How topless showgirls and Charleton Heston’s bare ass informed one 4 year old’s view of adulthood.

We left Brooklyn in the summer of 1968.  Watch any episode of The Brady Bunch from that summer, as I did religiously at the time, and you’ll see that the miniskirt was a staple of any young girls wardrobe 1n 1968. In fact, if you watch any episode of any sitcom from back then (think Mary Tyler Moore), you’ll see that the miniskirt was the staple of any grown woman’s wardrobe as well. So Vegas didn’t have much to do with my already miniscule hemline.

What little girl didn’t want to grow up to be Mary Tyler Moore!

But it had a lot to do with how I would grow to view beauty and the effect of well-packaged femininity. I was hypnotized by the mystery, the fantasy, that was inspired by the dress of the women in Vegas. In stark contrast, back in Brooklyn, the women I knew (most of whom were Greek housewives who also happened to be my aunts) didn’t bare much skin. It’s also much colder there than in Vegas, so perhaps the women of Brooklyn knew what they were doing.

Glamorous cocktail waitresses came in all shapes and sizes.

But in Vegas, there were plenty of grown women whose hemlines were short like mine. They wore beautiful gauzy mini togas, They wore sheer genie costumes, just like I Dream of Genie on television! Their never-ending legs were sculpted in fishnet; their hair, teased to infinity — and beyond! They ruled the world, I was convinced; with their confident smiles and the way they floated and strutted simultaneously (something I’m still trying to master) in their strappy stilettos. Everyone looked at them with admiration and appreciation whenever they approached.

They were the cocktail waitresses, and I wanted to be one of them. Or at least dress like them. They get to dress like that for work? How fun!

And then it got even better.  I discovered The Showgirls, and they took glamour to a whole new, stratospheric level.

Lido de Paris!

When we had company in town – and it was their first time in Vegas (back then, it usually was) — my parents would oftentimes take them to see one of the shows on the Strip. Shows with dancers: Follies Bergere, Lido de Paris, Jubilee. Sometimes some of the women were topless. I couldn’t go to those shows, because… I never fully understood why. I mean, I knew why; because the women were topless. But I didn’t understand why that was bad for me to see. Boobies. My mom had boobies, I’d seen them. My grandmother had boobies, I’d accidentally seen them. I thought they looked funny, and had no idea why the dancers didn’t want to wear one of those pretty sparkly bras in the first place to cover up their funny-looking boobies. But I did get to go to the shows where the dancers did wear the pretty sparkly bras, and on top of it (literally), ginormous headdresses. Feathers! Rhinestones! Boas! I loved looking at the showgirls so much. I don’t recall wanting to be one – they didn’t really dance so much as walk around, which looked boring – but boy, did I love looking at them. Maybe I could just… dress like them. Just a little.

http://youtu.be/9HTddFxc9Ow

The trifecta of Things That Greatly Shaped My View of How I Would Dress When I Grew Up is completed by the discover of the Miss Universe Pageant, which opened with the contestants parading about in their “native” costumes. I decided which countries I’d travel to based on who had the most stylish native costume. Didn’t everyone?

Clockwise, from top left: me as Cowgirl; me as Indian (yup, that’s what we called it then);me as Genie, me as Maria (from “The Sound of Music”); me as a Swiss Miss (I’m the blond in the yellow skirt, on the right); me as Burger Queen.

I just liked the idea of “Dressing As…”, so I started doing so myself. I never dressed “As Cocktail Waitress” or “As Showgirl” or “As Miss Universe Contestant.” Although I did come close to the last one, when I was in a figure skating show at the Ice Palace in Commercial Center, one year the theme of the annual show we performed was “It’s a Small World.” I performed in the Swiss and the Chinese numbers. But in daily life, I just tried to tszuj it up a bit with accessories. I went to school as a cowgirl. I went to school as an Indian (as we labeled them, back in the day). I played Burger Queen (Burger King gave out these free paper crowns, and I rocked it). I watched the above mentioned Brady Bunch in pajamas that I accessorized to make me a dead ringer for Barbara Eden in her iconic role.

No Disney princess — not Cinderella, not Snow White, not Sleeping Beauty — could influence my four year old take on The Ideal Woman. But cocktail waitresses, showgirls, and Miss Universe contestants did. The things that were targeted at me had little appeal. Grown-up fashion, grown-up conversation, grown-up music, just seemed much more… interesting.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that the first celebrity who made me feel that tiny tingle in my tiny vagina (what is that!?!)  for the very first time was not an age-appropriate teen pop idol — not Donny Osmond,  not Michael Jackson, not the kid from H.R. Puffenstuff. No, that special honor goes to Charlton Heston. Yes, Charlton Heston. The memory is a foggy one at best. Of course, the place is Vegas. We were at the drive-in – we’d never been to a drive-in before, another “only in Vegas” wonder, I thought at the time. There were five of us, my parents. two brothers, and myself crammed into my father’s supercool new baby blue Volkswagon (people didn’t need so much personal space in cars back then, apparently). Being a runt and the only girl, I insisted on that coveted tiny space behind the backseat.

Yup, this is the scene that started it…

The movie was “Planet of the Apes,” and I have a vague memory of Chuck being buck naked. But I have a  very clear memory of this mystery feeling down there, like being tickled only… it was weird; and I was too frightened (and oddly delighted and ashamed, which really confused me) to mention it to anyone. Somehow, women’s boobs were taboo, but CHARLETONFUCKINGHESTON being naked and igniting this, this, “What is going on in my sissy!!!” fear/euphoria was okay???

Perhaps scientists can learn from this. As an early indicator of sexual orientation, show four year-old boys and girls images of A) topless showgirls; and B) naked Charleton Heston Whichever one lights up electrodes on their itty bitty genitalia, that’s your answer.

I consider this to be my first Sexual Experience (unbeknownst to my entire family, who were right there at my side); though I had now idea of what sex was at the time. But I digress…

Actually, I don’t digress. I think moving to Las Vegas, and its late 60’s glamour, made the adult world seem sexier, more exciting, more (here we go again) interesting. The women I saw  in Brooklyn  wore traditional hemlines and sensible shoes; the movies I saw in Brooklyn didn’t feature a naked CHARLETON FUCKINGHESTON, like movies in Las Vegas; rather, they all seemed to feature Julie Andrews in traditional hemlines and sensible shoes (I even dressed up like Maria in The Sound of Music, complete with guitar and travel bag — see above). Even though she was in movies, she seemed more like a mom, not a movie star, not a cocktail waitress,  not a showgirl, not Miss Universe…

…and certainly not the new me for that matter; the Las Vegas Me, that couldn’t wait to grow up. Look out, world: I had arrived — and I wasn’t even five.

I love driving alone. That’s usually when things come to me, even when I don’t call them. Like today, driving to see a friend, I got the clearest message out of nowhere: “My heart is trying to tell me something.” End of message. Don’t ask me what that means, but it’s something to think about. And then my friend told me something that kind of… made my heart grow a little bit for a few different reasons. And driving home, I sang along to “Blood on the Tracks” at the top of my lungs for for the first time in far too long. I love driving alone.

Nice thing about long flights: sometimes you sit next to a 74 year-old man who just drove 52 hours straight, transporting horses cross country (“you don’t stop when you’re carrying horses, just for gas and maybe a sandwich for the road”) who’s now flying to Lihue to see his childhood friend — with whom he rode horses when they were young boys — probably for the last time, because the friend has cancer. He tells you he has three raccoons (two of whom are blind), a parrot, three cockatiel, and a few more you can’t remember. And he makes you laugh and smile the whole time, and you wish your journey together didn’t have to end so soon.

I had dinner with a girlfriend the other night. She and I have a few things in common: We share the same birthday. We’re both writers. We’re both lefties. We’ve both had a shitty past few years. And we’re both getting it together now and feeling good. It was a great seeing her. She was radiant.

After we parted, I took Picard out for his evening constitutional. It was pretty late on a weeknight in the mission district of San Francisco, the only people out seemed to be twenty-somethings weaving their way home from the bars. I saw two young women walking toward me. They were adorable, holding hands, engrossed in a quiet conversation. It felt tender and sweet and intimate. I don’t know if they were lovers or just friends and it didn’t matter; what mattered is you could see there was love between them. It was pure. I was sort of swept away by them.

There were also two young men walking just ahead of me, also, I’m guessing, twenty-something. They were not adorable, just average looking. Maybe less than. Doughy guys. All beer, no gym. Nothing about them was notable, until we they passed the girlfriends — who were too engrossed in their own conversation, their own reality, to notice the guys noticing them. This must have upset the guys, because when we passed, one said to the other, “Probably fourteen year old lesbians.” At that moment, the only thing notable about them was that they were dicks.

I don’t know if they were annoyed that the girls they were noticing didn’t notice them back — and thus they had to cut them down (in their mind), or offer the only “logical” explanation, “The must be lesbians, why else wouldn’t they look at us?”

I do know that it pissed me off. I was caught up in my own “version” of these girlfriends, and these mooks came along and polluted my perfect stolen voyeuristic moment. I didn’t want the moment to end on that note.  So I took the moment back. I went after the girlfriends. I… had no idea what I was going to say, I just knew I wanted to remember that walk in a lovely way, not focusing on the snarky lads with mean things to say about people who they’ve never met and are minding their own business.

I chatted the girlfriends up (Picard is a great ice breaker when I want to approach a stranger). They were indeed tipsy. They were a little bitchy when I asked to take a picture. But then I said the magic words, because when I told them I’m a writer, they instantly warmed up to me (as usual, Picard had already won them over) and wouldn’t stop talking. The only thing that could have made the encounter more perfect is if my own girlfriend from dinner were still with me for this encounter. That might have been like entering a lovely parallel universe, encountering these younger versions of ourselves (one blond, one brunette) out lighting up the night; still unacquainted with disappointment, but yet to learn that girlfriends only get better with age.

The closest I’ll come to time travel and meeting myself 20 years ago

I recently moved. While unpacking, I found something I’d written twenty years ago. I’d forgotten about the essay, and about the encounter that inspired it; that is, until I reread it; then it all flooded back — like when someone shows you  a photo of yourself taken years ago that you don’t recall being taken.

In this story, I was the girl in the red beret. I don’t know why I wrote it in the voice of the old man, but it’s obvious that even then, twenty years ago, my elderly father’s mortality was very much on my mind. When my brothers and I reunited to be with him for the final month of his life in 2007, I had no intention of writing a play, “It Is What It Is,” inspired by that experience. But that play is also about long buried memories we rediscover when we read something written at a certain time in the past, and about how — even in our most meaningless texts — we are in a way choosing what we document in our lives every day. Which is not entirely unlike me rediscovering this essay now, twenty years after it was written. Here it is:

NORTH BEACH, WEDNESDAY, 1993

This is the only time of the day that this street, this neighborhood, looks the way it used to. Except for the cars passing by… the cars are different. I don’t notice them much. Usually, they’re just in the background.

I remember when I was young and every morning I’d see the old Italian men in the neighborhood sitting here on this same bench I’m sitting on now, talking to each other in Italian. I never paid much attention to them. I mean, I noticed them, as they fed the pigeons. But I guess I thought of them like I thought of the benches, the pigeons, and the statues: all part of the park itself. I thought they’d be there forever and I thought I’d be young forever too.

I never thought I’d be an old man, like a child never thinks he’ll be anything but a child. But these things happen and we don’t even think about it until it’s long since happened. Then we realize the loss of time… at least, I do. Somehow I think that if I’d thought of it then, of growing old, I could have prevented it. Like I could have taken control. Instead, no! Time took control. I stopped paying attention to it and it got the upper hand and it beat me.

I noticed some young men standing on the corner as I walked past them earlier – Christ, they probably thought I hobbled past them. Which, I did. I do. I do hobble now. It felt good so to sit down on this here bench. God, how good it felt to sit. Tired after three blocks, mostly downhill. When I was the young man standing on the corner, I pitied the old men. But I never thought I could turn into one of then, any more than I thought I could turn into a bench or a pigeon or a statue.

Do the young men pity me now? How can they not? They don’t see I’m the same as them. I once was them, as they will one day be me.

I don’t understand it, how I still think exactly the same as I did when I was young – yet to others, I look so different. So old.  They think I was always old, with nothing to do but count the days. At least that’s what I used to think of the old men when I was young. Those old men are all long dead by now.

I like it here in the morning, once I sit down. It’s quiet, just a few people on their way to work. There’ll be a lot of people on their way to work in an hour or so, then it changes. It’ll be rushed. Now, it’s new; it feels new and fresh and very peaceful. And I’m part of it. The sun’s not out yet. I mean it’s risen, but it’s still so hazy and foggy, you can’t even see it. Every day starts out overcast here, and I like that. But usually the sun eventually burns through. Then the people don’t wear their coats and hats. I like seeing people in coats and hats. People used to always wear hats. Now they can’t be bothered, only when it’s cold out. But here in the early morning, they wear them, and the scene looks like it used to look years ago. The brighter the coats and hats, the better!

Like this gal passing by right now. What a cutie! She’s wearing a red beret, like mine (though mine’s gray). She’s wearing a matching red raincoat with little blond curls and big brown eyes peeking out from under the beret. Can’t see much of her body under that coat, but she’s not skinny – and I like that! I always liked women’s bodies to look like women’s bodies. I used to love big tits. Still do. I just haven’t had my hands on some in too long to remember. My wife’s were big. Still are. But they’ve changed. When we were young, they stood up and saluted, like they were as glad to see me as I was to see them. Now they hang low, staring at the ground whenever I’m around. Guess I’m not such a sight anymore, either.

The cutie in the red beret is still standing on the corner, so close I could poke her with my cane. The light turned green and she didn’t cross; she just stood there, staring. At me. I look up and catch her eye and she looks off a little to the left, I think she’s embarrassed. I give the kid a break and stop looking at her. But I can still see her and she’s staring at me again, just standing there looking very sad. I’m kinda enjoying all this attention. No young lady has looked at me in who-knows-how-long. But she’s not looking at me the way I used to be looked at by the ladies, the way I’d give one of my few remaining years to be looked at again: a look of desire, a look with sex written all over it.

Instead, she looks at me sadly. She pities me, as I used to pity the old men. I bet I remind her of a grandfather. A dead grandfather. I don’t want to be her dead grandfather.

She looks down at her feet for a few seconds. It almost seems, for an instant, that she might come over here. But no, this time the light turns green, ad she walks away, waiting for everyone else to step off the curb first. Did you see that, Charlie? She looked over her shoulder at me for a final glance! Ciao, Bella.

I feel like I was mean to her. I could have said Hello. She was thinking, she wanted to say something to me… maybe something she didn’t get to say to her dead grandfather. She was too scared. You know what? I was too scared to say anything, too.

Here comes Pete now. Better move this newspaper so he’ll have room to sit – Christ, he moves slower than I do. I hope I don’t look like that when I walk. You go play with the other pigeons now, Charlie. Go see if you can  get a little action with that cute little white one over there. She’s been watching you this whole time. Don’t blow this opportunity…

…that frying pan hurtling toward my head came from a good place…

Bound for an S. A, Prum riesling pairing luncheon with my dear friend Liza The Wine Chick  at RN74, I left the house Monday looking appropriately fabulous. I received a text from one of my brothers, “Rik died,” just as I saw my bus fast approaching. I sprinted to the corner, dreading looking at that message on my phone screen again. But once one the bus, I did read it again. When I put my hand to my throat, I realized that my silk Vera Wang scarf must have fallen off during my run. I thought about getting off the bus and going back; we were just a stop away. No, it was cold out. And besides, why give a shit about a scarf I hardly ever wear when Rik died? But I couldn’t let the scarf go. I phoned a neighbor to go out and retrace my steps. No luck, that scarf was gone. Why am I still thinking about the fucking scarf? I could handle thinking about my scarf being gone forever. I couldn’t handle thinking about Rik being gone forever. Focus on the scarf. For now.

1983, just shy of 25. That’s him in pink. Don’t judge him. Like I said, 1983.

I met Rik at age seven, He was 4.5 years older. He played hockey with my two older brothers, and I had a crush on him. He was cute, sort-of exotic looking. I thought he looked Indian (“Native American” had not yet entered the lexicon). He paid me no special attention, none of my brothers’ cute hockey-playing friends did (and I had crushes on most of them). I was just the bratty little sister always tagging along.

As we got a little older, he was the only one of my brothers friends who didn’t join the chorus when others would tease me about a little pubescent weight gain, calling me “Thighane” (rhymes with “Diane”) and other names that do nothing for the self-esteem of a teenage girl at war with her body. In fact, Rik was pretty fucking outraged by their behavior.

Rik took me on my first motorcycle ride, an all-day one from Hoover Dam SE of Vegas to Mt. Charleston, NW of town. We watched a movie in his room and he tried to kiss me — by now Rik developed a little crush on me, probably because I was one of the few girls who accepted him as he was.  But by then, he was too much of a big brother to me to consider any shift in our relationship. But he had qualities that to this day I look for in a man.

For a while in his early twenties he sported  a green mohawk. See, Rik was punk in Las Vegas when there was no such thing  as punk in Las Vegas. And the last place on earth Rik belonged was Vegas. As he entered adulthood he became more worldly and informed than his peers. He was curious. Some of his childhood hockey friends didn’t hang out with him much after that. I don’t know if it was the mohawk, or if Rik and his outspokenness was too much for them to take.

He changed my mindset, my world outlook. Living in a time and place where the only information, entertainment, or art readily available was mainstream, top 40, he-who-has-the-biggest-microphone-is-right DJs, it was Rik who told me where to look to hear other voices, to find alternatives: Alternative music. Alternative news sources. Alternative television. Alternative food. He was my portal to other world and all that was out there.

Rik had some issues. He drank too much. I’m not sure what if any relationship he had with drugs, but he drank way too much. He also had extreme mood swings. I don’t know that he was ever diagnosed, but he was pretty much a bipolar disorder textbook case. We became roommates for a while. During that time, I had my own self-destructive ways. I was still battling an on/off again eating disorder. Rik knew, and it infuriated him. He wasn’t mad at me so much as he hated seeing me hurt myself. One day his frustration and temper got the best of him and he threw a frying pan at my head. I knew that frying pan hurtling toward my head came from a good place, but I also knew it was time to move out.

Of course we remained friends after the frying pan incident. He became roommates with Rob, who was like Rik in many ways, minus the self-destruction, emotional issues, and violent tendencies. The three of us attended — or if I’m not mistaken, organized — the first ever Amnesty International Vegas chapter meeting.

Eventually I visited a friend in San Francisco, and felt like Dorothy discovering the Emerald City. It was a city for people like me (and Rik),  where progressive thinking and diversity —  ethnic, religious, culinary, and political — ruled. I couldn’t move here fast enough.

Oddly, I could never convince Rik to visit me here, let alone make the move he said was inevitable. He was stuck in Vegas, a place that so outraged him, with it’s crudeness and vapidness. But he stayed. Maybe he needed the fight, to always be at battle with something (in this case, a town). Or maybe, more likely, Rik was simply too inert at that point to do something about the things that aggravated him in life. It was easier to rant than to change his situation.

Over the years, he grew bloated from the beer; gone were the chiseled features, replaced by a weathered face. His hair grew wild and gray, and he  had a beard. He looked like  Jerry Garcia, after being out at sea for a year. The only place for which he would leave his tiny cluttered apartment was a local “British Pub” within walking distance, resplendent with video poker games at the bar and waitresses best described as Hooters Girls in Leiderhosen (remember, we’re in Vegas). We stayed in touch via email, until it became difficult to stay in touch with Rik. Correction: it became annoying.

With the internet, Rik had at his fingertips access to way too much information. Lots of information he thought you must read and act upon. He also had way too much free time to find all this information. After a while, I’d just hit delete. I know I wasn’t the only one.

He moved to Ruth, Nevada, as small a town as it gets. He got as far from society as he could afford to go. He sounded happy (very relatively speaking) the last few times I spoke to him. I sent him an email in November 2012, a simple “Still out there?” No reply.

Back to that text my brother sent. It  said Rik died on December 16, 2010. Rik’s been dead over two years and none of us knew. Sadly, none of us were surprised. He had a drinking-related brush with death @ 5 or 8 years ago, I honestly have no sense of time right now when it comes to Rik. I found the online announcement, which supplied only date and place of death. I was disgusted — yes, disgusted — to learn that there was no obituary for him. His parents died years ago. He’d long been estranged from his siblings. They weren’t even mentioned, nor was the son he learned he had fathered six years after the child was born. He died alone.

So now, I will write his obituary. Here’s my tribute to Richard L. Alpert; July 8, 1959 – December 16, 2010; Ruth, Nevada

Rik was the smartest guy in the room. He was also the most passionate, and outspoken, and annoying guy in the room. He could really be a pain in the ass. But it always came from a good place, and that was just Rik. He was a great, loyal friend.

Rik stood for fairness and freedom, compassion and kindness – yes kindness. Despite the bitter rage with which he spoke about (or to) those he believed were in the wrong, or mocking those who stood for things he abhorred, Rik was the kindest soul. He was not the most tolerant soul. He had no use for ignorance or hypocrisy, betrayal, or greed. He had high moral standards when it came to how the world should be and how people should treat all living beings and the planet. Perhaps too high, for he was constantly infuriated that governments, employers, leaders and lovers could behave so badly. Eventually he got away from it all and moved to to the fringe of society. And now, he’s free of all the pain and suffering he found so unacceptable in the world; as well as his own.

Rik Alpert left a strong impression on everyone who ever met him. You couldn’t love him without sometimes wishing you could shut him up. But you always came back to loving him. He was not afraid to stand up for what he believed in. He’ll never know how much he mattered in this world, not just to me.

Here’s a song/band/album Rik introduced me to. It’s still in my top 5:

Thank you, Rik. For raising my standards. For having my back. For introducing me to The Young Ones and Big Audio Dynamite and Love And Rockets and The Utne Reader and Mother Jones and hot and sour soup and long motorcycle rides in the desert Amnesty International and Rob (the afore-mentioned roommate). When I phoned Rob to tell him, I lost it a little. When I told him that Rik shaped me more than any other person (besides my parents), Rob said if he were here he’d give me a hug. Which made me sad because I’ll bet that at the end, Rik had no one to hug. And it kills me that that is permanent.

In his honor, I share here another of my all-time favorite songs that Rik turned me on to. I listen to it when I know I need to get out of my own head. You can thank me with a comment.

Sometimes, people rock. Thank you anonymous neighbor, for your well-timed random act of kindness.

I want to share some good news before signing off. When I came home from that luncheon, I got my dog Picard and went for a walk. Because at that time I was still was mourning the loss of my scarf rather than Rik, I walked to the bus stop… where I found my scarf, tied at eye-level to the bus stop pole, blowing in the wind! I almost got hit by a car running toward it, so happy was I for this one act of random kindness from a total stranger at a time when I so desperately needed something good.

Rik Alpert, you fucking mattered! You fucking rocked!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDt4sPkxZ2U

Just moments after our first encounter.

(This story can also be found in the print and online editions of Bay Woof magazine.)

I used to be a fairly regular blogger; just another person with a greater than average need to express myself – usually as a means to make sense of life, especially when it confounds me (and there was a lot of that these past few years). But then something happened: I got a dog. Coincidentally, I got a boyfriend at roughly the same time. So basically, I got a life again. And so for the past year, while I’ve been enjoying living this life, the only things I’ve posted on my blog are cute pup pictures.

So how did I so completely and quickly morph from the creator of “The Adventures of Vulva Fervor” into this googoogaga-ing mommy creature — the kind that thinks her dogs yawns are adorable and his stinky puppy breath is wonderful and the way he whistle-woofs in his sleep is just the cutest darned thing, not to mention the way his ass shoots up in the air when he shakes — that I used to mock?

Let’s start with the obvious: I’m 47, with no children. And at this point in life, it looks like I’m not going to have ’em. Despite great health and all the energy in the world, that’s just the cold hard truth of my reproductive cycle. Though I never truly had that strong baby urge, I always assumed I’d have at least one child. A daughter. And since my own mother died when I was young, leaving me with many unanswered questions about who she was other than my mother, I have a trunk full of memorabilia, journals, etc – a trunk full of young me – for my daughter, should I leave her too early. Now with no daughter, I don’t know what the hell to do with this trunk now. But I digress…

I didn’t plan on owning a dog; I went to a Rocket Dog Rescue (RDR) adoption event to foster a pit bull for two days (an idea that was inspired by  another writing project of mine, “The Saga Of Gray And Nameless”).  RDR didn’t have any pitties that day. But since I’d driven all the way out there, I might as well foster something until a pittie came along. As I live in a tiny city flat with thin walls, a quiet dog was necessary. Problem was, all the quiet dogs seemed nervous, if not downright terrified. Except one: a funny-looking 6-month old pug mix named Picard who seemed uniquely independent, calm and almost aloof. I had no other choice.

That night I hosted a Mad Men season 4 premiere cocktail party for 12 guests. Picard was calm with a houseful of strangers, and never made one move toward the table covered with hors d’oeuvres. He needed nothing more than a lap on which to lay his head. He almost seemed hesitant to trust this happy home, as if he didn’t want to get attached. But… I got attached. Despite no job and no money, I had to find a way to keep him. I needed to take care of him, and would do whatever I had to do to give this little guy a happy home and make him feel safe and loved. And somehow, it just happened. After jobhunting for two years, I finally got a job.

Now, every day I wake up to a face that is pure happiness. Happy to be awake and know that breakfast is coming soon… though sometimes not soon enough. One morning I was sleeping in uncharacteristically late, and Picard woke me up by licking my eyelids open. Point is, his pure happiness is pure inspiration, from the second I open my eyes.  You can’t wake up in a bad mood with Picard in the room. On that note, no matter how bad a day I’ve had, I can’t stay in a bad mood when I come home to him. He’s so happy I’m home. It truly grounds me, how lucky I am to have a home and to have him in it. Then there’s the sheer joy he has in simply walking outside. Same route, different route, doesn’t matter; he’s outside and walking in the world, a part of it. He doesn’t consider his place in the world, where he’s come from or where he’s going. He’s just so damn happy to be moving and seeing people and sniffing things and meeting other pups. A fine example of living in the moment.

Picard has also reminded me of aspects of myself that I’d forgotten. For example, as a kid I was a huge lover of the outdoors: a Girl Scout, a camper, a hiker, a skier, a skater, a climber. I have 2 olders brothers, and I was always tagging along on their adventures (as much as they’d let me). Now as a car-free urbanite, I keep my outdoor activities to  simply hiking the hills of San Francisco — that is until I got Picard. He has so much energy (which he contains magnificently when in my flat), far more than he can burn off in a day walking or running with me. So at least once a week, we head out to Ft. Funston or Lands End or hunt for new places where he can run himself silly. And I feel like my face is going to crack from smiling so hard when I watch him run! When he runs, it looks like his eyes are going to bulge out of his head from all the joy. Thank you, Picard, for resurrecting the nature lover in me.

Picard keeping Pauline from her work! (please pardon the “lipstick.”)

He’s also a great listener. He knows that it’s best not to say too much; that I really just need him to listen, be my sounding board. He listened when I told him about the recent split between my beau and myself. And Picard made me realize that any pain I felt in that split was a fraction of what I would feel if I had to part with Picard. I don’t know if that’s very telling about the relationship, or if it’s more telling that this is what I need in my heart right now: to be a “mother,” rather than a partner. What I do know is that what makes my relationship with Picard one that most romantic unions might want to emulate is that it is balanced. He gives to me as much as I give to him. Of course his giving is pure and mindless and effortless, which makes it all the sweeter. And he gives to others as well: Picketers put down their signs to pet him. Handsome manly men cross the street to meet him (lucky me!) In stores, mothers take their babies out of their strollers so they can kiss him. Business comes to a standstill when I bring him on errands with me. And no kidding, I can’t tell you how many people have thanked me for sharing him. I feel so, so blessed that I get to witness and experience the joy he brings to others every day, simply by being delightfully sweet and loving. I truly believe he is the key to world peace: If you locked all oppressors, bullies, and sadistic motherfuckers in a room with Picard, I know for a fact he could disarm them all.

People come and go, sometimes breaking our hearts. But the little ones, the dogs and cats and pre-verbal children… they bring out the good in us and others they encounter. I know that having a dog is not the same as having a child. But it’s what I’ve got to work with, and there are  ways in which having a pup is advantageous to having a child at this point in my life. I will always be able to pick up and hold Picard, something that children outgrow both in size and in their tolerance for being kissed to the point of embarrassment (also something that gets difficult to do as we get older). Picard will not cost me a fortune in college tuition, he will never talk back to me, and he will never introduce unpleasant friends into my home. Added bonus: he rarely, rarely tests me.

At our favorite spot: Ft. Funston.

I’m just the lucky lottery winner who happened to be in the right place at the right time when this pup needed a home. Home is one of the most sacred words — and things — in the world to me. Picard reminds me every day of how important it is to feel safe and secure in the knowledge that you have a home – whether that be a physical place or someone  that will always protect and provide love and safety and comfort. I’ve learned that it’s indescribably satisfying to give someone — even a dog — a home. Far better than receiving one. Welcome home Picard.

swinging on a moon

That’s not actually her in the photo. It’s a photo of her necklace, worn by me. Someone gave it to her because she was a Cancer, and Cancers are “Moon Children”. I never heard that before, but I’ll just accept it as being the truth. Cancer is a water sign, water/moon, blah blah blah.

This necklace became mine when she died. And like all her jewelry — not worth millions of dollars, but priceless to me — I put it in a box, afraid to wear it. Afraid to lose it.

And then after I came back home after my mid-life pyrotechic chapter a couple of years ago, I weeded through all my belongings. And realized I had a box of jewelry — stuff that she handled, adored, used to accessorize — just sitting there for over 20 years. Lost for 20 years.

So I wear this necklace every day now. Ditto the hoop earrings she gave me at Christmas when I was 14. Two months after I began wearing them, I lost one, and was actually grateful for the two months I got to enjoy them again. And then walking to get coffee, not even looking, never expecting to find it again… there it was, on the sidewalk. There you see? I was meant to wear it, lose it, find it. Let it be.

This necklace is not subtle. I used to worry — it being prominant and solid gold, bordering on blingy — that it might get snatched right off my neck when I ride the bus or walk through the Tenderloin. But the opposite has proven to be the case.

People who I guarantee you have a rap sheet as long as I am tall stop me to comment on the necklace. They are complimentary, respectful, and thoughtful. An example: A loudmouth little gangsta girl — who’d been talking smack moments earlier with her homies on the bus — went out of her way to say, “Pardon me, ma’am, that’s a real nice necklace. I don’t normally talk to white people, but that’s a really pretty necklace.” And so I tell her the story about my mother and we proceeded to talk for fifteen minutes, parting with “Merry Christmas!” as I got off the bus.

So that’s what I mean when I say “Meet My Mother.” Because it’s like she’s with me when I wear it. That’s the effect she had on people. She was the great equalizer, making everyone in the room (or on the bus, in this case) feel comfortable enough to talk to her and really glad that they did in the end.

I may lose the necklace. Hell, someone may snatch it right off me on the bus. It would be devastating, but I  know she’ll keep doing what she does best, wherever she ends up.

He didn't like to talk about the war. But he thought about it all the time.

He wrote “18” on the soles of his shoes, so that when they asked when he was enlisting, “Are you over eighteen?”, he didn’t have to lie. He was really seventeen. That’s what boys did then, to defend their country in WWII — and not lie in order to do so.

He was in the 82nd Airborne. One of those guys who was dropped behind enemy lines (see “A Bridge Too Far”), one of the few who survived. He took a bullet in the arm and it remained there til the day he died.

He started talking about it toward the end of his life, a little. I wish I could have recorded him. But he never, ever would have allowed that.

Michael Jackson died 3 days ago, and I suspect I’m the only person in the universe, IN THE UNIVERSE, who had no emotional reaction whatsoever. No urge to turn on the TV or radio, no urge to tweet about it Google it or comment or reflect or say something snarky or anything else.  Really,  I just didn’t think or feel anything.

Until now.

I woke up at 5:47am (rather early for me) with I’ll Be There in my head. And suddenly, it hits me, hard. I’ll Be There is one of those songs that gets to me every goddamn time I hear it. I lose it. I don’t know if it’ the melody or the sentiment of the lyrics or the bit when Jermaine chimes in on the chorus (God, now there’s a voice). But I know it’s one of the first songs I ever heard on the radio. Maybe that’s it.

Radio, back in the day. AM radio. Pop music. When pop music was songs like I’ll Be There and Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together and  the Raspberries Go All The Way (man, why couldn’t I have lost my virginity to that one?), and any song on any soundtrack to any Quentin Tarentino film.  But I digress. Back to Michael…

I realized: the Michael that sang I’ll Be There, and the Michael who brought us the album Off The Wall (superior to Thriller, in my opinion); that Michael died long ago. Replaced by someone who — for reasons I’ll never understand — had such a hard time looking at the Man In The Mirror that he actually erased him, replacing him with someone who bore little resemblance to other human beings. I’m grateful I’ll never understand what it must be like, to abhor where you came from or something deep inside you so much you can no longer face it. But I sympathize. My demons got nothing on Michael’s.

So now I can’t get I’ll Be There out of my head. And finally, my heart breaks for Michael Jackson. I wish I could thank him for giving me the first recording, the first voice, that talked about love and made me get it, feel it, pine for it: what love could be.

RIP, Michael. In your honor, I will now dance.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kM3hgLRq8_0[/youtube]