The Political Ones

Sisters are doin’ it for themselves

This post is #36 in a series of 50 dedicated to the art and life of writing, in support of the 50 for 50 Project to benefit WriteGirl. If you like it, or if you think it could have been improved by a better writing education for its author, please give generously. And pass it on.

Not to dismiss the efforts of my writerly gentlemen friends, but yes, I think it’s important to especially promote the writing of women and girls, as well as the tools and practices that get them writing. Anyone who has been a girl who is in class with boys (or, sadly, a woman who is in meetings with men) has at some point experienced the horrible feeling of turning invisible. The more girls (and, subsequently, women) learn to trust in the truth of their own voice and perspective, the more they feel the strength make themselves heard, not fucked with or over.

And so, WriteGirl. And so, Rock Camp for Girls, WriteGirls more musical sister.

And so, The World-Changing Writing Workshop, which is open to men, certainly, but was created by two very special freaky and awesome ladies for the benefit of people who might not feel the courage to be heard without the right encouragement. As I’ve mentioned earlier, all of my proceeds will go towards 50-for-50 for the rest of the campaign, and half of Pace & Kyeli’s, through today. (You can also get a pretty sweet deal on it through today. Just sayin’.)

We grow up believing in what we see, and we see what the people who came just before us created. I’m sorry to have created so many distressing images for girls and women via my participation in the advertising-industrial complex, and am working hard now to empower this next generation to grow up smarter and stronger than I by creating a better environment for them to soak in. I agree that the Internet has opened up vast opportunities for women and girls; yes, there are still wretched, unhappy creeps who single out women for attack, but we will not be silenced. We will write and we will talk and we will fight. We will not stand down, we will create and share and spread the tales of adventures and derring-do to nourish the next generation.

And you can take that shit to the bank.


The love you take

the author and members of

This post is #1 in a series of 50 dedicated to the art and life of writing, in support of the 50 for 50 Project to benefit WriteGirl. If you like it, or if you think it could have been improved by a better writing education for its author, please give generously. And pass it on.

Almost four years ago to the day, I went to a lunch that changed my life.

The organizer, Bob McBarton, had been after me (gently) to attend one of his literary “salons” for some time. Every time I read the email announcements, I was tempted: he brought in some really fantastic people to talk books, politics, and culture, around a pretty sweet table.1

But when I’d look at the accompanying attendee list, always lengthy Word attachments, to accommodate the weight of the bios, I’d chicken out. Never mind the guest speakers, even the attendees were luminaries in their various fields, each of them hugely accomplished, and in “real” endeavors, not this b.s. futzing around I’d done in advertising and acting and my silly little blog. They’d published books (multiple books, in some cases) tried significant cases, produced award-winning films, run cities. One of them had overcome physical obstacles that made my Crohn’s onset look like a paper cut, and gone on to succeed in multiple high-profile positions in multiple incredibly tough-to-crack industries.

Finally, though, my curiosity got the better of me, and I went. I wound up seated between the mayor of a nearby town and a couple of nice, unassuming ladies in the general vicinity of my age. Of course, I was way too uninformed to talk about the homeless problem with hizzoner, so I turned my attention to the women, Keren Taylor and Allison Deegen, the executive and associate directors, respectively, of a local nonprofit called WriteGirl. They’d spent the better part of the past six years helping hundreds of teenage girls not only get through high school and into college, but become confident, well-read, joyous communicators.

I was talking about changing the world through writing; they were doing it.

One girl at a time.

* * * * *

There’s a little test I use when I’m coming up with something, an essay, a song, a poem, a talk, and trying to get at a Truly True Truth: if it makes me either (1), laugh out loud; or (2), burst into tears, it’s a keeper. Because as you well know if you’ve ever lived through a highly emotional time, an illness, a death, a natural disaster, a knock-down-drag-out with your honey, laughter and tears sit so close to each other, they might as well be making out in the balcony.

I have cried at every WriteGirl workshop I’ve been to. I’ve also rarely laughed so joyously as I have there, nor felt more hope for humanity. These are amazing girls, all of them. They vary in their levels of introversion and extraversion, boldness and shyness, just like the rest of us, but each of them has been 100% present and committed at every workshop I’ve been to. They throw themselves into the exercises, even when the exercises challenge them or feel a little weird at first. They show up, week after week, to work with their mentors in between the monthly group workshops. They engage, they ask questions, they play, and they write. Oh, boy do they write, and how. You want to laugh and cry, brother, you get yourself to a WriteGirl meeting.2

No less amazing are the women who volunteer their time to mentor the girls, to organize the workshops, to corral the bazillion details that go into running an organization like this. Need I tell you that money is always, always tight? It is. What Keren and her team manage to do on the money they receive is matched only by the astounding calm with which they manage the constant doubt of where the next buck is coming from.

For once, I want these wonderful women not to worry: I want them to know that $50,000 is coming, and in 50 days, and from you. From us.

* * * * *

Did you know that everyone and his brother’s band is doing a Kickstarter-type campaign these days? It’s true, look it up.

Well, I’m throwing my hat into the ring. And possibly what’s directly beneath it.3

For my 50th birthday, I want to raise $50,000 for WriteGirl. In 50 days. So let’s get cracking.

There’s an IndieGoGo page you should go to right now. You’ll see various giveaways for various contribution levels.

Some of it is new and fun and exceptionally affordable. I had a number of designer and artist friends whip up some custom desktop wallpapers. There are MP3s! Of some of your favorite songs, and some of mine, all from women artists!

Some of it is stuff you cannot get anywhere else. Most pointedly, I do not do any copywriting anymore, but for a price, you can hire me to write your bio. Or your own silly-but-effective anthem, or your own poem that will make you cry. (Or one of the girls will, your choice!)

Or, if you’re really loaded and looking for a way to relieve yourself of $50,000 in a hurry, I will dedicate my first book to you. (Which would also mean I’d feel obligated to finally put one out there, so if you’re one of the people who’ve been patiently waiting and you have a friend with 50,000 spare dollars, hit ’em up.)

You can also donate without taking a “gimme,” if you’re so inclined. Or buy something as a gift for someone else, their own personalized-by-me Field Notes book, for example. An anniversary or birthday song. A love poem. It would be very much in the whole giving-is-getting spirit of things.

Which brings me to my last point: this is not for me, but it is entirely for me.

* * * * *

This whole project has been a combination of long-term thinking and short-term scramble.

Amazingly, so far, things have been falling into place, but that’s the angels’ work, not mine. Because while I was not too scared to envision myself bald, or even to envision raising what is, and there’s no other way to put this, a fuckton of money in an insanely short time, I was too scared until recently to ask for help.

When I finally did, the most amazing thing of all happened: people said “yes.” My friend Mike Monteiro said, Yes, I’ll make another run of the “Old” t-shirts for you, and we’ll give all the money to the girls. (link coming soon!) My friend-turned-client Jean MacDonald said, Yes, you can give away copies of TextExpander, how many do you want? Jim Coudal said, Yes you can have a bunch of Field Notes, and by the way, you might want to customize them, and here’s what we use.

My friends Lisa and Heather said, Yes, we’ll make a video, and you can stay at our place while we shoot. My friend Jennifer offered up her house for the party, her HOUSE.

My friends Jason & Jodi and Peleg and Judy and Adam immediately pledged financial support, and in amounts that took my breath away. My friend Tim offered up his team to build the website and then, when I waited too long and missed my window, my other friend Gabriel stepped in to save me. Every friend I’ve approached, Danielle and Dyana, Alice and Eden, Pace & Kyeli, Michelle and Jill, Josh and Donna, plus dozens more I’m forgetting now and hundreds more who signed up for the early notification list said, Yes, we’ll help you, and yes, we’ll get that money for these girls.

As I’ve said about myself before, I’m a pretty loquacious motherfucker, but when it comes to describing how this outpouring of love and support have affected me, I am at a loss for actual words.4 They’re inadequate, or at least, they are in this form and in this moment when I am, to put it mildly, somewhat knackered.

That I have such friends and in such quantities is remarkable. What is left now is for me to rise to the occasion, to try being just as remarkable.

For the next 50 days, I will be blogging and emailing and tweeting and calling. I will lay aside my fear of asking and ask. Oh, boy, will I ask!

And at the end of this road, whether I fail or succeed at raising every cent of this money, and don’t kid yourself, failure is always an option, if I have given it my all, I will receive my gift: to have given my all in pursuit of something greater than me.

But DAMN, I want the money for those girls, too. So let’s get crackin’, shall we?


Things you can do right now to support the “50 for 50” Project:

1Hey, food counts. Just sayin’.

2Of course, if you’re actually a brother, you’ll have to take my word for it. It’s a dude-free zone, except for a few actors who volunteer to play the male roles in the presentation at the end of the screenwriting workshop.

3That’s right: if we raise the whole $50K, I’m shaving my head at the culminating shindig. BALD, BABY. To the skin.

4Laughing and incoherent blubbering, however, I have been doing quite a bit. I can barely open up my email these days without bursting into tears of joy. This is a mighty fine thing, although it draws stares in coffee shops.

Life in the silo

drawing of commuter with earphones ignoring panhandler

I believe in the essential goodness of people.

I may forget it here and there, when I’m pressed for time, or not well-rested/-fed/-clothed, or when some deep, emotional trigger gets pulled. But usually, and fairly quickly, I recognize these lapses as such. They’re my (temporary) deviations from an essentially optimistic, basically loving worldview, brought on by my own forgetfulness in administering self-care.

What reels me back in varies, but the underlying, foundational bit of knowledge I’m operating from goes something like this:

I do not change the world I live in by reacting to it like a jackass, except for the worst.

This is not a bad thing to keep in mind all the time (along with useful stuff like “breathe!” and “stop!” and “when’s the last time you ate, anyway?”), but it’s a really, really good thing for me to remember when something awful happens. It is quick and easy to reach for anger, for outrage, for righteous indignation. There they are, all handy and stuff, just like the drive-thru window of your favorite fast-food place. And hey, everyone else is at the fast-food place, right? Damn right! That’s why this #$@(!) line is so long! *HONK!* *HO-O-O-O-ONK!*

At a little gathering this weekend, someone reminded me of a great assessment device for making sound decisions: what would your future self want?

Will your future self be happy that you shaved a half-hour off of your afternoon by picking up Extra-Value Meal #9? Or would your future self prefer to continue fitting comfortably in her pants, remaining ambulatory and independent into her dotage, continuing to poop from her factory-installed organs?*

The nice thing about this kind of projection is that it is easily (okay, SIMPLY) reframed to encompass more and more compassion and awareness as I get better at it. Does my future self want to wade through a world thigh-deep in single-use plastic? Or, how might my future self feel explaining to her theoretical nieces and nephews as we all munch dejectedly on our Soylent Green that yeah, we could sure use some of those resources my cohort and I burned through, but man, were those burgers fast-‘n’-tasty! And, as you see, so on.

I am not always the best at considering Future Colleen. Far from it. One thing that really seems to help is keeping myself a wee bit uncomfortable. Not in a martyr-ish way, necessarily, although putting a cap on the thermostat, or asking whether you really need this or that important doodad, doesn’t hurt. (More on that, and 2011’s theme of Conscious Stewardship, to come.)

No, I’m talking about the discomfort involved in stepping out of the silo and bumping up against my fellow man. I dread the thought of socializing. Amazingly, more and more the actual experience usually varies from “pretty good” to “awesome,” but even if it’s objectively a low-grade Torquemada-fest of enervation or bombastery, if I can muster the right mindset, it’s usually enlightening and it’s always strengthening.

There are degrees of this, then, too, bumping up against lots and lots of my fellow men, in small groups and the occasional noisy crowd. Meeting them on their home turf. Acting as leader, or hostess. Things that are terrifying, at first, but that one gets better at. No, really. I’m not just a reasonably assimilated introvert; I’m so acclimated now that more often than not, I pass for extravert.

Achieving even this level of comfort took years of assiduous plugging away: Nerdmasters; networking practice, under the kind and patient tutelage of another reformed introvert; hurling myself again and again into scary, unfamiliar circumstances. In other words, not easy, not overnight. But oh, so well worth it.

I know how annoying it is hearing people parrot platitudes like “Be the change!”, especially on Twitter or Facebook. Knee-jerk anything is suspect, save perhaps the impulse to throw oneself under a future bus to save one’s theoretical niece or nephew. But at almost-50, and having foregone a great deal of potential income in favor of exploring more existential concerns, I think I’ve earned the tiniest right to suggest that maybe, just maybe, this lack of tolerance thing is kinda-sorta becoming a problem. And that perhaps, just perhaps, we might do well to bring a bit of awareness to it. That’s all. I don’t have a handy app or pledge page for this; just raising a thought. Maybe we could start small (it’s usually best, in my old-lady opinion) by listening more. Literally.

There are all kinds of ways to start. Anything, I think, can be a start, provided you’re bringing a loving intention to it.

Me, I’m going to go out and meet up with some people this week. Some old friends, some new ones. Maybe even some weird ones. (It’s L.A., so definitely some weird ones.)

Because I have a silo, but I live in a world. Your world, my world, our world…


*On the other hand, if you’re opting for the Filet-o’-Fish rather than ripping someone’s head off and crapping down their neck, your future self thanks you, as does mine. It also gently and lovingly suggests you bring some attention to this “solution,” and start exploring alternatives.

UPDATE [1/10]: A lucid, thoughtful, somewhat charged (he’s blunt, folks!) piece by Jon Armstrong on the genesis and implications of the Giffords shooting; his wife Heather Armstrong also has a short but very touching post on what I think is one excellent way to move forward.

UPDATE [1/11]: Another excellent piece by Penelope Trunk on the role mental illness played both in the shooting and the tragic story of Bill Zeller. Link to Zeller’s lengthy, sad and well-written suicide note via the previous link, or this MetaFilter post, or directly on this Gizmodo post and Zeller’s site (as of this writing, anyway). My favorite takeaway from this horrible series of events came from a comment on the MetaFilter post:

The best I can do with something like this is to remember to always be nicer, because you truly never know what someone may be dealing with inside.

If I could make just that change, I think I could call this a live well-lived.

UPDATE [1/12]: Via Jeffrey Zeldman on Twitter, a very sharp op-ed in the NY Times on the role fear plays in all of this, and a reiteration that this is not a left/right issue, but an issue of thoughtful engagement vs. fear-mongering, isolationism and other insalubrious human tendencies.

Image by sillygwailio via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Frrrrriday Rrrrroundup! #26

two babies in costume staring at each other

An end-of-weekly roundup collecting fffffive of the fffffantabulous things I find stumbling around the web. Keep up with them day-to-day on one of the many other Internet outlets I stop by (or tweet at) during my daily travels. More about the genesis here.

A journalist explains why he is (mostly) giving up being a blogger. [delicious]

A brutal but canny analysis of the “progress” indicated by the types of women gaining “power”. (If the obviously sarcastic quotation marks didn’t already tip you off, not much.) [Google Reader-ed]

Terrific slide decks that demonstrate the elasticity of the medium. Plus, you’ll learn a bunch of cool stuff! [Stumbled via Heather Parlato]

Video proof of the greatest dog ever? [Facebook-ed]


Image by juhansonin via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Overcoming overwhelm one straw at a time

trash piled high on top of a garbage bin

I spent the better part of the weekend immersed in garbage.

The garbage in question was plastic, specifically, the vast quantities of plastic pollution that are turning up everywhere: on beaches, in “far away” landfills,* in swirling aquatic gyres, and yes, even in our bodies. The immersion technique was an all-day event here in Los Angeles, the TEDxGreatPacificGarbagePatch conference.

And even though 12 hours in a room with 100 people is like Death By Extraversion for a freaky INFJ like me, it really was the better part of my weekend. Better even than being treated to a Houston’s burger and a Sunday-afternoon matinée of The Social Network by my bestie, L.A. Jan, and that was pretty damned great. Because while it is always shocking and frequently painful to be woken up, to be given the tools of change so lovingly and thoughtfully and brilliantly is overwhelming in the good way.

The facts are overwhelming in the bad way. A floating island twice the size of Texas in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Babies born with plastic in their blood. Birds dead with plastic in their bellies. As a similarly shell-shocked friend and I joked morbidly during a break in the onslaught, you could count at least one slide in each presentation to send you spiraling down the vortex of “We’re f*cked.”

We may be. but that’s not the point. I mean, a gigantic asteroid could take us all out tomorrow morning, but that doesn’t mean we should all act like assholes tonight, right? Okay, false analogy. How about this, friends of change: you will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever get done all of the things you want to do in this lifetime; does that mean you shouldn’t try?

Change sucks! Change is awesome!

For most of us, most kinds of change require a delicate balance of incremental application and wholesale commitment. Even when I uncharacteristically changed like THAT, chucking my cigarettes, say, or switching to the Specific Carbohydrate Diet 100% in an afternoon, there was always a trail of trigger events leading up to the change itself, and a long, long haul of re-aligning my thoughts and actions afterward. There’s backsliding, too, and setbacks. I fell off the 100%-SCD wagon a little, then a lot, but I learned a little, then a lot, and six years later, I’m back on again.

So perhaps it will be more useful to focus on what you can do. It was definitely the part of the day that I found most inspiring, all the stories of people who woke up, one way or another, to the problem and immediately set themselves to the challenge of becoming the solution. Artist Dianna Cohen morphed into activist Dianna Cohen when the discarded plastic she used to make her art started breaking down, and she started to learn what that meant. Beth Terry, accountant, turned into Beth Terry, agent of change, when she saw a picture of a dead bird filled filled with discarded plastic. Teenager Jordan Howard became leader-of-teens, and aspiring teens, and long-retired teens, Jordan Howard after waking up in a class about sustainability. So many inspiring stories, so little time to time to get moving.

One straw at a time.

I am no hero. My house is filled with plastic, as is my life in general. And this, from someone who (usually) carries an aluminum water bottle and refillable hot cup. I’m a little better than I was, and I have a long way to go. Still, because I know myself and my easily overwhelmed nature, I will start small: no more straws.

I became a huge fan of the bendy straw during my hospitalization back in 2002, when they were the only way (outside of an IV, which is NO fun) to reliably get liquid from a container into my body. During my convalescence, they comforted me, having a bendy straw in my water or juice or smoothie not only helped increase my consumption of liquids, but reminded me in a deep, Proustian way of being cared for by my grandparents as a child. I got hooked, and well after becoming well, the bendy straw remained ubiquitous in my drinking life. If it was 80ºF or under, I used a bendy straw to get it into my gullet. Even though I used the same straw for days weeks, okay, MONTHS, I was still aware that it was a foolish extravagance from an environmental standpoint.**

So effective immediately, I am forgoing my very favorite single-use plastic, the straw, at home, or out and about. Yesterday afternoon, I asked for my iced tea at Houston’s without a straw, and as you can see, I’ve lived to tell the tale. I will bundle up the couple dozen remaining bendy straws and see if I can’t donate them to some crafty type, maybe one of the people who make this stuff. Right now, I’m test-driving the reusable glass one that came packed in the swag bags, but should I find myself outside of sipping distance, I will not cave. As one of the speakers pointed out, there are people all over the world who are able to take a drink from a glass WITHOUT A STRAW when they find themselves thirsty.

My head is awash with thoughts about what to do next, and I have several ideas for projects around this that I might like to implement at some point. Fun projects that might help spread the word and make it easier for other slower-adopters like me make the change. “More soon!” as they say.

For now, though, I’ll leave you with this short collection of places to start looking at the problem of plastic pollution in a way that will inform and aid without overwhelming. As people who’ve been down this road before said, the point is not to depress yourself; it’s to arm yourself for action.

  • Fake Plastic Fish’s Plastic-Free Guide :: A really, really long list of mostly small changes you can make NOW to start reducing your plastic consumption. Some are really easy! Some are not, for now! Beth Terry’s excellent site also contains lots of great resources on alternative products, plus inspiring stories and great info.
  • Plastic Pollution Coalition :: Collaborative effort between scientists, businesses, social activists, educators and concerned individuals to protect Earth and her inhabitants by ending plastic pollution. Terrific, deep resources, well-designed and laid out.
  • How to Avoid Bisphenol A :: I’m old, but if you’re not, or in charge of young people, you ought to educate yourself about this immediately. As in, don’t even worry about the straws and the sporks until you get this toxin out of your life.
  • And of course, for the morbidly curious, more depressing statistics than you can shake a spork at, if that’s what gets you moving.

If you have resources, stories or other inspiring bits of something to share, please please please do so in the comments, where other people can find them. THANK YOU.


*As was pointed out often over the course of the day, “away” is always somewhere, and much of the stuff we dump “away” ends up right back in our own backyard.

**I am not sure whether my eco-sponsor, Wayne, was more appalled by my use of plastic straws in general, or my highly unsanitary re-use of the same one over and over. What can I say? Even the compulsively tidy have their area of disgustingness.

Image by woodley wonderworks via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Poetry Thursday: Crowdedness and roominess


I hear
there is a magical place of ease
of grace
of flowingness
where one’s mind is like water
one’s desk is, like, clean
and shit gets done
by the bucketload
without the effort
ever feeling effortful.

I have bought
the occasional day pass
to this magical place
only to be called back
by sudden conflagration
or cold-sweat-panic
to the Land of the Exploding To-Do List

I love the idea
of me as Zen monk
as Mr. Miyagi
as Peaceful Warrior
but not enough
it seems
to do the heavy lifting
or the letting go
which is heavy lifting
of another color

So for now I will simply
observe myself
dealing with crowdedness
dabbling in roominess
and leave it at that
trusting that somewhere
between the waves
of crowdedness
and roominess
I will find my balance
or make my peace
with the lack of it

I’m fairly certain
is just balance
of another color

Image by brtsergio via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The Road, Part One: Strong opinions, fervently held


The BF and I returned today from a long trip through the desert (and back through the desert). In the home stretch, we were listening to This American Life podcasts, including one very funny one called “This I Used to Believe,” which was a gentle slam on the NPR series of a similar name, This I Believe, and which was far, far better than the oft-mawkish (and sometimes just bizarre) original. (Although I will go on record immediately and loudly as being pro-TIB or anything else that gets people thinking and writing thoughtfully about their lives.)

At one point in the show, Ira Glass gets interviewed by Jay Allison, the guy who led the team at This I Believe, and asked what, if anything, he believed in. (This is what happens when radio producers meet other radio producers, I guess.) It was asked in the context of why Glass had never contributed, something which Glass himself claimed to have wondered from time to time while listening to the show, and what Glass came up with I thought was rather interesting: although as a young man he had believed in a great deal, often with a fervor bordering on obnoxiousness, as he grew older, he didn’t think he believed in anything, which is something that deeply resonated with me.

I, too, was a righteously indignant, bordering-on-obnoxious believer (although not a Believer) in my youth, by which I mean, “until I turned 41.” There was no opportunity I’d pass over to stand up and tell people what I believed in (and, implicitly, what I was POSITIVE they should); after my umpteenth attempt at proselytizing disguised as “sketch comedy”, a hilarious (not) piece about a former prostitute who’d given up the game running into her old pimp, where “prostitute” was “copywriter” and “game” was “advertising”, a good-natured friend dubbed me “Soapbox Girl.” Which, of course, I took umbrage at. Much of my old journaling is painful to look at not for the endless spooning over boys who quite clearly were not, in the parlance of today, that into me, but for the mind-blowing bloviating I indulged in.

Province of youth, I suppose (although there are an awful lot of old bloviators whose humility hormones never seemed to kick in). You get older, and if you don’t spend all your waking hours watching stuff on TiVo, reading  crappy novels or going to MLM meetings, you get wiser, too. Or you don’t, and maybe you end up an apoplectic old man in a Kingman, AZ, diner raging against The Gays for not letting that nice Miss California have her say (it’s her say, right? it’s just her opinion, and this is still America, right?) as your wife tries to reason you down off the ledge.

Honestly, who can blame us? It’s not like we’re raised with lots of “strong opinions, loosely held” teaching in this country (the U.S. of A., for those of you who aren’t reg’lar readers). Come to think of it, I’m not sure who is: some of us grow up hearing a lot of lip service to things like “tolerance” and “to each his own,” but there are an awful lot of qualifiers. Some things can’t be tolerated, as it turns out, because they’re an affront at least and an abomination at worst. Gay people, for example, should no more be allowed to marry than black people should be allowed to co-mingle with whites, or women allowed to own property. If you look at it really closely, the one thing you can really believe about holding tight to opinions is that it causes distress somewhere down the line, to someone or another.

I hate to say I believe in nothing, and I’m not even sure it’s true. I believe that nothing is permanent, that everything changes. I’m ramping up to a belief in love over hate always, although let the wrong old man say the wrong thing at a diner in Kingman and, as the song sez, see how love flies out the door.

I do know that if I can’t see in my heart to see past my own rage and feel compassion for that man, and to understand him and where he’s coming from, I’m not ever going to be able to communicate with him. And if I can’t be around certain people, what the hell kind of communicatrix am I, much less person?

For now, I say I know enough to know I don’t know much. And I’m working on the beliefs thing.

Oh, and Ira? It turns out he does believe in one thing: that the car is the very best place to listen to the radio.

This, I believe…


Image by demi-brooke via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.