Christmas 2000

I had a request that I post this photo since it was hard to see clearly in the newsletter. It took me a little while to find the file, but here it is. This is the last Christmas we had with Mom (center)-- she died on January 26th, 2001, exactly one month after this photo was taken. It's the last photo I have of her, as far as I know.

I beg your pardon...?

They MEAN it, too. People, albeit drunker than I am right now, have been killed and/or maimed!

(Note: I posted this from my cell phone on my way home last night after a night out drinking and moviegoing with Darla.)

My First "Moblog" Post

I set up my Blogger account to accept mobile submissions, so if I see anything out in the world that I find interesting, I'll post it on the spot... All you people out there "doing crack" (a.k.a. Plumbers Butt) better watch out.

I took this photo sitting at Starbucks-- look closely...

My Precious

My little Emerald is such a sweet natured girl. She appeared at my apartment door when she was just a few weeks old. I heard a crying sound in the hall and thought it was a baby crying. I opened the door to find her looking up at me. There was no question in that moment that she would be staying. That was 16+ years ago.

She is starting to become frail, and spends the majority of her time on the top of the cable box warming her aching body, but she makes a point of coming to see me for at least a few minutes every night when I go to bed.

I hate seeing her get so old. She's saved me many times with her sweet attention.

Measuring Your Life in Christmases

For the past several years I have spent most Thanksgivings and many other holidays with my friend Rachel and her family in Mt. Kisco, NY (Westchester County). I have been invited for Christmas numerous times but have always declined. I just couldn't fathom the idea of trying to fit into another family's rituals and traditions. Not that I never felt welcomed-- quite the opposite. But Christmas was always such a special time for Mom, and it hasn't been right since she died. Up to that point, I could count on one hand the number of times I had been away from Mom and Dad for the holidays.

Seven years ago was the first Christmas after Grandma died, and I knew that was going to be a hard one for Mom, so I made a point of being home. It was a sad year.

Six years ago, Mom had not been well, and she asked that Matt and I both make sure to be there-- I think she knew it might be her last. On Christmas morning, after we went through our traditional Christmas morning rituals (the number of gifts we all always had was borderline obscene), Mom sat us down on the floor and she went through her hope chest, explaining the significance of everything to us, and passing along mementos of her life: Grandmas's wedding night nightgown, baby booties, childhood toys, photos, artwork, family bibles, books, grandpa's wallet and railroader emblems. It was hard to sit and participate in this, but it was something she clearly needed to do. She died 1 month later.

Five years ago was the first Christmas after (and close to a year since) Mom died. That year it was all about being there to make the void feel less intense for each other. We tried to do everything the way Mom used to, but it was "off."

I think I've been home once since then, for our first family Christmas with Lynne, a.k.a. "Cousi-Mom" (that's another posting...) in the family. It was nice, but somewhere in there I realized that Christmas seemed to have lost a lot of its meaning for me since Mom was gone and my ex and I had split up. I have often found myself saying that maybe next year I will have Christmas back-- will have a reason to want to do it up again.

This year I found myself a little closer, but I didn't want to get caught up in the rat race. In what can only be described as a serendipitous turn of events, the whole family (Dad and Cousi-Mom, Grandma, Matt, and I) all decided to forego gifts this year and instead pool our money to give to a needy family. It felt right, and really eased the pressure.

Then when my annual invitation came from Rachel and her family, I think I surprised everyone, including myself, by accepting. When I am with them, I often finding myelf remarking how much they remind me of my own family. I think Mom and Rachel's mom Lynne would have really gotten along well, and Rachel's dad Peter reminds me of Dad, in humor if not in poilitics. The sibling dynamic consists of a lot of playful teasing, but their love for each other is never in question. A recurring playful line was "You ruined Christmas"-- ironic in that it highlights the pressure on families to make everything perfect when none of us are, yet the simple fact that everyone was together makes it perfect in every way-- and that can't be ruined.

The afternoon was spent playing games-- Pictionary in particular. In an interesting twist, their family makes up their own phrases to draw instead of using the cards. In another point of remarkable similarity to my family, the phrases tended to revolve around bodily functions-- imagine the laughter in watching your sisters draw anal leakage, diarrhea, booger eater, and the like.

Then it happened.

Earlier in the week I had jabbed myself in the thumb with a screwdriver. It didn't seem like a big deal, but on Sunday afternoon, while the closest thing to a happy, traditional family Christmas I had had in 8 years was taking form, my arm started to feel tingly and sore, and my thumb started throbbing. When I pulled up my sleave to look, I could see streaks of red shooting up my arm. I could actually follow the veins in my arm up from my hand as far up as my elbow. I figured that wasn't good.

After a traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner of 7 types of fish, I pulled Rachel aside and told her that I was going to need her to take me to the hospital after all the evenings festivities were over. She wanted to do it then, but I knew that even in the best of circumstances, there is no such thing as a quick trip to the ER.

During the exchanging of gifts, lots of laughter was shared with we all opened our bags of coal with messages like, "Jerk!" and "Sorry your family are such jerks!" and my favorite, given to me "Maybe next year, Dorothy!" And there were tears when Rachel's grandmother saw the beautifully framed "old" photos of herself and her late husband that Rachel's sister Christina gave to Lynn. It was perfect, and so moving. As Truvy says in Steel Magnolias, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."

Rachel and her brother Richard drove me to the hospital after all the gifts were opened and things were winding down. She was intrigued by the the huge fish tank in the waiting room. I said, "Rachel, back away from the fish tank-- It's Chrismas Eve, and you're Italian. You're scaring the fish!" I thought it was funny at the time...

I was called in by the triage nurse, and she proceeded to scold me for not coming in immediately when I noticed the red streaking up my arm. I told her I didn't want to ruin Christmas... Again, I thought I was pretty funny, even though I was serious. I had a fever and my BP was up (I'm convinced it was because she was mean to me) and they rushed me back so I could (wait for it... wait for it...) WAIT! I lay there and waited and observed an exercise in ineffeciency that really worked my nerves.

It wouldn't have been so bad, except I was in Curtain 6 (curtain meaning: no privacy). Not that I needed any embarrasing procedures, but I was privy to WAY too much information about the old guy in Curtain 5-- "he's breaking a lot of wind, but hasn't had a good crap in 3 days" -- and his annoying loud obnoxious Italian New York ice-chewing son who was strutting the halls flirting with everything with two boobs. (I felt slightly bad when he offered me some gingerale later- I guess I looked sick.) When the doctor came down to examine the old guy, they decided to do a rectal. I mercifully couldn't see anyting, but I could hear as "Mrs. Old Guy" assured her husband that if he felt anyone feeling around "back there" it was just the doctor doing a rectal. And I knew when it happend, because the doctor announced that the patient was not, in actuality, impacted. What a relief!

Meanwhile, on the other side in Curtain 7, a teenaged girl who was being ruled out for meningitis (great night I picked to be in the ER) was complaining about her pain. Nurse Rached (from triage) finally told the mother that she had had the max pain meds and that the only way she could get any relief was if she would let her (wait for it... wait for it...) do a rectal. Good GAWD! I didn't realize there was actually medical benefit to it! Was this some sort of sick revenge on the part of the hospital staff that were forced to work the overnight Christmas Eve-Christmas Morning shift?! Were all patients going to be getting rectals? By this point, I had had my blood drawn by the nice Jamaican phlebotomist, gotten my tetanus shot, and had my line started connecting me to the IV antobiotics, so there was no escape. I waited... and wondered.

After being virtually ignored for 3 hours, I guess they needed the bed so I was suddenly handed a few prescriptions, rushed out the door, and headed home to the Hertel house (with my virtue intact, incidentally.)

Christmas morning was nice. Brunch at Rachel's aunt and uncle's house, then back for more food and drink and boardgames. I won Trivial Pursuit 80s Edition, thanks to a few lucky "sports" questions that dealt more with Hubba Bubba and Ms. Pac Man.

Rachel dropped me at home, and I watched "The Polar Express" (loved it) before crashing into bed.

All things considered, I had a wonderful Christmas.

I thought about Mom every single minute! But spending these two days with the Hertels, a family that reminds me so much of my own, also made me think about Dad and Matt and Grandma and Lynne too. It was nice.

And, despite spending the night in the ER, I truly enjoyed Christmas for the first since before Grandma B and Mom died.

Heart Melting Moments in the Life of a Would-be Cynic

TJ Time: the Sacred Monday Night Ritual Growing Up

Monday nights were sacred.
"Little House on the Prairie"
Pizza (Chef Boyardee crust mix and a can of sauce in a box) and a big bottle of Coke (never Pepsi)
Lights out - - TV on
Matt or I in the official position as the "giver of the foot rub" to Mom (Rose Milk lotion, always)

About 7 minutes before the end of the episode came "Tear Jerker" time, when all would be resolved and made right in the little town of Walnut Grove (or Winoka during that exciting season when they moved to the "big city").

TJ time meant Mom would cry, and bedtime was minutes away.

LHOP is as prolific to Matt and me as "I Love Lucy."

Years later, Mom and I used to get on the phone with each other when it was about to start and see who could name the episode the fastest. One or the other of us would usually be able to name it based on the name of the episode, if not the opening shots.

I still stop if I am flipping channels and come across it, and have been going through it sequentially via Netflix.

In an interesting twist of fate, we ended up meeting and becoming good friends with a real-life bit player from episode #78, "Meet Me at the Fair." Hal Hundley played the pickle judge presiding over the fierce competition including entrants Ma Ingalls and Mrs. Oleson (Ma won).

This makes Hal our six-degrees-of-separation link to Michael Landon and Half-Pint and the rest! :) I found this article about him, with a photo.

... Five, Six, Seven, Eight!

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Good, that connects with

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"A Chorus Line" was my first Broadway show back in 1983, and I became obsessed with it. After seeing it at the Shubert Theatre in NYC on a chorus trip, I saw touring companies, community theatre productions, and dinner theatre. I knew the music inside and out-- it was almost like a soundtrack to my life in the mid 1980s.

I knew I wanted to see this new revival, but I taken by surprise by the raw emotional response I had to it.

I would have been interested to see them update some of the orchestrations, and bring the setting to modern times, but the safe decision to recreate the original production ensured a solid production.

It took me back to 1983, when I was CONVINCED that my life would be spent in the theatre. It was bittersweet, because, as I have said on this blog already, my biggest regret in my life is that I lost that drive and confidence somewhere along the way.

I could go to the theatre every night, but could I take that constant reminder...?

Marfan Syndrome Public Service Announcement-- 1 OF 2

Marfan Syndrome Public Service Announcement -- 2 OF 2

If you're wondering what I do in my work, here's an example of a project I'm pretty proud of. I produced this PSA last year (I think my formal title would have probably been "Executive Producer" since there was a professional video producer that handled most of the technical logistics). Working with Anthony Rapp was a thrill-- he was so great to do it for us.


Here's the link to the PSA on YouTube, in case the above embedded version disappears again.

There were three versions of the PSA: The 45 second version also included footage and information about the Jonathan Larson Performing Arts Foundation and was played ON THE BIG SCREEN before the feature during the first 3 weeks "RENT" was in theatres in Lowes Cinemas. The 30 second version has been airing regularly on NBC affiliates around the country for the past 14 months. The 60 second version was included on the "RENT" DVD when it was released last winter, and was played at a special benefit performance that Aretha Franklin did for the NMF.

It's a Small [cyber] World

When I first started blogging, I was intrigued by a randome comment that someone posted in response to my story about Mom and her transplant, (archived from Nov 06). It surprised me that some randome person out in "cyberland" actually stumbled into my little corner of the web and was moved enough by my posting to contact me. I expect comments from people I KNOW, but it was my first anonymous "fan."

Then today I was searching around Google and came across the New York Organ Donor Network newsletter that an abbreviated version of my story was featured in a few years ago. Click here to see it... Go to page 12. It has a nice picture from our last Christmas with Mom 6 years ago.

Daily Dose of Daryl

Daryl Cagle's Professional Cartoonist's Index has SO MANY great cartoons. I'll keep posting some of my favorites.

Do it again, Mommy, do it again!

I came across this cartoon online today at http://cagle.msnbc.com/politicalcartoons/.

(click on the image to see it full size)

When Matthew and I were little, Mom would recite the Jabberwocky to us as a bedtime story. Actually, she was a theatre major in college, so she didn't merely recite it-- she performed it! I can still hear the inflection in her voice as she told the dramatic tale. When she finished, we would beg "Do it again, Mommy! Do it again!" How we didn't manage to get completely messed up by this, I'm not quite sure, but it is SUCH a great memory! Keep in mind, it was around 1972 or so, and Mom and Dad were still pretty much hippies-- and we know what that means... Mom was also a huge fan of Donovan (we played his greatest hits at her memorial service). Here's his musical version of Jabberwocky from the "HMS Donovan" album.

JABBERWOCKY
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Here's some great and fun information about Jabberwocky.

Do this! I promise it will make you smile!

Click here for something truly enjoyable!

You can send people to http://www.elfyourself.com to to it yourselves! I guarantee a laugh. It actually made me almost get into the holiday spirit a little today! Thanks, Rick, for sharing it with me!

Person of the Year, 2006

I have arrived!

According to Time Magazine, I have been named "Person of the Year, 2006." You can read about it here.

Apparently, but joining this whole blogging revolution, it put me on the short-list to receive this [not so] exclusive honor.

I'm ready for my close-up!

P.S. By reading this, you win too!

HAPPY F***ING HOLIDAYS!

Another gem from Dad:

For My Democratic Friends:

"Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low-stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasion and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all. We also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the of the generally accepted calendar year 2007, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great. Not to imply that America is necessarily greater than anyother country nor the only America in the Western Hemisphere . And without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith or sexual preference of the wishes.By accepting these greetings you are accepting these terms. This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for herselfor himself or others, and is void where prohibited by law and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within t he usual application of good tidings for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher."

For My Republican Friends:

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

I found this amusing, although it reminded me of the a**hole that got offended the other day when I said "Happy Holidays" to him. Apparently, by not saying "Merry Christmas," I had inadvertently joined the supposed "War on Christmas" or some such nonesense... Puh-LEASE, people! I don't assume your religion, so wishing you "Happy Holidays" is a way of wishing you the joy of the season regardless of how you choose to observe it! Take it that way, for "chrissake" and SEASON'S F-ING GREETINGS!

I truly despise this man...

Show me an argument opposing gay marriage that does not ultimately circle back to the bible and/or people not agreeing with the "lifestyle choice" and I will listen with genuine interest and empathy.

In the mean time, get over it!

Numb and Number

At least that's how it feels.

I've been distracted lately anyway-- today I got news that has me completely unable to focus:

My college roommate and longtime friend David has melanoma that has spread to his brain. He started radiation yesterday to treat numerous tumors.

I'm numb.

Cause and Effect

I'm












because you're

Nostalgia, Random Memory of Being a Total Geek in Junior High School

I was going through my drawers [insert tasteless comment here-- go ahead, I GAVE this one to you...] and I found my old Rubik's Cube. Good GOD!

#1- Yes, I used to be able to solve it in under 2 minutes- Far from the world record, but not bad.

#2- Yes, I kept it-- don't ask me why.

#3- I have become obsessed with teaching myself how to solve it from memory again...

#4- Yes, I definitely have Too Much Time on My Hands.

Another random memory...

Life is made up of moments that need to be given our attention
Been thinking about one of those a lot lately:

High school trip to Mexico, 1986
Touring around, seeing the sights
Spied a group of homeless people, passivly and humbly begging
First reaction, take a photo to show Mom how sad the poverty was--how the poor people looked there
Second reaction, asked young woman if she would mind if I took her picture
Shocked when she said no
The look on her face pierced my heart-- can see it still, reminding me of how careless I was. It shamed her for me to ask
It was a profound moment I will never forget--so quick and thoughtless, but so much impact on me
Wish I could take it back
But I learned something important in that moment
Pride - Dignity - Humility - Arrogance - Compassion
I didn't get it then -- I try to now.

Ashes Among the Aspens, Please....

One of my happiest memories is a family camping trip when I was about 10 or 11 years old. The original plan was to drive the trailer ("Post's Hole," named after the couple we acquired it from) to Aspen, but we stumbled across an isolated meadow with a stream flowing through it, nestled in a mountain valley near Cottonwood Pass.

There were no other people around, giving us what seemed like the whole world to ourselves. The storybook view was made perfect by the beaver that had built its dam there and seemed to welcome our unexpected intrusion. We ended up staying there for the entire trip rather than continue on to Aspen. We hiked up into the aspen and spruce groves, played near the stream, made s'mores, sat by the fire-- all the usual camping fun.

I fell in love with aspen trees that weekend. Ever since, I have found an amazing sense of peace among the aspen groves, and when the time comes, I want to have my ashes scattered somewhere deep in the Colorado Aspens.

I found these images on a random website I came across while googling for pics of aspens... While they're not actually the place we camped, they are from the Cottonwood Pass area, and they look pretty damn close.

The bottom line...

TOTALLY random thought.....

I am in love with this house that I drive by every day on my way to work... It reminds me of one of those charming Thomas Kincaid paintings (like the one below).







It makes me want to be rich-- or a "kept man," either one...

Ouch! Score one for Pop!

I was chatting with Pop earlier-- a typical bantering back and forth ensued between the more-moderate-than-he-thinks liberal and probably-less-radical-than-I-accuse republican/libertarian:

Jon: Did you see the website www.idealist.org/? It's a good clearinghouse of job postings and volunteer opportunities for the non-profit sector.

Pop: Sounds like it's run by a bunch of democrats.

Jon: Yeah, they're the ones that try to change the world for the better.

Pop: If it was run by Republicans, it would be called www.realist.com.

Jon: No, if it were run by Republicans, it would be called www.assh*le.com.

Pop: That sounds like a gay sex website.

Jon: Don't go there. Hey, I wonder if there really is a website called assh*le.com-- let me try to bring it up.

Pop: Don't be surprised if you see a picture of yourself on there.

o-u-c-h!!!!!

Score-- Pop: 1 Jon: 0

Seriously, it was funny. I'm glad we can joke about these things. It's the only way we will find common ground in some areas.

(Incidentally, assh*le.com and realist.com are actual websites. Assh*le is pretty much what you might expect-- a-hem-- and realist is real estate listing service... I disabled the links so no one would go there by mistake... LOL)

Crack Pot

A friend sent me this today--THANKS SUZANNE! I had seen it before, but thought it would be a nice posting...

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, one hung on each end of a pole, which she carried across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been created to do.

After 2 years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream:

"I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my Side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The old woman smiled, "Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house."

Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.

SO, to all of my crackpot friends, have a great day and remember to smell the flowers on your side of the path!

Car-ma!

If there is any justice in this world, the person who did this to my car will sprout an embarrasing cold sore on his wedding day!

I was stopped in a left turn lane, and some jack-off hit me. He stopped for half a second before tearing off into traffic. I wasn't able to get the license plate, although I WAS able to see the scared look on the face of the 7-8 year old child in the back seat of the car.

The lesson this S.O.B. taught to his kid is that it is ok to run away from your problems, to NOT take responsibility for your actions, and disregard basic human decency.

Two years ago, another jack-ass BACKED UP at an intersection after deciding at the last second that he didn't have time to beat the light. He crunched my front end and took off. That time my car was totalled.

Almost 6 years ago, my Dad and I were run over by a big red Dodge Dakota pick-up truck while crossing the street in a crosswalk near my house. The bastard took off, leaving Dad lying in the street and me in the gutter screaming in a panic. (We both miraculously walked away from that, although the driver couldn't have known that.)

How do these people live with themselves??? I believe in something like karma-- or CARma, so they will get theirs!

"What does that stand for?"

World AIDS day was Friday, and I was a little disappointed that it was such a NON-ISSUE to most of the world. If I'm totally honest with myself, I have to admit that I haven't been as "up" on the issue as I was when it was my job... But I feel good about my efforts to share with my own circle that it is an important day.

In addition to my posting and emails I sent to everyone in my contact lists, I wore the red ribbon I got for my donation at "The Color Purple" all weekend-- to a surprising response. None, actually. I wanted peopel to comment on it-- to acknowledge it's meaning. Not only did that not happen, I actually had 3 people --THREE!!!-- ask me what it meant!

Unbelievable...

WORLD AIDS DAY

How many people realize that today is World AIDS day?

How many people even remember what a crisis HIV/AIDS was 10-15-20 years ago?

How many people even realize that AIDS is STILL one of the most devastating crises facing the world today?

How many people remember when nobody talked about AIDS because it didn't affect "people like them?"

How many people remember coming of age in a time where, in addition to facing stigma for his/her sexual orientation, they had to worry if their physical expression of love (or a mutual celebration of sexual attraction) came with the threat of life threatening illness and discrimination?

How many people remember when finding out that a person had HIV meant that s/he would probably be dead in 18 months? A time before toxic drug cocktails starting keeping our friends alive longer at cost of devastating their bodies in other ways?

I say NOT NEARLY ENOUGH!!! And as importantly, that those times are not just memories. They are RIGHT NOW! It's not over!

But nobody talks about HIV/AIDS anymore. Teenagers -- people in general-- no longer have a sense of urgency about protecting themselves.


Many people in this country have the opportunity to take advantage of effective treatments, but most of the people in the world who are affected by HIV/AIDS do not have this luxury.

It's a huge problem, and there is no simple answer. We can't rely on big business or the government to solve these problems (many argue that it's not their job to), so please support foundations such as the William J. Clinton Foundation, which is just one of many groups doing great work to make a difference.

I stopped working in HIV/AIDS 6 years ago because I had a terrible experience at an AIDS Service organization-- I won't name them, because they have threatened to sue anyone that bad-mouths them publicly, but I WILL say that they are located about 40ish miles outside NYC in a suburb very hard hit by the HIV/AIDS crisis. Hell, I'll say they are EAST of NYC and NOT in Connecticut, so pull out a map and figure it out. They SUCKED, and senior management there should be ashamed of themselves for being so self-serving and such an embarrassment to a field that I was, up to that point, proud to work in.

This particular organization was on the far end of the spectrum from The Boulder County AIDS Project (BCAP) , where I first started volunteering in the early 1990s, and was hired on staff a few years later. It is the job that I have continued to compare all others to, and I can't say enough about how well-respected they are in the Boulder community, and among AIDS service organizations around the country. They "get it," and they make a difference.

I only stopped working in the field because I couldn't find the "right" job after leaving LIA--- oops, I almost said their name-- after leaving my last job. I landed here at the National Marfan Foundation, and felt like I have a chance to do good here, so here I am, and I am happy here. But I still support HIV/AIDS related organizations when I can. One of my favorite organizations is Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS because it links my love of theatre to my passion for HIV/AIDS education.


You can get some basic stats from Until There's a Cure-- this link is to their "vital statistics" page. You might know this organization as the group that sells silver cuff-style bracelets with a raised AIDS ribbon on the side-- you can get them in The Body Shop and other retailers. More information on the bracelets can be found here. I used to have one of the silver bracelets, but I gave it to my friend Stella several years ago. Her son Jerry was my first friend (that I knew of, of course) who contracted HIV, and his death a few years later devastated me. I credit him for my becoming interested in non-profit work, so in a way, I owe my career to him. Here's his picture, and his AIDS Memorial Quilt (from the Names Project Foundation) panel is the bottom right one in the image at the top of this post (incidentally, the one next to his, Don Holloway, was a colleague I did HIV/AIDS volunteer work with in 1989 as well). I miss Jerry every day!


So today, World AIDS Day, 2006, please take a moment to remember. Remember people who we have lost before their full potential could be revealed. Remember those who are living with HIV/AIDS every day, fighting on to keep living, showing the power of hope and determination. And remember those who still need to be educated about HIV/AIDS to protect themselves and slow the horrendous course of this pandemic. Please... PLEASE REMEMBER!

If you wish, you can go here to light a "virtual candle" commemorating the day.

I'm beautiful, and I'm here!

Good GOD I love the theatre!

Last night, my dear friend Darla and I went to see The Color Purple on Broadway. Loved the movie, loved the book, and wasn't sure what to expect from a musical version. After an enjoyable, but not overwhelmingly spectacular first act (mostly weakened by a disjointed feeling in the script, NOT the performances), Act 2 was OUTSTANDING. Watching Celie be beaten down by life throughout Act 1 was necessary, but it was watching her transformation through act two that was magic on stage!

The first act ended with Shug giving Celie all the letters from Nettie. Act 2 opened with a spectacular scene in which Celie, through reading Nettie's letters, was transported to Africa. They created a parallel between Sofia's encounter with the white Mayor's wife and the political unrest in Africa to move the story along. It was exciting to see how they pulled off what Speilberg did so well on film!

Sofia (Felicia P. Fields) stole the show. Her song "Hell No!" was an anthem to women standing up to even the thought of a man raising his fist to her. After the show, the cast did a curtain speech to collect money for their annual fundraiser for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS and she was in the lobby collecting money. What a vivacious and gorgeous woman! Here's a picture of her taking the donation that Darla and I made.

I was reduced to a heaving, wimpering, cry-baby with Celie's big moment in Act 2 when, after all she had been through, and all the wrongs she had endured, she was able to stand up and sing--

"I am thankful for knowing who I really am.

I'm beautiful, yep, I'm beautiful,

And I'm here!"

I could go to the theatre 7 days a week if I had the money to suport the habbit!

My Tragic Flaw

Othello: suspicious nature/jealousy
Hamlet: excessive emotionality/indecision
Romeo: rashness/impulsivity
Macbeth: ambition
Julius Caesar: hubris
Jonathan: inability to tolerate stupid people




Sometimes I just can't help it. As often as not, this is my "motto numero uno." Believe me when I say it does NOT mean I have no compassion or empathy-- I DO! I just have a hard time dealing with idiots! I can also freely admit that I am most intimidated when I am in the presence of someone clearly smarter than me, and I feel at my best in the presence of someone smarter than me who thinks I'm smart.

Now, to figure out how to balance my reactions to both the smarter and not-so-smart I deal with on a daily basis-- THAT is my immediate goal.

Breathe....

BREEEEEAAAAAAATH!

Support

Awwwwwwwwwwww!

Backwards Living

My cousin Tracey (who also happens to be my "step aunt" --- don't ask...) forwarded this to me via email. I don't know who originated it, but they are onto something. It really does seem to make more sense.

"I think the life cycle is all backwards.

You should start out dead; just get it right out of the way.

You wake up in a senior care facility and start feeling better every day.

You get kicked out of there for being too healthy, go collect your pension, then, when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day.

You work 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement.

You drink alcohol, you party, you're "generally" promiscuous and you get ready for High School.

After High School, you go to primary school, you become a kid, you play or nap all day, you have no responsibilities.

You become a baby with no cares whatsoever.

Then, you spend your last 9 months floating peacefully with luxuries like central heating, spa treatments, room service on tap, larger living quarters everyday ... and then ... you finish off as an orgasm!

It would be so much better that way ... because this getting old just sucks!"

Movie Report

Saw "The Fountain" today.

Bottom line: Liked it a lot, though not one I would recommend to people who like linear plots.

Visually an incredible film!

I cried.

ADDENDUM:

I just read a review of the movie in Entertainment Weekly that I think captures how I felt. It's not a perfect movie-- it was difficult to follow at times, but giving myself up to the filmmakers vision and "going with it" allowed me to really enjoy it. Here's the review by Lisa Schwarzbaum at EW.

"THE HYPOCRISY OF PUBLIC MORALITY" -- More on "Spring Awakening"

I have continued to think about "Spring Awakening" throughout the day. The more I think about it, the more I like it. I picked up the original (non-musical) play and found a comprehensive study guide online at Grademaker.com.

The introduction really helps me make sense of the complex intertwined themes. Edward Bond (translator) draws the conclusion that the protrayal of the grown ups/teachers intends to show that education in our society is backwards, and meant "to STOP people asking questions." When people have ideas of their own, the establishment (government, gorwn-ups, parents, teachers) become threatened and do what they can to squash individual interpretation and thinking. This is especially true in sexuality education. One of the central themes of this show demonstrates what can happen when important knowledge is withheld becaue of "the hypocrisy of public morality."

Seriously, I really was moved by this show. I hope it makes it...

Thought provoking theatre-- it's what it's all about!

I saw an interesting show on Broadway tonight. A good friend who recently moved to NYC had an extra ticket, so we took in the show to top off Turkey day. It is still in previews, just moving to Broadway from a successful off-Broadway run, so it seemed like they were still working out some staging bugs, but the performances were powerful, and the music was both insightful and edgy. I predict that John Gallagher Jr, (Moritz) will stand out at the Tony nominations next spring.

Full Story Description (from the official website.)
SPRING AWAKENING takes its inspiration from one of literature’s most controversial masterpieces – a work so daring in its depiction of teenage self-discovery, it was banned from the stage and not performed in its complete form in English for nearly 100 years.It’s Germany, 1891. A world where the grown-ups hold all the cards. The beautiful young Wendla explores the mysteries of her body, and wonders aloud where babies come from, till Mama tells her to shut it, and put on a proper dress.Elsewhere, the brilliant and fearless young Melchior interrupts a mind-numbing Latin drill to defend his buddy Moritz – a boy so traumatized by puberty he can’t concentrate on anything. Not that the Headmaster cares. He strikes them both and tells them to turn in their lesson.One afternoon – in a private place in the woods – Melchior and Wendla meet by accident, and soon find within themselves a desire unlike anything they’ve ever felt.As they fumble their way into one another’s arms, Moritz flounders and soon fails out of school. When even his one adult friend, Melchior’s mother, ignores his plea for help, he is left so distraught he can’t hear the promise of life offered by his outcast friend Ilse.Naturally, the Headmasters waste no time in pinning the “crime” of Moritz’s suicide on Melchior and expel him. And soon Mama learns her little Wendla is pregnant. Now the young lovers must struggle against all odds to build a world together for their child.

Click on this image to see a video clip from the show.

Remembering Matthew Shepard

I miss "The West Wing." Thank god for Bravo Channel's weekly WW marathon. Not too long ago they finished with the last season and started over at the beginning of season 1. I almost forgot how brilliantly they handled current issues with such "smarts."

Last night I watched an episode that really moved me--as many did. "While President Bartlet (Martin Sheen) and his staff debate the appropriate response to a controversial new sex education study, there are fears that the parents of a murdered gay teenager should be excused from attending the signing of a hate crimes bill because of the father's embarrassment about his son's homosexuality" (excerpt from the online West Wing Episode Guide.) It turns out that the "embarrasment" they were sensing wasn't what it seemed. Rather, the father was angry with the Bartlet administration for doing so little to promote gay rights. They wanted to know why the President felt that their son deserved less than full equal rights. Great twist!

The story mirrored the story of Matthew Shepard who was brutally beaten, tied to a fence in Wyoming, and left alone to die. Melissa Etheridge wrote a song called "Scarecrow," inspired by the description of what Matthew looked like hanging near death-- I sometimes use this song in the class I teach at Hofstra to demonstrate how different forms of the media can be used to teach difficult issues. Here are the lyrics .

Matthew's story received huge media attention for a while, but has faded into obscurity. I made a reference to him the other day, and a younger friend of mine said, "Who?" I was taken aback. PLEASE visit the Matthew Shepard Foundation to learn about the devastating effects of hate crimes on our society.

Theatrical Nostalgia

I started thinking about my lifelong love of theatre and pulled out the box with all the Playbills and programs from every show I've ever seen. There may be a few more that I didn't manage to save the programs for, but these go WAY back. Yul Brynner in "The King and I" was my first. I vividly remember (at least parts) of each and everyone of these. Indulge me please:

Broadway

Doubt

Fosse

Follies

Cabaret

Avenue Q

Aida (2x)

Noises Off

RENT (2x)

42nd Street

Wicked (2x)

Jersey Boys

Chicago (2x)

A Chorus Line

The Lion King

The Music Man

The Full Monty

The Boy from Oz
Three Days of Rain

La Cage aux Folles

Man of La Mancha

Fiddler on the Roof
Beauty and the Beast

The Woman in White

Little Shop of Horrors

Urinetown: The Musical

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

Monty Python's Spamalot

Thoroughly Modern Millie

The Tale of the Allergist's Wife

Frankie and Johnny at the Clair de Lune

Bea Arthur on Broadway: Just Between Friends

Off Broadway/Off Off Broadway

Forbidden Broadway: Summer Shock

Naked Boys Singing (4x)

tick, tick... BOOM! (2x)

Little Shop of Horrors

The God Committee

The Fantasticks

Altar Boyz (4x)

Sally and Tom

Zanna Don't

Circle

Trolls

London West End

Sunset Blvd.

National Tours

Cats

Evita

Falsettos

RENT (2x)

Dreamgirls

The King and I

Angels in America

Les Miserables (x3)

Phantom of the Opera

Little Shop of Horrors

Brighton Beach Memoirs
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

Community/Regional

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
The Unsinkable Molly Brown
Merrily We Roll Along
La Cage aux Folles
Trafford Tanzi
Sweeny Todd
The Nerd
Snoopy
Mail

Grease

The Wiz

Cabaret

Hello Dolly

Brigadoon

42nd Street

The Mikado

My Fair Lady
A Chorus Line
Guys and Dolls

The Music Man
West Side Story

Sound of Music

My One and Only

Hans Christian Andersen

Once Upon a Mattress (2x)

A Midsummer Night's Dream
Snow White in the BlackForrest
The Teahouse of the August Moon

Young Dracula: The Singing Bat

Seeing DoubleBook of James
And the World Goes Round

Fifty Million Frenchmen

A Christmas Carol

Torch Song Trilogy

The Wizard of Oz
Steel Magnolias

The Foreigner

Godspell (2x)

Good News

Mackerel

Anything Goes

Finian's Rainbow
The Gay Deceivers

Give Our Regards to Broadway

Return to the Forbidden Planet

Broadway: From Cohan to Cats

Dicken's A Christmas Carol

10 Percent in Maple Grove

The Rocky Horror Show

7 Brides for 7 Brothers

A Chorus Line (2x)
The Pajama Game
Oklahoma (2x)

South Pacific
Stay Carl Stay
Snoopy
Annie

Nunsense
Oliver (2x)

Baker Street

The Crucible

The Miracle Worker

Bubbling Brown Sugar

You're a Good Man Charlie Brown (2x)
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Elegies for Angels, Punks, and Raging Queens

How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean

Old Theatre Friend Makes Good

Putzing around on Playbill.com and I came a cross a bio for an actor I did "West Side Story" with in 1991. James Ludwig played Tony, and charmed the pants off the audience, not to mention all the Shark and Jet Girls. Hell, he charmed the pants off 3/4 of the Jets and Sharks too, since most of the gang were more interested in comparing beauty tips than preparing for the rumble. Alas for the "boys," he loved the ladies and ended up dating our Rosalia--- Our Maria was neurotic over that turn of events. Guess she was a slave to "the method" and had a hard time playing star-crossed love when she knew "Tony" had eyes for another.

Seems he's making a successful go if it. So happy for him, although experiencing twinges of envy-- knowing what I know now, I would definitely have disciplined myself more in my teens, learned the value of humility and how to overcome insecurity, channeled my passion better and GONE FOR IT!

The Tarot Speaks

Odd, I did this the other day and I was the Magician... I guess it varies depending on my mood.

You are The Lovers

Motive, power, and action, arising from Inspiration and Impulse.

The Lovers represents intuition and inspiration. Very often a choice needs to be made.

Originally, this card was called just LOVE. And that's actually more apt than "Lovers." Love follows in this sequence of growth and maturity. And, coming after the Emperor, who is about control, it is a radical change in perspective. LOVE is a force that makes you choose and decide for reasons you often can't understand; it makes you surrender control to a higher power. And that is what this card is all about. Finding something or someone who is so much a part of yourself, so perfectly attuned to you and you to them, that you cannot, dare not resist. This card indicates that the you have or will come across a person, career, challenge or thing that you will fall in love with. You will know instinctively that you must have this, even if it means diverging from your chosen path. No matter the difficulties, without it you will never be complete.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

A Lesson on the Depth and Durability of Friendship

I was recently contacted by an old friend from high school It seems she found me through my MYSPACE PAGE . I was shocked to hear from her after all these years!

High school was a tough time-- like THAT'S unique!-- so I always have mixed feelings when I think back to those years. But Adrienne was an enigma, in all the right ways. She was one of those people that everyone was fascinated by and friendly with. She had friends across social groups, and was thought of as one of those "individual" types that broke all the rules without alienating anyone. At least that's how it seemd to me back then. She even had a special page about her in the yearbook. I never knew what to think about her interest in me as a friend, and it was always a little hard for me to fully let my guard down with her. I told her that once, and it hurt her, to the point that she wrote about it in my yearbook.

We ran into each other once a few years after graduation, and had a cordial chat, but I never saw or heard from her again, although I have thought of her often and fondly through the years.
Anyway, Adrienne went out of her way to track me down and make contact. Can it really take 20 years (!?!?) for me to recognize the value of a friend? It's amazing what how high school f#^%s with our heads. I wonder how many other people in my life have drifted away because I was afraid?

It was odd timing as well, because I had just recently dug out my high school yearbook and also came across the hand-made card she gave me on my 18th birthday. A picture of the cover is above.

I'm SO GLAD we have come back into each other's lives. I am looking forward to getting to know her all over again!

As the holidays approach, I am finding myself trying to explain to people over and over again why I downplay the season so much. I'm NOT a scrooge. I just have a hard time this time of year, as so many who have lost someone close to them do. Here's a story I wrote a few years after Mom died-- Can it REALLY have been almost 6 years?!?!?!

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Mom’s memorial service was easily the most beautiful I had ever been to. We didn’t want it to be a maudlin affair. We created displays celebrating her life, read her favorite childhood story, and played “hippie” music (Donovan), a move that was lost on many of the more traditional thinking relatives. Matthew, Dad, and I had each chosen a song to be played. I chose Sarah Maclaughlin’s “Angel.” Mom believed that if you open your hearts, you will hear your angel’s words of encouragement that they whisper to you when you most need it. Right there at the memorial service, a guardian angel started to speak to me, slowly at first, but nevertheless openly.


It started with a sparkle, just barely caught out of the corner of my eye. When I looked to see what it was I had to bob back and forth a bit to find it again. About 15 feet away, on the floor, there was a distinctive pinkish sparkle. Fixing my eyes on the spot so as not to lose it, I walked over to see what it was. My heart was already beating in my chest as I bent over and picked up a single piece of heart shaped mylar confetti. I was overcome with the most exhilarating sense of warmth—I felt it in my chest, in the very center of my being, emanating outward from my heart. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the sparkling heart was Mom’s way of telling me that she was there with me, and that I would never be alone. I taped the heart onto a small card that we had had printed for the service with a quote from J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone: “To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us strength forever.” I couldn’t possibly have known that that was just the beginning…




When I think back to when Mom had her heart transplant on March 23, 1993, I remember that I wasn’t scared. Sure, I was anxious, but somehow I just knew that everything was going to be ok. It was a different feeling when I was sitting with her at the hospital nearly eight years later on the evening of January 25, 2001. She had been put back on the waiting list for another transplant, but this time I knew that she didn’t have the same fighting spirit she had had almost eight years earlier. Yet that night, she was awake and almost energetic, greeting visitors and joking around just enough to almost give us hope. Even so, I felt the need to stay with her that night. I sat by her bed, holding her hand, not knowing what to say. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, and how I could still feel the warmth and love of being cradled into her arms when I was 12 years old and was chased home by bullies, or about emerging from my turbulent teens and realizing that she was my best friend, or the first time I shared with her the pain of having my heart broken. More than anything I wanted her to be proud of me, and I wanted her to tell me that night that I had not failed her. But I knew she didn’t feel like talking-- she had been so uncomfortable those last few days-- and it gave me the perfect excuse not to go there. So we just sat there, holding hands and pretending to watch TV until she fell asleep around 2:30 am.


Feeling very alone and frightened, I pulled the chair over next to the bed and sat there, listening to the sounds of the monitors and her labored breathing and praying for another miracle—and for an unspeakable tragedy. There is a horrific guilt in knowing that someone else has to die so my Mom wouldn’t be taken away from me. Yet, I was thinking about it. I was thinking about the snowstorm that had been forecast, and wondering if the roads would be bad-- and trying not to think about it-- all at the same. Of course, Mom was also aware of what had to happen. How could she NOT be? She had struggled for a year before being able to write a letter to her donor family after her transplant. She said then that the only words she could come up were “thank you” yet she felt those two little words were so insufficient. She grappled with trying to understand how to justify her second chance at life, a chance that went hand in hand with another family’s loss, and the thought of going through that guilt again was too much for her to bear. Yet she had put up a noble front and agreed, at least on the outside, to give it a go. All of these things clouded my dreams as I slept by her bedside that last night.


When I woke up a few hours later, I immediately noticed that her heart rate was down. The nurse had already called the doctor. It was about 6:30 am on the 26th. Dad and Matthew were supposed to be there at 7:30, so I just sat there holding her hand. Over the background noise of the oxygen tubes and heart monitor, she whispered to me "I think I'm dieing." I didn’t know what to say, so I told her to just hang on a little while-- Dad and Matthew were on their way.


They arrived with a cautious yet upbeat energy that people have when they don’t want others to know how really scared they are. They were smiling and seemed to still be carrying with them that hope from her energy the night before. I motioned to the heart monitor and told them that the doctor was on his way. We all sat around the bed and held her hands and rubbed her feet-- she always loved that.


I have often heard of stories describing near-death expereinces, but I never expected to witness anything like what happened next.


In a brief moment where she seemed to become lucid, Mom opened her eyes and looked toward the foot of the bed and very distinctly and clearly said, "Mother, quit ranting!" Grandma B. had died about 15 months earlier, and Mom had been noticably depressed ever since. At that particular moment in the hospital room, Grandma was there--at least to my Mother. Dad, Matthew and I all looked at each other in amazement, seeking confirmation about what we were witnessing. Then as suddenly as it had perked up, she faded, and her heartbeat gradually grew slower and slower. It was an odd thing, feeling the hope fade into an understanding that it was time to let her go.


I had never seen anyone die before, and I don’t know what I was expecting. I remember hearing the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor turn into a steady tone and looking up to see the flat line as the blip moved across the screen (it seemed like SUCH a cliche!), but she was still struggling to catch her breath. It was as if her lungs didn’t yet realize that it was time to let go and were trying to encourage her heart to keep going. At that point she looked up at me, and for the briefest of moments, our eyes locked. We all told her we loved her, and with one last breath, she was quiet. She was 54 years old.


When we told some family members about Mom's calling out just before she died, most assumed it meant that Grandma was there to welcome her. I don't believe it. I know Grandma. She was incredibly loving, but stubborn, and I know that she knew that Mom was too young--that I (we) still needed her. That we weren't ready to let her go. I know in my soul that Grandma was there telling her to go back, to stay with us, to fight. But Mom had made up her mind, and was ready. "Quit ranting" was intended to tell Grandma in no uncertain terms that she had made up her mind. In a way, it made it bearable knowing that Mom was making the choice to go and be with HER mom. I can understand that, even if I couldn't quite accept that she was leaving me.


We didn't stay. Dad and Matthew said their goodbyes and left, while I stayed behind for one last moment. I kissed Mom on the forhead and promised her that we would all take care of each other, even though we are spread out across the country. The doctor arrived as we were about to leave. I wouldn't look at him, because, if I had, all the anger I felt at all the doctors over the years-- all the arrogant fools that had missed her heart problems for so long and failed to diagnose the heart attacks that were slowly leading to her heart failure-- would have flooded out at him. I walked past him and out the door into the snow that had just started falling.


Shortly after we returned home, we received a phone call from a very pleasant woman who expressed her sympathy and wondered if we had ever discussed tissue donation as a family. We all looked at each other and smiled. Less than an hour after Mom had died, we were gently reminded that there was a chance for her to “pay forward” some of the miracle our family had received. We must have been the easiest “consent” call she had ever made! It was such a gift to us to be able to break through the numbness and make this important decision. We heard later that 17 people benefited from her tissue, including bone, cartelidge, skin and eyes.

Trying to get back into a routine after Mom died was indescribable. People didn’t seem to understand that my entire world had changed. I managed to get up, remind myself to keep breathing, and forced myself to try to keep going, numbly moving through an unknowing world. I tried to reach out, but couldn’t do it. I was scared of how I was feeling, but felt powerless to change it.


After a few weeks of struggling to adjust to the new world in which I found myself, that angel from the memorial service began speaking to me again. One afternoon, I was walking alone through a shopping mall and I inadvertently kicked something. It rattled off to the side of the walkway, but I followed it to see what it was. When I picked it up, that warm pulsating feeling in my heart started again. It was a small piece of red heart-shaped plastic set in a plastic ring. I put it in my pocket and smiled all the way home. It wasn’t until a later trip to the mall that I discovered that it was the top of a Harry Potter “magic potion” vial from a children’s toy display.


Two days later, I noticed something sticking out from under a pile of leaves on the sidewalk next to my car. I picked it up, and found it to be a child’s bracelet strung on a small piece of elastic. The beads were alternating purple “diamonds” (Mom’s favorite color) and white hearts with little smiley faces on them. At this point, I knew that the hearts were not just a passing phase.


They continued to appear over the next few weeks: a heart sticker on the ground near the entrance to the subway; another piece of heart-shaped confetti on the floor of a diner I go to in Chelsea; a small plastic heart-shaped charm with a purple “peace” sign in the middle; a paisley bedspread that I have used for years without ever noticing the distinctly identifiable hearts worked into the pattern.



Once, as I was walking home at night, someone inside a house I was passing by turned on a light which cast a heart-shaped shadow of the ornate ironwork fence onto the sidewalk in front of me. Soon after, I found a handful of heart-shaped candies in the middle of a street—in the exact spot where Dad and I had been run down by a car the week before yet miraculously walked away relatively unharmed.

They have continued steadily in the past [almost] six years: yet another piece of mylar heart-shaped confetti; a silver heart locket; a heart shaped cardboard gift tag; a deflated heart balloon partially buried in the sand on Fire Island; a few more heart-shaped stickers; a stuffed plush heart toy; a coffee stir-stick with a heart topper; a penny with a heart cut out of the center; children’s sunglasses with heart shaped rims; a heart magnet. I keep them all in a special place and pull them out when I need to be reminded that I am never alone. In this day and age with pop-culture so prevalent, hearts are everywhere, but MY hearts are different. They’re not the items on gift shop shelves, or pictures. Each and every one of them is oddly out of place, as if left intentionally for me to find, each one a miracle, and they appear when I least expect them.

I have opened myself to the magic of these miracles and celebrate them when they happen. They also serve as a reminder that because of the generosity of a grieving family back in March of 1993, Mom was given a new heart, and our family was given an extra 7 years, 10 months, and 3 days with her. Donating her tissue when she left to become my guardian angel was the easiest and most important decision I have ever made, and I will continue to tell the world about the miracle of organ and tissue donation so others can know the joys of sharing life.

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Please visit the website for the United Network for Organ Sharing to find out more information about organ and tissue donation, sign your driver's license indicating your wish to become a donor, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, TALK TO YOUR FAMILY ABOUT YOUR WISHES.

Who is J-Ma?

Starting to play around with this whole "blogging" thing. Choosing a name that is both expressive, self-identifying, and not TOO "out there" to the world is tough.

J-Ma plays on the whole Jennifer Lopez = J-Lo thing. The fully extended tongue-in-cheek name is "Master J-Ma," as I annoited myself when I completed my masters degree. We go by J-Ma for short. It's a much more tolerable nick-name than some that I have had in my life-- maybe I'll blog about them someday. I'll need to be in a good place and ready to publicly own more of the pains of junior and high school before we go there.

So here I am. I've been playing around on a few different sites (MySpace and LiveJournal) but I am hearing that, for varying reasons, they are not for me... Hopefully soon, I will settle in on one and really go for it. In the mean time, I'll maintain each one a little to make sure I'm content. Some might call it ADD. I call it playing the field.