Thanksgiving, and I'm not okay.

Confession time: I don't really like the typical Thanksgiving celebration.To most other people, it's a time for gathering the whole family, cooking a wonderful feast, lots of laughter and happy noise. 

That is not my experience. For me, Thanksgiving is chaos and strangers and football and extreme cooking anxiety. It's an event to be endured and survived. A typical Thanksgiving is this autistic introvert's nightmare. 

My idea of the perfect Thanksgiving? No more than four or five people. We eat out so nobody has to work very hard (and we tip extremely well), and then maybe we go to a movie. Quiet and intimate. Calm. Ordered.

Other than the eating out part, that was pretty much the plan this year. Fly to Atlanta to see my kid and her dad and her fiancee and spend Thanksgiving with them. Pretty perfect.

But Covid.

So I'm alone this year. We'll zoom tomorrow, and I'm sure that will be wonderful, albeit weird. And I'll talk to my brother too. It'll be fine.

But tonight I just feel hollow, dark, and restless. And afraid, because some scary medical stuff is happening to Fina  - I may need to get her to the emergency vet tomorrow.

I miss my mom. I could use a cigarette. And a nice buzz sounds pretty good, too. A stinger, maybe, or some 151 rum. Something that'll burn a little going down.

(Which is why I went to a meeting this evening, okay?)

It's Thanksgiving and I'm not okay. But what I am is sober, and I'm in bed and getting sleepy, so I have accomplished the only essential thing I really needed to do today. Tomorrow may feel better, or maybe not, but I'll wake up with no regrets.

That alone gives me plenty to be thankful for. So I'm hanging on to that.

Have a safe Thanksgiving and enjoy it in a way that works for you. I love you all.

That time RBG came to Santa Fe and got me in trouble with my boss

Ruth Bader Ginsburg was coming to Santa Fe! I was working at the New Mexico Supreme Court at the time. She was speaking at a school or something, and then she was coming to the Court!! 

RBG was scheduled for two events at the Court: First, a luncheon with the state supreme court justices. Second, a Q&A for some women lawyer's symposium (I keep thinking ladies' auxiliary but of course that's not what it was). 

Now, a good boss would have made sure her staff got the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see RBG speak, even if it was remotely from another room. But that day, we were personae non gratae -- to the extent that the New Mexico chief justice acknowledged our existence at all.

My office was right across the hall from the courtroom, so it was hard to miss the hubbub. The lucky attendees filed into the courtroom and, after some settling, the doors closed. 

You could see inside if you put your face right up to the gap between the double doors. I sidled up to the security guard and glued my face to that gap like a beggar looking in the windows of a Waffle House. The guard -- an ally -- said, "why don't you go on in?"

"Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not allowed."

"But," he said, "There are empty seats in there. At least you could ask for permission."

Well, I was wearing appropriate court attire, and there were empty seats, and I was the court-appointed State Law Librarian. So I tagged the woman who had the invitation list and I asked. She said it was probably okay but she wanted to check with somebody else. She disappeared, and after about five minutes, she returned and told me I could go in. 

Score! I took a seat in the back. 

Now, I don't remember what RBG talked about, except that she was wonderful. I was just thrilled to be in her presence, albeit a little uneasy. I confess I was also a little contemptuous of the privileged women surrounding me who had managed to get into this gig legitimately. 

The chief justice glanced my way while she was introducing Justice Ginsburg. She didn't glare, but she didn't smile, either, which made me even more uneasy. Still, I drank in RBG's wisdom and kindness, and when she was done, I eased out the door (I correctly calculated that I shouldn't stay for the group picture). 

I don't know who told the invitation lady that I could go in. I do know, however, that it wasn't the chief justice. She came to my office a couple of days later -- the only time during my tenure that she did so. 

She was furious. 

I explained that I had gotten permission, and I explained that the lady who gave me permission had gotten permission. She wanted names, which of course I didn't have. 

In any event, she didn't particularly care how I had gotten in, just that I had. So I apologized. And I apologized some more. And then I sent an email apologizing deeply and sincerely. I pretty much prostrated myself while genuflecting. It didn't make any difference. I lost an important ally that day. 

But given the chance for a do-over? 

Yeah, you guessed right. I didn't regret it then, and I don't regret it now. 

Rest in power, RBG.

There is hope for us yet.

 I spent my seventeenth year getting high and drunk. Songbird, on the other hand, is doing some pretty spectacular political parodies.

If she is our future, I think we're gonna be okay. 

Black Lives Matter: I thought I got it. I didn't.

I'm the lucky daughter of anti-racist parents so I've never doubted the existence of institutional racism. For years, I've comforted myself by acknowledging and bemoaning my white privilege. I naturally supported -- or thought I was supporting -- the Black Lives Matter movement from the beginning. I thought this made me, you know, one of the good ones.

In the past few weeks I've discovered I was actually clueless.

I've known I can't fully understand what it's like to drive while Black, work while Black, breathe while Black, exist while Black. What I did know turned out to be wrong. I thought racism existed in pockets. It was in certain cities or certain regions or neighborhoods or social circles, or certain times of day or night. Basically, everywhere I wasn't, because it didn't seem to be affecting people I hold dear. It wasn't until I watched their frustrated videos that I realized I have it wrong. The effects of racism are everywhere and always. I didn't understand this. Or maybe I just didn't want to know.

I'm grateful for those videos, grateful for the education. But it's not the job of Black people to educate me, or to reassure me that I'm not a racist, or to make me feel comfortable. It's not their job to motivate me.

It's on me to take the initiative to get educated, and to identify and fight racism, especially in myself.

Acknowledging my white privilege isn't enough. I am called to weaponize it.

So, what now? Now I do what it takes to learn. I listen to people who want to talk, and then I listen some more. I contact appropriate organizations and ask how I can help. And when I screw it up and get it wrong -- which I'm bound to do -- it's my job to be teachable.

I have a lot of work to do. I have a lot to learn.

It's on me.

Congratulations to My Fabulous Disease!

My best friend Mark King just won the 2020 GLAAD award for outstanding blog! Check it out if you haven't:  My Fabulous Disease. It was the blog's fifth consecutive nomination, and well deserved. 

He was also recently named the 2020 LGBTQ Journalist of the Year by the Association of LGBTQ Journalists.

He's even got a Wikipedia page now. Jesus Christ.  

Congratulations, Mark. You inspire me every day for all kinds of reasons. 

The #GLAADawards for Outstanding Blog goes to... @MyFabDisease. Congratulations Mark! pic.twitter.com/4onGOXdpTj

— GLAAD (@glaad) July 30, 2020

What to do about Joe Biden?

God damn it, this is inconvenient. Biden has been accused of sexual assault. The details are disturbing. Now, what to do about it?

The "me too" part of me echoes the New York Times editorial: These allegations should be investigated. After all, every outraged comment from the left is lifted straight from the Republican playbook: "Why did she wait so long?" "But there are inconsistencies." "This happened 25 years ago, so who cares anyway?" "The other side is worse." "Other women in his office say he's been a perfect gentleman."

There's not a thing being said by the left, in objecting to further investigation, that wasn't said about Kavanaugh, or Clarence Thomas. 

Actually, that's not quite true. We on the left have added a new one: "She praised Putin!" Well, if that's not proof that she's lying, I don't know what is.

Unlike the accusations against Al Franken -- which were disheartening but not all that disturbing -- Biden is actually accused of violence -- of penetrating the accuser. That's a big deal. If a Republican candidate were accused of the same acts, we would be all over it -- as well we should be.

So as much as I would like this case to be different from Kavanaugh or Thomas, I just don't see how it is.

But then there's the "let's save the nation" part of me. Even if the accusations are proven true, I'm voting for Biden. So why go through the drama of investigating? Why risk the presidency? Why risk democracy? Besides, the other side really is worse. Trump has confessed to assault and has been accused numerous other times besides.

I can't, in good conscience, evaluate veracity based on whether the accused is red or blue. I need a standard that applies to both Democrats and Republicans. And that means we investigate, god damn it. And that really sucks.

That doesn't end the discussion, however. While it's important that we give accusers the benefit of the doubt initially, the accuser should still have the ultimate burden of proof. That's just as true when it's  a Republican who's being accused. We shouldn't unconditionally believe an accuser on one side of the aisle, but completely dismiss accusations from the other side.

So how to apply this to the present case? Reade has accused Biden of sexually assaulting her. So far, there's no more reason to disbelieve her than we would disbelieve any other accuser. The fact that she was a Bernie supporter is relevant, but certainly doesn't settle the issue.

She now has the burden of providing some evidence, if she can (and let's note that the absence of evidence doesn't mean the crime didn't occur, especially when it comes to rape).

As of this writing no documentation has found regarding Reade's accusations, and this is certainly a problem for Reade. She claims that she filed a sexual harassment complaint in 1993 and surely finding such a document would be important evidence, although not dispository.

The left likes to point out that no documentary evidence has been found. However, given the large volume of documents to be sifted through, it is too soon to conclude that no such evidence exists.

I will say this, though: While the nature of the accusations aren't substantially different in nature, there is one big, big difference between the accusations against Biden and those against Thomas, Kavanaugh, and Trump: Biden has invited an investigation (as did Franken). That speaks volumes.

But it doesn't negate the need for an investigation.

Nope. Not lighting it up blue in April.

It's Autism Acceptance Week, so here's a repeat of my post about Autism Speaks.

Karen McCarron was desperate, or so she said, when she put her three-year-old autistic daughter in the car for a ride. After a while she parked, put a plastic bag over her daughter's head, and suffocated her. That was the day before Mother's Day, 2006.

Four days earlier, Autism Speaks had released a short film, Autism Every Day. The documentary, full of unmanageable children and hopeless mothers, portrayed devastating images of families living with autism. Alison Tepper Singer, one of the mothers interviewed (and the executive vice president of Autism Speaks at the time) said the following:

“I remember that was a very scary moment for me when I realized I had sat in the car for about 15 minutes and actually contemplated putting Jodie in the car and driving off the George Washington Bridge. ... It’s only because of Lauren, because I have another child that I probably didn’t do it.”

She , by the way, in front of her autistic daughter. (6:10 minute mark)

Ali Elmezayen, on the other hand, wasn't desperate; just greedy. So, after purchasing six million dollars worth of life insurance, he rolled down his car window, drove his two autistic sons and his domestic partner off a Los Angeles pier, and then swam to safety himself. The boys didn't survive. A third son, not autistic, was away at camp. That was in July, 2019.

According to the Autism Self Advocacy Network (ASAN), 600 people with disabilities have been murdered by their parents or caregivers in the past five years. The problem is pressing enough that ASAN has published an anti-filicide toolkit. 

Murder of the disabled is unspeakable and unfortunately, it is timeless. But in the case of autistics, special credit for encouraging filicide goes to the one organization that was supposed to advocate for them: Autism Speaks. 

Yes, that Autism Speaks, the one with the puzzle pieces and the happy-go-lucky fundraising walks and the "Light it Up Blue" campaign every April.

Autism Speaks has ingrained American society with the stereotypical image of the autistic child: unresponsive, screaming, unmanageable, and not even really there. 

AS was formed in 2005 by Suzanne and Bob Wright (Bob Wright was an executive at NBC) after their grandson was diagnosed with autism. After an infusion of $25 million by Bernie Marcus -- the founder of Home Depot -- AS quickly became the organization purportedly advocating for the autism community.

Dollars that had previously gone to local organizations for family services were quickly siphoned off by AS and diverted to research, lobbying, and "education."

Autism Speaks wasn't interested in providing services. Its mission was to find the cause of autism and eradicate it. Among its highest priorities was research exploring the link between vaccines and autism. 

From the beginning, AS used fear to vilify what it saw as the scourge and tragedy of autism. The image we have of autism today is a direct result of this very effective campaign. 

AS's message was clear and consistent: Your child is gone now. And the burden of caring for what remains of them will inevitably lead to divorce, poverty, and constant shame. 

Consider this excerpt from AS's very dark 2009 video, "I am Autism." The mood is grim: The foreboding sound of a haunting wind. A relentless parade of lost-looking autistic kids. And, from a menacing narrator: 

I am autism. I’m visible in your children, but if I can help it, I am invisible to you until it’s too late. I know where you live. And guess what? I live there too. I hover around all of you. I know no color barrier, no religion, no morality, no currency. I speak your language fluently. And with every voice I take away, I acquire yet another language.

I work very quickly. I work faster than pediatric AIDS, cancer, and diabetes combined.  

And if you’re happily married, I will make sure that your marriage fails.Your money will fall into my hands, and I will bankrupt you for my own self-gain. I don’t sleep, so I make sure you don’t either. I will make it virtually impossible for your family to easily attend a temple, birthday party, or public park without a struggle, without embarrassment, without pain. ....

I am autism.... I derive great pleasure out of your loneliness. I will fight to take away your hope. I will plot to rob you of your children and your dreams. I will make sure that every day you wake up you will cry, wondering who will take care of my child after I die?  

In 2013, AS issued a "call to action" written by Suzanne Wright:

If three million children in America one day went missing -- what would we as a country do? .... These families are not living. They are existing. Breathing -- yes. Sleeping -- maybe. Working -- most definitely -- 24/7.  This is autism. Life is lived moment-to-moment. In anticipation of the child's next move. In despair. In fear of the future. This is autism.

Following Wright's statement (later removed from the website), the sole autistic in AS's leadership resigned in disgust. 

Autism Speaks has significantly cleaned up its act, and has actually done some good, but only under heavy pressure from the autistic community. The organization has yet to take responsibility for its dark history. And while AS finally conceded that there is no link between autism and vaccines, its priority is still research, lobbying, and education. A whopping 2% of its budget goes toward direct services for families. Far more goes for bloated executive salaries. 

AS buoyantly notes that it took the word "cure" out of its mission statement in 2016, and indeed autistics had been pressing for this because they don't see autism as a defect to be cured. However, AS doesn't acknowledge this perspective. They only say that they've stopped looking for a cure because they don't think they'll find one.

Meanwhile, AS has never allowed more than token representation by autistics on its board. There have never been more than 2 autistics on a board of 28, and currently there's just one. Imagine if the Ms. Foundation had only one woman on its board!

It's also troubling that some of the original board members still serve, and Suzanne Wright continues to be glorified as a hero on the website. So it's no wonder that autistic self advocates continue to condemn the organization. 

All in all, Autism Speaks has a long way to go before I light it up blue in April. 

#redinstead.

The choice to relapse.

2007. My life was a holy mess, and I didn't know how to clean it up. I had at least managed to finally get out of an unhealthy relationship, but the rest was a shit show.

So it was such a blessing having my sponsor come live with me for a while. He was brilliant and bigger than life and so wise and so much fun, and it was a relief to have a second grownup in the house. And someone with ten years sober, to boot.

It was about midnight when I heard the crash, and I went downstairs to investigate. There on the living room floor was my sponsor, naked. He couldn't talk, couldn't coordinate his body. It looked like a stroke, and I called 911. When the EMTs arrived, they wanted to know what drug he was on. Indignant, I said he's my sponsor and he didn't take anything.

But of course, I was wrong, and I knew it when he seemed overly anxious for me to fetch his gym bag. It was hydrocodone. A prescription filled only a day earlier, under a fake name, and he had taken most of them. After that, the empty beer cans were no surprise. He was in full blown relapse, and had been for quite a while.

And oh, how I wanted to join him! My life was so completely fucked up, I didn't really care whether I drank or not. Staying sober sure wasn't doing much for me. It was hard to imagine that drinking could make it any worse.

But I didn't drink, at least not yet. In the meantime, like any sick codependent. I told him I'd give him one more chance. The obvious happened, and I kicked my sponsor out of my house on the night of Christmas Eve, 2007.

Our friendship didn't end immediately. A few days later, when he and I were out and about, I locked us out of the car at a convenience store.

And that, that was the moment. I was ready. I was so ready, and this man was ready for me to join him. So when I said I really wanted a drink, he offered to go back into the store and get us some.

I don't know why, but I said no.  Whatever the reason, I've never regretted that decision.

I've heard so many people say it: "I've never heard anybody come back to the rooms after a relapse and say how wonderful it was."

Well, of course you haven't. If it's working for them, why would they come back at all?

On the other hand, I've never heard anyone say that they regretted not drinking.

Alcohol and drugs aren't going anywhere, and neither are my addictions. The choice to drink or use will always be in my back pocket, and perhaps there will come a time. Meanwhile, I lose nothing by waiting.

So for today, my plan is to stay clean and sober. And I'm  pretty sure that's a decision I won't regret in the morning.

Can't go to your 12-step meeting? Here's help.

These are scary times.  Twelve-step meetings, as a general rule, are rarely cancelled, but as the Daily Beast points out, this time it's different. Skipping some meetings may be wise, and perhaps even mandated.

That said, this is not the first time people in recovery have been unable to get to meetings. They might be in the battlefield, or in a remote location, or experiencing another kind of natural disaster. And said people have shown, time and again, that it is possible to stay sober even under these trying conditions. The literature has something somewhere about how soldiers in World War II stayed sober without meetings. (I'm frankly too lazy to look up where it is -- if  you know, feel free to drop the citation in the comments below.) They stayed sober, and they didn't have the internet. 

Here's the take-away: This is no reason to relapse. In fact, it's not even an excuse to skip meetings.
Nearly all these groups offer some version of virtual meetings. I've assembled some links below. I also included a link to any specific statements about COVID-19 that I found. If  you don't see your support group here, Wikipedia has a list of 12-step groups. If you want to add your group, feel free to do so in the comments.

Note to people with more than a year in recovery: Virtual meetings tend to have a lot of newcomers. So your voice is needed at these meetings. Please attend some, even if you're able to stick to your regular meeting schedule.

Stay safe, stay well, and stay sober, dear friends.

Adult Children of Alcoholics
Link to phone and online meetings: https://adultchildren.org/meeting-search/

Al-Anon
https://al-anon.org/pdf/covid19-info.pdf
Link to virtual meetings: https://al-anon.org/al-anon-meetings/electronic-meetings/

Alateen:
Chat meetings: https://al-anon.org/newcomers/teen-corner-alateen/try-an-alateen-chat-meeting/

Alcoholics Anonymous
https://www.aa.org/assets/en_US/en_updatesoncoronavirus.pdf
Online Intergroup: http://aa-intergroup.org/

Cocaine Anonymous
https://ca.org/content/uploads/2020/03/COVID-19-advisory.pdf
Online meetings: https://www.ca-online.org/

Co-Dependents Anonymous
Online meetings: https://coda.org/find-a-meeting/online-meetings/
Phone meetings: https://coda.org/find-a-meeting/phone-meetings/

Debtors Anonymous
https://debtorsanonymous.org/wp-content/uploads/Coronavirus_update.pdf
Virtual meetings (use drop-down for type of meeting): https://debtorsanonymous.org/meetings/?tsml-day=any&first-call=1

Eating Disorders Anonymous
links to virtual meetings:
http://eatingdisordersanonymous.org/meetings/?tsml-day=any&tsml-region=us

Emotions Anonymous
https://emotionsanonymous.org/file_download/5acea207-4fb5-4f06-bce6-65ea05b16a61
Link to virtual meetings: https://emotionsanonymous.org/what-we-offer/find-a-meeting/phone-and-internet-meetings.html

Gamblers Anonymous
Immediate assistance: http://www.gamblersanonymous.org/ga/hotlines

Narcotics Anonymous
Links to virtual meetings: https://www.na.org/?ID=virtual_meetings

Overeaters Anonymous:
https://oa.org/app/uploads/2020/03/OA-COVID-19-Letter-2.pdf
Links to virtual meetings: https://oa.org/find-a-meeting/?type=1

Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous
https://slaafws.org/wp-content/uploads/COVID-19%20Statement%2031420.pdf
Links to online and phone meetings: https://slaafws.org/meetings

Okay, maybe there is a plan after all.

Dear Mom,

"If we can be together when we're 2,000 miles apart, then death isn't going to keep us apart."

Remember when you said that? It was comforting, although I was secretly pretty skeptical. But in that same conversation, I asked for a sign (if you could do it without scaring the shit out if me) and when it happened, you sent one. You were with me.

When I landed a dream job in Santa Fe, and a place to rent dropped right in my lap, I knew that the move was the right one, and I suspected you had something to do with it.

And when the house happened, well, then I knew for sure. You found me a historic house in perfect condition, that I could afford, right in back of the freaking clubhouse, for God's sake. Stepless, too, and on the bus line, with a grocery store within walking distance. So not only was it the perfect house for now, it was one I could grow old in. And thanks to my job, I would have a pension. I was in a city I loved, with great sobriety and solid support, the perfect job and a pension to boot. I was set. I was going to be okay.  Thank you a million times over!

And then, two years ago, the job went away, along with any hope of a pension. What the fuck?! This wasn't the plan. What did it mean that it all went away? That it was just coincidence? That you were gone now? That you were never there to begin with? The gifts you gave me, layered on top of your unwavering faith in a higher power, had given me a foundation for a vague faith of my own, a faith that I depended on: When I do the next right thing, the Universe seems to conspire in my favor.

So when it all went away, well....

But at least someone rented my Santa Fe house right away, so that wonderful little crib was still part of my future. The plan was bruised, but still viable.

Then I lost my tenant, and I couldn't make the mortgage. And again I had to ask, what the fuck?

With deep sadness (and renewed bitterness against That Person), I put my little house on the market. At least I wouldn't have the financial obligation anymore, but man, the whole thing really sucked. I mean, there was no plan anymore, and I was alone, really alone, stranded in the wilds of upstate bum-fucking New York. Wonderful job, yes. But nothing remotely resembling a plan.

Well. My little house sold in less than 24 hours, for the full asking price. It closed last week without a hitch. The smoothest, fastest real estate transaction I've ever had. And as it turned out, that house was a great investment. Like, really great.

And then I knew again. Mom. This was your plan B, or maybe this was the plan all along. You did once say you wished you could leave an inheritance. And that's exactly what you did.

This understanding makes it all okay. I can work with this, even if turns out to be just a comforting delusion. There is no down side to believing.

So thank you, Mom. I love you now and forever. And thank you for your tenacious and unconditional love.

I miss  you.

There's a parallel here. But at what cost?

From H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds:

In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood upon its crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me. A mighty space it was, with gigantic machines here and there within it, huge mounds of material and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some in their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines, and a dozen of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the Martians—dead!—slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being slain; slain, after all man’s devices had failed, by the humblest things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.

What patriotism looks like

It looks like Mayor Pete, who cares more about saving the nation than getting to be the president. Aware that too many moderate candidates are skewing the polls, he withdrew before Super Tuesday, rather than waiting to see how he does.

Buttigieg was my original choice, and I hope we haven't seen the last of him. We could sure use him in the Senate.

I'm not that wild about Biden or Sanders - Warren is my candidate now - but I'll gladly vote for either of them if that's what it takes to get that lunatic out of office. The nation can survive business as usual. And it can survive a socialist president. What it can't survive is fascism.

Vote blue no matter who.

That time when Elizabeth Warren stabbed Stephen Colbert with a fork.

Notwithstanding everyone's horrible behavior at the last Democratic debate, I've decided I'm sold on Elizabeth Warren. I've always agreed with most of her policies (although I still doubt whether any Democrat can get them through), but the vibe I got was, like, she's shushing me in the library for talking too loud.

This video has me completely charmed, and has erased every one of my reservations. This woman will make a wonderful president.

Watch the whole thing. It's totally worth your time.

I fell asleep during the Guns of Navarone.

It's a reference to The Dick Van Dyke Show, season 5, episode 12, December 15, 1965. Rob has to defend himself against accusations that he beat up an old lady. Nobody is buying his alibi because he says he was at a drive through movie -- The Guns of Navarone. When asked the plot of the movie, he can't remember because he slept through the whole thing. So there's this running gag throughout the episode as he's grilled by the police: "You slept through The Guns of Navarone??"

Well, yes, yes, I did. Last night I slept through The Guns of Navarone.

I tried to watch, I really did. It was hard to make out what anyone was saying because it was so chaotic and loud. It was downright traumatic. Yet somehow, I fell fast asleep, and that was that.

But I stayed awake long enough to see one thing very clearly: Warren, Buttigieg, Sanders, Biden, Klobuchar, Bloomberg, and Steyer -- the whole miserable bunch of them -- need to get their shit together. Or we're looking at four more years and the end of the American Dream.

I am fighting off despair.

Nerd heaven

I've got, like, six half written blog.posts, and I'm about halfway done with a video for work. So baby, I'm creating, albeit in a chaotic, haphazard and possibly unproductive way.

But nothing I'm doing can possibly compete with this video. Light, filmed at various speeds up to 10 trillion frames per second. My mind is blown. It's like seeing God.

https://youtu.be/7Ys_yKGNFRQ

In support of Michael Bloomberg.

Wait! Please don't leave!

Yes, I know Bloomberg is trying to buy the election. I know he's a capitalist boor with a sketchy history. I'm also quite aware that he's not the best choice for president. 

Unless it turns out he is, at least for this one moment in time.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Michael Bloomberg knows how to get inside Trump's head. He's the only one with whom Trump has a history, and I believe he's the only one that Trump really fears. He's willing to exchange insults at Trump's level. He knows what insiders are saying behind Trump's back and, more importantly, Trump knows he knows it. And it's going to be very hard to call the guy a socialist, which screws up about 50 percent of Trump's campaign strategy.

Apparently Bloomberg's campaign has hired an expert in narcissism and a comedy writer. I mean, how delicious is that? 

No, I don't particularly want him as my president. But the republic can survive Michael Bloomberg, and I don't think it can withstand another four years of the Orange Menace, or the Republicans' one-branch vision of government.

I'm not endorsing Bloomberg, and I doubt I'll vote for him in the primary. His values don't match mine. But maybe in this time, in this place, he's the guy who can save the nation.  

The good itch.

I imagine you've noticed things have been a little rough lately. My brain has been going to some pretty dark places, even more than usual, and I haven't hesitated to dump it here. Sorry for that.

When I was raising my daughter, I would hear experts -- the ones I trusted -- say that when your kid seems impossible all of a sudden, it's because they're in the process of growth. Something big is in the works, like starting to walk, and they're working through it.

Maybe that's what this is.

Because I've had this itch lately. It seems to be irresistible and I'm not sure where it came from. It's always been there, but now it seems that no combination of fear and self loathing will relieve it.

This is harder to share with you than all the bile I've been spewing lately. Until now, I've only told my therapist.

It's about being creative, and it's really weird. I just want to create in every way I can. I'm writing again, that's good. But then I think, Acting! Singing! Photography! Podcast! YouTube! 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Is it a second childhood? Or my first? Maybe I'm becoming aware that time is going to run out. Or maybe it's just winter in upstate New York and I'm bored.

Whatever it is, it's outrageous, and I'm deeply, profoundly embarrassed to share it. 

And yet, the Universe is swirling and opportunities are falling in my lap. My playwriting class this semester is in a dance studio and involves acting and improv. The library's only podcast and video expert has moved to DC and somebody needs to learn and teach the technology. And the college recently gave me free access to some pretty fancy media software.

The wind is blowing in every direction. I'm told I should follow it.

Lesson in three parts.

One.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of watching a production I co-wrote for a recovery roundup. It was awesome, but I had some trouble watching myself. That’s an understatement. I went home and wrote a blog post in which I attacked myself pretty viciously. I posted it, but then quickly took it down. I know at least one person saw it. 

Two.

A few weeks later on Instagram I saw that someone had posted a meme saying, hey, you’re not perfect, but you’re better than you were, so acknowledge your progress. It was a really lovely post.

Here was one of the responses:

Just_more_shit This makes me so sad and ashamed. If past me knew I would become this worthless disgusting filthy parasitic trash she would have done everything to stop it, she would have killed herself rather than let this monster free.

And there it was. I was looking in the mirror, face to face with myself. Because what I wrote in my post was, well, close.

It's almost seductive.  I lay out a gleaming set of serrated verbal knives and cut myself over and over and over again with words, watching -- feeling -- myself bleed out. A slice for how I look. Then my finances. A few cuts comparing myself to others. Then my singing, my acting, my weight, how I dress, how I walk. Nothing is off limits. Then several deep, long cuts for my failings as a parent. There are never enough cuts for that one. The deeper the cut, the truer it feels, and I don't quit until nothing is left but shredded meat.

Do I believe the stuff I'm saying? Yes, at least when I'm saying it. Does it serve any purpose other than creating more hurt? No. But maybe the pain is the point.

And when I post this stuff, I am asking you to witness the carnage too. In that sense, I'm treating you as badly as I treat myself.

But then there’s this woman’s post, and I see its effect. It’s all very tidy, isn’t it? I hurt for her, I see myself, and I learn my lesson.

Or maybe I don’t.

Three.

I was looking at old emails a few nights ago and found something unsettling. Ten years ago, I was in another show -- the first in which I acted.  It was fun, it was life-changing, it turned out great overall, and we watched it at the cast party. But watching myself was nearly unbearable. So ten years ago, I went right home and wrote the very same invective I wrote just a few weeks ago. Some of it was even word for word.

Ten years and not a bit of progress. What the fuck is wrong with me?  

I feel great compassion for that other woman. I know I should feel it for myself, but I don’t know how. Needless to say, my therapist and I are getting lots of mileage out of this set of facts.

There is no promise in this post. I’m not even sure there’s a prayer. I just know that the other woman’s post broke my heart, and she is me.

Shooting in raw.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Tax refund! I paid some bills and still had enough to do something I've wanted to do for many years: get a decent camera (in other words, something other than my phone or a cheap point-and-shoot). And boy, am I having a good time with it!

After a shitload of research, I decided on a Canon M50, which is basically an entry-level mirrorless camera. It's smaller than a DSLR but otherwise does pretty much the same stuff. So I've been voraciously consuming YouTube videos on all things photographic (as well as videographic). And I've made a wonderful, wonderful discovery: Shooting in raw.

Oh. My. God.

I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I guess raw files contain a lot more information than jpeg files (which I guess you can think of as regular digital pictures), so you can do a lot more in post production. In fact, you can pretty much work miracles. Plus, you get to use words like "post production," which makes you sound cooler than maybe you actually are.

Here's the picture I took (Yes, yes, I know it's just my bathroom ceiling. Whatever.):

I took the raw file, worked with it in Lightbook, and I turned it into this, which is actually what my eyes were seeing at the time I took the shot:

I mean, it's just fucking awesome, is all, and now I'm hooked.

The problem with self-awareness.

I'm 62 years old. Almost 63. That’s a really big deal. It means I can retire right now and get some Social Security, although not nearly as much as if I wait a few more years. How wonderful to know that I no longer have to work! If something happens where I can't work anymore, or the job goes away, I’ll be okay. Not great, but marginally okay enough.

Some people insist that retirement is bad for you. They say you start to decline once you don’t have something useful to do. You need a Purpose, with a capital P. They also point out that if I wait until I'm 70 I’ll get the biggest possible monthly benefit.

Yeah, that's not happening, at least not voluntarily. Work has never provided a purpose for me. It’s a means to an end, period, and if I can be lucky enough to like what I’m doing (which is currently the case), that’s a gift, but work doesn’t feed my soul, and it never really has.

I don’t know how we got on the topic, but my therapist asked me last week how I would feel if I stopped working. I told her it would be a huge relief, which seemed to surprise her. So I explained that I’ve never been able to build up vacation or sick time because some days I just can’t function, and I’ve often wondered if I’m really even capable of sustaining full-time work for extended periods of time.

Her response really surprised me: “Maybe you’re not.”

And she’s right, I’m not. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent decades swimming against a disability I didn’t know I had, and I’m fucking exhausted.

So my therapist has given me some homework:  figure out a way to take at least one or two planned days off every month. I’ve got April and May worked out. February and March, not so much.

The problem with facing facts is that now it’s harder than ever to show up, but show up I must. And show up I will, at least for today.

But yeah. Self-awareness is not all it’s cracked up to be.

On Thirteenth Stepping.

If you already know what thirteenth stepping is, then I suspect I've got your attention.

But for those who don’t:  in twelve-step recovery, “thirteenth stepping” is basically slang for sleeping with newcomers. Although it’s not official, this is considered harmful because newcomers are generally encouraged to avoid new relationships during the first year of recovery.

Now, I don’t consider myself a recovery fundamentalist by any means. I don’t get my panties in a wad if someone talks about drug addiction in an AA meeting. I don’t smile condescendingly at people who don’t believe in God, telling them that sooner or later they’ll come to believe. I don’t believe for a minute that all of life’s answers are in the Big Book. I believe that sometimes the best sponsor is someone of the opposite sex. And although I don’t rule it out for myself, there’s no way I’m telling someone else to get on their knees to pray.

But the thirteenth stepping thing? I’m hard core on that one, and I include “just sex” as well as relationships.

The reason we’re advised not to sleep with newcomers is because when you’re first getting clean you’re not generally thinking straight, and a relationship can distract you from the hard work of early recovery. Assuming you’ve decided to go the twelve-step route, it’s a lot of work, and it’s a full-time gig.

The one-year rule isn’t official, but it’s nearly universal. And that means anyone who’s been around a while knows it. So they know perfectly well that their newcomer target has probably been advised not to do the relationship thing just yet.

So what does it say if I decide to pursue a newcomer?

I’ll tell you what it says. It says that I don’t care whether or not they stay sober.

I had a sponsee once, barely yet sober, who was being seduced by someone with many years of sobriety – someone whose recovery I had previously respected. That person actually told the sponsee not to tell me about it. That’s predatory. There’s no other word for it.

But what if a newcomer and an oldtimer really do have something worth pursuing before that first year is up? What then?

Well, then you each talk to your sponsors. You’re up front, you’re honest, and you remain open to the idea that maybe it’s not such a good idea. You are willing to go to any lengths to stay sober, and you want the other person to do the same, and so maybe you just don’t do it.

Here’s the bottom line: If you are a newcomer, and you are being pursued by anyone in the rooms who has some time, that person doesn’t give a shit about you. And that’s true no matter how often they tell you that sobriety comes first, that they’ll help you stay clean, that blah blah blah... Talk to your sponsor, and don’t engage until they’ve talked to their own sponsor as well.

Because chances are, this person is a predator who cares more about their own desires than about whether you stay sober. Drape them in red flags and move on.

#WeAreHere

Indeed we are.

Old pics

I'm cleaning up an old SD card and found these pictures I've taken along the way. I'm otherwise not inspired today, so I'm posting them.

The writer speaks.

I used to teach writing. I’ve also written lots of, you know, stuff.  So I am hereby declaring myself a writing expert, which qualifies me to tell you what’s what.

In law school, they tell you there is one right way to write a brief. College placement offices tell you there is only one right way to write a resume. Professors ding you if you indent – or don’t indent – the first paragraph of an essay.

What bullshit! For one thing, everybody’s “one right way” is different. So what’s a girl to do?

Yeah, of course you need to comply with whatever moronic requirements your venue has placed on you. Courts and college placement offices can be annoyingly anal, with significant consequences for insurgents.

But otherwise, there’s really only one rule: whatever you’re writing, write it in the way that best achieves your goal. If your issue statement is more effective in two sentences than in one, use two sentences. If your resume is better at three pages, make it three pages, for god’s sake.

And here’s the corollary: Whatever you’re reading, read it for the message, not the grammar. The world won’t end if the writer uses “its” instead of “it’s,” or if they put two spaces after the period instead of one, or if they say “should of” instead of “should have.” If this sort of thing bugs you so much that you can’t hear the underlying message, you need a life, or therapy, or something.

Seriously, you do. 

Unless, of course, it happened in my writing class, in which case there were significant consequences.

Damn, I missed it. But yay! for freedom of religion.

Yesterday was Religious Freedom Day. I thought it was today, and I'm bummed out that I missed it. I was going to post something snarky, yet respectful. Cynical, yet wholesome.

I got nothin'.

Wait... I might have something. ...

I was going to write about the Flying Spaghetti Monster because it's pretty awesome, but they like to think there's a stripper factory in heaven, and I find that a little problematic. That did not, however, stop me from ordering a sticker for my car, especially since the only Pastafarian dogma is that there's no dogma.

Snarky -- check.
Cynical -- check.

Now, contrary to what you might think, I do pray sometimes. I have a lot in common with religious people on the progressive left. I believe that there could be a god. I believe that the  universe is sacred, and I believe if there is a conscious god, it doesn't give a shit whether you believe in it or not, as long as you do some good in the world. And by the way, I am an ordained minister with the Universal Life Church. Legal and everything. That's actually true. I can marry your sorry ass.

Respectful -- check, sort of.
Wholesome -- well, I think so.

So... whether or not you've been touched by his noodly appendage, I wish you all a belated Religious Freedom Day.

Why are autistics pissed off?

Karen McCarron was desperate, or so she said, when she put her three-year-old autistic daughter in the car for a ride. After a while she parked, put a plastic bag over her daughter's head, and suffocated her. That was the day before Mother's Day, 2006.

Four days earlier, Autism Speaks had released a short film, Autism Every Day. The documentary, full of unmanageable children and hopeless mothers, portrayed devastating images of families living with autism. Alison Tepper Singer, one of the mothers interviewed (and the executive vice president of Autism Speaks at the time) said the following:

“I remember that was a very scary moment for me when I realized I had sat in the car for about 15 minutes and actually contemplated putting Jodie in the car and driving off the George Washington Bridge. ... It’s only because of Lauren, because I have another child that I probably didn’t do it.”

She was speaking, by the way, in front of her autistic daughter. (6:10 minute mark)

Ali Elmezayen, on the other hand, wasn't desperate; just greedy. So, after purchasing six million dollars worth of life insurance, he rolled down his car window, drove his two autistic sons and his domestic partner off a Los Angeles pier, and then swam to safety himself. The boys didn't survive. A third son, not autistic, was away at camp. That was in July, 2019.

According to the Autism Self Advocacy Network (ASAN), 600 people with disabilities have been murdered by their parents or caregivers in the past five years. The problem is pressing enough that ASAN has published an anti-filicide toolkit. 

Murder of the disabled is unspeakable and unfortunately, it is timeless. But in the case of autistics, special credit for encouraging filicide goes to the one organization that was supposed to advocate for them: Autism Speaks. 

Yes, that Autism Speaks, the one with the puzzle pieces and the happy-go-lucky fundraising walks and the "Light it Up Blue" campaign every April.

Autism Speaks has ingrained American society with the stereotypical image of the autistic child: unresponsive, screaming, unmanageable, and not even really there. 

AS was formed in 2005 by Suzanne and Bob Wright (Bob Wright was an executive at NBC) after their grandson was diagnosed with autism. After an infusion of $25 million by Bernie Marcus -- the founder of Home Depot -- AS quickly became the organization purportedly advocating for the autism community.

Dollars that had previously gone to local organizations for family services were quickly siphoned off by AS and diverted to research, lobbying, and "education."

Autism Speaks wasn't interested in providing services. Its mission was to find the cause of autism and eradicate it. Among its highest priorities was research exploring the link between vaccines and autism. 

From the beginning, AS used fear to vilify what it saw as the scourge and tragedy of autism. The image we have of autism today is a direct result of this very effective campaign. 

AS's message was clear and consistent: Your child is gone now. And the burden of caring for what remains of them will inevitably lead to divorce, poverty, and constant shame. 

Consider this excerpt from AS's very dark 2009 video, "I am Autism." The mood is grim: The foreboding sound of a haunting wind. A relentless parade of lost-looking autistic kids. And, from a menacing narrator: 

I am autism. I’m visible in your children, but if I can help it, I am invisible to you until it’s too late. I know where you live. And guess what? I live there too. I hover around all of you. I know no color barrier, no religion, no morality, no currency. I speak your language fluently. And with every voice I take away, I acquire yet another language.

I work very quickly. I work faster than pediatric AIDS, cancer, and diabetes combined.  

And if you’re happily married, I will make sure that your marriage fails.Your money will fall into my hands, and I will bankrupt you for my own self-gain. I don’t sleep, so I make sure you don’t either. I will make it virtually impossible for your family to easily attend a temple, birthday party, or public park without a struggle, without embarrassment, without pain. ....

I am autism.... I derive great pleasure out of your loneliness. I will fight to take away your hope. I will plot to rob you of your children and your dreams. I will make sure that every day you wake up you will cry, wondering who will take care of my child after I die?  

In 2013, AS issued a "call to action" written by Suzanne Wright:

If three million children in America one day went missing -- what would we as a country do? .... These families are not living. They are existing. Breathing -- yes. Sleeping -- maybe. Working -- most definitely -- 24/7.  This is autism. Life is lived moment-to-moment. In anticipation of the child's next move. In despair. In fear of the future. This is autism.

Following Wright's statement (later removed from the website), the sole autistic in AS's leadership resigned in disgust. 

Autism Speaks has significantly cleaned up its act, and has actually done some good, but only under heavy pressure from the autistic community. The organization has yet to take responsibility for its dark history. And while AS finally conceded that there is no link between autism and vaccines, its priority is still research, lobbying, and education. A whopping 2% of its budget goes toward direct services for families. Far more goes for bloated executive salaries. 

AS buoyantly notes that it took the word "cure" out of its mission statement in 2016, and indeed autistics had been pressing for this because they don't see autism as a defect to be cured. However, AS doesn't acknowledge this perspective. They only say that they've stopped looking for a cure because they don't think they'll find one.

Meanwhile, AS has never allowed more than token representation by autistics on its board. There have never been more than 2 autistics on a board of 28, and currently there's just one. Imagine if the Ms. Foundation had only one woman on its board!

It's also troubling that some of the original board members still serve, and Suzanne Wright continues to be glorified as a hero on the website. So it's no wonder that autistic self advocates continue to condemn the organization. 

All in all, Autism Speaks has a long way to go before I light it up blue in April. 

Prepare to be counted and analyzed. The Donald has found a workaround.

Remember that pesky Census 2020 question about citizenship that Trump wanted to put on the census? And the courts stopped him?

Well, he found a workaround via executive order. And so, on December 20, the Department of Homeland Security quietly released a privacy assessment about an agreement to exchange information with the Census people.

Now, I figured there was something up Trump's sleeve, but I didn't expect it to be this pernicious. This isn't about gathering numbers anymore. It's about Donald Trump's executive agencies specifically matching names, addresses, social security numbers, visa applications, race, etc. etc. to decide whether you -- yes, you personally -- are a citizen of the US. 

Here's some of the language DHS buried in the middle of the report:

     The Census Bureau plans to use several administrative data sources of citizenship and immigration status in a statistical model that will produce a probability of being a U.S. citizen, a lawfully present non-citizen, or an unauthorized immigrant on April 1, 2020, for each person in the 2020 Census. The citizenship and immigration status probabilities will be used together with age, race, ethnicity, and location information from the 2020 Census . . . . 

     ... Person records in each administrative and survey data source, including the 2020 Census, will be validated and assigned a unique person identifier, called a PIK. The PIKs will be used to link each person’s citizenship information to his/her 2020 Census record. The validation process ... involves comparing records received by the Census Bureau to reference files using fields such as SSN or ITIN, name, date of birth, gender, and residential address.  

     ... The model will produce a citizenship and immigration status probabilities for each person, which will then be combined with age, race, ethnicity, and location information from the 2020 Census to produce the CVAP statistics.

In other words, the United States government is going to combine all the information it has about you (which is considerable), and then take a guess as to whether you're here illegally.

What could possibly go wrong?

DHS says that the purpose of this project is "to determine the number of citizens, lawfully present non-citizens, and unauthorized immigrants in the country."

Just the number? Just statistics?

Then why the need to create an identification profile for every single person at every single address?  Just so they can count us?

Or is it so they can go door to door and round up the people they think don't belong here?

It just keeps getting better and better.

AA as patriarchy?

Recently the New York Times ran an opinion piece by Holly Whitaker, a recovering alcoholic, titled "The Patriarchy of AA." Whitaker has been sober since 2013, but she didn't get sober through AA. As a woman in a male-dominated society, she already lacked power and had always been expected to accept things unquestioningly. A 12-step program, then, was the last thing she needed, and so she found sobriety another way.

Her thesis is that the twelve steps, formed within a patriarchical culture, are best designed to break down white male privilege, but can be destructive for women.

Whitaker is careful to point out that AA does work for many people, including many women. But she challenges the assumption that there is only one way to get sober.

And on that point she is absolutely right.

Earlier in my sobriety I felt really threatened by criticism of 12-step programs. For me, it was Stanton Peele's insistence that alcoholism is not a disease and that moderate drinking is an appropriate goal for alcoholics.

Peele's assertions scared me. What if he was right? What if this miraculous new life was an illusion, a mirage, and it would come crashing down because it never really worked to begin with?

Old timers assured me that any alcoholic who tried moderate drinking would fail.

But... what?

Many times I've heard people smugly predict that someone is going to drink again because they're not working the program the "right" way. I've done it myself. Even the founders were guilty of it, bemoaning the fact that an atheist was staying sober month after month.  "When, oh when is that guy going to get drunk?"

It's like we want them to fail. But do we, really? Would we rather the person die of alcoholism than demonstrate that there are other roads to recovery? I certainly hope not.

I no longer freak out if I read something heavily critical of 12-step recovery. I just remind myself that it's right for me. For all I know, it may be the only thing that works for me, so I'm disinclined to experiment. But AA as an organization has never claimed to have a monopoly on sobriety.

Criticism is nothing to be afraid of. It doesn't diminish my recovery in any way, as long as I keep doing what works for me. Recovery is not a zero sum game.

And if someone else finds a different road to recovery?

It means they get a second shot at life, too. And that's worth celebrating.

Kryptonite redux

Well, now. That was self-indulgent, wasn't it? For those who saw my last post (it made it all the way to 7 before I took it down), not to worry.  I'll be talking to the shrink about changing up my meds. And thank you for reining me in.

For those who didn't see it, here are the takeaways: First, our local roundup did a recovery show a few years ago that turned out being pretty magical, and I'm really proud of it because I wrote the original script. And second, Anita Mann is beautiful.

So there ya go. I love you all.