I’m having a big fight with my sister but I don’t have to worry about her reading this because the fight was about her refusal to read my blog.

I don’t feel she’s obliged to read my blog. I’m just fascinated by her militant stance about not reading it. A couple of years ago, I realized that she hadn’t read something I thought she would enjoy, and asked why she didn’t read it.

She said, “I already know you in real life. So I don’t need to read it!” She sounded really annoyed. My husband still thinks this is funny, and he likes to say stuff like, “Did Bob Dylan’s brother say that, when Bob wanted to play him a song?”

So, I’m not Bob Dylan, but it might be a useful analogy because it implies an inexplicable resistance and an absurd excuse for it.

But, unbelievably, it came up again last week when my sister wanted to list words we hate, and I said, “Oh, guess what, I just wrote a thing about that on my blog! Go look, it’s a great list.”

God I am stupid.

She wouldn’t look and said derisively, “I didn’t realize I had to read it NOW.” Reflexively, I asked, “Can you tell me again why you have this fatwa against reading my shit?”

This was texting, by the way. She changed the subject, leaving my question hanging there. Now I really wanted an answer, not least because she was withholding one. I kept repeating the question, and she would write back, “I have a stomach ache.” “I need to lie down.” I asked, “Please just finish this sentence: I will not read my sister’s blog because”.

Now she texted, “Please stop”. It reminded me of that Beverly Hills housewife who winds up a fellow housewife and then shrieks, “Staahp!”

I wouldn’t stop. I called her passive aggressive. Eventually, she announces that she received an email from a family member, that was about me.  I didn’t believe this for a moment, so I asked to see it. She said, No, I don’t have to show it to you.

I called her and offered her $500 to show the nonexistent email to me. When she refused, I offered $1,000, and she still refused! Now I was laughing hysterically. I called her a  pathological liar and advised getting professional help.

So we aren’t talking. I could apologize for insisting on a question she was not equipped to answer. We could go back to our close relationship, and wait for the next bitter conflict.

I wish I could stop trying to get answers from people! No matter how badly you want one, no matter how desperately you try to get one, there is only silence. Or a lie about an email. Or a defensive complaint about being expected to just be honest. People want to be how they are without having to justify behavior. Fair enough. Or not?

Most of the time, I know the answer but just want the person to acknowledge it. Then it becomes a harangue and oops, you are a monster because you won’t give up. In my heart, I believe that I’m willing to answer any question to the best of my ability. It is a feather in my fucking cap. Just try me!

But. A couple of weeks ago, I had a big fight with my wonderful husband (who will read this) when he referred to my hair as “brown.” I flew into a rage and demanded that he call it “blonde.” When he punted, I ran around the house going “BROWN? Brown! Really??”

I have been inside my house for way too long now. It’s too much. My three modes are boredom, anxiety, or wondering if I’m actually dead already. Actually no, that’s a lie, there is “TV Time” in the evening, when we smoke some weed and I enter the reality of Our Shows. If Netflix isn’t the only thing preventing the complete collapse of civilization, I will eat my hat, and yours too.

A few years ago I asked Max what he’s been up to, I can’t remember if it was in a dream or just in my head. But I remember that he answered, “Just chillin.” He sounded relaxed and content.

Today is his birthday and he’s chillin in paradise. The force is with him and so am I, always and forever.

Once upon a time, there was a family whose gifted child, Smarty, started a new school. He made a new friend, Icky, who was very sweet but had a number of physical and behavioral shortcomings. He was unattractive and moody but got along well with Smarty, an extrovert who tended to be dominant with his peers.

Icky had a play-date at Smarty’s house, and was picked up by his dad, Pervy, a smarmy voice-actor with an overly familiar manner who told Smarty’s mom that she must’ve been a “helluva sexy teenager”.

Smarty spent more time with Icky, encouraged heartily by Pervy, who confided that Smarty was a good role model for the sullen Icky, who spend most of his time playing video games.

Whenever Smarty went to Icky’s house, Pervy took them out to restaurants and bought them gifts. He soon made room in a closet for Smarty’s clothes and gave Smarty a spare key to the house.

One day, alone with Mom, Pervy said that he might be able to “give her what she wanted.” Shocked, she nervously replied that she only wanted a chartreuse suede Chanel handbag. Pervy asked what that cost, and then backed off.

Smarty began to gain weight and his mom asked Pervy to stop taking him out to huge meals of barbecued ribs and potatoes. Pervy ignored her. Smarty discovered religion and Pervy found a Jewish synagogue for Jews who didn’t believe in god. Mom and Dad agreed to attend a service there, where prayers omitted the god part. Mom and Dad were atheists but wanted to let Smarty work out his own belief system.

Then, Pervy had an idea: He would have a Bar-Mitzvah alongside Smarty! WHAT?! Here, Mom stepped in and said no, that will not happen.

Meanwhile, Dad had a group of old friends who got together to play music one night a week. He brought Pervy with him once, and Pervy soon began to come on his own, installing himself as one of the groups key vocalists.

Smarty’s family was struck by tragedy, and Pervy invited him to stay with him and Icky for a month. When Mom wanted Smarty back at home, Pervy said, Well, I promised him a month. I can’t go back on my promise.

One day, Smarty was very angry with his parents and called Pervy to come pick him up. Pervy came and even though Smarty swore at him, he obediently took Smarty away.

Mom now despised Pervy. Smarty moved away and fell in love. He told Mom and Dad that he might ask Pervy to officiate at the wedding. Mom screamed, “NO! I’m not coming if that happens!”

This caused a rift between Mom and Smarty, one of many that should have healed but kept erupting.

Time passed.  Pervy still sang in the music group, using hand motions like Celine Dion. Mom missed Smarty and one day, emailed Icky to ask how Smarty was doing. Icky immediately reported back to Smarty, who angrily demanded that Mom stop contacting his friends. Icky blocked Mom on twitter.

More time passed and Pervy started a Kickstarter page for a movie he wanted to make about a log lady. He offered a grand prize of dinner with himself to the highest donor.

Go and see it if it gets released! Just don’t let him play with your kid or come to your music group.

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading  The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

~

* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo

I’ve become a big fan of IDTV, or The Murder Channel as I like to call it. Most of the time, I find the stories entertaining and even calming. But once in a while, something will trigger a real sense of shock and horror.

A couple of days ago, I watched the story of a serial killer, punctuated by interviews with his now adult daughter. In old photos, you can see the daughter as a toddler and the father as a big, good-looking all-American guy. The daughter describes him in those days as a charismatic family man.

But she recalls that all forms of horsing around with her dad ended up as uncomfortable power plays. Tickling became torture, as she begged her dad to stop. He would pin her arms down and keep on tickling.

Here I began to think, uh-oh.

My dad liked to be physical with me and my sister when we were kids. In one game, we would all get on his big bed and the object was to try to throw him off. Of course, this was impossible. I can’t remember if I enjoyed the struggle. I think I enjoyed this substitute for affection, since my parents divorced when I was three and I was a timid, neglected child.

Other games included trying to get his thumb loose from his fist. He was strong, a weightlifter and tennis player. We could never succeed and he enjoyed our committed struggles. He also enjoyed challenging us to perform some impossible task. When I was around eight, he bet that I couldn’t do 500 deep-knee-bends. Why would a father do this? Beats me, but I was determined to win. I somehow managed to rise to the challenge and I was in agony for days afterward. I remember my mom yelling at him about it.

When we were very young, my dad used to take us out on the freeway in his big Lincoln Continental and he would suddenly let go of the wheel at a high speed. He would turn to whichever of us was sitting next to him and say, “Take the wheel! Hurry up, you have to control the car!” Our terror was hilarious to him. Later, I would have recurring nightmares about a car I couldn’t control. I still can’t drive on freeways.

Back to the daughter of the serial killer, she recalls that her dad used to take her on a walk over a bridge. Halfway across, he would lift her up and pretend he was about to throw her over. She notes that she learned to run away before they got to the halfway mark.

My dad used to take us on a fishing boat that stayed out all day. I liked to fish. But I didn’t like it when he sneaked up behind me and suddenly lifted me off the ground, saying “I’m gonna throw you overboard!”

What fun he had!

The daughter in the story recounts her feelings of shame when her dad flirted with waitresses, crossing over the line of normal friendly banter.

Ditto, with my dad.

She was in high school when her dad was arrested for murder. He confessed to killing at least 8 women, but may have killed as many as 100. One was his fiance, who had rebelled against being dominated and had mysteriously disappeared. The daughter worries about having her father’s genes. She’s glad he didn’t kill her.

My dad died around 8 years ago, never having killed anyone as far as I know. But finding that his behavioral profile was so similar to the serial killer…that is upsetting. What the fuck was wrong with him and why didn’t anyone step in? How many fathers go around terrorizing their children in order to feel powerful? How many kids know that this isn’t normal?

Does this sound familiar to any of you??

As Father’s Day approaches, may my dad rest in peace, but may he stay good and dead.

Watching Jeff Sessions smile as he quoted the Bible to justify his immigration policy, I was chilled to the core. Surely this cunt is the Devil Himself! Not to downgrade Trump, who is an abomination, but I think with Sessions we are truly looking into the heart of the Prince of Darkness.

Who else would express glee at hurting children? While spouting scripture?

Let’s quote Shakespeare instead. The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

Maybe Jeff grew up hoping to walk in the footsteps of Dr. Mengele? Here we thought he was just a hateful racist.

We just can’t sit around while brown-skinned children are rounded up and put in detention camps. I mean, what next? Is this just a way to make money for private companies with ties to Trump and CO.? There are already plans to build several new “facilities.”

When things don’t make sense, the answer is usually “money.”

Fuck this!  Unacceptable, motherfuckers! This is the time to say Enough Fascist Nazi Shit.

Want to help? Find a protest to attend in your city or chip in to eight critical groups working to protect kids separated from their families by ICE:

We Belong Together – women for common sense immigration policies

https://www.webelongtogether.org/

United We Dream – the largest immigrant youth-led network in the country
https://unitedwedream.org/

Women’s Refugee Commission – advocating for the rights and protection of women, children, and youth fleeing violence and persecution

Home

ACLU – fighting attacks through the legal system

Home

Kids In Need of Defense (KIND) – protecting unaccompanied children who enter the US immigration system alone to ensure that no child appears in court without an attorney.

Home Kids in Need of Defense (KIND)

Asylum Seeker Advocacy Project – providing asylum seekers with legal aid and community support across the country

https://asap.urbanjustice.org/

Human Rights First – helping refugees obtain asylum in the U.S.

Home

La Union del Pueblo Entero – founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta, a community union that works in the Rio Grande Valley from the grassroots up

Welcome. Bienvenido.

In North Carolina last week, an 18 year old boy chopped off his mom’s head and then called 911.

I read an account of the incident and listened to a excerpt of the 911 call, which actually lasted for 16 minutes. You can hear the boy tell the stunned operator that he killed his mom, because he “felt like it.” The kid has a deep voice, with no affect. The operator asks some questions and the boy answers obediently.

There are two young children in the house, and the 911 operator is concerned about their safety. The caller assures him that he won’t hurt the kids, for just a moment exhibiting a flash of normal emotion, like, Hey, I’d never hurt them, are you nuts?

I can’t imagine why it took so long for the cops to arrive but I was pleased to find audio of the entire call.  That’s how I am when I read about something horrible. I need to know everything.

It’s no surprise that the boy, Oliver Funes Machado, had been in a mental hospital for psychotic behavior. Four medications prescribed to him were found inside the house. But friends and family noted that Oliver had been a normal child, until the last few years, when he started to isolate himself.

Oliver’s mom Yesinia was 35 years old, so she had him when she was only 17. She went on to have 3 more children, and to gain a reputation in her community as a kind, happy person who loved to sing.

Poor Yesenia! All those years as a mother, only to have her head chopped off with a butcher knife. I would not find it unusual to learn that her teenage son loved her very much. All that stabbing and mutilating is probably just the flip side of a child’s love when they become psychotic.

Remember that Virginia State senator whose son tried to kill him before shooting himself? They were very close, unusually close. You don’t always hurt the one you love, but when you’re crazy you do. 29 per cent of family homicides involve a killer who is mentally ill.

Oliver has had his first court appearance, his feet chained together and his face blank. His hands look like a baby’s. Who will care about him?

I’ll tell you who: Right wing Trump supporters, who are blaming Obama because Oliver is an illegal immigrant from Honduras. To read their comments on this story is to confirm everything you think about Trump’s “base.” All they see is a brown-skinned young man who should never have been allowed to cross our sacred border! Fox news used this headline for the story:

Illegal immigrant accused of beheading his mom gives chilling 911 call

Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials told Fox that they have issued a detaining order for Oliver, who has been charged with first degree murder. Meanwhile, his next court appearance will be on Thursday.

This is a family tragedy of the highest order, one of the worst things you can imagine. I can envision being the son, the mother, the grieving father and the two young siblings. Because that’s how I am.

But I can’t imagine finding any meaning in the fact that the kid is here illegally. That’s beyond my powers of empathy. Let’s get everyone properly diagnosed and then put on the right meds, including those people who voted for Trump.

I’ve been getting them for a couple of years, and it occurred to me that it might be nice to share them with those of you who don’t have death breathing down your neck, in the form of cremation offers.

The Neptune Society has the market cornered in name recognition. There are many companies that provide the same services for less than half the price, but in California, most people think Neptune Society. In fact, that’s what my mom arranged for herself.

(Remember when she left me one dollar in her will? She thought of everything!)

Inside the envelope is a syrupy letter explaining why you should ease the burden on your loved ones by planning your cremation in advance. There are a lot of euphemisms, naturally, but here’s the essence of the pitch:

Cremation planning grants your family time to grieve your loss and celebrate your life rather than face confusing choices and high costs.

Fuck my family, know what I mean? Let them face the confusing choices, I’m certainly not going to do it for them.

Here’s what I love about the Neptune Society letters – this hilarious insert.

It’s their clever way of getting your phone number so their salespeople can torment you. Because who could resist a PRE-PAID CREMATION! They make it sound like a trip to Hawaii. And why does that guy with the baby look so happy? Did he just win a cremation or did he find out his parents “planned ahead”?

People in my neighborhood by the harbor are inclined to borrow a boat and throw their loved ones’ ashes into the sea. It’s a DIY kind of thing that really appeals to me. I once wanted to be scattered at Nordstrom, but now I’m conflicted.  And truthfully, I’ve been spending more time at Marshall’s.

As an unwavering Doubter, I wouldn’t trust the Neptune Society or any company to scatter my ashes at sea. How would you know they didn’t just throw you in the trash in a Walmark plastic bag full of coffee grounds?

If you want to see a comprehensive breakdown of fees for cremation and burial services, go here. Note that it’s $25 extra to remove a pace-maker.

Maybe there’s a way to get these fuckers to take me off their mailing list, but it’s a nice reminder of my mortality. Plus, it inspires me to face a new day, just to spite the Neptune Society.

First, let me assure you that this won’t be about stuff I’m thankful for.

Although on Thanksgiving, I actually announced that I’m thankful for not being a dwarf. No offense to the dwarf community.

Otherwise no, not thankful, I’m too depressed for that kind of thinking.

My train of thought is very morbid lately, to the point that while sitting and watching TV one night, I imagined someone shooting me right between the eyes and it felt just and appropriate.

So in this state, I attended a Thanksgiving dinner with my extended family, at a local hotel.

I crafted the structure in the photo above, and that’s the first epiphany: Playing with food is fun and satisfying and I need to do more of it.

The second epiphany came later, hours after I had expounded on the JonBenet Ramsey murder and a more obscure and horrible true-crime story.  It was after a discussion of how to debone rats. and a review of various cable TV shows that caused an outbreak of senility and confusion around the table about which was which.

So a loved one was recounting the reasons for a failed friendship that she was still mourning. After trying to be insightful, I added: “but what do I know, all my friends hate me.”

This led to someone noting that I was too aggressive in “interrogating” people. Whoa! I thought, this isn’t what I expected! I do like to ask questions, and I am persistent. I think of myself as having a lot of curiosity, but not actually obnoxious in my expression of interest.

I turned to another loved one and asked, “Do you think this about me??” And he said, “Well, I will say that you don’t like to leave well enough alone.”

So now, stoned and drunk as I was, I felt as though a curtain had been pulled away, to reveal that even the people who love me can’t stand me. I felt hurt and defensive.

I admitted that I don’t like to leave well enough alone. Why should I?? I thought and also said aloud.

My husband appeared and it was time to go home. I burst into tears as soon as we were outside. I explained that everyone hated me and as always, he was sweet and comforting as well as amused.

Epiphany #2 is: Don’t get yourself in a position to hear what people don’t like about you. Stay far away from that. It’s a road you don’t need to travel.

Epiphany #3 is: Even believing that the trait I most define as “Me” is exactly what people hate, I would never work on changing my behavior.  Ever. So now I realize that my stubbornness is even more Me than that other shit.

NO WONDER EVERYONE HATES ME!

Epiphany #4 would be better if I had a photograph, but here it is: If you take five pats of butter and stand them in a group at certain intervals, you can balance a mini pumpkin on them!

It’s something about the distribution of weight that men seem to instinctively understand. I didn’t believe it would work, but my pretend-niece’s husband proved me wrong. It was a moment I will treasure forever.

So how was your Thanksgiving? Anything to report?

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In just one day, I have received threats of physical violence and an actual curse, both transmitted over the Internet.

Now, I am fully aware of having myself generated enough hostility online to light up several baseball stadiums if not an entire city.

But it’s interesting how loosely words are used these days when launched digitally; it’s as if everyone is on the brink of a nervous breakdown, exploding with unmediated anger at the drop of a hat.

Here’s an email from one of my half-sisters, who is around 22 and who I barely know:

Bitch let’s talk face to face and see if you will say anything to my face? Your old as hell and if I am pregnant and your harrassing me well I can send my friend to go see you and make sure you never bother me again time and place Joann to meet up if you don’t want to meet up keep your pussy mouth closed. Emails are pathetic lets meet up your so tough let’s see how really tough you are.

Naturally, I came back with ‘Blah blah blah restraining order.’

My family! Can’t kill ’em, can’t have them killed!

Meanwhile, over on Facebook, I posted a link to a story about the Eagles of Death Metal, performing this week in Tel Aviv. I saluted them for their fearlessness. I know I don’t have to explain what I meant by that, so I won’t insult your intelligence.

This started a spirited exchange about Israelis and Palestinians.

People went back and forth, citing their feelings, which grew heated, and before too long Jews were called Nazis. You probably know how this goes. Is there a Godwin’s Law adage about how any conversation not supportive of boycotting Israel results in the comparison of Jews with Nazis? Or is this just an example of Godwin’s Law?

I want an adage called Wolf’s Law!

How about this for Wolf’s Law: ‘Anything typed and sent into cyberspace will likely result in threats or insults.’

Back to the Facebook thread, here’s what an otherwise lovely person commented:

A greater collection of self serving morons I have never read before…
stay in your ivory towers …may one day ….what you dismiss in your
foolish judgements of the teller ..may in rain on you
the blood of innocence to be your eternal stain …

Because I gave props to the Eagles of Death Metal??

I don’t want an eternal stain, I’m a fucking Jew, alright? Maybe I should get a business card that states this.

Thoughts on Internet hostility? Or ideas for Wolf’s Law?

Art by (c) Beth Hoeckel

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