I don't know if I need to say this, but

Tom Cruise is an ACTOR. I do hope no one is taking psychiatric advice from an actor. He's not even a terribly good actor, just a passable one. His off-center teeth are incredibly distracting when he's as big as a house on a movie screen. As an actor, I'd think he'd do some research into fixing that little problem. (Okay, enough cheap shots. Sorry about that.)

In the United States we get way too much of our information from people who have no training in the field of the particular information they are hawking. Mr. Cruise is a perfect example. I've read a lot about a lot of things, but I wouldn't come out and make the kinds of statements Mr. Cruise makes. Mostly because I know that the more I know, the more I realize I know nothing. He appears to know less than that.

Mr. Cruise can OPINE that chemical imbalance does not exist; but I know it does (been there, taken the medication, got better). He is entitled to his opinion. Everyone's got one and everyone's entitled to one. The problem is that he knows he has an "audience," that there are people who will cite him as a "valid" reference with regard to mental illness.

Just remember, folks, he's an actor. Acting is a fine profession -- an art. I've nothing against acting or actors. I have a lot against people who use their celebrity status to push bullshit on the public. Mr. Cruise isn't the only one. He's just the one who's annoying me today.

--Mary

More Poems

I've been looking through some really old poems and other writing. Many of the poems are historically interesting, but awful. They'd be embarrassing, but I was only in high school, so there isn't much one can expect of the things. Then there are some lines, some images that are intense and powerful. It's an odd combination. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's the usual kind of combination you find in someone who writes.

This is from 1981 as far as I can tell. I was 17 or 18 years old. This was the beginning of a story that never went further than the first page:

To break the hold the night air has on her now would be like separating the grape from the vine before it is ripe. She needs the dark chill; the black air plunging into her lungs, moistening her cheeks and eyelids.

How cool is that?

Some other things, but I don't know where or when they came:

Tonight
Black ink
On white paper
Is understanding

and

Give me something solid --
like granite.
I'll chew that solidity
with my brittle teeth
until I'm gumming sand.

and from February 12, 1987:

I think of God
watching me --
nibbling my body
to get to my soul.

Here's a poem, I don't know from when:

Dying

If only it was like
a wound --
skin growing back
where it slipped off --
it could be covered
with gauze.
But it's dismemberment --

People snap off,
their souls move away
without grace,
with only
a slow syrupy motion
that can't dance.

That's probably enough for now. I have a couple of things I need to type that I'm not sure of putting here (of all places).

I'm just pleased with some of what I'm finding. It's making me feel real.

Whatever that means.

--Mary

Teeth

All I can think of when I'm in the dentist's chair is Local Anaesthetic by Gunter Grass. It seems that my back teeth are in dire straits. I've got some inordinate amount of bone loss for a person my age. The problem is likely due to teeth grinding. Teeth grinding. What a stupid problem to have.

So I go back in two weeks and get a mouth guard so I don't grind my teeth while I sleep. If nothing else, maybe we can keep the bone I've got from disappearing (where does it go anyway?). For now, my teeth are clean. That's a plus.

Not much else to report at the moment.

--Mary

Sad News

I just found out that Kenny, my friend and hairdresser for more than 25 years, lost his wife Patty suddenly last week. I saw the notice in the paper. She was only 44 years old. It's always so sad when the young ones die.

--Mary

Miss Bencivenga

Fifth grade was awful. I had a teacher I didn't like. My mom died in October. My dad got remarried in April. The dog was put to sleep in May. In July I had heart surgery.

At some point in there, my teacher got sick and left. We had a few different substitutes before Miss Bencivenga arrived. (I'm not sure of the spelling of her name -- I think there was an "e" in there somewhere that I've missed.) I don't remember too much about her, but that she had very long hair and was very nice.

She was so nice, in fact, that she came to visit me at home after my heart surgery. She brought me a stuffed blue Aardvark. At that point, she was "stuck" talking to the crazy lady my dad had married (not the lovely lady to whom my dad is married now). I remember looking at her car in our driveway with one of my friends. It was a Dodge Duster with that little Tazmanian Devil decal on the side. We thought it was the coolest car.

I don't remember too much from her visit (I was only 10 years old). But this morning for some reason, as I was waking up, I thought of Miss Bencivenga and how sweet she was to check on me.

I wish I could tell her that.

--Mary

So It Begins

I love spending time with my family. Seriously. We always have fun. We always laugh. Several people in my family are excellent storytellers. Tonight I was lucky enough to catch a few of them in one place -- at my cousin Eric's graduation.

More important, I brought a tape recorder.

Ideally, I want a digital recorder and some good microphones for recording these stories. But this will do for starters.

See, I'm going to write a book of these vignettes, these stories that my family tells. Some are crazy. Some are sweet. Some are really hard to believe, but, to the best of my knowledge, true.

For example: My Great Uncle Charlie was a famous wrestler in Croatia. The wrestlers would go from town to town for matches. In each town, after they'd finished the match, they'd shack up with some girl and spend the night. Around the time of this particular incident, the government had decided to try to make things a little more civilized, so they outlawed dueling, which, up to that point, had been an accepted way of working out differences.

My great uncle went to whichever town this was, did his wrestling match, and hooked up with a girl. The problem was that the girl was actually engaged to a man who was a member of a very powerful, and perhaps a bit shady, family in that particular town. In other words, someone you probably didn't want to cross.

The finace found out about the tryst and challenged Charlie to a duel. Charlie won the duel and killed the man (though I suspect you couldn't do one without the other). The problems were: 1. It was illegal to duel, 2. The family of the man he killed were very powerful and very unhappy about the outcome of the duel, and 3. Well, he killed someone.

My great uncle's wrestling buddies were kind, helpful sorts. They pooled their money and got my great uncle on a boat to America. They then contacted an uncle of his who was here already and told him that Charlie was on his way.

True story. Great Uncle Charlie never went back to Croatia.

There are many, many more stories to be told.

--Mary

Crash and Burn

One of the message boards where I post regularly crashed and burned. It was down for two days. I'm very glad to learn that I'm not the only one who missed it and the people ... a lot.

Graduation

Today one of my cousins graduates from H.S. So...
Congratulations, Eric!!

Oh, Baby!

My friend's sister had a baby girl yesterday. So...
Congratulations, Kim & Jon!!

Work

I've been doing some editing work for a couple of different people, and it's great to be working. Of course, it does cut into my social time... but I think I can manage it.

Maybe more later ... maybe not.

--Mary

Rant

I get really tired of explaining the postal regulations to postal workers. I get tired of arguing. I get tired of them not wanting to look things up (no, friend, asking the idiot next to you is not the same as looking it up in the DMM). It's not necessarily their fault. The regulations are written to be confusing. Then the bosses interpret them wrong and tell everyone the wrong thing. So I have to look it up in the DMM (that's the domestic mail manual) and show them where it says what it says that makes them wrong and me right. But it's not enough to show one person at the post office. You have to show each one, individually, because Heaven forbid they actually talk to one another or bring it to the attention of someone in charge who can explain it to every employee.

You can't yell and scream at them (though you want to) because they're postal workers -- you can never tell how they might react. (OK, that was a cheap shot.) I just wish these people didn't make it their job to make my blood boil. It's hot enough outside without some dope trying to piss me off.

See, they got me so mad I ended a sentence with a preposition! Curse them!

--Mary

Saturday Night Is Dead

But not this past Saturday night. Eric and I saw Graham Parker and The Figgs at a place called The Downtown in nearby Farmingdale, NY. It was a wonderful show. They played GP's more rockin' stuff, some older stuff, and some stuff from the new CD (due out tomorrow), Songs of No Consequence. We picked up a copy of the CD (and had GP sign it!) while we were there -- the first ones on our block!. It's in the car CD player right now. It's classic GP.

After the show, we waited around to have GP sign the CD. He actually remembered us from the last time (I'll take a stab and say it's the hair, because my conversation that night was far from witty and memorable, though he did also remember that Eric and I did some kind of publication about animals). We even got a picture, which I'll post here as soon as Eric gets it to me.

Seminar

Today we're going into Queens for a seminar. I have to go put myself together for that. It's a marketing thing. I'll post more about that later. Right now I should be getting some work done so I can spend the day sitting in a nice air conditioned room listening to smart guys.

--Mary