Saturday Poetry: Leonia's Lament

an excerpt from The Cat Lover (Act II of Scenes From American Life), a collaboration with composer Roberto Pacé

(This act is set in the City.  The action takes place in bedrooms, a beauty parlor, doctors’ offices, and an analyst’s office.  There are several dyads [or chairs to represent the missing member of a dyad].  The pairs are:  doctor/patient, beautician/client, man/woman, husband/wife, woman/cat, analyst/analysand.)

(Solitary woman with cat begins singing to the audience.  Eventually she is joined by a person in a white coat, evidently a physician, and she tells the physician about a troubling ailment.)

Leonia:                   I have a feeling that something’s wrong

terribly wrong.

My Persian, Tutti

makes me red.

My body gets inflated

I start to cry

when I touch dear Tutti’s head.

I have a feeling that something’s wrong

terribly wrong.

I’m crying

for no reason at all

(for no reason at all).

I’m dying when sweet Tutti flicks me

with his tail.

My eyes are red.

My body gets inflated

whenever my Tutti licks me.

I start to cry.

I don’t know why.

I’m gonna die

whenever sweet Tutti flicks me

with his tail.

I’m crying…

I’m dying…

I think of marriage, I confess

when I fear I cannot keep my pet.

Am I allergic to the hair of

other mammals?

(Sometimes I can't stand my own.)

All the Single Ladies

Any long-married woman will tell you that husbands are made, not married.  So, Cuthbert, which is what I call mine when my gorge is rising, need only look out the back door and if I'm practicing semaphore signalling with the axe sitting 2 feet from this monitor he knows that it's a good time to get in his truck and go see a movie.  For you see, I don't believe in divorce.  I'm old-school in that way.  I believe in murder.
 
Psych.

We, the First Spouse and I are getting ready to become empty nesters. Fifteen and 1/2 years after our wedding day.  Thirteen years after Daughter No. 1 left for college.  And 5 years after Daughter No. 1 and boyfriend (now Husband of Daughter No. 1) moved out again after the requisite I-can't-afford-to-live-in-New-York-and-pay-rent sojourn.  (Don't laugh; with the way this economy's going, it can happen to you.)

We live in a very small house, by choice.  If you're not careful you can open the front door and knock yourself into the staircase.  When sober.  So, it takes practice and practice we've gotten along with my sister, and Beloved Niece No. 1.  We have been living together as a family full or part-time for 4 years.  A menagerie of 2 bulls, a ewe and a little lamb.  Hardly pastoral; rarely easy-going but often manageable.  (That previous sentence is classic NYTimes Grey Lady writing.  Deracinated of any drama.  Guess you'll just have to read my memoir, The Bachelor's Long-Suffering and Saintly Wife.)

Sister and Niece are moving soon to their own place and we will have a home to ourselves of our own.  Husband No. 1 and I are both looking forward to this new phase and while it won't be a miracle cure for all that ails our marriage we both know it's got to help.  A lot.

 

Saturday Poetry: Prospect Park III

 for Rachel Fruchter

Brooklyn is a small town

made up of villages.

Two such are at Clarkson and New York Ave.

Two hospitals:  One for the blessed, one for the rest.

Across the street from each other,

Downstate and Kings County,

first cousins, sharing blood and family,

yet, wary all the same.

Rachel lived in both.

Every Monday Rachel left Downstate,

her world of postdocs and clinical trials,

the world of NIH grants and abstracts

and jaywalked to Kings County

to be with her women.

Those women you see on the trains,

with 5:30 in the morning subway faces,

hands curled around hungry pocketbooks so dear,

Once a week Rachel offered them a Pap smear,

the first of their babymaking, closemouthed lives.

She collected, from these reticent ones,

their stories so that they might not have to die

of cancer undiscovered or AIDS denied.

At the end of the day, after tallying her results,

Rachel would argue for more money

for research and treatment.

But her committee was perplexed.

I can get another one to clean, they'd think

as she pleaded, if this one quits.

So, Friday, after another week of this

Rachel left to come home to me

and our standing date.

After 30 some years of marriage, 2 kids,

2 countries, and all the in-between

we saved Friday night for the movies,

for Saturday was for cleaning and shopping

and Sunday (in the way that people like us lived)

was for leisure.

A ride, she told me, I'm going for my ride.

Rachel loved to bike in the Park.

My round-hipped, gray-haired

professor wife would take the curves

of the bikers' lane in jubilation from the week's battles.

It was her courage and stubbornness

that allowed her to survive

in the labyrinth of Downstate,

and cost her her life.

For Rachel, a woman of brains

a-plenty never rode with a helmet.

I don't need it, she told me,

it's safe in the Park.

I see Rachel on her Sunday ride,

I can see that final Sunday,

hair sailing as usual when

over the hill pounced the rusty van,

too fast for a Sunday, too fast

for the Park and the curves

and for Rachel

whose next sight was a strolling mother.

So, she swerved.

She steered towards her right instead

and whomped by a dollar van

(full of Haitians it turned out)

Rachel, my brave Rachel, was

thrown all over the street.

The EMT's knew where to take her.

The people's hospital, her other home,

where the emergency team

wrestled all day with Death, but lost.

Dear Rachel would have been pleased, anyway.

The care, the passion they lavished on

my beautiful wife -- insured and white --

was something that she fought for

every Monday, in the villages,

all her life.

It's Been Hot, N'est-ce pas?

I have to admit that life's been pretty good to/for me.  My major worries these days are stepping on one of those infernal slugs on the path between my back door and my office door; or Husband No. 1 becoming a full-blown Libertarian as he's always threatening to do.  The slugs I worry about constantly; my husband's political evolution?  Not so much.  He cannot stay sufficiently interested in it all to follow politics -- local or presidential -- otherwise he'd care enough to try to convince me to consider the likes of Ron Paul.  (And god knows Libertarians -- the committed and the fellow travelers both -- do like to argue.  I think it's a defining trait in them.  Perhaps it comes from working alone by themselves too often.  And still having doubts about being The Smartest Guy In the Room.  I really don't know; I just find them all a bit off-kilter.)

It's no secret that I have no truck for Paul (or for Paulistas, not to be confused with Paulists, another group of troublesome fanatics).  He's a cold fish of a certain sort.  By the way, is it just me or do you, too, find obstretician/gynecologists some of the grimmest physicians working?  I'd had my share of doctors and while I don't chose doctors because I need to love them, while conceding that at this age it's a good idea to stick with your internist because you'll be seeing a lot more of him or her as time goes by, it's been my totally unscientific theory that the specialty of delivering babies and looking at ladyparts with a flashlight seems to attract it's fair share of people with an empathy deficit.  Don't know what it is but the closest I came to brawling with a doctor was the ob/gyn who "delivered" me 31+ years ago.  Yeah yeah, I didn't come to see her until I was 7 months gone.  Yeah yeah, I was placenta previa by then, which if the delivery had gone badly would have meant a messy malpractice suit on behalf of my heir and survivors.  Yeah yeah I didn't think she walked on water.  She and I just did not like one another.  As far as I was concerned I needed a "mechanic" to get this baby out of me in a couple of month's time so I could get on with my business.  Needless to say she got her revenge:  showed up for about a minute in a 9 hour and oh so painful delivery.  (Were it not for the delivery nurses, it would have been worse.)  BabyMama Doctor left me totally unprepared for the ravages of childbirth and beyond -- the hemorrhoids, the psychotic breaks with reality due to exhaustion and all the usual greatest post-partum hits.  But, I digress.

It's politics I'm thinking of, or mischief, when I tell my libertarianistically inclined spouse to run for mayor.  He isn't the slightest bit interested in governing.  (He wasn't even living in this country when Reagan and his ilk invented the "gov'mint is the Enemy of the People" mantra, but it speaks to his contrarian soul.  Yes it does.)  And I am not in the slightest bit interested in him becoming mayor, although there's a part of me that would love to don a Chanel suit, a string of pearls and a wig of blonde hair with highlights (or some variation of the above) and campaign on his behalf.  But, a spell needs to be broken here in New Haven.  And perhaps a jester with nothing to lose can help do that.  (Jeffrey Kereke's was a serious and honorable campaign.  Far different than what I'm proposing.)

The Age of DeStefano has lasted too long.  Both operational efficiency and dysfunction have consumed innovation and vision.  How many people who work for the city work for the city, as opposed to work to keep themselves clothed and fed and eligible for a pension?  What mechanisms exist to honestly and critically evaluate its major initiatives in health, in economic development, in school reform, in housing or crime prevention with enough accountability that if there is not reasonable progress heads roll?

I'm not unmindful of the city's challenges, and how some of them are due to factors beyond one municipality's control.  Nor am I unsympathetic to those who are responsible for day-to-day governance.  It isn't easy, and it's all too thankless.  Nevertheless, I've had the uneasy feeling for a while now that this is a feudal city with more supplicants than citizens.   The sooner that ends the better we will all be.
 

Saturday Poetry: There Are Men Dancing On My Afghan and I Need Them to Stop

Three bottles times 31 days times 4 months

Times 5 diapers times 31 days times 4 months

Times 2 visits to the gynecologist times

1 hour of unassailed sleep per night times 31 days times 4 months

Times I can’t keep track of it all but I talked to the doctor

And I told her

I told her this that there were men dancing on my afghan

And they are sometimes leprechauns and sometimes not

But they sing to me and won’t shut up.

I don’t know how they got in here, I am not afraid of them

They don’t seem to mean harm to me or the baby

They are not large either, tiny really but they keep dancing

dancing on my bed and almost more than I need sleep

I need them to stop.

New Haven's Brookside: Been There, Seen That

I was the designated babysitter yesterday.  I had 2 kids and a truck.  So, we went to Edgewood Park where they climbed trees and delighted an audience of developmentally disabled adults out on an excursion.  From my I'm-not-moving vantage point (as in if you climb that tree, you better figure out a way to get down without breaking your neck because I'm not rescuing you, Little Kittens) I watched the black boys and men play basketball.  As Niece No. 1 so perceptively observed, there were 2 games going on -- the teenagers and the adults.  It broke my heart:  It was mid-day on a Friday.  Why weren't they at school or work?  (I, we, know why.)

A city park on a weekday is populated by the disabled  -- by the economy, by culture, by either physical or emotional disability, by illness, or illegal status, or the imperative of caring for very young children sans institutional childcare.  As it is in Edgewood, it is in Brooklyn's Prospect Park, except that in Brooklyn the comet's tail of bikers and joggers rushing past obscures that fact.

New Haven, Elm City, is a beautiful city, especially in the spring, and we left one park in search of another.  But, I wanted to see the newly redeveloped Brookside so I decided to detour before we got to the next set of swings.  Back in 2009 when I was a public health study surveyor my partner and I drove out to the city's west side to interview residents of public housing.  I was stunned.  I knew New Haven wasn't all Whitney Avenue or Morris Cove; it wasn't even just my modest neighborhood.  But the west side of town, where these projects were located took my breath away, and I wasn't kidding when I came back barking that they were Bantustans, and although I was under no illusions that New Haven was le plus ultra in progressive urban planning, locating housing so far away from any and every kind of commercial center and supplying the entire area of mono-income families with one school, well if that wasn't worse than red-lining, show me the hell what is.

Later I was told that those projects were to be demolished, and I was actually shown plans for the new development.  Pretty houses, I thought, wouldn't mind one of those myself.  But, I asked, where's the bus stop?  Where's the grocery?  Surely the developers and designers already know that pretty townhouses do not a community make?  I don't want to get all New Urbanism-y here, but for god's sake I spent 1 1/2 years in Columbia, MD, and during the years I lived there I learned all I need know about Good-looking Dead Space.  (I concede that it may be a better place to live now.)  And that experiment is over 30 years old; not at all hard to research what it has become.

The kids and I drove through the development -- the windy streets, the newly-planted trees, the beautifully rendered, differentiated homes.  As the Irish say:  very nice, very luvly.  And yet, once it's populated, what will the people living here do?  If you don't have a car, if you're not the driver, where can you go, what can you do?  All I could think of was bored 13 and 14 year olds with too much time on their hands.  Too much early sex.  Too much food consumed to assuage loneliness and boredom.  Too much trouble to make because you feel trapped.

What will destroy Brookside cannot be prevented by fresh paint and square corners.  As if yet another ersatz stage set of the American Dream truly addresses the socio-economic and racial divide we all pretend isn't as pernicious as it is.  Be ashamed New Haven, be very ashamed.

Saturday Poetry: Across The Street the Unemployment Office is Closing

First she said:

We're short-staffed.

Business hours

are now from 8 to 3 p.m.

Come and get your money.  Then

it was:

This office will be closed.

At the Grand Central for the jobless

One tight-lipped unemployed smoker

joins the line.

How will Miss Unemployment Counselor explain?

What kind of job can there possibly be

for someone whose specialty

was scribbling denunciations on an NCR form

as the true believers, the sweet deceivers,

the hourly slaves and surplus MBA's

appeased her with assurances that they

had looked for work.

Will she, that scorn-filled bureaucrat,

take a number, after having arrived at 8?

Be made to watch the video, can she sit and wait

long enough to find out how to

phone in for the check, regular but small?

Will she curse, like the rest of us did

when it finally arrives:  Is that it?

Is this all?

This I Know About Getting Old

You gather around the radio on Saturday night to listen to "Prairie Home Companion".
And dress for it.

Everyone you meet you've met before.

The list of food and beverages you can ingest without doing serious harm to your body and mind is getting smaller and blander.

Never shocked, seldom surprised when you learn about the death of contemporaries.

 Almost every fantasy is nipped in the bud with the admonition, "That ship has sailed."

I've never been ashamed of my age.  Of course when I was a little girl I wanted to be a big girl; and when I was a teenager I wished I was old enough for some of the men who were buying me drinks, but ask me how old I am and I'll tell you the age I will be once I've reached my birthday milestone for that calendar year.

Except for now having sat in class for 2 semesters with 19, 20, 25 year olds.  Once again for the first time I'm in an environment where I'm simultaneously conspicuous and resoundingly invisible as an almost 60 year African-American woman taking a Calculus class.  I can see it from their POV:  She's almost dead; what's she doing here?  In some ways it's the Same 'Ol Same 'Ol -- girls good in math, African-Americans good in math, now it's competitive old hags doing math -- cognitive dissonance personified.

So, when one of my fellow students and I were chatting before class one day comparing notes about when either of us will be done I pulled my punches when I calculated out loud that I'd be about (cough) sixty-blah blah blah by the time I got my degree.  What a coward, I thought instantly.  All because I overheard a 19 year old ask a guy with a monk's tonsure how old he was and he said 36 and she gasped.  (You would have thought he farted in the elevator.)  I said to myself, they will not turn around and ask me.  They will not dare.  And they didn't.  Not to protect my sensibilities, mind you, but because even for the Facebook generation it would be TMI to know that that were taking a class with a 57 years old.  I mean that's like going bar hopping with your grandma.  Ewwwwwwwwwwww ...  One more class and I get to play with kids more my own age.  Or so I've been led to believe.

Happy Mother's Day: Femi Agana

To my friend and admiree, Femi Agana.  Mother of 3 wonderful children.  Artist.  New Year's Day swimmer.  Carpenter and shop steward.  Feminist.  Videographer.  Clothing designer.  Volunteer aid worker.  And godknows what else.  My hat's off to you!

Aah Hell, What's This?

I leave Dispatches for a month (more on that later) and once again they got to change up the look, and the how of navigating the site.  Can't You People leave things alone?  Have you never heard, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it?"  Haven't you got something else to do, and if not, d'ya mind working part-time and stop causing trouble for middle-aged control freaks?

My goodness it's been a hard couple of months, the great weather notwithstanding.  Calc I was bad enough; I held on by the hairs of my chinny-chin chin.  But, Calc II?  Almost from the beginning almost everything from Areas of Planar Regions to Dot Products and Cross Products has been like traveling in a foreign country without a phrase book.  The final was Thursday and the 8 days before that were All Calculus, All the Time (or as much time as I could sequester and/or steal) in order to swiftly access from memory much of what I learned since January.  Afterwards, on Thursday night I was giddy, and by Friday I was unbearably punny.  (It helps to have a 6 year old around who doesn't wince.  Much.)  Singing, dancing, acting like someone who had just had her sentence commuted.

I said to The Husband, "I'm free!!!  I'm free!"  He looked at me ruefully; he can barely tolerate the thought that I will be more cranky, more withdrawn, all the way through a master's.  (He's not down with me tying up my last days and time on dedicated study of anything but his wonderfulness.)

No matter.  It was great and now I have the summer to be.  Which includes tending to this blog and still trying to figure out how to allow comments.  (How much you wanna bet they didn't fix that?)  Gardening.  Exercising.  Playing, writing, arting.  I'll be back often.

Aaah, Motherhood

Trust me when I tell you that I really really have better things to do than pontificate about the latest mainstream political party gotcha move as in Hillary Rosen (The Democrat Liberal) vs. Ann Romney (The Republican Woman(c)).  But having other things to do never stopped me from writing when my head is about to pop off.

I had a baby at 26.  Late for many but fairly early for someone who was expected to not leave this mortal coil until she'd obtained 3 degrees.  I was single and believe me when I tell you that it was the lesser of 2 evils. (Although being a single parent wasn't what I considered an evil back then.  It's still isn't; I just know that I wouldn't wish its ardors on my worst enemy.)  Even if I was married or partnered I'm certain that I still would have worked full-time out of the house.  For one, because I was ambitious and craved intellectual stimulation (good luck getting ahead and stimulated in the pink collar ghetto, but that's another story) and 2) raising children day in and day out is B.O.R.I.N.G.)  In that way it is like war -- moments of pants-shitting terror sandwiched between long stretches of mind-numbing and often exhausting routine.

Maybe if I'd had infants after 30, maybe if I'd gotten a few good jobbing years under my belt and realized what a crock-o-shit what I called the "straight world" is, maybe I would have been keen to have a couple of kids and devote my intellectual and experiential energies to raising them.  Somehow, I don't think so.  It doesn't take a master's in queer theory to head the PTA; it simply doesn't and to pretend otherwise is to miss the point. I've seldom seen a woman be a better mother simply because she's educated.  (And I've seen many educated women be ridiculous mothers.)

Yes, child-rearing is hard work.  But part of the reason it is so hard in the industrialized world is because it is a relentless cycle of domestic acts, none, in and of themselves, hard to do and many made unbelievably efficient thanks to technology and chemistry, that no matter what one's proficiency, have to be done over and over again.  And the work's beneficiaries just don't give a shit.  (Ever heard a kid exclaim, "How'd this peanut butter and jelly sandwich get on the table?"  I haven't either.)  If that isn't the definition of unrewarding work, I don't know what is.  Who, if given a real choice, would opt for that?  Not me.  (Although I didn't have a choice.  Even if I did, I could not have been a fulltime homemaker.)

I am not putting down those who are, especially those who've had the education and privilege to do other things.  On more than one occasion I've played Cassandra to some starry-eyed young woman about to start a family.  I've told them that it's the hardest of jobs, the reward is long in coming, and that you will not be respected for raising children and you will be financially poorer for it.  And yet, if a family is what you want, I've told them, by all means have one.  All the same, can't we give the American deification of motherhood a rest, please?  After a few years, it's boring and you know it.  So, Ann Romney, just come clean -- being a homemaker allowed you to pursue an non-remunerative passion -- dressage -- and be a full-time wife of first, a Captain of Industry and then, a Politician's Wife, both of which have copious duties and social obligations.  You've worked, but not in a occupation that is currently admired, that of being a woman who made your husband's career possible.  And that's why you've had to hide behind the screen of Full-time Motherhood.

Slapstick is to Violence as Vigilantism is to Policing

 

Saturday Poetry: Our Lady of Sorrows

Who needs to hear that?

I know

I don’t.

What Was I Thinking?

I dropped Facebook.  Never liked it.  When I climbed on the train I told a friend that it felt like dressing in front of an open window.  Never lost that feeling.  So, I decided to get real with myself and close my account.  With the exception of a few reunions with people I hold dear and lost contact with, I've never had any actual use for it.  I Iet myself be seduced.  Reasons?  Oh, better know it in case you're interviewing!.  My face is creased.  My hair is 99.9% white.  I am one day older than Methuselah.  Who the hell was I fooling?  I got more problems getting a job than whether I'm com-fort-ab-le with The Social Media.

Or, more insidious, opening an account Because I Should.  When did I become such a herd animal?  I ignored some cold, hard facts about myself and violated my self by becoming part of a slipstream of breadth instead of depth.  I'm an introvert.  I think in paragraphs.  I barely stay in touch with friends and family who matter; where do I get the time to pay attention to anyone else?  I eschew conversation much of the time, and question the wisdom of talking back to someone in a forum that encourages sloganeering with pictures.  Where but on Facebook can you make friends with dead people and not be considered effed up in the haid?  And Farmville?  WTF!?!?!?  And how it skews social relations to those who are computer and social media literate, which leaves out a whole bunch of elders, or lovable technophobes.


So.  I wrote a few messages to others, waited a few days, and then told Facebook to PERMANENTLY and IRREVOCABLY bury me.  If all the advertisers/marketeers who benefit from harvesting my interest "organs" want to find me, they will.  Why leave the windows open?  Why would I give Zuckerberg et fils the opportunity to profit even more handsomely off my laziness.  (See, I'm not a selfish, aloof personf!! I'm in touch with Everyone  Goddamn Body in the Whole Wide World!!!!!)


I need to return to letter-writing even if it amounts to 3 per year.  Letter-writing is how I learned to write prose.  And, those letters were the first draft of working through my, ehem, issues, which like toenails continue to grow.

By taking shortcuts such as Facebook, I dis-served myself and those who matter to me.

Saturday Poetry: In This House

I am here being quiet.

Pretending to write.

And the woman

the woman who works for my husband

the woman below

thinks I am working, too.

She asks for little:

No time for lunch.

No time to pee.

Not even the coffee I make

that she loves.

She’s turning pages.

She hears me

shuffling back and forth across my floor.

Is this, she wonders, what writers do?

There are dishes to wash,

tulips to plant,

shirts to iron,

sheets to fold.

Onions to chop,

dogs to walk

pencils to sharpen

pennies to roll.

Those are real life,

not this:

placing irrelevant words on a page,

surrounded by white space

calling it work.

It’s the plunder of other's private parts.

A harvest of the things that hurt.

Back Again

Were Calculus a foreign country (maybe it is) I could argue that I've been traveling without benefit of the internet.  But, I haven't.  I've been right here, more often than not in front of this monitor watching YouTube videos on how to derive the 4th derivative and then what to do with it when you do; laughing at the Republicans presidential candidates and sobering myself up with three words:  George W. Bush, and generally doing everything else except this.  Writing for writing's sake.

When my life's a soap opera, I assume radio silence.

Back again.  Like spring is back again.  Older, fatter and none the wiser.  (I'm going to have that translated into Latin one of these days and have a crest made.)  I saw a crocus in the front yard.  I feel the need to write fiction.  I checked out Faulkner's Light in August which I really don't know if that's such a good idea.  Either I'll despair of getting a word on the page or drink more.  He can do that to you.

I have a break from school.  Time to write.  I'll start with a Saturday poem which speaks to my internal contest.

You Can Comment Now

I think I've done the correct settings.  Have at it and let me know.

Saturday Poetry: Friday He Retired

from "Turn Left at the Dead Dog":

Monday Frank wore his good luck plaid.

Tuesday he cried.

Wednesday the doctors said

Thursday they’d try.

Friday he retired.

Saturday she died.

Adventures in Negritude

I made it back In One Piece which is always a surprise to me.  Although I would rather have a root canal rather than go through US Customs in Miami.  (This, you will learn is a recurring theme -- preferring having teeth pulled than to be put upon by husbands, governments and small furry animals who throw up to register their displeasure with your company).  All major airports look the same -- sky malls -- where the only differences are the principal language that the security speaks, the currency and the amount of walking (with baggage) you'll have to do to catch a flight.  For some reason I like DeGaulle but not Miami (although there is a fantastic exhibit of Dina Knapp's work that I got to see 3 times coming and going).  In DeGaulle having made the mistake of wrapping my head I got addressed in French as if I was trying to sneak into that godforsaken country from Cote D'Ivoire or somethin'.  Why would I do that?  Those people, the French, cook with butter for chrissakes.  Anyway, Miami International is about as large as the continental United States (I kid you not) and you walk and escalate and climb and train and walk until your toes bleed and then come to the cattle chute that is US Customs to stand in line until you get asked some inane gotcha question like:  How's South Carolina these days?  (How would I know?  I haven't been there in years.)  or "Heading back to New York?"  (You read my ticket but not my mind?  Don't you know that I Don't Live in New York City Any More and That the Last Leg of This Seventeen Hour Journey [if you will let me catch my damn plane] Is Sweet Lil Old New Haven?  [eye roll]).

This fondness for brackets, parentheses and run-on sentences must have something to do with Calculus, but I digress, ....  I did, of course, make it back to New Haven which was thankfully not covered in 20 feet of snow, only to be rather gingerly asked, "Didya have a good time?"  Yeah, I growled, now leave me the fck alone ....

Got those re-entry blues:  I was in Nicaragua long enough for my blood to thin (when it wasn't boiling recalling what this country did to that country for decades) and my skin to get black.  Still unpacking what I saw and experienced.  To be continued. 

Joe. Paterno. Is. Dead.

His age.  His disgrace.  The certain knowledge that his honor could never be restored.  Nancy Nall says what needs to be said.  Word.

ps:  haven't fixed the comments blockage yet.  Post-travel ennui.