Honey, Don't Forget to Pack my Uzi with the PBJ's

Tomorrow, a new law on guns in national parks takes effect. Congress passed and President Obama signed a bill allowing people to carry loaded, concealed weapons in national parks for "self-defense."

What were they thinking?

This travesty represents a huge victory for the National Rifle Association. Since 1871, the NRA has been America’s oldest sportsman’s group. Four million members strong, the NRA continues its mission to uphold Second Amendment rights and to advocate enforcement of existing laws against violent offenders to reduce crime. The Association remains the nation’s leader in firearm education and training for law-abiding gun owners, law enforcement and the military, for which they cannot be faulted even by folks like me who fear guns and would never own one.

But when gun advocates portray themselves as victims of so-called “bigotry” by those who disagree with them, they are way off target. Some have likened their position to African-Americans in the Civil Rights movement, which carried to its logical extreme states that ones status as a gun advocate is an immutable characteristic like skin color and that gun usage is comparable to race or sexual orientation.

They must be high.

In their bizarre world view, anyone who fails to endorse the effects of their gun advocacy, such as forcing families to accept semi-automatic pistols or assault weapons in Yellowstone, is the same as those who infamously refused service to black students at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in Greensboro, NC, in 1960.

It's appalling that the NRA has managed to convince a majority of legislators that allowing civilians to carry loaded, concealed weapons in national parks and wildlife preserves won't inevitably lead to more impulsive shooting of animals as well as "accidents" in which humans are maimed or killed. Their despicable argument that not allowing this constitutes bigotry is simply insane. People are born into a particular race, but none of them exits the birth canal toting a gun.

Guns are dangerous. They are tools designed to kill, and in this country they fulfill their function 30,000 times each year, while injuring another 80,000 people. I fail to understand how this is a civil rights issue, and no amount of NRA-speak will convince me that it is anything but a public safety issue.

Lest I be misunderstood, I do not hate people who own guns. But I do hate and deplore the fact that they will now be allowed to carry them into the last bastions of unspoiled land, our national parks, the very places most people go to enjoy the natural beauty of our country and escape the stresses of city life. While I believe that most gun owners are reasonably responsible, I worry about the few who are not, the dangerous, unstable ones who want to play GI Joe in the woods.

We really don't need to worry about foreign terrorists killing American citizens when we have people right here at home with a frontier mentality, and the weapons to act on it. Expect increasing shoot-outs among the laughing children, wildlife photographers and picnic frolickers as people who shouldn't have guns "defend" themselves against others who also should not. I find this vastly troubling, and you should, too.

Requiem for Rain Boots

To the only rain boots I have owned since my ugly childhood galoshes, I will miss you. I bought you because I was utterly taken with the tigers and roses decorating you, designed by the famous tattoo artist Ed Hardy. My reasoning was that I will probably never have an actual tattoo on my body but I admire good tattoo art, and the purchase was further cinched by the fact that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Tiger. Plus, I love roses.

You have decorated my closet for a year, during which time it never rained in San Francisco, although I waited and waited. Finally, the rain gods favored us and I gleefully donned my boots and ventured forth. After a few minutes I realized that my left foot was wet. So wet that when I got home, I was unable to pull the boot off my foot without help. My sock had attached itself to my skin and also required an emergency crew (Flip) to remove it. I thought I must have stepped on something sharp but couldn't find a hole in the rubber bottom.

I took it to a shoemaker to see if it could be repaired. They were expensive, and are no longer available. He flexed the bottom and showed me that it was completely split. "Old rubber," he pronounced with disdain. "But I've never worn them," I said. "I've had them for a year but it hasn't rained here until now." "Cannot fix," he said.

Cannot get money back either. I've had them too long. I'm thinking maybe I'll use them as planters... they'd look good with ivy trailing out of them where my legs used to be.

The Chinese Year of the Tiger began on February 14th, otherwise known as Valentine's Day. It also marked Losar, the Tibetan New Year and most important holiday of all to Tibetans. Unfortunately, those in Tibet were not allowed to celebrate because the Chinese government which took over their country in 1959 remains intent on destroying their culture as innocent people, both Tibetan and Chinese, hang in the balance while the world does nothing. Sadly, this is how most individuals behave regarding the less fortunate members of their own societies who slip through cracks every day. Until everyone realizes at the cellular level that we are all connected, nothing will change significantly. Tashi Delek!* And Xīn nián hǎo!**


* Happy New Year in Tibetan
**Happy New Year in Mandarin

Not Your Mama's Barbie Doll

Barfing Barbie

I have just discovered a new art form - Altered Barbies. There is a show in San Francisco every October featuring such works as Barbie Hugging the Porcelain, Gene Simmons begging Barbie, Deaf Jewish Lesbian Barbie and S&M Barbie.

Why was I never told? I have a rather tortured relationship with Barbie. We have never been friends and in fact, with unthinkable cruelty I refused to buy one for my younger daughter when she was a child and instead, foisted the more elegant Madame Alexander dolls on her. I completely missed the point. All her friends had Barbies, and my intransigence on this issue was more reprehensible than refusing to buy my son a toy gun had been.

It wasn't the breasts that offended me, but the fact that Barbie's feet were perpetually flexed for high heels, which seemed to imply that any proper woman wore cruel shoes at all times. The tackiness of the dolls was also a factor. But a little girl's wishes were dashed in the process, and I lost track of that far more important issue in my earnest desire to elevate her tastes. I think that as soon as we make something so insignificant about us and our values, bad parenting ensues. What is more, I should have known better. My own mother never bought me the patent leather maryjanes I coveted, nor would she allow me to wear anything remotely "fancy." Ruffles, bows and lace were outlawed from my wardrobe no matter what the other children wore. So if I had it to do over, i would buy my daughter every Barbie on the market. But sadly, there are no do-overs with child rearing.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

The Rubaiyat - Omar Khayyam - 11th century. He was surely a parent as well as a poet.

LaVonne Sallee is the artist whose works are featured here:

Gene Simmons Begging Barbie

Deaf Jewish Lesbian Barbie - no mean trick, reading the Torah in sign language. She must be blind as well; hence, the dark glasses.

S&M Barbie

Anorexic Barbie

Three-headed Pit Bull Barbie

Centaur Barbie

I rather love this one:



Jean August Ingres - The Bather

I'm still waiting for a Senior Citizen Barbie - after all, she's over fifty years old now. And everyone knows that fifty is the new nineteen.

Things I Love about San Francisco:

You never see empty Skoal tins on the sidewalk.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Living With Lewis

My husband, Flip, is losing ground fast. Every day he becomes a little less himself as his own body turns on him, but there are no weapons to defeat an enemy like Alzheimer's Dementia. He complains that something inside of him is saying "fuck you" to him all the time.

In the earlier stages when he was still more lucid, he named his disease "Lewis" because, he said, "It's good to have someone to blame." Flashes of his old humor take me by surprise now but remind me that he is still in there, still aware and angry and frustrated. At some point he will lose even this awareness. I don't know if that will be better or worse. I strive to ease his life while he still knows who I am, to fill him with my love so that when he is adrift on an ocean of confusion, he will still feel the warmth of it. Too often, I fail miserably. Lewis makes deep inroads every day and takes more of Flip away from me, and from himself.

Well-meaning people tell me that I must take care of myself and while I am grateful for the solicitude, with all respect they don't know what they are talking about. They earnestly remind me that if I do not I won't be able to take care of Flip, but the plain reality is that my needs do come second now. This disease has changed everything including the dynamics of our relationship. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me going is my absolute certainty that if I were the one Alzheimer's had chosen, he would do the same for me. He is probably a better person than I am.

Flip was once a highly articulate man who now struggles to express the simplest thought, and often gives up or simply forgets what he wanted to say. He was a professional musician who could play guitar, bass and drums better than most people. He was also a graphic designer, a talented photographer, and an avid bicycle rider. Now he is nursing injuries from his latest fall last week, lacerations and painful rib bruises.

I took his Bianchi to the bike shop for repairs. "You should see the other guy," I said. They have seen us often in the last year and didn't even charge me this time. Of course I wonder if Flip should still be riding since he now falls a lot, but as long as he wants to I can't see taking that away from him, too. He has already lost so much. He says that he feels free of Alzheimer's only when riding his bike. He wears a helmet to protect his brain even as it abandons him.

His mind now works in strange ways which seem illogical to me because I am still operating on the old brain model. Alzheimer's has its own logic as the amyloid plaques and tangles which characterize it struggle to perform tasks he has forgotten how to do. He has become a black hole into which every possible household item disappears. Almost nothing remains in its assigned place and it often feels that I am living in a world invented by Lewis Carroll or Franz Kafka. While cooking, I will reach for an implement only to find that it is not where I have always kept it; in fact, it is nowhere at all. Right before Thanksgiving, I noticed that an entire shelf of glassware had disappeared. Flip tries to keep busy by "helping" but his sense of spatial relations is greatly impaired. I suspect he couldn't figure out where to put the glasses, so he threw them away. This was my wake-up call to hide anything of value, which is a good idea in theory but not always possible. We live in small quarters and he has access to more of it than I do since he is over a foot taller.

In our former life, Flip and I spent seven years renovating an old house ourselves. He replaced wood flooring, rehung the crooked front door, plastered giant holes in the walls that had been concealed with ugly paneling which we removed, rewired the electricity and installed new copper plumbing, tiled the bathrooms, made structural improvements, replaced the chimney, painted everything inside and out and did extensive landscaping. The only thing we had done by professionals was a new roof which required removal of three former roofs, one on top of another. We turned an ungainly, plain house into a beautiful one with lovely grounds and sold it to move to California, where we live in an apartment.

We still have several huge toolboxes, but Flip is no longer able to hang a picture or replace a light fixture after changing a bulb. He has difficulty dressing himself although he usually refuses my help, and coat hangers bewilder him. He naps frequently, which his doctor says is because it takes so much effort to do anything when one has Alzheimer's. He is still unfailingly kind and generous, and the sweetest man I have ever known.

We belong to a support group for people with dementia and their caregivers run by the Alzheimer's Association. They divide us into two groups which meet in adjoining rooms and we are both fond of the people we see there. But sometimes we don't go because everything seems so futile. I am sure that passengers on the Titanic who had someone's hand to hold derived a measure of comfort from it, but the ship still went down.

I try to keep him entertained or at least engaged by planning small excursions, even if just buying a latte in a different neighborhood. I am now our only driver but we also do a lot of walking. San Francisco is a wonderful city to explore on foot because there is always something new to see, which is good because we are not able to travel the world as we have both always wanted to do. Alzheimer's has made our life much smaller. I try to see the lessons in that, and the opportunities for spiritual growth. Sometimes I feel angry, but anger in a vacuum is really a waste of energy which I badly need for our survival.

I worry about what will happen to Flip if I die first. This is a real possibility as I am older than he, but on the other hand, women tend to live longer and I am healthy. Alzheimer's has leveled the playing field so that it is anybody's guess which of us will go first. We have no plan in place for the future because I allow myself this small shred of denial.

This devastating disease is becoming epidemic as the Baby Boomers age. Those who study it say that they are seeing more and more cases of the early-onset variety. Flip is among the earliest as he was diagnosed at age 50, but in retrospect had problems for several years before. Alzheimer's is an equal-opportunity disease. It seemingly strikes people at random like an evil lottery. At present there is no way to determine who will get it, or why. Lifestyle seems to have little effect, nor is there any other reliable predictor. We know that smoking is more likely to cause lung cancer than not smoking, but there is no comparable preventive behavior associated with Alzheimer's. You are either lucky or unlucky. It does not operate by half-measures and takes no prisoners.

This is a most isolating disease. My family of origin, although wonderful, is only sporadically in my life while Flip's siblings and friends, even the ones who were supposed to be forever, have drifted away. It's disappointing but I don't blame them. They are dealing with their own concerns, and I think that when people don't know what to say they try to avoid the awkwardness by saying nothing. But it's lonely with only the three of us: Flip, me, and Lewis. Especially Lewis, who has become the most powerful presence in our lives.

Flip has asked me why him. I told him that the gods must have known that he could handle it better than I, and sometimes I even believe this myself. I cannot imagine being unable to form a sentence, or to read, or in effect to trust my own mind and body at all, without having an ongoing epic meltdown a permanent existential crisis. Knowing this makes me grateful for the small things in life, the things I always took for granted. Alzheimer's is the best reason I know for living in the present. I have learned that every day is its own holiday and should be celebrated, that while planning for the future is always a good idea, ones life can change in a heartbeat. No matter how intricately detailed our illusions, we are always flying blind. And perhaps this is a good thing because it keeps us sharp.

I think of Rudyard Kipling's famous poem, "If" which begins:

"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;"

I substitute "Flip" for Kipling's "all men" and am mindful that I must be strong for both of us as I am increasingly called upon to keep my head while he is losing his, that even as he doubts me, I am by default the one in charge. Even though I would rather not be. And I must learn to trust myself more.

I try to live in the moment. I strive to honor and enjoy my husband as he is today while trying not to compare him to the man he was yesterday. I do this because I know that tomorrow he will no longer be the man he is today. But he is in all these aspects infinitely precious to me, and we will get through this challenge because we have no choice. And because life is always worth fighting for, even when defeat seems assured. The important thing is not to give up, ever, because a cure could be found tomorrow. And that hope makes today a bit sweeter.

The Joy of Apoplexy

Here's a rhetorical question for you: Why do people choose to be nasty when it's far more effort than a simple neutrality?

Today was laundry day, my least favorite chore because although I am quite fond of clean clothing, sheets and towels, I don't have laundry machines and must go to a public launderette to do it. Usually this involves double parking while I unload my three overflowing baskets, driving home to put the car in the garage and jogging back to the launderette. When it's finished, I reverse the process. Today, however, I found a parking space on the same street, got out three times while inching back and forth to ensure that I was not blocking the driveway on either end of my car, and went to do the dirty. (Clothes:)

While I carried my baskets to the car afterward, a man yelled at me, stating that he couldn't get into his driveway, which unless he was driving a doublewide Hummer, was untrue. My car is considered a compact - I am always directed to the compact vehicle level at a public garage I visit often.

He waved his cell phone at me. "I didn't call the police but I will," he threatened. I didn't say anything because I was arranging my baskets sideways on the back seat of my car. "Do I see an evil look?" he bellowed. This was exceedingly doubtful as he couldn't see my face at all, but it's possible that my butt was giving him the stink eye. I can't control that.

I remained silent, which apparently enraged him. "Do you want me to call the police?" he asked. "DO YOU?"

"Why don't you?" I said. "I'm not doing anything wrong." His garage door was open. I could see two Mercedes, an Escalade, a Maserati and a Ferrari (red) inside. His house looked anything but impoverished but he doesn't own the street in front of it. His wife once screamed at me when I parked there, too. They seem to spend a lot of time patrolling their perimeters to make sure nobody parks in front of their house. The normal expectation of such perfect privacy is nil in a city since it requires a few hundred acres of land as a buffer between the homeowner and the rest of humanity. I wondered why a person who clearly has a very luxurious life would enjoy bullying someone who was no threat to him or his considerable property. But my reverie didn't last long because the man was still yelling at me. I think he wanted me to get on my knees and beg for mercy. He demanded to know if it would happen again because he is very friendly with the entire San Francisco police force and they'll put me in jail.

I shrugged. "It won't happen again," I said and drove off. I have been feeling perfectly horrible ever since, partly because I really and truly hate being yelled at, especially when I have committed no crime, but even more, I think, because I'm sure he took my statement as an admission of guilt.

I have meditated on this and while it's impossible to know what cross he is bearing, he has no idea what I might be dealing with either. To escalate to full bore rage in seconds is unhealthy for both the angry person and his target. Since I was the target, I found the whole thing immensely upsetting. Hours later, I am still feeling the aftermath of his anger and my reactive anger when it would have been just as easy to share a smile, or not to interact at all.

We really are all in this karmic soup together, so I have to ask myself what ill will I have put out into the world to bring this ill will upon myself because somewhere, at some time, I must have treated someone as badly as that man treated me, even if I can't remember it. We cannot change others but we can and should commit to changing ourselves. The only way to improve our experience in the world is to be vigilant of our own actions so that we don't cause another pain because sooner or later, those chickens come home to roost. And when they do, our world becomes an ugly place for us and everyone around us.