Monday, April 8, 2013

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.

Monday, March 25, 2013

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.

Monday, February 25, 2013

Ralphie

There’s this guy that comes in to the restaurant where I work. I don’t know what his name is, but we call him Ralphie. One of the servers gave him this name because he works at Ralphs supermarket down the street. We know this, not because he’s told us, but because he wears a shirt with the Ralphs logo on it.

Ralphie is, in a word, gross. He’s a big guy with dark hair. He is always unshaven and his clothes do not fit right. His hands are always filthy, his nails caked with dirt, looking like he just clawed his way out of a landfill. He usually has snot all over his face and he looks like he has not showered in months. He never gets a table, only sits at the bar. He is always carrying a newspaper and loves to watch sports on the TV. Mostly ESPN.

On the surface, this sounds revolting, right? Some filthy guy sitting at your bar that you have to wait on, that grosses everybody out and that other customers complain about because he is so unappealing to look at. Yeah. Welcome to my world.

But the intriguing thing about Ralphie is that he is not just some gross guy that comes in to the restaurant. He’s not stupid by any means, but there is definitely something “wrong” with him. I put “wrong” in quotes because I believe that everyone is the way they are supposed to be, and there is no “wrong,” but for the sake of putting it in terms that people will understand, I will say there is something “wrong” with him. He doesn’t speak. He yells incoherently and points to what he wants on the menu. You can kind of make out vague likenesses of words if you pay real close attention, but it’s very difficult. It sounds almost like when a deaf person talks, except much louder.  I’ll admit, the first time he came in and sat at my bar, I was horrified. I had no idea what he was saying and I had to keep asking him over and over. I was beyond embarrassed. I felt horrible that this man was trying to tell me something and I couldn’t understand him. But after a few times, I kind of got the gist of what he wanted.

He usually orders coffee or a Coke. When you put it down in front of him, you have to hold the glass a certain way and do it very quickly, because before you even put the glass or cup down on the counter, he is reaching out for it, and he will touch your hand if you’re not fast enough. You have to walk away when he eats. Unless you have a non-existent gag reflex. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen. He has no manners whatsoever and gets food and drink everywhere, including all over his face. One time he sneezed…….I was mortified. As you can probably guess, he does not have the social skills or wherewithal to cover his nose and mouth when he does this. Thankfully, my fellow server Tony offered to clean it up, because I just couldn’t. He is a saint for that.

Now, it sounds like I may have described someone who is mentally challenged. I mean, obviously, he has the social skills of a 3 year old, but his mind is sharp as a tack. He will recite sports scores to you, tell you who is playing who on a certain day; it’s like he’s a walking sports encyclopedia (I just sang the Jiminy Cricket song in my head as I was typing that word…..) He is very good with numbers, and always pays in cash. If you give him the incorrect amount of change, even by a penny, he will correct you. And he always tips 20%. It’s the strangest thing. Sometimes he’ll disappear for a few months at a time, but he always comes back again. You’ll see him walking around Pasadena, or at Starbucks with his newspaper under his arm, talking--or more accurately--yelling to himself.

I have so many questions about Ralphie. Does he really work at Ralphs? Or did he just get his shirt with the Ralphs logo from Goodwill? And if he does work there, what in the world does he do? Not to be mean, but I definitely don’t want him touching any of the food that I consume. He’s filthy! Where are his parents? Where does he live? Who does he live with? How old is he? Was he like this as a child, or has it gotten worse or better since he’s gotten older? How does he view the world? Does he know that people are disgusted by him? And if so, how does that make him feel?

One of my co-workers told me that he saw Ralphie walking down the street once with someone who appeared to be his mother. She was holding his hand and had her head down, as if ashamed that this was her son. How must that feel? To have a mother that is ashamed of you?

There used to be a bartender that worked at the restaurant. I’ll call this bartender “X.” X does not work there anymore. X would be outright mean and blatantly rude to Ralphie on a regular basis. For no reason other than the fact that he was gross. While I totally get that, and share in the discomfort of having to wait on Ralphie (did I mention that we kept a canister of Clorox Disinfecting Wipes behind the bar and would have to put on rubber gloves and use them to clean up after him after every visit?), it somehow always seemed so wrong to me.  What kind of soulless malcontent do you have to be to treat someone that way? Especially someone who’s “less fortunate” than you? I mean, yes, he’s disgusting, but he is still a human being, right? It broke my heart a little every time I saw X be mean to Ralphie. But, I was just as guilty, I never spoke up to defend him, or told X that such behavior was unacceptable. So, as my penance (no, I’m not Catholic…….I’m a recovering Catholic, so it’s still engrained in my brain….but that’s another story for another day), I try to be extra nice to him whenever he comes in. I try really hard to overlook the fact that he makes me want to gag, and I always smile and act as pleasant as I can. It’s not easy, but don’t I owe it to my fellow human beings to be kind whenever possible? And it’s always possible.

Monday, February 18, 2013

I Hate Pussies

I hate pussies.
 
 
Not nerds or geeks or wimps, Trekkies, or even that peace-preaching pacifist that refuses to fight or say a bad word about anyone, even when he’s getting the shit kicked outta him. I’m not talking about any of those guys. In fact, more power to them. No, I’m talking about the spoiled-rotten kid whose parents were too busy arranging play dates and getting their kids into the best school money can buy to realize that they were turning their kid into a spoiled little bitch. That’s the kind of pussy I’m talking about.
 
 
Working in the food service industry for the past decade, you better believe I’ve seen my share of misbehaved kids. I want to go up to the parents and shake them, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!?!” But god forbid they discipline precious little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan! No, they’d rather let him run around the restaurant and be a fucking nuisance. I can’t wait for the day when little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan is running around like a crazed maniac and bumps into a server carrying a hot cup of coffee. Ok, maybe that’s a little harsh, and of course I would never wish pain or harm on any child, but you get what I mean, right? I mean, Jesus Christ, I was a kid once too, and I would never ever in a million years even think of acting that way in public. And I never got hit as a kid, either. Although I know a lot of people my age would agree with me and say, “Yeah, I woulda gotten the shit kicked outta me if I acted like that.” Well, all I needed was the death-look from dear ol’ Dad. He never had to lay a hand on me, all he needed to do was glare at me with that “You better knock it off now!” look in his eye, and I knew I’d better behave. And guess what? I did. So did my brother. And so did (most of) my friends. But of course, this was in the mid 1970’s. Oh, how times have changed.
 
 
Unfortunately for kids in today’s society, it’s not as easy as that anymore. Today, kids live in a world where “every kid makes the team.”  I’m sorry, but that is some bullshit if I ever heard it. Why do we feel it necessary to give every kid a trophy, even if they sucked? It’s fucking stupid. It gives kids a false sense of worth and security that doesn’t exist in the real world. And what happens when these kids grow up and they don’t “make the team,” or “get the trophy?” They become pussies. Whiny, petulant, maladjusted assholes.
 
Whatever happened to kids learning defeat and how to accept it gracefully? “Everyone has to be equal.” Well guess what, motherfucker, everyone isn’t equal, and the sooner your kid learns that, the better off he’ll be. Newsflash! Not all kids are good at sports! Why are we so goddamn afraid to say that? Because kids will get their feelings hurt? Are you fucking kidding me? Isn’t it better that they learn about hurt feelings and that it’s part of life, but it’s okay because you get over it? Isn’t that better than delaying the inevitable and letting them think they’re good at something when they’re really not? Kids are so resilient, they bounce back easily. Especially with some encouragement from Mom or Dad. A kid who learns defeat and how to overcome it early in life is going to be a lot better adjusted and have a lot easier time transitioning into adulthood than one who thinks that he is good at everything and grows up with a sense of entitlement. It seems to me that some parents are putting an awful lot of pressure on themselves to “protect” their kids, when they’re really just protecting themselves.
 
 
You know what I say? So what if little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan sucks at basketball? Who gives a shit? I’m positive there’s something else he’s good at. Maybe the skinny kid that has one leg longer than the other and wears coke-bottle glasses and can’t run or throw a ball to save his life is a fucking musical genius! Maybe he’s the most insane trumpet player you’ve ever heard! Maybe the girl who’s not nimble enough to be a cheerleader is a math whiz. Maybe, if given the chance, she’ll love science so much that she’ll discover the cure for cancer. Not everybody has to be good at everything. That’s the beauty of living in a society like ours. You can be an individual. You can embrace your uniqueness. Unfortunately, a lot of parents miss the boat on this.
 
 
Now, I’m not saying that all—or even the majority—of parents today are like this. I have many friends and relatives my age who I think are wonderful parents and their kids are lucky as shit to have the privilege of being raised by them. And I’m not saying that these aforementioned parents are intentionally trying to fuck up their kids. But, it’s amazing to me that they don’t realize what kind of people they are turning their kids into. How can they be that blind? Someone needs to slap these people.
 
 
Don’t get me wrong, I am all for giving kids their space and freedom. I think they should be allowed to express themselves artistically or otherwise. I have no problem with tattoos (obviously!), piercings or dying your hair hot pink. But at four years old, a child should maybe be allowed to pick out her own outfit for the day, NOT have the freedom to run rampant like a bat out of hell in a crowded restaurant and speak to adults in a disrespectful way.
 
 
I want to tell today’s youth: Go out and play! Get dirty! Learn some heartache, lose a game! Suck at something, but be proud of yourself for trying! Fall down and skin your knees, shit, break a bone if you have to! Do whatever you can to express your individuality, and above all, HAVE FUN!
 
 
Otherwise, thirty or forty years from now, the world is going to be run by a bunch of spoiled, pussified assholes, and that won’t be any fun for anybody.

Monday, February 4, 2013

The Dark Side


To most people who know me, my love for the 60’s is apparent. I mean, c’mon, my email is flowerchild1771. This peaceful, idealistic alter ego is much easier for me to show to the world than my other half. My dark(er) side. I love heavy metal. Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Ozzy, Metallica (before they sold out). I also love…..old school gangsta rap. Yes, it’s true. Ice-T, NWA, Public Enemy. Those guys are so bad-ass. Does that make me strange? Do you know anyone else whose record collection includes Air Supply and NWA? In fact, I even have some classical CD’s. The only thing I can’t stand is country. Well, ok, and most of the 80’s pop music. It’s kind of ironic, even though I loved the metal of the 80’s, for the most part, I think the music sucked, yet that’s the era I grew up in. If I had a choice, I would pick any other era to have been a teenager in, based solely on the music. The 50’s rock n roll was groundbreaking and rebellious, with pompadours and poodle skirts and classic chevys; the 60’s were all about long hair and burning bras and free love; the 70’s were about bell bottoms and power to the people. All eras I would have given anything to grow up in. But the 80’s??? Bor. Ing. But, I digress….back to my dark side.
 
Aside from this peace-loving, barefoot idealist, I have another part of me that I don’t show to the world very often. I guess it’s my darker half. Did you ever read that book by Stephen King, The Dark Half? Well, it’s not like that. Not at all, actually, but...it’s just a part of me that loves heavy metal, and toughness and being tough. I first held a gun when I was 7 and by the time I was 9, I was a pretty good shot with a pistol. My arms were never strong enough to be that accurate with a rifle, but I could kick the shit out of some coke cans with a .38. The fact that I knew how to handle a gun made me feel so tough and so proud. “Don’t fuck with me cause I’ll cap your sorry ass!”
 
When I was in junior high, one of the toughest girls in school wanted to fight me. Funny, I’m friends with her on Facebook now. Anyway, she wanted to fight me, and my dad was pissed. He was actually going to teach me how to box. No daughter of his was gonna get beat up by a bully. Turns out, it was all a misunderstanding and she didn’t want to fight me at all, but my dad was actually going to teach me how to fight. My mother was horrified. I was fuckin pysched up for it, too. I try to hide this violent side of me, but when I listen to metal or some hard core gangsta rap, it makes me feel invincible. And violent. Not that I would ever act on these feelings, but I can talk a good game. Throw in a little Boston accent, I’ll fuck that shit up.
 
 
Is it wrong for a white girl from a blue collar suburb to like gansta rap? I mean, how could I possibly identify with lyrics like:
 
 
“Straight outta Compton, Crazy mutha fucka named Ice Cube, from the gang called Niggas With Attitudes?”
 
 
But for some reason, I love that shit.
 
 
“What about the bitch who got shot? Fuck her! You think I give a damn about a bitch, I ain’t a sucker!”
 
 
As much as these lyrics mortify the peace-loving hippie side of me, they energize the dark side of me. They give me strength. Power.  I want to blare that shit out of my stereo when I listen to it in my car, but I don’t dare. Why? Because I have no right to listen to that music. I'm white. I'm a girl. And I never lived in the ‘hood. Well, ok I lived in the projects with my boyfriend when I was 20, but this was Liberty Ave projects in Woburn, not fucking Compton. Apples and Oranges.

 
I guess it’s funny sometimes to try and reconcile the different parts of yourself, but who says you have to? I love the hippy chick in me just as much as I love the heavy metal tough ass bitch. I just don’t let one of them come out to play as often as the other.

Monday, January 28, 2013

The Woman at the Post Office


I’m waiting impatiently in line at the Post Office last Saturday to pick up my order of ridiculously expensive shampoo. (Side note—it’s sooo not all it’s cracked up to be, and I have since cancelled my “subscription.”) Anyway, I got there early because I had to go to work. Who knew the post office wouldn’t open until 10:00? What a load of crap. On what planet does the post office open at 10:00am? They should definitely be open at 9:00. Strike one for the post office.

I’ve recently moved, so the delivery of said “special shampoo” was sent back to the post office because for some reason, they couldn’t forward it to my new address. All my other mail has been forwarded, why not this? Seriously? How hard is it to forward a little box with a couple of bottles of shampoo? I’m getting more irritated by the second. Strike two.

Dammit! I’m going to be late for work. This is such bullshit. I just want my flippin shampoo! I’m totally out and I don’t want to go buy some “cheap” shampoo at CVS just to hold me over, because then I’ll be stuck with a whole bottle that I won’t even use. Ugh! What is taking so long? I just want to pick up my package and go to work!

I finally get to the front of the line. I hand the man my slip and he goes to retrieve my package. He comes back and tells me there is an additional $7 charge. “Why?” I ask.  I already pay an ungodly amount of money for this stupid shampoo that doesn’t even work, and now he’s telling me I need to pay $7 more dollars? He tells me some bullshit about the package being sent back, and that’s why there’s an extra charge, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I just need to get outta here. I hand him my debit card. He looks at me and tells me that they can only do cash transactions because it’s Saturday. WHAT?!?!?! Are you effin kidding me ? What the hell difference does it make what day it is? The little magnetic stripe on my card is somehow magically deactivated on Saturdays? I’ve never heard anything so stupid! Goddammit! I look in my wallet and I have only $4 in cash. The post office clerk tells me that he cannot release my package without cash payment. Strike 3 Post Office. You’re out.

I throw a fit. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I apparently was loud enough for a lady at the back of the line to hear me. A small, Dark-Haired Woman of about 50 approaches me, her hand extended with three one-dollar bills. “Here,” she says, in a thick accent, “For you.” I look at her face and wonder what kind of person does this. “No,” I say, completely stunned, “I can’t.” “Here,” she says again, and forces the money into my hand. Her eyes are kind, and she touches my hand as she walks back to her place in line. I am so touched; my mood immediately changes. “Thank you, thank you!” I say, “Thank you so much!” I give the clerk the seven dollars and get my package.

As I’m leaving, I stop to thank the Dark Haired Woman again, and notice she is standing with a tall, dark man. “Thank you so much!” I say again, “You just made my day. Really, I can’t thank you enough. That was so sweet of you. Can I have your name and address so I can send you back your money?” The Dark Haired Lady looks at me like she doesn’t know what I am saying, but still has a warm smile on her face. “No, it’s okay,” the man says, “Really, it’s not necessary.” I look at the man, he is smiling. I walk out of the post office feeling like a total asshole, but somehow grateful at the same time. Grateful that there are people like The Dark Haired Woman that exist in the world. And even more grateful that I had had the good fortune to have one cross my path.

This small act of kindness totally changed not only my mood, but my outlook for the day. It snapped me out of my hissy fit and put things into perspective. It’s really not worth it to get that upset over a stupid bottle of shampoo.

And so, from the bottom of my heart, Thank You, Dark Haired Woman. Your random act of kindness touched me and has inspired me to do the same for others. I only hope that I can make such a difference to someone as you did to me.

Sunday, January 13, 2013


In the March 1989 issue of Seventeen, I read an article entitled “Confessions of a Bloodthirsty Flower Child.”  Almost twenty-five years later, the content of that article still resonates with me, and has, in fact, inspired me to create a blog.

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to Ms. Jennifer Davidson of Alpharetta, Georgia, the sixteen-year old girl who wrote the article. I wonder if she ever realized the effect her words would have on someone she would never know. And the effect they still would have all these years later. Crazy how that happens, isn’t it? All this is to say that I cannot take responsibility for the (extremely cool) title of my blog, for I must give credit where credit is due. So, Ms. Davidson of Alpharetta, Georgia: I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having inspired me. You wrote words that I read at 18, and now, today at 42, I still remember them clearly. In fact, I still have the original article. I ripped it out and have kept it all these years. You wrote in your article that you “wonder[ed] if there is anyone else like me out there.” You have a kindred spirit somewhere in the world, even if you’ll never know it.

What Ms. Davidson wrote about back in the late 80’s was the two sides of her personality. The peace-loving hippie side and the sharp-tongued, heavy-metal-loving angry side. For as long as I can remember I’ve bounced back and forth, wondering how to reconcile these two sides of me. I even have tattoos on my arms that demonstrate the opposite sides of my personality. On my right arm, I sport a beautiful, peaceful hippie with flowers in her hair sitting atop a lotus, while my left arm is adorned with a tattooed (yes, my tattoo has tattoos) bad-ass chick on a bright red motorcycle. I got this artwork to illustrate the two sides of my personality, which are often at odds with each other.

I spent years trying to psycho-analyze myself, wondering how such opposite forces could exist within the same body. The Bloodthirsty part wasn’t that hard to figure out. Being raised in the Boston suburbs by a Republican cop father that grew up in the 1950’s; learning by silent example that to be anything less than tough was a sign of weakness, and therefore, unacceptable; being taught to shoot a gun at 7 years of age; it was inevitable that there would be at least some small part of me that would fall under the category of Bloodthirsty.

The Flowerchild, on the other hand, was not as easy to solve. Even though most outsiders think that Massachusetts is a very liberal place because of “The Kennedys,” I was raised in a pretty conservative environment. Dare I say, even sheltered? I come from a blue-collar town where everyone was conservative, white and Catholic. I can count on one hand the kids “of color” that I graduated with. I remember my brother having one Jewish friend in grammar school, and marveling at the strange and unknown world he must have come from.

Although my mother’s side of the family is mostly Democrats, it was almost as if that were a silent part of my upbringing. I was never told about Conservatives vs. Liberals, or even what to think or how to live or vote or be. And although both silent, the conservative force was somehow much more present in my young life than the liberal one.

When I was a teenager, I loved to listen to music that was way before my time: Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones. And when I went to my first Grateful Dead show in high school, oh my….bare feet, cutoff shorts, a tie-dye shirt that a fellow classmate Steven had made me…I was hooked. What other way could there be to live?  My mother used to joke with me, telling me that I was born 20 years too late. I felt such a strong connection to the 1960’s; the culture, the music, the way of life, the Freedom. But I was never taught or exposed to any of this, I kind of just happened upon it.

Even though my mother was a Democrat, I still always considered her quite conservative. By my standards anyway. She definitely did not encompass the Republican ideals that my father did, but neither did she listen to the Grateful Dead or burn her bra in protest. Where the hell did this hippie side of me come from? Whose child was I?

At some point, I stopped trying to figure it all out and just accepted the fact that this is who I was. I am thankful for both of my personalities: the Bloodthirsty part of me has taught me to be a strong, independent person who is not afraid to speak her mind and fight for what she thinks is right, while the Flowerchild part of me has instilled in me a sense of compassion and love for everyone and everything in the universe.

And so I begin my blog. I have a lot of opinions, and a lot to say. On occasion, I will witness a random act of kindness that I feel the need to share. I believe these random acts of kindness are good for the human race as a whole, even if they are only heard about, and not witnessed firsthand.  And then there are times when something makes me so angry that I just want to stab someone in the eye with a sharp object. Sometimes it may seem as if you are reading writings from two different people, but alas, it is only I, the Bloodthirsty Flowerchild.