to have the number 16 and the letters spelling out M-O-N-T-A-N-A put on the back. Over 30 years later, that jersey still resides in the bottom drawer of my dresser, over 3,000 miles away from where I acquired it.

One of the highlights of my adolescence was travelling to visit my aunt in Ohio. All I wanted to do was see was Joe Montana’s jersey at the Football Hall of Fame. I remember taking a picture of it with my little Disc camera (remember those???) I still have that picture. A twelve year-old girl, standing, in awe, staring at the jersey worn by The Greatest Quarterback of All Time. It took my breath away. I’m pretty sure my dad had to drag me away so that we could finish our tour.

Then it happened. Sports and I went through a rough patch. There was no other way; we had to break up. Not forever, but for a long, long time. I’m the type of person that likes to do things because I want to do them, NOT because someone tells me I have to. I had a college professor once tell me that it was because of my age (I went to college late in life and was about 10 years older than the average student in my class,) but I think it’s always been part of my genetic makeup. As soon as I started dating a guy who breathed, ate, drank and slept sports, I lost interest. As soon as it was shoved down my throat, I didn’t want anything to do with it. As soon as it permeated every detail of my life and was initiated by someone else, I abandoned it. As far as I was concerned, sports and I were through, and over my four-year relationship, I stood my ground. I banned all sports from my life, resorting to negative comments and the obligatory eye-roll every time I would walk into the room to see my boyfriend watching a game. I wanted nothing to do with it. I know it may be hard for people who knew me during this period of my life to believe how big of a fan I am now, but keep reading…I’ll explain.

Eventually, my boyfriend and I broke up and I moved back home. I spent three years at home before moving to California. Somehow within that time, my love of sports started to creep back in to my life. I can’t explain it; it happened almost without me noticing. The San Francisco 49ers seamlessly eased their way back into my heart. It was if we’d never been apart. Only thing was, now there was a new guy at the helm: Steve Young. Over the next few years, he would prove himself to be in the same category of greatness as my beloved Montana. The 49ers were unstoppable. They were my team. And once again, just like that, I loved them.

Then, something happened. Something that would change my NFL experience forever. In the Patriots 2001 home opener against their arch-rivals, Drew Bledsoe (who I’d never been a fan of) took a vicious hit from Jets linebacker Mo Lewis and suffered internal bleeding. A new kid, sixth-round draft pick Tom Brady stepped in. No-one knew it yet, but on that day, a dynasty was born. All of a sudden, I was a Patriots fan. I don’t know if it was homesickness (I had recently picked up my life and moved 3,000 miles away) or if I somehow instinctively knew that Tom Brady would be the next Greatest Quarterback of All Time, but I found myself rooting for The Patriots. And I’ve never looked back. All the rawness of the die-hard Boston fan came rushing back to greet me; it was as if I had never left. I was a BOSTON FAN, a Patriots one to be specific, and there was nothing anyone could do or say to make me feel differently. I still do love the Niners, and I will always root for them. Unless, of course, they’re playing New England.

A few years ago, I started posting “love letters” to the Patriots on facebook before each game. It was just a fun little thing that I did and I thought I was being clever. People seemed to like them and I got a lot of comments at the beginning of the season from people wanting to hear more, so I started a page called Love Letters To The New England Patriots. I have fun doing it and it’s a great place to talk smack, obviously an integral part of being a fan, especially if you’re a Bostonian.

Over the past 14 years, the football culture has permeated my life in other ways. It’s like the whole thing about your brain retaining useless information that I was talking about before. For whatever reason, my brain likes to hold onto things—very specific things—connected to sports. I associate people (some I haven’t seen in years) with “their” teams. For whatever reason, if I see or think of a certain person and that person happens to be a football fan, I immediately associate them with such. There are people who I see often, and so are at the forefront of my mind, like my friend Sarah (aka The Seahawks Fairy), or Thea and Joe, who are members of my theatre company and are Buffalo and Miami fans, respectively, but there are also people I haven’t seen in years who I do this with: Michael, a guy I used to work with at a restaurant years ago is a Redskins fan; Ben, a guy I did theatre with in the mid-2000’s is a die-hard Eagles fan; Brian is a Denver fan; Drew loves The Packers; Jon, the Cowboys; Erik roots for The Niners; I haven’t seen any of these people in years, but yet I immediately remember their NFL affiliations when they come to mind. Weird, right?

All in all, football is something that I adore. I anxiously await football season every year so that I can talk shit and belittle other people’s teams and tell them how awful they are, all while proclaiming my love for and declaring how awesome my team is. Football satisfies the Bloodthirsty part of my psyche, but in a roundabout way, it gratifies the Flowerchild part of me too. It gives me something to support, to believe in. And to love.

I've Got Another Thing Comin

I saw a Terminix commercial the other day. It was set to Judas Priest’s You’ve Got Another Thing Comin. It bummed me the fuck out. Of course my first thought was “Oh great, another rock n’ roll band that sold out.” So, like any social-media savvy person of the current day, I posted a status on Facebook relaying my disappointment. What I didn’t expect was to get someone who disagreed with me. (Isn’t that always the way on Facebook…) Anyway, this person, an old friend of mine from my high school days defended Judas Priest and their right to do whatever they want with their music. He asked me if it “tarnished” the music. Yes. Yes it does. In fact, that’s exactly what it does.

While I completely understand what my old friend was saying (he did make some very valid points,) and by no means do I mean him any disrespect (he is a musician as well), but that song is now forever ruined for me. Every time I hear it, I will think of a giant winged insect being hunted by a guy with a tank of poison. Not cool. As I searched for the commercial on the internet (I wanted to view it one more time before writing this blog,) I couldn't seem to find it, but I did come across another Terminix commercial with a song by AC/DC. This broke my heart into a bazillion pieces. Judas Priest was bad enough, but AC/DC?! This is becoming an epidemic! AC/DC, in my humble opinion, are ROCK GODS! I worship those guys! They are definitely in my Top Five Rock Bands of All Time. How could this be? How can I possibly be living in a world where the most rockin' music of my generation (and generations before) is being used to sell bug poison? Am I living in an alternate universe? This is madness! I feel like Dewey Finn screaming at a classroom full of clueless school children "AH! What do they teach in this place!?"

Now, this is not a judgement on these people (I love and respect most of the artists I will mention in this blog) but rather a selfish rant on how it makes me feel. A little piece of me dies inside when I see a Led Zeppelin song being used to sell Cadillacs. Zeppelin is another classic band in my Top Five Rock Bands of All Time. I mean, I get it. The people who are most apt to buy Cadillacs come from the generation when Led Zeppelin was at its prime. The advertising companies are trying to use Rock And Roll to bring on a sense of nostalgia and make all those rich old white guys long for endless summer nights when driving around in your 8-cylinder, gas-guzzling boat with a hot chick in the front and a six-pack in the back was the ultimate status symbol. And they’re smart. They’re smart for doing that, because that is what’s gonna sell their product; I get it. But what about the fans? I mean the real fans? The ones who appreciate the music for what it is. The ones who listened to those songs over and over and over again without ever getting tired of them? The ones who stood in line in freezing cold temperatures to spend a good chunk of their hard-earned money just to be able to get the chance to buy a ticket to their concert? The ones who wallpapered their bedrooms with posters and articles and pictures? The ones whose record collection was their most prized possession?

Music was an enormous part of my childhood and continues to be an ongoing source of inspiration for me and my art. It’s amazing how listening to certain music can instantly put me in a better mood. As an adolescent, I relied heavily on music for a lot of things. It gave me an outlet. It connected me with people. It allowed me to be free. But most importantly, it made me feel good. I had numerous friends who were musicians. I idolized certain rock bands and artists. And it was all because they made me feel something. Something good and worthwhile and valuable.

All I can think when I see a commercial using one of these classic songs today is “My god, Jim Morrison must be turning over in his grave.” For those of you that don’t know the story, in the late 60’s, The Doors sold their song Light My Fire to Buick for use in a commercial for the new Buick Opel. They did this without Jim’s knowledge; it was a deal the other 3 members of the band made without him. Upon learning of the sale, Jim flipped the fuck out, threatening to smash an Opel to pieces as part of his new act. Needless to say, Buick and The Doors parted ways and the song was never used. And although I don’t condone smashing a car to bits to make a point, I get where he was coming from. This music, this art is a very precious thing; a result of the artists’ blood sweat and tears. It stood for something. It stood for freedom and artistic expression and (to use another Dewey-ism) “stickin’ it to the man!” And to use it to sell a car for that very “man” you were trying to “stick it to,” was…well, blasphemous.

In today’s world, the line between artistry and commercialism is so blurred that I think most people don’t even notice it. I remember the first time I saw that Capital One ad with Samuel Jackson. I posted something about that on Facebook, too and was met with some resistance. Again, I get it. People should be allowed to choose what they do with their particular art and I applaud them for being able to get a paycheck from it. Good for them. But, here’s my problem: I have no desire to see the Baddest Mothafucka in the movies pimping a fucking bank. Because, essentially that’s what credit cards are, right? Banks? I mean, for the sweet love of Jesus, Morgan Freeman, I love you dearly and you are one of the coolest, smartest, well-spoken men of our time, but I do not want to see you selling me a Visa card! I want to watch you tell me about the wonders of the universe in Through The Wormhole, I want to watch you light up the screen playing multi-faceted characters, I want to listen as you narrate well...anything. But I do not want you to tell me how great it is to have a fucking Visa card!

Now, there are some exceptions. If the commercial is for a good cause or something meaningful, it doesn’t bother me. Take Sarah McLachlan. Even though I want to stab her in the eye with a sharp object every time one of her “save the animals” commercials comes on, I applaud her for it. She is using her celebrity to better the world we live in. Me getting a Capital One credit card is not going to make the world a better place.

The harsh fact that I've had to come to terms with is that this is the world we now live in, and if I want to be a part of that world, I have to suck it up and deal with it. I have to deal with Matthew McConaughey selling me Lincolns, Scarlett Johansson selling me Sodastreams, Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell selling me Samsung's entire line of products, and Eddie Money selling me auto insurance.

Crap. I think I might have to kill my TV.

Sixteen Pieces

As another holiday season comes to a close, I reflect on all the things one reflects on at Christmastime: The “true” meaning of Christmas. Helping those less fortunate. Gathering with loved ones. Baking cookies. My hypocrisy. Ok, maybe not everyone reflects on their own hypocrisy, but this is something I think about often. Year in and year out, I feel the guilt of my Catholic upbringing creep in as I bake, gift, give and celebrate a holiday I don’t believe in.

A recovering Catholic, I denounced the religion I was born into a long time ago. Some may find it odd that I still celebrate Christmas. Even odder, I have a Nativity scene that I set up every year. Hypocritical? Yes, maybe. Okay, definitely. But there’s more to it than that.

Growing up, I was forced to go to church, make communion, go to confession, etc. etc. Once I reached the age of reason though, and was old enough to think critically about what I was doing, I very easily decided that Catholicism was not for me. I dabbled in various Eastern philosophies over the years, but never found anything that really “fit” until recently. But that’s a story for another day. This blog is about me trying to reconcile the fact that even though I am a pagan, I still have a desire to celebrate “Christmas”.

Christmas is supposed to be about celebrating the birth of the Baby Jesus. I think. I mean, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know. Honestly, I stopped paying attention in CCD class around the age of 7 when I couldn't get acceptable answers to the perfectly rational questions I was asking. Regardless, Christmas is a religious holiday when we are supposed to honor God. Undoubtedly, modern day society has turned Christmas into a commercial shark-tank that pretty much blasphemes the true meaning of the holiday. Personally, neither of these appeals to me much. I have no desire to pick one day of the year to “honor God.” I try to live my life cherishing my idea of “God” every day. Life is full of miracles and surprises; why would I choose just one day of the year to celebrate that? And as for the commercial part…ugh. While I do enjoy giving to others (in fact, this is my favorite part of “Christmas,”) I am appalled at the commerciality of it all.

Christmas means remembering and cherishing the memories I have of being a kid during “the most magical time of the year.” Warm, fuzzy pajamas. A crackling fire. Snow covered lawns. Gramma’s meatballs. Cousins. Mom’s brownie pudding. Decorating the tree with its beautiful smell wafting through the house. Burl Ives singing Christmas songs. Snow forts. Rudolph. Heat Miser. The house smelling of roast turkey. Unpacking the Manger from its box and setting the figurines out for their month-long display. Not celebrating the birth of some guy named Jesus. Who I’m sure was a really cool dude, don’t get me wrong; it’s just not my thing.

I watch attentively, my eyes like saucers as my mother carefully takes the box marked “Manger” off the shelf in the basement that holds the Christmas decorations.

For whatever reason, my mother had labeled the box “Manger,” which, according to Wikipedia means "a feeder that is made of carved stone, wood or metal construction and is used to hold food for animals (as in a stable.)" I guess everyone else would call it “Nativity,” but for purposes of me and my story, it will remain “Manger.”

Each of the sixteen pieces is wrapped in tissue paper, each one a fragile treasure. I try to guess which one is being unwrapped as the tissue paper is slowly removed, one at a time.

It’s funny; I look at it now in a completely different way than I did then. The first thing that strikes me today is the Three Wise Men. One has really dark skin and the other two much lighter. And Mary and Joseph look totally white. Didn't this whole Jesus thing take place in like, I don’t know, a country on the other side of the world where people don’t look….like that? I mean, Jesus was black, right? Hasn't someone already had this argument? I don’t even know what that means. Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But when I was younger…

There is a little tiny manger in which has been placed a cotton ball to serve as The Savior’s bed.

Ok, I might have made the cotton ball part up. But a cotton ball would be the perfect bed for an inch and a half long Savior, no?

There are Mary and Joseph, both down on bended knees, admiring the new baby Jesus. I love the blue on Mary’s clothes and the purple on Joseph’s. They are so pretty! Next are the three wise men, dressed in red, yellow and blue. They have gifts for the Baby Jesus!

What the hell a baby is gonna do with Frankincense and Myrrh is beyond me…

The colors are so bright! A camel (my personal fave), an ox (a close second, he had springs for horns which are fun to “boing,”) a donkey, a Shepherd and his dog and five sheep. We set them out very carefully, building the scene. Only after everything is in place can we remove the tattered plastic Hollywood Bread bag that my mother has re-used to hold The Hay.

The Hay was the best part. (Well, besides the camel and the ox.) It had a kind of old, but not unpleasant smell that I can only describe as lightly earthy. The first whiff that escaped when the bag was first opened told you that it was undoubtedly Christmastime. I loved to take it out and hold it and smell it.

Very carefully, we place The Hay in between all the figurines. You have to kind of “sprinkle” it because it sticks together. I like to place The Hay right in front of the sheep’s mouths so it looks like they are eating it. You have to be very careful though because it is easy to drop The Hay and make a big mess!

I still have that Hay. It’s got to be almost 50 years old. I’m not kidding. I just turned 44 and my mother had it before I was born. It’s dwindled a bit, what with every year of setting up and taking down, you’re bound to lose a few strands here and there. I mean, it is HAY after all.

All sixteen pieces are now in place and ready for Christmas. The scene is set. Each one has their part.

This is what celebrating Christmas is, and always was about for me. I know it sounds weird, and maybe even blasphemous to some, but I never associated Christmas with anything religious. Do I respect the holiday and the people who do? Yes, of course. But for me, that’s not what Christmas is. It seems I have a different meaning of Christmas than everyone else. But I’m okay with that. Just like each of the sixteen pieces of the Nativity, I have my part. It doesn't matter how others see me or if their opinion of me is true; I celebrate the way I want and I’m okay with that too. What I’m not okay with is giving up a holiday that I love and want to celebrate just because I don’t agree with what it is “supposed” to stand for. As long as I am celebrating in a way that doesn't hurt anyone else, what’s the big deal, right?

And so I will continue to set up my Manger at Christmastime. I mean no disrespect. I take good care of my Manger. I wrap all sixteen pieces carefully in tissue paper and pack them away in a big old shoe-box. The Hollywood Bread bag has since met its demise, but I have a new self-sealing plastic bag that safely stores The Hay. And it gets packed away in the huge plastic bin with all the Christmas decorations, safe and sound.

And waits for next year.

Selfless Acts and Turkey Legs

I had a good Thanksgiving. I did. In my house, nice and comfy, good (and lots!) of food, with two of the people I love most in the world. As I was putting away all the food at the end of the night, I was tempted to throw away the two huge turkey legs from our Thanksgiving feast because I knew they would not get eaten. I stood there, staring at this bird carcass with tons of meat on it. Sure, we would eat a lot of it, make turkey salad (one of our favorites) and maybe some sandwiches, but the legs would sit in the fridge untouched, as they do every year, until they were no longer considered safe to eat and would conveniently find their way to the garbage. I couldn't bring myself to do it. The guilt that I felt even considering throwing them away was awful. A perfectly good bird had given his life so that we could eat; it was deplorable to waste any of that. And even more dreadful a thought: there were so many people who did not have enough to eat; how could I possibly throw away perfectly good food?

The morning after Thanksgiving, I wake with a mission: I am going to take that perfectly good food and give it to someone who needs it. Someone who needs it a lot more than I do. I have two turkey legs, so I will prepare two bags of food and give them to the first two homeless people I see on my way to work. I wonder, “What else can I give them?” I want to give them a Thanksgiving feast, like I was lucky enough to have, but I can’t realistically give them mashed potatoes and stuffing and green bean casserole. Rolls! I have some leftover rolls, those will pack well. I grab the plastic bag filled with the Pillsbury Crescent Rolls and take two out. I roll each one in foil. Hmmm…what else? Banana bread! I baked a fresh one for breakfast yesterday. I cut two generous pieces and wrap them in foil. What else, what else? Oh! I bet anyone would love some fresh baked cookies! I take out the Triple Chocolate cookie dough that I had prepared yesterday and preheat the oven. As I scoop out the batter on to the cookie sheet, I imagine the receiver of my gift enjoying a freshly baked cookie. What’s not to like about a freshly baked Triple Chocolate cookie?!? Let’s see….what else do I have? I make my way over to the pantry, rummaging around through boxes and cans and an old crumpled tortilla chip bag with a few stale crumbs in it. I come across a bag of individual packets of trail mix. I grab two. On my way back to the kitchen I notice the bright orange bowl adorned with bats and skulls, still holding some Halloween candy. I grab six bite-sized Milky Ways. Three each. It crosses my mind that I might be putting in too many sweets. I mean, someone who doesn't eat as often as they should should probably veer more towards the healthy food, no? Ah, fuck it. Everyone deserves a few bite-sized candy bars now and then, right? I return to the kitchen and pop the cookies in the oven.

I finish getting ready for work. The cookies are done. As I let them cool, I lay out all the goodies on the glass-topped bistro table inherited from my cousin. One turkey leg, a crescent roll, a piece of banana bread, 3 bite sized Milky Ways, a little bag of trail mix and 3 homemade triple-chocolate cookies. Hmmm….I’m missing something. I know! Popcorn! I have two gigantic bags of popcorn that are left over from the theatre that we didn't use! I run out to my car and retrieve the enormous bags. Now I need bags to put all this stuff in. I go into the garage and grab a paper Target handle bag and one of those recycled reusable tote bags. I bring them inside and fill them with the feast.

What will the people who I give these to say? How will they act? Will they be thankful? Will I brighten their day? I start thinking about this and wonder. The last two times I drove to work, I saw a lady on the off ramp at Lake Ave holding a cardboard sign that simply said, “Even a smile helps.” I was two lanes over so she didn't see me, but both days I had wished I was in the far right lane so she could have seen me smiling at her. I hope she is there this morning. I want to give her one of these bags.

I gather my things, kiss my husband and my dogs good bye and get in my car. I wonder if I’ll see any homeless people before I get on the freeway. Probably not. I think that I want to give my bags to someone close to my home rather than in Pasadena. I’m not quite sure why. Oh, who cares? A need is a need and whoever I give these bags to will be someone that needs them.

As I exit Lake Ave, I see a man on the ramp over to the far left. It is a 4-lane road and I turn right off the exit to get to work. Not today. I make my way over to the left lane, hoping that the light will be red so I don’t piss off anyone behind me when I stop to hand over my bag. As I get close, I roll down my window and make eye contact with the shabbily-clothed man. I notice that he is missing his right hand. My mind wanders and immediately starts to run through different scenarios. Is he a veteran? Did he do a tour in Iraq or Afghanistan? Did a car bomb explode with one of his buddies in it and he just happened to be far enough away that all the physical damage he incurred was to his right hand? Was he a machinist in his old life (before he became homeless) and had an accident that rendered him unable to work? Did he owe a gambling debt to some Mafioso and was unable to pay so they cut off his hand? The scenarios are endless. I don’t know why my mind works this way, but no matter. I snap myself out of it and smile at him and grab the tote bag from my front seat. As I slow down and come to a stop, I hold the bag out the window and he approaches. He takes the bag and mutters a barely audible “Thank you,” (or at least that’s what I think he said) and immediately turns around.

Wow.

That was kind of anti-climactic. I sit there stunned, not quite knowing what just happened. I’d be lying if I said I wasn't just a little mad. Well, maybe mad is not the right word. Disappointed? No. Something. I don’t know. I was expecting…..well…..more. Does that make me a horrible person? I mean, I don’t know what I thought was gonna happen. Really, did I expect ‘Age of Aquarius’ would start playing as daisies fell from the sky and everyone joined hands and hugged each other? I don’t know. Maybe. But how dare I? I am doing something that is my duty as a human and I expect thanks for it? That’s a little pompous if you ask me. Now I’m feeling horrible about myself. But, time to suppress that shit. I have work to do. There is one more person in need that I have a giant turkey leg for and goddammit, I’m gonna find him!

I make the left off the ramp. I drive a few blocks, knowing I have to turn around and I see another man standing on the opposite side of the street in the median. I bang a U-ey and luckily hit another red light as I pull up to him. I hand him the Target bag. He is so thankful! He tells me thank you and assures me that nothing will go to waste and goes on and on about how great this is and he hopes I have a wonderful day. The light stays red for a minute, so I actually get to chat with him for a brief moment before I continue on to work. He is a nice man. I give him a huge smile and go on my way.

A good feeling starts to creep in and fill the space where the icky one was.

This whole experience causes me to question: Is there any such thing as a selfless act? Not that I’m saying what I did was remotely selfless, because it was not at all; I had more than enough food to give some to someone in need and I did. There’s nothing selfless about that; I didn't give up anything I needed or sacrifice anything. But it did make me think.

Why do people do things to help other people?  Is it because it makes them feel good? If so, then it would cease to be a selfless act. If I do something because it makes me feel good, even if it does help someone else, it would appear that I am doing it to please myself and not someone else, right? But by the same token, if I do something to please someone else and it very much displeases me, is that selfless? If I am doing something to please someone else and it doesn't please me, what kind of person does that make me? I do something good for someone and it makes me feel bad? That is the epitome of selfishness.

Maybe we perform these so-called “selfless acts” so other people will think we’re good. “I’ll do this good thing and then I’ll post it on facebook and everyone will see how wonderful I am!” There seems to be a bit of that going around lately. That’s our ego taking over. We need people to know that we’re good. But does that make us bad people? Not necessarily. But when the need for the approval of others becomes more important than the good deed itself, then we may have a problem.

I don’t know the answer to any of this, but I've come to this conclusion: Feeling good when you do something good for someone else is just like a bonus and not the motivating factor in doing a good deed. The proverbial icing on the cake.

Yeah, I think I like that the best. So I’m gonna keep giving turkey legs to people in need, even if it does make me feel good.

In Love With Jesse Pinkman

How is it possible to love something that doesn’t exist?

I guess that’s the magic of the movies. And TV. And theatre. You get what I mean.

Everybody loves somebody. We love our parents, our children, our siblings, our friends, our dogs. But how can you love something that is make-believe? Something that doesn’t exist in the realm that we inhabit? A writer creates something out of pure imagination, writes it down on paper, and then an actor breathes life into that character. That person doesn’t exist. But we love them anyway. How can we feel such powerful emotion for someone that is not even real?

It’s even common to love people we don’t know. Movie stars, for instance. Even though we don’t know them, we still love them. We know enough facts about their lives to think we can form some kind of opinion about the kind of person they are. For instance, I love Drew Barrymore. Not just as an actor, but as a person. As the person I think she is; the person I perceive her to be. I know that she had a troubled youth, got hooked on alcohol and drugs at a young age, and overcame all that to become a successful actor, director and producer, among other things. I imagine her to be a kind, gentle, fun person who genuinely cares about other people. I love her.

I also love Liam Neeson, but for different reasons. Would I love him to rescue me from a burning building or from crazy Albanian kidnappers? Of course, what girl wouldn’t? He’s handsome, rugged, and a total bad-ass. And that hint of a brogue…how can you not love him? I know that he lost his wife in a skiing accident. And although I haven’t had that same experience, I can imagine what that must be like. The pain that must have caused him is a relatable emotion, and it makes him seem more human, even though he is a “movie star.”

But Drew Barrymore and Liam Neeson are real people. And as naïve as it is to think that I might know what kind of people they are, when I really don’t have a clue (I mean, Drew could be a total monster bitch, Liam a complete douchebag and I’d never know it……) is kind of funny. But nevertheless, I love them.

I also love Jesse Pinkman. Only thing is….he’s not real. He’s made-up. Fictional. Only exists in the world of my imagination. Yet my emotional attachment to him is no less than it is for Drew or Liam. (By the way, for those of you who don’t watch Breaking Bad, Jesse is a character on the show.) I don’t know jack shit about the actor who plays him, Aaron Paul. In fact, I never even heard of him before I started watching Breaking Bad. But the character that he has created has a death-grip on my heart. I’m totally head over heels. Watching this poor kid after his girlfriend dies, witnessing how he pulls the trigger and has to kill an innocent person so he can stay alive, and all the inner demons he has to contend with because of these things that he has gone through. Jesus Christ. It rips your heart out. You just want to hold him and take away his pain. All this emotion, and he’s not even real. Funny thing is, on paper, he’s not even a likeable guy. Actually, he’s kind of a scumbag. He’s a junkie who makes and deals methamphetamine for a living. What’s there to love about that?

Needless to say, my husband and I are totally addicted to this damn show. We watched the first 4 seasons in like 2 weeks, thanks to Netflix. We end every sentence with “Yo!” or “Bitch!” and can’t wait to get home from work to watch another episode. Obsess much?

Dexter would be another good example. I mean, the guy kills people! On a regular basis! Granted, they are “bad guys,” but still, how can you find yourself rooting for someone like that? And I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who watches Dexter that doesn’t love him. Or at least like him a lot. He is a likeable guy, after all. Even if he does chop people up into pieces and throw their bodies in the ocean.

I guess I’ve always had a soft spot for the bad boys. But, I’m talking bad boys that ride Harleys and have tattoos, not ones that make meth and shoot people in the face. So, I guess my question here is twofold: How can we love something that doesn’t exist and how can we love such a “bad” person, even if he is make-believe?

What is it about the human psyche that allows us to sympathize, empathize, and even love characters like this? Surely, if we ran across someone like Jesse Pinkman in real life, we would be disgusted, appalled, and insist he be locked up and the key thrown away. But for whatever reason, we are “allowed” to love these people without any guilt. I guess that’s just the magic of the screen. Or maybe it’s something more. I just don’t know what.

Why I'm Not A Vegetarian

Eating the flesh of another living being. Eating. The flesh. Of another living being. If that’s not nauseating, I don’t know what is. Killing something so you can eat it? What is that about? I mean, who was the first person to even think that?

I guess if you go back to the caveman days, it may have been a little more justifiable. Those guys had to really fight just to stay alive. I mean, the dinosaurs alone must have really given them a hell of a…..oh wait, hold on……never mind, that’s another story. No, but seriously, whatever possessed Homo erectus to think, “hmmm…let’s see, if I take this long stick and sharpen the end to a point, maybe I can thrust it into the side of that buffalo over there. Then, I’ll wait till he dies, cut his flesh off and eat it. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.” I mean, seriously, WTF?

One time, when I first moved to California, I was home in my little apartment by myself, preparing to roast a chicken. I always loved roast chicken. It reminded me of being a little kid at Gramma’s house. She made the best stuffing! As I hold this once-living bird over the sink to rinse it under the cold running water, it hits me like a ton of bricks. This is utterly revolting. I’ve never really thought about it before, but here I am, holding this once-living, decapitated, gutted and de-feathered creature in my hands, preparing to eat it. What the hell am I doing? What on earth makes me think I have the right to do this?

I grew up eating meat. My whole family and everyone I knew ate meat. It was just something everyone did and everyone accepted. I don’t even think I knew what a vegetarian was. It’s kind of funny, though. My father, who was a police officer for the entirety of my young life, is also a hunter. I always hated the thought of him out there in the woods with his rifle, stalking Bambi. But it wasn’t until I was older that I started to think about what the difference was between “Bambi” and a chicken. They are both living creatures. They both have hearts and brains and feelings. And faces. I used to have a vegetarian friend whose motto was “I don’t eat anything with a face.” I like that. Then my brain travels down the proverbial rabbit-hole of “well, then what is the difference between a chicken and a mouse? Or a mouse and a cockroach?” What, one is cuter than the other? One has soft fur and is more cuddly? That’s the same logic as saying that less attractive people don’t have as much right to life as good-looking people. I mean, seriously, what’s the difference? Why is a cow’s life more precious than a fly’s? These are all living, breathing creatures, why is it okay to kill some, without even thinking about it (i.e. swatting a fly), and completely horrifying to slaughter a cow?

I can’t watch any of those movies or documentaries that deal with meat processing or where our food comes from. I can’t even stand the thought of animals living in less than ideal conditions. I seriously think it would ruin my life if I was forced to watch one of those movies. And I’m not being dramatic, either. The thought of it strikes a chord so deep inside me, that I would be scarred for life if I ever watched it.

It’s all what we’re conditioned to think as children that carries over into our adult life. Most people eat meat without ever thinking about it. And in other parts of the world, they eat things like Guinea Pigs and brains, which may seem revolting to Americans, but is an everyday occurrence and completely “normal” in some countries.

This is interesting to me, because I have always had a rebellious spirit. And by that I don’t mean “Oh look at what a bad-ass rebel I am with all my tattoos and avant-guard way of thinking.” I mean that I have always questioned things, never taken anything at face value, and as a result, pretty much went the opposite way of what I was taught or brought up to believe. I always had to be a little bit different. I was brought up in a very conservative environment; now I am quite liberal. I was raised Catholic; now I subscribe to Paganism. I was silently taught that it was “immoral” to be gay; I am now a huge advocate of gay rights. So why is it that in this one area, I have been unable to turn away from what was engrained in me? Even though the thought of eating meat sickens me, I still do it. Why? Because I like chicken? I love me a good burger? I can’t figure it out. Is it laziness? I wish I knew. How can I continually—daily even—do something that I think is disgusting? I don’t get it.

I am one of those people that keeps a “bug bin” under my sink, and whenever I see a spider or a cricket, or some other insect in my house, I will capture it and put it outside. I yell at my husband if he kills a spider. How then, can I possibly think that it’s okay to eat bacon? I love pigs! And I don’t mean to eat. I always wanted a pot-bellied pig as a pet, but my husband was like, “We are not having a pig in the house.” Is there some part of my brain that shuts off when I eat meat? Do I subconsciously block out the horrific acts done to these animals so that I can eat their flesh? I honestly do not know. I wish someone could explain it to me.