Wherein the Author Seems to Suggest He Likes People But Really He's a Misanthrope We Also Hear More About Woody Allen, Twitter and The Patty Hearst Documentary

That's Patty Hearst Who's Discussed Below

I like people…in theory. As Eric Hoffer once said (not to me, don’t even know the bloke to be perfectly honest) “It is easier to love humanity as a whole than to love one's neighbor.” This is especially true when you are commuting, as I’ve whined about endlessly before (not really endlessly otherwise I’d still be going on, I’m merely resuming previous rants and diatribes). When you are commuting, humanity proves to be a rather big nuisance. They get in your way, bump you, take up seats, sit next to you, smell, make noise and give you the stink eye. But people are at their worst on social media. I was recently called a “scum” a “Roy Moore voter” and worst of all “a supporter of child rape.” It was further suggested that people like me are the reason that child rape happens. All this because I tweeted some facts related to the disproven allegations of child molestation leveled many years ago against Woody Allen.

People hate facts. Okay people do like facts if they support their previously held position. If they serve to contradict their opinions, notions and ideas, then facts are either to be ignored or twisted or the person presenting them is to be slandered. Still I have to wonder at what the end game is for someone once they’ve called you “scum?”
 They’ve established their lack of interest in a discussion, and that they hold anyone with viewpoint differing from their own as the enemy. What do they gain by name calling? And by the way, if you are lawyer for a person charged with murder does that mean you support homicide? Not by my reckoning.

The actress and — I guess she’s an activist of sorts too — Asia Argento tweeted about Quentin Tarantino after Uma Thurman alleged that he had risked her life and physically abused her during the filming of the Kill Bill movies. She said, “fuck Quentin Tarantino forever.” What the hell does that even mean? A literalist might suppose that she advocates someone engage in intercourse with him throughout eternity, but clearly she was, shall we say, casting aspersions at the director. She really wants you to know that she loathes the man and probably feels that you should do. To what point? I understand anger but I also understand that from our anger we should try to make something positive. “Better to light a candle than the curse the darkness,” as John F. Kennedy famously said, quoting, well I’m not sure who, there seems to be disagreement over who said it first although it wasn’t JFK.

The #metoo movement is a force for positive change in liberating women from the horrors of sexual harassment and sexual violence. But there is also a lot of disparate anger that is being directed at individuals such as Woody Allen who either are innocent of any wrongdoing or who have not had their day in court. Due process is a sacred right in civilized societies. But today woe betide those accused, they are cast to the pit of hell for eternity. There seems no chance at redemption.

The venom against Allen is particularly vexing as is the stubborn stupidity of so many who assail him. Separate investigations cleared him of any wrongdoing. Doctors said there was no physical evidence of molestation. He passed a lie detector test. The terrible violation described by his accuser could not have happened at the time or in the place described and her story was inconsistent from the beginning and of course investigators believe that she had been coached. Yet by bringing up these nettlesome facts one is vilified and put in the enemy camp. Enemy. One side against the other. There is no shading, no nuance, no negations, no discussion, no seeking common ground. We are moving inexorably into a binary world. Choose a side. It has already manifest in our politics where conservatives long ago dropped any pretext of practicing the age old art of political compromise.

Samantha Geimer (now an author but also known as the 13 year old raped by Roman Polanski) said it best in a recent interview with Quilette: “If you choose not to pursue a case, if you cannot prove your allegations, then deciding to try your case in the court of public opinion decades later is a cop out. Dylan Farrow is not alone in her circumstances. But we have a justice system and the rule of law in our country and that is more important than one person’s desire to be ‘believed’ or to exact revenge. What kind of example is that for those who have made peace with their decisions and experiences? That you must have the belief of strangers to heal? That you can never be whole if the person you believe to have wronged you is not punished? It’s simply not true. Most of the time, people can find the strength to recover and move on with their lives. How is it healthy to leave your emotional well-being in the hands of others, or to insist on their belief and attack those who decline? It’s a kind of emotional blackmail. Dylan did nothing wrong, but now she will be judge and jury, blaming others for her pain. I’m afraid I don’t like it.”

One of the problems with something like #metoo is that it spends a lot of time and energy in the easy task of directing vitriol on perpetrators and not enough on the more time-consuming and difficult jobs of healing the victims and educating and enlightening. Simply putting the fear of god into men — while useful — is only one step towards empowering women and keeping them safe. Real change will come only through teaching what is appropriate. Indeed we still need something of a cultural shift from objectifying women and treating them as less than. A major step in the right direction would be if we had national leaders who stopped apologizing for abusers and started condemning them.

Suffice to say I sidetracked myself from original topic which was my love/hate relationship with the human race and how the worst of people often comes out on the internet. Last night I caught up with parts one and two of CNN’s six-part documentary on the Patty Hearst kidnapping. It is a topic I am well-versed in and has been near and dear to my heart since the time it actually took place. One of the first published pieces I ever wrote was about my connections to the Patty Hearst case, and this was when she was still on the lam. For example my father built the apartment from which she was abducted and had warned the owners that the locks were not very secure (I subsequently worked within a two minute walk from said apartment for 20 years). Also a college roommate grew up next door to one of the SLA members, Nancy Ling Perry. I watched on TV with him and another roomie the night that Perry died in an inferno set off during a shoot out with the police.

Last night after watching the first third of the documentary I was on Twitter (maybe I should know better) when I decided to check into the Patty Hearst hashtag that was displayed during the program. I was surprised to see that the majority of comments were blasts at Bill Harris, one of two kidnappers still alive, whose present-day commentary on the case formed much of the documentary. Watching him on the show I was struck but what a lucky break it was to have one of the people “who was there” available to share memories, particularly given the fact that Ms. Hearst and the rest of her brood steadfastly refused to comment.

Mr. Harris was assailed for, among other things, not being in jail and seemingly living comfortably. (He did serve seven years so he in fact “did his time.”) Some even commented that he was well-dressed. I suppose viewers expected or wanted him to be living in a ditch wearing rags. These viewers also didn’t care for his attitude, he seemed to show no remorse and in fact delighted in relating what happened. Goodness. Did they expect him to mumble, head bowed, supplicating himself before the camera, interjecting apologies for his past actions? To me he was an old guy telling war stories. In fact, I thought he was rather good at it. I enjoyed the hell out of his accounts. You can’t please all the people…..

From time to time I vow to either quit twitter, or more realistically, reduce the time I spend on it. Even if you’re careful about who you follow and you block or mute the idiots and any jackass you can’t stand, you’re still going to come across know-nothing idiots who are sanctimonious, smarmy, self-righteous or all three. It’s magnified when they disagree with you and even more so when they aren’t interested in those damn annoying facts. I have been successful at steering clear of the comments sections of virtually any website I visit. Those areas can be fetid cesspools of bigotry, stupidity and ignorance. Twitter though still has its value and is an excellent way to stay informed, get a chuckle and find links to stories of interest. If it weren't for some of the damn annoying tweeters.

All the preceding taken into consideration I still like people — after a fashion.

Minnesota School District Bans Books With Certain Words in Them, A Study in Cowardice

A Minnesota school district has dropped two classic novels from their library and classrooms, To Kill A Mockingbird and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Why? Because the books contain racial slurs.

And what is the problem with novels that use authentic language? Said the president of the local NAACP chapter: “There are a lot more authors out there with better literature that can do the same thing that does not degrade our people. I’m glad that they’re making the decision — and it’s long overdue, like 20 years overdue. Let’s move forward and work together to make school work for all of our kids — not just some, all of them.”

The district’s director of curriculum and instruction, added, “We felt that we could still teach the same standards and expectations through other novels that didn’t require students to feel humiliated or marginalized by the use of racial slurs.”

(No word on whether the district will also be looking to remove books with words such as “faggot, bitch, chink, spic, hebe, kike, dyke, Jap, wop, or redskin — if the latter they’d have to excise a lot of books and magazines about the NFL.)

If the district finds words offensive and hurtful, imagine how they feel about deeds. The horrors of slavery and the Jim Crow era far surpass the use of racial slurs. If a student can’t be expected to read a particular word — nigger (aka the “n” word) — how are they to withstand reading about the middle passage where African captives were shackled naked to the bottom of ships, left to wallow in their own filth? Won’t it be intolerable to hear of the degrading experience of slave auctions, not to mention the rape of slaves, the whippings, the punishments for escape attempts? How to teach these sensitive souls about the Black Codes, forced segregation and worst of all, lynchings? Will history be sanitized along with literature?

In my last few years as a public school history teacher, I increasingly got complaints from parents — usually African Americans — about teaching slavery. One Black student wrote on an essay about slavery that all this didn’t apply to her because she was the descendant of princes and princesses. Was I to believe that her royal ancestors immigrated willingly to America and never had to undergo chattel slavery?

Why this denial of history? Of reality and truth? My mother was a schizophrenic who emotionally abused me, I don’t pretend it never happened. I was permanently scarred by my experience but by facing the reality of my childhood have been able to heal and ultimately forgive my mother. I abused drugs and alcohol but I don’t now pretend it never happened, my recovery is a daily proposition.

There’s no sense pretending that racial slurs did not exist (nor for that matter still do) or that many of our brothers and sisters are the descendants of slaves. It may feel uncomfortable to people but it is often out of our discomforts that we learn and grow and heal.

Of course I’m also disturbed by the notion of banning books. Especially those that are such integral parts of our shared culture. Where does it stop? This is not so much a slippery slope as a greased precipice. Students need exposure to classical literature and thought in part to see how the world was interpreted at the time and how this literature has helped form the culture we live in today. Students need to be exposed to the worst — and of course the best — that humans have done. How horribly unsettling and offensive is the history of relations between whites and Native Americans in this country. What a terrible thing to read about. Should we ignore its awful truths? Should we sanitize it so it is more palatable, if less accurate?

What other words are going to be deemed inappropriate for young minds? Are we to ban all vulgarities? All racially insensitive language? All sexist, homophobic, agist, xenophobic references in every novel, non fiction book and text? If these are to be excised how can we justify the sexually explicit and often misogynistic language in many popular songs of the day. For the love of god how do we protect students from some of the repulsive words and deeds of Donald Trump?

We need to preserve our glories and our tragedies. We need to present the worst of our deeds in a full context. If you’re a teacher who wants to assign To Kill a Mockingbird, by god do it, but warn students about the language contained therein and explain why it is there. It’s imperative that we trust teachers not only warn students about unsettling language but use it as a teaching tool. We also need to trust students to understand.

I never found it easy to teach about the worst of humanity but I did find it absolutely necessary. How much better to celebrate, for example, the accomplishments of African Americans during Black History Month if we understand the incredible struggle required? By knowing what happened before we can better appreciate what has happened today. To know that racial slurs were once freely used by whites at blacks makes it so much more gratifying that we’ve reduced the worst of the words to a status that it dare not be uttered by a white person.

In 12 step meetings the stories people tell of their miraculous recoveries only have meaning if they first share their story — i.e., their experiences as practicing addicts. Context is everything. Don't assume students will feel humiliated by reading racial slurs, tell them why those words were so often used and of the successful struggle to eradicate their use. It can and should be empowering.

I hope the story out of Minnesota is not the start of a trend. I hope it is an isolated incident and that they soon reverse their decision. I close by adding the most bizarre — and troubling — aspect of this story. Who pressured the district to remove these books? Who complained? Who was offended? No one. They made the decision on their own. Jesus wept.

Wherein the Author Manages to Write While Depressed and Addresses Said Depression

Alexander Hamilton, a biography of whom is briefly mentioned in this post.

I’ve been depressed all morning. I wasn’t sure how to modify the word depressed in that first sentence. Very seemed trite but also insufficient. Extremely could have worked but seemed too dramatic. Morbidly was just too much, although it could apply. Anyway its been bad. (Again I eschewed modifying the word bad.)

There were ants all over. We’ve started a period in which no rain is on the horizon. We were out of milk. The missus has a cold. The internet is full of the sad, the ridiculous, the infuriating and the ignorant. People continue to refuse to see the world the way I do. Too many want more guns, less taxes for the rich, immigrants exiled and Trump made king. There is too much sexual harassment and there is the ongoing vilification of the innocent Woody Allen. His defenders, such as me, seem to be vastly outnumbered although we do hold a monopoly on the facts. Like that he’s been found innocent and it was believed his accuser was coached into making the spurious charges and the poor girl has grown up believing them.

It’s unusual for me to be able to write when I’m this depressed but I’ll not question that this time is an exception and instead take advantage of it as best I can.

So this is what the depression is like. Everything makes me sad. My normal state is sad and nothing I think of makes me feel any better and often makes me feel worse. Movies? Sad. Wife? Sad. Daughters? Sad. Work? Sad. Retirement? Sad. Music? Sad. Going to basketball game this afternoon? Sad. Trip to NY in the Spring? Sad. Running? Sad. Happiness? N/A.

Reading is problematical when depressed. I’m currently working my way through Ron Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton (I think it would make for a great musical). Under the heavy cloak of depression I can manage a page or two before the mind goes numb with melancholia. I had had slightly better luck with the Sunday NY Times, but was unable to read articles of any significant length.

Walking to the store to get milk was easy enough — that is, once I managed to get motivated enough to dress then walk out the door. I could have wiled away a couple of hours watching a film but the effort required to decide on which one to watch proved too much. I considered turning on the TV but the very notion of television depressed me.

One thing I’ve proven adept at doing during this depression is staring at the floor. Not that I can tell you anything I saw or least of all anything that I pondered. The depressed state does not lend itself to creating or retaining memories. It’s akin to having an excruciating physical pain in that all that you can think about is how miserable you are.

I was not depressed yesterday. I was for part of Friday. Thursday, I’m not sure. I think that was one of the days during which happiness and depression were having a tug of war within my soul. That’s an unpleasant situation to deal with. You can practically feel warring factions within you trying to claim possession. As a consequence you are gleeful one second and morbid the next. Within a minute your emotions run the gamut several times. Within an hour you’re like a non stop yo yo. Events can tip the balance one way or another and then back again. The slightest bad news gives victory to the depression while a bit of good news will send you into happy land. I don’t recommend going through life this way. Indeed in 12 step programs one learns to live at an even keel. Getting too high can lead to nasty falls and getting too low can be hard to dig out of.

As I pause now and again while writing this I’m enveloped in depression. However somehow my fingers take control and resume typing and words emerge that manage to make sense together. I don’t know how it all works and indeed often it doesn’t. But I’m lucky now to be managing to write although it is left to anyone who might happen to read this to determine if it is anything worthwhile.

I do take solace in knowing that this will pass and I’ll be skipping merrily down the lane again. Then again as things have been going I also realize that subsequent to that happy event I’ll doubtless once again be dragging my feet down that same lane in a state of great mental anguish. I can only hope that someday the depression will leave me completely and that day will precede my death but quite a long while.

Well, I’ve managed to write this much so there’s perhaps hope that this accomplishment will lead to an upswing in my mood. Nowadays you just never know.

And So It Ended -- A Doomed Love Story

Ivor stood at the doorway desperately wondering what he should say or do. Melissa, his beloved Melissa, sat on the bed sobbing. Why aren’t  I sobbing too, he thought. It’s not like I’m incapable of emotion and I’m probably feeling what she is feeling. Ivor put his hands on his hips. It felt too blasé for the moment. He leaned one shoulder against the door jamb. Too nonchalant. He put his hands on his knees, bending forward as if out of breath. Senseless. So Ivor stood in the middle of the doorway, perfectly framed. Melissa stopped sobbing and reached for a tissue from the bed stand. She blew her nose. Ivor was struck by how loud and snotty it sounded. So unlike the delicate woman Melissa was. Finally she looked at him through the tears in her eyes. The young woman’s face was contorted in anger. Ivor could feel his face fall as if in this moment he was defeated. It was over and she had won. Won what? This was not a game. This was their relationship. Their lives. Their future.

“What, what do you propose now?” She asked. “Go on as if nothing had happened? Not even talk about it?” Melissa had said the word “talk” as if spitting out something distasteful.

“No, I mean yes, that is we should most definitely talk about it,” Ivor meekly replied. His girlfriend had the upper hand. She was the dominant one. She would dictate terms. She would lead the conversation and she would emerge the satisfied party. It wasn’t fair. They were equally guilty. It was absurd for him to feel defeated and for her to act the aggrieved party.

Ivor walked toward her.

“Not too close,” Melissa practically barked the words. Ivor stopped in his tracks, then backed up to the doorway. He sighed deeply, sadly, profoundly. The young man couldn’t believe the situation he was in. Betrayed. A betrayer. The world seemed a perfectly marvelous place a few hours ago when he returned home a day early from a trip to visit his ailing mother. Ivor was looking forward to surprising Melissa, who he was sure was at home studying for mid terms. She’d been at home all right.

Ivor had parked on the street and walked softly to the door, opening the front door quietly. This would be a big surprise. He’d find her in their spare room pouring through her psychology books. Shoes off he tiptoed through the house, but he heard a most unexpected noise from the bedroom. It sent a shockwave through Ivor’s body when he realized it was the sounds Melissa made during love making, and that the bed springs were squeaking. He couldn’t believe it. She must be masturbating. Ivor opened the bedroom door slowly. Melissa was naked on all fours and a friend of theirs named Ron was humping her.

Upon catching his girlfriend in flagrante delicto, Ivor had dropped his backpack. The sound startled Melissa and Ron who quickly disengaged. Ron immediately scrambled to put his clothes on. Melissa buried her head in a pillow and Ivor stood limp. Not angry, not shocked, not hurt, just numb. No one said a word until Ron, having finished hastily dressing said, “if it’s any defense I only did this because you screwed Valerie.” Valerie was Ron’s girlfriend. Melissa sat up and tossed the pillow aside. “You cheated on me with Valerie?” She said in obvious anger and disgust.

Ron edged his way past Ivor and bolted out of the house. When he was gone Ivor finally spoke. “Just once,” he replied meekly.

“Once is plenty,” Melissa said, still angry.

“Wait a minute, you didn’t know that when you hopped into bed with Ron!”

Melissa turned bright red and could say nothing in response.

They’d cheated on each other. This is where our scene began.

The couple talked well into the night. They hugged, they cried, they eventually made love but mostly they talked. Ivor offered excuses for his infidelity and Melissa offered excuses for hers. They promised to be faithful. Over and over they promised. They apologized profusely. They spoke of how complex life in general was and relationships in particular. They talked about the pressures they were under as doctoral students. They recounted happy times. They nuzzled and cuddled and gave each other lots of quick kisses and shared a few long lingering kisses. It was past four o’clock when they fell asleep, exhausted.

In the following weeks Melissa and Ivor were both kept busy by their studies. While Melissa pursued a career in psychiatry, Ivor planned to be a history professor. They were both within a year of completing their Phds. But Melissa was nagged by the idea of Ivor having had carnal relations with her friend Valerie. She had trouble feeling comfortable around Valerie. Meanwhile Ivor could not get the image of his friend Ron screwing Melissa. “My god,” he would often think, “I actually saw them do it.” It began to sicken him.

Their relationship grew strained. There were no arguments, only a few petty differences here and there, but more troubling there was a coldness between them, if barely perceptible. The first few days after what they called their “confrontation” Ivor and Melissa made passionate love. It was as if they were desperate to convince one another that they were still a couple, that they still belonged to one another. Then the love making stopped and so did much of the affection they had enjoyed. They would kiss goodbye and hello perfunctorily.

A few months after their “confrontation” Ivor found himself longing for other women. This led to flirtations and eventually to some causal sexual encounters. Melissa started seeing Ron regularly after he broke up with Valerie. When their lease was up, their landlord informed them that he was selling the house and they’d have to move. Ivor and Melissa agreed — almost giddily — to live apart. Ivor found an apartment and Melissa moved in with Ron. Ivor stopped speaking to both Melissa and Ron.

Many years later Ivor was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. By this time he had been married and divorced twice. As he took stock of his life Ivor came to the conclusion that his one great love had been Melissa and that if he hadn’t come home early that night they might still be together. Melissa was living on the other side of the country. She’d never married and was now alone. Her psychiatry practice was thriving but her life felt empty for her never having found the perfect mate. Melissa often thought that Ivor had been her one true love and she wondered why they had never got past that night when Ivor came home early.

My Top Ten Films of 2017 (Is Actually a Top Fifteen)

It was too good a year in films for a top ten so I had to expand my list to fifteen. I've also kept my usual number of six honorable mentions.

1. Personal Shopper (Assayas)
2. Phantom Thread (Anderson)
3. Call Me Be Your Name (Guadagnino)
4. The Florida Project (Baker) 
5. The Disaster Artist (Franco)
6. Wonder Wheel (Allen)
7. Columbus (Kogonada)
8. I, Tonya (Gillespie)
9. The Other Side of Hope (Kaurismaki)
10 . Get Out (Peele)
11. Lady MacBeth (Oldroyd)
12. The Shape of Water (del Toro)
13. A Ghost Story (Lowery)
14. Mudbound (Rees)
15. Lady Bird (Gerwig)

Honorable Mention: The Happiest Day in the Life of Oli Maki (Kuosmanen); God’s Own Country  (Lee);  T2 Trainspotting (Boyle); Baby Driver (Wright); Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri  (McDonagh): The Ornithologist (Rodrigues)

Best Actor: * Timothee Chalamet (Call Me By Your Name) Also Praiseworthy: Richard Gere (Norman), Gary Oldman (Darkest Hour), James Franco (The Disaster Artist)
Best Actress: Sally Hawkins (The Shape of Water) Also Praiseworthy: Frances MacDormand (Three Billboards), Margot Robbie (I, Tonya), Brooklyn Prince (Florida Project)
Best Supporting Actor: Willem Dafoe (Florida Project) Also Praiseworthy: Sam Rockwell (Three Billboards), Garrett Hedlund (Mudbound)
Best Supporting Actress: Allison Janney (I,Tonya) Also Praiseworthy: Laurie Metcalf (Lady Bird), Catherine Keener (Get Out)

* Note: in the nine years I've posted my top ten films list, the person I selected as best actor has gone on to win the Best Actor Oscar seven times. I think it'll be seven of ten after this year as Oldman seems a lock.

When All Signs Point to Jumping -- The Story of A Young Man in Despair

They say you’ve got to live each moment or appreciate each moment, I forget which, maybe both, but I’ve had a lot of moments in my life I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  So many in fact that I find myself standing on a bridge ready to jump to my death. You see, I’m in one of those awful moments right not and the worst thing is that it feels like more horror is in store for me. I’ve got no escape, it’s just too painful.

Things started to get really bad the day I saw grandma sitting in a chair in my bedroom. She’d been dead for five years yet there she was plain as day. Didn’t say a word, just leaned forward on her cane and stared at me. I’d been asleep so naturally people think I was just dreaming but I was sure as shit wide awake when I saw grandma. I even pinched myself.

I stared back at grandma for a few seconds but then had to look away because the whole situation was really freaking me out. I was 16 at the time and going through a lot. I was living in a dysfunctional family in which I seemed to be the only normal person. I neither needed nor wanted to be seeing dead people, relative or not. Fact is I never much cared for grandma. She was mean as sin to everyone, including me. She picked on dad all the time and as much as said that she was disappointed that her daughter (my mom) had married the poor bastard. She was no nicer to mom or my sisters (one older, one younger). Every Christmas and birthday she gave me underwear or socks. “I hope they fit,” she would snarl. I’ve no idea why she was so bitter.

Grandma couldn’t bother trying to have a conversation with me or my sisters. The most I remember her ever saying to me was “how’s school?” Then she’d look away like she couldn’t give a damn what I said. So anyway there was grandma — or her ghost, I mean —sitting in my bedroom giving me the evil eye, which come to think of it is the only kind of eye she ever gave. After awhile I couldn’t stand it any longer and got up to take a piss then get a cookie. When I came back to bed she was gone.

I saw grandma a few more times over the years, always at night and always when I was alone. After her first visit I stopped mentioning it to anyone because whoever I told just acted like I was crazy. Little did they know….

Making it to high school graduation was the highlight of my life, well that and getting accepted to a university several hundred miles away from home. Getting out of the house was going to be  — I was sure — the greatest goddamned event of my life. Mom was drunk half the time and argued with dad three quarters of the time. Dad was a spineless worm who never stood up for himself and, though he hated mom’s drinking, never lifted a finger to stop it. My older sister was a drug addict and my parents were too stupid to be able to tell. She was still living at home when I left, going to community college and working as a waitress. She had a series of loser boyfriends who variously cheated on her, hit her or stole from her. Most of them were doing drugs with her too. My little sister was no picnic either. She had attention deficit disorder, was dyslexic and struggled with weight problems. She was always in trouble at school and barely passed her classes. When I got out she was just about to start high school and it was evident that she’d bring more woe to the family.

Happy as I was as I wrapped up high school I was also dealing with anxiety issues. I was pretty much anxious about everything — girls in particular. I was at least as horny as any other heterosexual male but was scared to death of so much as talking to a girl. When one talked to me I stammered — that is if I could think of anything to say. Most of my friends had a girlfriend and had gotten laid by graduation but I hadn’t been so much as kissed. Some of my friends suggested trying liquid courage so that I could talk to girls but having seen my own mother half in the bag so many times I was repulsed by the very thought of alcohol.

My anxiety was present even when girls weren’t around. I’d get anxious before tests, even ones I’d studied for and knew would be easy. I played tennis on the school team and would get anxious before matches. What really made me anxious though was going home. The last few minutes before I reached the house, whether walking, on my bike, on a bus or in car, I’d turn into a nervous wreck. I just never knew what I was going to face when I walked through the door. There was usually a fight, either my parents were at it or my sisters, or mom was too drunk to function or one of my older sister’s deadbeat boyfriends was in the house. I spent as much time in my room as possible even though people were always trying to draw me into their drama. I loved my sisters and parents but only in the perfunctory way you’re supposed to, I guess what I’m saying is that deep down I hated them.

The happiest day of my life was when I left for college. I had a friend, Craig, with a car who was going to the same university so we drove up together. It was my liberation day. The only thing I dreaded was coming home for Thanksgiving, but that was a few months off and  meanwhile I could live a stress free life. Or so I thought.

In college I may not have been living in a dysfunctional family but I was still living in a crazy, fucked up world over populated by morons and jerks. Take for instance my roommates in the dorm. They were foul-mouthed, messy, inconsiderate jerks who didn’t seem to care a wit about classes. I did. I understood that there would be parties and such on Friday and Saturday nights but these guys were at it all the time. It wasn’t just that their noise sometimes woke me up or kept me up, it was just being in the presence of such louts that hit too close to home for me. My anxiety returned.

Stupid roommates wasn’t all. The temptations of young, often intelligent, and sometimes very cute women were everywhere and I was still too scared to approach any one of them. I walked around with a boner half the time and it was driving me crazy. Literally. My nerves were shot, whether from unnecessarily worrying about classes or stressing out about phone calls from home or having to deal with all the morons in the dorm. I soon discovered that more than half the freshman males in the school were — in my opinion — idiots. All they cared about was girls, sports and getting high. They were obnoxious and ill-informed. If they had any views on issues of the day they were either terribly misguided or rife with prejudice. The best any could do was regurgitate their parents’ opinions. I was sick of the whole scene by the second month of school. Was there any place in the world that I could be comfortable and happy and free of stress? It didn’t seem so.

My reaction to the world I was living in was to add something to my anxiety: depression. When I wasn’t focused on school work or wasn’t playing tennis I was either depressed or anxious or both. I even developed a twitch in my face which was obvious enough that some of the rubes in the dorm made fun of me for it. As you can imagine that just made me feel worse. The only source of happiness I could find, the only hope I had, was to get an apartment for my sophomore year. Then, I reasoned, I’d at least be away from the morons in the dorm. Really though it was cold comfort. There was a whole semester and a half to get through yet not to mention summer at home. At times it seemed an eternity.

In early November of my freshman year everything changed. One Friday night I decided to got to a party because Craig and my one friend in the dorm, Tom, were so insistent and I decided that I could do with a night out. Hell, I had to try something. Of course I was my usual anxious self about it all day and was a jangle of nerves as I got dressed to go. As we walked to the house where the party was you’d have thought I was on my way to be executed. It was all I could do to walk. The whole world flipped when we walked in and Craig handed me a cold beer. I’d never had a sip of alcohol and had no intention of starting, I’d seen what it did to mom. “It’s just a beer,” Tom said. “One lousy beer has very little booze in it, if you don’t like it, don’t have another.”

That reasoning was hard to argue with. I took a sip. It tasted okay. I took a few more sips and enjoyed them as well. By the time I finished the bottle I noticed that my anxiety was virtually gone. One more, I reckoned, would wipe out the anxiety and maybe I could have a good time. It sure did. By the time I was half way through my third beer I struck up a conversation with a cute girl. It was like the most natural thing in the world to talk with her. Soon we were dancing, something I’d never done before.

Later I talked and danced with several other girls the last of whom I took a walk with. We even exchanged phone numbers. After the party broke up I walked her home. She kissed me good night. Right on the lips.

I’d had five beers all night and somehow knew that was my limit. I’d discovered a magic formula an elixir that loosened my tongue and eased my anxiety. In reality my feet touched the ground as I walked back to the dorm that night, but I never felt them.

It turned out that a few beers was not really the answer to all my problems. I couldn’t nor did I want to, drink all the time and so still had to deal with anxiety. However I developed — even without so much as a drop — the confidence to talk to girls and was soon going out on dates. Some of which included a few beers and some of which were sober affairs. Meanwhile I survived Thanksgiving and Christmas at home knowing that my stays were temporary and also because I hung out with old high school friends and even called a couple of the girls I graduated who were in town from college too. One girl I called even confessed she’d had a crush on me for years.

When school resumed in January I felt pretty darn good. A few weeks later when I lost my virginity and got my first steady girlfriend, Norah, I was on top of the world. I didn’t stay long.

First there were visits from grandma. Right in my damn dorm room. She’d pull up a chair, often just as I was going to sleep, and stare at me. It was like life was taking a great big shit on my birthday cake. I’d try to close my eyes and ignore her but something would compel to look and she’d still be there with that awful glare. Eventually I’d doze off, of course, so as unnerving as grandma’s visits were they were hardly debilitating. More serious was the full on return of my anxiety and what was worse, anxiety attacks and later panic attacks. Anytime I was outside I was vulnerable to an attack that would leave me out of breath, exhausted and scared for my sanity.

In the Spring I made the tennis team and I was rocking a 4.0 and Norah was still my girlfriend. You’d think I was pretty damn happy. But the anxiety and the attacks persisted and depression came back and in full force. The tennis season went well, I maintained my perfect GPA and was falling in love. But I was miserable. Plus I was facing a summer in the hell hole that was my family home. At Norah’s urging, (I confided in her completely) I saw a counselor on campus who referred me to psychiatrist who would treated me on a sliding scale. He said I was likely suffering from a form of PTSD because of my screwed up childhood. After a few visits he prescribed some medications, one for depression and another for anxiety. They helped. Initially. Perhaps even better was when I managed to get a Summer job at the campus library that included housing. I wouldn’t have to go home for more than one weekend visit.

I was lonely during the Summer with my girlfriend and pals away but the meds were doing their job and I loved working in the library and having a place to myself. In my off hours I’d play tennis, or read or go for long walks, it all started out great but few weeks into the summer my depression returned and grandma started to visit again.

My shrink tried some other meds and although the panic and anxiety were under control the depression kept getting worse. Nothing helped. As Fall approached I found an apartment for a friend and I to share and Norah got a place a few blocks away. On the surface everything seemed fine.

But here I am today in January at the start of the second semester of sophomore year. I was home for the holidays. My older sister was in jail, busted for selling cocaine. My younger sister was a total mess, failing classes and constantly getting into trouble at school. Mom was still drinking and dad was telling me he was going to divorce her. My visit was a return to hell.

My depression is constant no matter what meds we try and I even get panic attacks still. Norah and I broke up. Well, she broke up with me, her reasons were vague but it seems certain she met another guy who she likes more. And yes, grandma still visits from time to time as mean and ugly as ever.

So I’ve had it. Sure I’m only 20 but I can’t take the pain. There has been so much heartache and disappointment and unhappiness in my life and it seems that it will just continue for as long as I’m alive. Why go through it? Everything is hopeless. What good is being a college tennis player and getting a degree and having friends if there’s so much suffering and misery that goes along with it? What if things go wrong? What if something bad happens? If I feel this bad when on the surface all is well, imagine my life if I hit some bad luck. If I told anyone or called a suicide hotline they’d tell me to stick it out, things will get better, I have a lot going for me, the usual bullshit. But I can’t see it. I can’t feel it. This pain has a sense of permanence to it. It is unyielding and malignant. When there’s no escape, what choice does a person have?

So I think I’ll probably jump. Well, okay, maybe not this time, maybe not today. But I can’t say for sure I won’t soon. Wouldn’t you?

Odds and Ends at the End of an Odd Year

I ran ten miles today making my final total for the month of December 108 miles, a personal best for one month. Not bad for a man of 63. I'm ending the year on a high note which is especially nice given what a mostly shitty year it was for me. Two of my best friends died, I had an allergic reaction to some meds that caused a horrific rash that lasted for months, I was depressed more often than not and the news ranged from awful to horrible. On the bright side the missus and I enjoyed a fabulous European vacation and I continue to be surrounded by a loving family, both immediate and extended, I derive great satisfaction from my work and I'm physically as fit as a fiddle. So there....

Today I saw yet another in a series of examples of how Americans are unclear on the concept of the sauna. Raised in a Finnish family I know something about saunas, especially since we had one in our house during my childhood. A sauna is place to sit and sweat, either naked, with a towel around your waste or in bathing trunks. One might chat a little bit but mostly it's about sitting and enjoying the heat. Today there was an older gent in the sauna wearing a tee shirt and sweatpants and he appeared to be grading papers. He had several type written pages that he was marking with a pen -- in the sauna. People hang there trunks in the sauna, tee shirts and once I even saw a pair of socks. They treat it like a damn laundry room. Then there are the folks who forget that the whole rest of the gym is for exercising and do all manner of calisthenics. Sit ups, push ups, stretches, yoga, even running in place.  I've seen people bring books into the sauna, listen to there iPods and once someone sat there and rapped. Jesus wept....

In a couple of weeks I'll be posting my top ten films of 2017 and folks, it ain't gonna be easy. This has been a banner year. Yesterday the missus and I saw I, Tonya. It's energetic and fun and insightful and you could just tell the filmmakers were having a grand time making the damn thing. It's a quintessential American story charting the rise and fall of figure skater Tonya Harding (played by Margot Robbie) who was not your average glamour puss skater. Far from it. She was more akin to what one might call trailer trash and what one would definitely call abused. She had a foul-mouthed abusive mother (Allison Janey) and married too young an abusive man with an incredibly bizarre best friend. Before that we saw Call Me By Your Name, a beautiful, intelligent, challenging film, the type that inspires you to think, to feel and to remember.  These are but two examples of how good a year it's been, cinematically....

So what's in store for 2018? Nuclear war? Trump indicted? Mass demonstrations in major US cities? More famous men exposed as serial sexual harassers? More devastating weather events? More mass shootings? Terror attacks throughout the Western world? Peace on Earth (just kidding). It figures to be an "interesting" year and a pivotal one in U.S. history. For me I'm hoping the resistance remains strong and that the Democrats retake congress and Trump's dirty dealings with the Russians is fully exposed. I also hope that this year my depression fades and I continue to run and teach and enjoy family and that I get that damn novel finished....

The Joy of Museums, the Horror of the Tax Scam and the Joy of Christmas

A photo I took today in the museum.

The depressing thing in museums is those people who have to stand around bored half to death making sure no one touches any of the exhibits. The standing in one spot has got to be draining and the blank stares on their faces attest to the tedium of their assignment.

That’s about all that I can find about the museum-going experience that is anything but joyful. The missus and I went to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SF MOMA) today. I had been in one of my low moods when we arrived but strolling around a museum is an actual cure for the blues.

We’ve wandered around together in museums in Paris, New York, London, Helsinki, Berlin, Rome, Amsterdam and Berkeley to name but a few locales and I invariably come out feeling inspired, optimistic and energized.

Today our main objective was to see an exhibit of Walker Evans’ photography — he is best known for his Depression Era and post war urban photos including his work with James Agee on Let Us Know Praise Famous Men. We also some Pop Art including some of Andy Warhol’s in addition to paintings by Diego Rivera, Henri Matisse, Man Ray, Salvador Dali, Georgia O’Keefe and some up-and-comer named Picasso.

So what, you ask, is it that fills me with so much hope and joy from a museum visit. It’s not just seeing great works of art but the very idea behind it. People creating, using artistic expression to the fullest of their ability. Exposing the world and themselves, baring their souls artistically. Expressing ideas. Sharing themes. Bringing brightness to the world. Art museums are chock full of some of the best and noblest ideas of humankind. Not in the form of rhetoric or politics but through visions and feelings and interpretations of the world.

I similarly feel good in bookstores and libraries where one — at the risk of being obvious — is surrounded by books, many of which are another form of artistic expression while others are meant to educate, explain, and elucidate. Movie theaters are more of mixed bag with so many films not being artistic at all, but merely cynical ways to enrich the filmmakers. But to read literature or watch a film can help one develop a greater appreciation for the capability and desire that many people have to warm and brighten the word and make it a more interesting and fulfilling place. So to the museum.

I write this at a time when cynicism and crass, greedy profiteering are on full display in the halls of the US Congress where Republicans are enriching themselves and the very richest among us at the expense of masses — particularly those in greatest needs. And this at Christmas! Republican Congressmen no doubt watch It’s A Wonderful Life and root for Mr. Potter and hope that in A Christmas Carol Scrooge will remain unaffected by the visits of the three ghosts. The US today is afflicted by the most rapacious and morally repugnant government in its history and I hope to all that is holy there is hell to pay for those no good bastards.

It is an unimaginable state affairs in a country in which in  past politicians at least used to be more subtle and less aggressive about robbing the people blind. People who claim this is the greatest country in the world (a preposterous notion to begin with) had better explain how it has allowed itself to be run by such a group of immoral louts. And I haven’t even gotten to the low grade moron who occupies the Oval Office. He continues to disgrace the office of the presidency in ways that nincompoops and crooks like Nixon, Reagan and George W couldn’t have even imagined. He’s made the US an international laughingstock and if left at the reigns much longer the country will become a pariah.

There is hope. Mid term elections are less than a year away, the Mueller investigation continues apace and most importantly the resistance is strong, organized and determined.

As for me I enjoyed 13 days without depression and it was marvelous. To be happy, very happy, day-after-day, for nearly two weeks was a welcome relief from the mental misery that had marked so many of my days. Lamentably the good times crashed to and end and gloom descended again although today seems to be a possible swing back in the right direction. The curative visit to the museum was preceded by a pedicure and manicure which did wonders for my mood. As I write this I’m in a sort of limbo between the usual feeling of high or low. Bi polar disorder is my lot — along with PTSD, addiction recovery and acute panic disorder — but it hasn’t killed me. I don’t believe that it’s necessarily true that that which does not kill me makes me stronger but I do believe that what we can survive and endure can be a source of strength, comfort, humility and even inspiration. Anyway its Christmas and I’m expecting a visit from Santa Claus soon that will have us all feeling a bit more jolly. Our tree is up, it’s cold outside, my Christmas shopping is done and some much needed rain is on the way. Plus there are more museums. More art. More life. More hope. Here's hoping there always will be.

My Exclusive Interview With Santa Claus (Joulupukki)

Last weekend I flew Finnair to Santa's workshop in northern Finland. Because my late father was a close friend of Santa's, I was granted this exclusive interview with the great man. It is well known that Santa -- though an outgoing, avuncular man -- is reticent about giving interviews, especially during this, his busy time of year. (For purposes of this story I am referring to him as Santa Claus as most of my readers are English speakers, however his real title is Joulupukki as he is in fact Finnish.) I consider myself very lucky indeed to have procured this exclusive. Enjoy.

Me: Thank you for taking time out from your hectic schedule, I know this is your busiest time of the year.
Santa: Frankly, I needed a break. I’m pretty much going 24/7 from early November through Christmas Eve and this gives me a chance to put my feet up for a bit. Plus you’ve been a good boy this year. Ho ho ho.
Me: About that, do you really know who has been naughty and who’s been nice over the course of a year?
Santa: Ho ho ho. Of course I do. But I’ll tell you, I’m pretty easy going about the whole thing. There’s a lot of gray area, lot of people are nice some of the year and naughty some of the year and there are a lot of borderline cases but I tend to give the benefit of the doubt.
Me: How do you do it? How can you possibly know about every single person on the planet?
Santa: Ho ho ho. First of all we only check on the people who celebrate Christmas. For example it never mattered to me that Osama Bin Laden was so naughty, he wasn’t into Christmas anyway. So that significantly reduces the number of people we have to keep track off.
Me: That’s still a lot of folks.
Santa: Ho ho ho. I’ll tell you the truth, we outsource a lot of that. It’s pricey but it saves my elves from having to comb files and peek through a lot of keyholes. We’ve got some good people, very discreet.
Me: But I assume most people are nice and get gifts.
Santa: Not Donald Trump. If we really did put coal in stockings — which by the way is a myth — he’d get a barrel full. What a tool. Ho ho ho.
Me: You’ve been doing this a long time. What’s the secret to your longevity?

Santa: Lately I’ve been doing pilates, which has helped. But I’ve always maintained a good diet, lot of root vegetables and hardly any meat, plus I’m too busy to get sick.
Me: That big round belly can’t be good for you though.
Santa: Never really had one, that’s all padding. Ho ho ho. People expect me to be rotund but I’m actually quite slender. The only sweets I eat are the cookies kids leave out for on Christmas Eve. Ho ho ho.
Me: What are working conditions like for the elves?
Santa: Talk to them, they’ll tell you how good they’ve got it. Their unionized and only ever work more than an eight hour shift in the last couple of weeks before Christmas Eve and they get time and half for it. They’ve got full dental and medical and six weeks paid vacation plus holidays. Ho ho ho.
Me: You say “ho ho ho” an awful lot.
Santa: What’s your point?
Me: Anyway, tell me about your facilities here.
Santa: Ho ho ho. It’s great up here in northern Finland. The Finnish government leases the land to us at a reasonable rate. I know, I know, people think we’re at the North Pole but that’s another myth. I’m actually a Finn, as you know,  as is Mrs. Claus. Most of the elves are too but others come from, well all over. We’ve got Swedish elves, Polish elves, Nigerian elves, Cambodian elves, you name it.
Me: I’m impressed at how clean and modern everything is here and how much room you’ve got. You live here year round?
Santa: Ho ho ho. No just during the busy season, the missus and I have an apartment in Helsinki and we travel a lot in the summer. We especially like Tahiti.
Me: I think another thing people are curious about is how you can get to all those homes in one night.
Santa: Ho ho ho. First of all let me just say thank goodness for time zones or we’d never make it. Listen, the reindeer are pretty damn fast, you’d be amazed and I’m no slouch. I’ve been doing this a long time and I’m in an out of those places in a wink of an eye.
Me: But it still seems impossible.
Santa: Ho ho ho. I’m not saying its easy, plus there’s a little magic involved that I can’t tell you about because it’s a trade secret.
Me: Ever miss a house?
Santa: How can you even ask that?
Me: Sorry. I’m impressed at how perfect your English is. Obviously you’re fluent in Finnish, what other languages do you speak?
Santa: Ho ho ho. It would be easier to list the ones I don’t speak. I’m fluent in most. Some I struggle a bit with. I can just get by in Iroquois, for example and my grammar in Tagalog is pretty weak.
Me: Do you actually make any toys or is that solely an elf thing?
Santa: Ho ho ho. I’m in more of a supervisory role but I like to get my hands dirty from time to time, especially with something new. Ho ho ho.
Me: I notice you’re wearing the red suit. Do you wear it all the time?
Santa: Once the calendar hits December I do. Other than that, no. Mrs. Claus shops for me at Banana Republic. Ho ho ho.
Me: How do you feel about all the department store Santas and the people who dress up like you for Christmas parties and family celebrations?
Santa: Ho ho ho. They’re doing me a huge favor. After all I can only be at one place at a time. I do actually appear on Christmas Eve at a few houses like, as you know, your family’s.
Me: We appreciate it too.
Santa: Well your dad was a good friend of mine so I’m glad to do it. Ho ho ho.
Me: One more thing, what role does Mrs. Claus play in your operation?
Santa: Ho ho ho. She’s a retired psychiatrist so she’s our resident counselor. There can be a fair amount of stress here. Plus she likes to do some traditional things like mending sox and knitting.
Me: Do you take any interest in world affairs? Political issues?
Santa: Where do you think most of naughty list comes from? Ho ho ho. You’ve got a lot of Scrooges in your government these days — none worse than those idiot Republicans — that have been trying to line their own pockets at the expense of everyone else. They won’t get so much as a stick of gum from me.
Me: Again I can’t thank you enough for your time. I learned a lot and my appreciation for you has grown. Anything else you’d like to say?
Santa: Ho ho ho. Also tell Sofia, Teo, River, Edvin, Aila and Matilde that I look forward to seeing them on Christmas Eve he ovat hyviä poikia ja tyttöjä (they are good boys and girls). Hauskaa joulua kaikille. (Merry Christmas to everyone.)