I was hoping for a flawless trip up here - and when I say up here, I mean up here. Squirrel Island is roughly 3,000 miles northeast of San Diego, and let me emphasize the north part. It takes planes, buses, subways, cars, and finally a boat to reach this remote slice of nature that somehow manages to feel like a summer camp for adults.
Add the task of transporting my 90-year-old mother and little Reggie the dog, and the journey takes on a bit more weight. My mother was eager to escape the heat of Harvard, Massachusetts. Perhaps turning on the central air conditioning could have taken the edge off, but let's not get crazy. She was wilting, and I agreed that a cooler climate was the best prescription.
But first I had to get everyone packed.
I often and willingly confess that I am a challenged packer, and this trip was no exception. I probably dreamt it, but I thought I had an entire wardrobe waiting for me in the East. No such luck. I packed an abundance of T-shirts and shorts, but somehow failed on the warmer essentials like pants and sweatshirts. I also missed the opportunity to pack such minor necessities as underwear and swimsuits. Once again, my packing incompetence proved to be an excellent investment strategy - for Jeff Bezos.
My mom’s packing was a more serious matter because of her medications. She gets understandably anxious about it all, so we take our time and make sure everything is there. She often asks, like every 5 minutes, “Is my medicine is in the car?” and each time I show her the bag and reassure her. It is a ritual born of necessity and worry.
As for Reggie, he has his own requirements. His monthly medication of the all-important Lyme and tic repellent pill go into the medical bag. Ideally, he would also have a sweater, a few favorite toys, and his bed. Naturally, I forgot all of them. Reggie, however, appears willing to forgive me, provided there is plenty of rotisserie chicken in his future.
My mom had waited all winter to get to the island. It is was she lived for. And she made it. The house was perfect thanks to the fabulous Mouse Trapping Truck Guys and our ace cleaner, Jen. But the shocker was that there was no jubilation. No smile of triumph.  I chalked it up to exhaustion and the journey. But the next day wasn’t any different. Mid-afternoon she quietly confessed that her breathing felt off, and oh, by the way, it had been off for several days. 
Several days?
Seriously? We had just left a major metropolitan area where there is a hospital every few miles and a CVS on practically every corner to come to a tiny island off the coast of Maine, where getting to the nearest emergency room is another odyssey. And it never occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, it might have been a good idea to get the breathing problem checked out before we embarked on this little adventure?
Apparently that was not part of the travel itinerary.
I had to step outside for a moment to collect myself. This was not exactly the island arrival I had imagined. Day two found us retracing our steps, golf cart, boat car. We headed to urgent care. The saving grace was the tide - high tide. The long ramp down to the dock was manageable with my mom's walker, which at low tide would have been a very different story.
It was early enough in the season so the waiting room was not packed and she was seen quickly; or maybe its just that 90-year old's with breathing problems take president. The doctor, who looked young enough to be carded, loaded her up with prescriptions. Then it was back the way we came. It was less "welcome to summer" and more "The Amazing Race: Geriatric Edition."
By Day Three, I was seriously questioning my life choices. Then Reggie insisted on his morning walk. The lilacs were blooming, the lupine were showing off, and before long friends started drifting onto our porch. Somewhere between the sea air, the laughter, and the boxed wine, I found myself feeling joy again.
Getting to Squirrel Island is an ordeal on a good day. But once the island works its magic, you remember exactly why it's worth every plane, train, automobile...and boat.
Fingers crossed there are no more emergency trips to the mainland. The Truck Guys have us wired in, my mother is breathing easier, and I now keep one eye on the tide chart and the other on my 90-year-old mother.
More to come...
 
 

​It had been a long time since I’d done laundry. My time in Rome had come to an end.
Leaving felt like the end of camp, though I was never good at camp. My one attempt, a two-week Girl Scout camp when I was ten, was a disaster. I spent every meal hiding under the dining room table, crying. I was too homesick. But most kids love camp and are sad to leave; that was the feeling I had leaving the Academy.
Living in a palazzo, spending my days hiking up and down the streets of Rome, looking at art, meeting unbelievably smart and artistic people, all while being served fabulous food and wine – what’s not to love?
The palazzo was like a dorm, if dorms came with history, elegance, and weekly fresh linens.  I had my own bathroom and my suite had soaring ceilings and beautiful windows with electric shades that could turn my bedroom into a cave. It was heaven.
Despite my questionable start and confusion as to why no one spoke to me, I loved being at the Academy. I buckled down, found my daily rhythm and discovered the speaking participants. My friend group grew daily. During my last week, I met perhaps one of the coolest people I have ever encountered, (Trent Crimm among them.) This man was the Academy’s superstar - he won the mega Rome Prize which is basically the Super Bowl of art.  Wildly impressive. And he spoke to me. And I mostly understood what he was working on. A win all around.
And I got to see more of the super NYC couple. They opened their studio to everyone, and were excellent sources of restaurant recommendations and stair climbing workout locations. Their partnership and respect for each other’s art was inspiring.
There was also the fabulous staff who recognized that my group had an appreciation for red wine and graciously let us linger after dinners.
Reverse packing and leaving were hard. I delayed as long as possible, secretly hoping blizzard #1 slamming New England would strand me in London for a few days. No such luck. And no smooth sailing. A twenty-hour journey dumped me in the thick of blizzard #2 in Boston; if it were not for a tenacious Lyft driver, I would have spent the night propping up the wall at the Alewife Duncan Donuts.  When I finally made it to my mom’s I was physically battered and stressed. I was also stunned by the sheer amount of snow on the ground which only cemented my committed to life in Southern Cal.
My mom keeps asking me, “Was it worth it?”
It is hard to explain why being there mattered so much – the solitude, the unbroken hours for my art, the freedom to wander and be moved, the friendships. All of it woven together.
But if I had to sum it up, to name the magic, the thing that stays with me, it was this – being involved in a respectful space among people who, like me, have given their lives to the arts.
I am not alone.
Priceless. 

​Unlike Southern California where everyone wants recognition and their name up in lights, the people here at the Academy prefer to remain invisible, both in print or in person.  Heads are down in the hallways. In my blog, I was politely asked to change names and avoid referencing individuals altogether. At this point, I can only assume that this art gig is a front and that I am a minor pawn in a palazzo filled with CIA, M16 and AISE agents. Strangely, this theory brings me great comfort. These people are frighteningly intelligent; that level of brainpower combined with the arts feels like a recipe for saving the world. So we have that going for us.
Meanwhile, the Brits have arrived – not Daniel Craig or Idris Elba - but my two fab friends who bopped over from London to play tourists with me. Like me, this is their first trip to Rome, and they are just as wide-eyed and impressed. Steve loves a paper map and I love my phone, so between us we have successfully navigated the cobblestones and hit the major hot spots; we waved to the Pope, endured an enthusiastically and excessively informative tour of the Colosseum, and, of course sampled the local wines.  Jo, meanwhile, is our secret weapon and scout. She has an uncanny talent to locating tea and timely meals - wonderful not to have make those clutch decisions. "No reservation, no problem."
And the Brits love to walk. We meander through back alleys and parks, climb endless stairs, and keep exploring. Museums are not really their thing but they are always game to duck into a church to see which crucifixion or Madonna is on display. Once inside, we all crane our necks at the wildly ambitious ceiling art. There is so much going on above our heads it is nearly impossible to absorb it all. I remain convinced these churches should provide beach chairs so that visitors can lie down and properly surrender to the spectacle.
Today they are off in search of green space while I do some of the work I proposed to do while here. Focus remains elusive. I keep telling myself I will process all these visuals later when I am back in my studio, far from the palazzo and the watchful eyes of a network of secret agents. 

I feared a repeat of graduate school – but to be fair, stunning and elegant Rome in 2026 is a far cry from cracked-out and dreary Bedford-Stuyvesant in the early 90’s. The point being, I went to art school expecting it to feel like undergrad, imaging wonderfully fun people ready to be my friends. I thought it would be a group endeavor, that we would all be sitting around laughing and sharing paints. The reality was competitive, unfriendly, and isolating. After a two-year slog to get my MFA, I emerged with exactly 2 friends, one of whom was from Finland.  
Luckily, after a chilly start, the warmer Italian winds prevailed and on day two at “orientation” I met Astrid.  Orientation consisted of just the two of us, and the minute we met I think we both sighed with relief, I know I did. Astrid liked to chat.
We toured the building, the grounds, the famous library; I nodded earnestly while feigning interest in the garbage and recycling center. Our friendship was sealed when the tour entered the laundry room. The room was occupied by a single person ironing when our guide asked if she minded our coming in so that the laundry facilities could be explained. The ironer shot us a look like we were interrupting her soliloquy at Shakespeare’s Globe. Who doesn’t welcome someone in a laundry room? Astrid and I shot each other a glance and just like that our friendship was cemented.
Despite the unwelcoming vibe, I studied the room closely. I love laundry. I don’t merely enjoy it; I am a laundry fanatic. If I did not live in a drought area and had my own laundry machine, I would do a load of laundry once a day. It is so satisfying. This may be genetic. My dad loved doing laundry too. He was an excellent folder, a talent immediately undone by what followed. Instead of placing the freshly folded clothes neatly on a bed or bureau, he used the moment as throwing practice, wildly flinging them in the general direction. Still, clean clothes are clean clothes and I remained appreciative.
But maybe it was the curmudgeonly ironer, or the fact that paying required an app on my phone, or the absence of cute little boxes of detergent, the laundry situation failed to speak to me. I decided that I would be washing my clothes out in the sink.
The great news, with Astrid as a friend, dinner became a breeze. Not only was she interesting and interested, she liked wine - red or white, no debates required. We were joined by other newcomers; a Northern Californian who is good company and a fabulous couple from New York whose stories I have only begun to discover, and apparently karate an boxing are involved.
Our pod continues to grow.
The funny thing is that any person I meet, by the second encounter, knows everything about me. It is as if they work for the CIA and are quietly running background checks. This is definitely the land of overachievers. One new friend asked a thoughtful question about a painting I did twenty years ago; I had no idea which one she meant but I faked it and said it was a response to the political environment of the time. I kept a straight face so I think she bought it.
With friendships and laundry settled, I can now fully focus on the art. 

Day One
When I was roughly 12 years old, I announced that I wanted to be a diver. This declaration followed three consecutive summers of domination at the Veasy Regatta diving contest. Off a non-springy diving board mounted on a wooden float, I had mastered a jack-knife and a back dive. My competition were mostly front divers with their legs splayed. I grew cocky.
When summer ended, I was eager to develop this talent further. My dad was not one to settle for the local YMCA diving team, no, he signed me up for a state team that required try-outs. On a chilly fall day, he and I headed to the Harvard University pool. It boasted an impressive array of springy boards at varying heights, along with a dozen young athletes who would have given Greg Louganis a run for his money. These kids could flip and twist and half gainer until the cows came home. My carefully pointed toes on my front dive did not impress.
I can still feel the horror of realizing I was so far out of my league that I searched for a corner to crawl into. At the Harvard pool tryouts my solution was to change roles and to play hostess; I ushered the real divers to cut in line in front of me so I would not have to dive. This strategy won me temporary friends, but not teammates. I was in over my head.
My first dinner at the American Academy in Rome gave me that same gutted-to-the-core feeling, or as my dad would say, I was too far out over your skis.
I arrived in Rome after my exhilarating two days in Venice. The train south was flawless and I was giddy with excitement when I arrived at the Academy. My room, the grounds, Rome itself – everything was incredible! Dinner was to be served at 8pm. Naturally I arrived at 7:45pm. I was alone. Not a soul in sight. I assumed this mixed-up communication was my fault but the cook assured me dinner would commence soon.
At exactly at 8pm the crowd arrived. All types. Every one of them waltzed past me without so much as a nod of recognition. As I entered the dining room and quickly surveyed the scene, I had to make a crash-course strategic decision – do I sit with the older crowd - or do I choose the youth group that had a bit of a spring to their step?
I chose youth. Bad decision. 
Immediately I sensed trouble when the wine bottle remained untouched and no one offered to pass it. I tried to engage, but it was far from my A-game. I was overstimulated with Rome, jetlagged from my train journey, and more than a little parched. When the conversation turned to linguistics and the relationship between Latin and Japanese, I froze. My mind raced, searching for something – anything - I could contribute. Would they be interested in Ricky Martin’s upcoming tour? A healthier twist on California rolls made with cauliflower rice?  When they started speaking Latin and Japanese, I summoned the courage to ask for the wine bottle.
I felt defeated. After dinner I consulted my brother. He informed me that when I talk about art, it doesn’t always make sense to everyone. He suggested that I sit and listen.
Ahhhh, then the obvious hit me, I am here to learn.
Skis on.

​Packing and Haunted Hotel
I am a notoriously poor packer. It is not an over-packing situation; it is a having-the-wrong-clothes and forgetting-stuff situation. It used to stress me out but I now accept this character flaw and I embrace shopping. I am not hiking the Himalayans - most places have stores.
My latest adventure posed some challenges. A San Diego starting point, grey and freezing New England for the holidays, then three weeks at the American Academy in Rome, with a stop-over in Venice. I own many suitcases and they reside in many locations; inconveniently, my large suitcase did not return from summer holiday on the east so I departed with a carry-on.
The topper was my unfortunate holiday shopping spree two days before departure when I purchased a new tea kettle for my mother because obviously, they do not sell tea kettles in Boston…that kissed half my space goodbye. The remaining space was claimed by art supplies and shoes. I had effectively screwed myself packing-wise from the get go.
Once in Boston, while negotiating the ice, wind, snow, and emotional fun over the holidays, I hit TJ Maxx for help. The problem is that I am far too southern Cal, I cannot embrace sweaters or turtlenecks and in December in New England, that is what is offered. I did find a hearty rain coat so with my Vuori sweat jacket, new Costco Puma’s, a wannabe Louis Vuitton scarf, and a decent pair of jeans, I had the basics. Shopping in Rome now topped my list, followed by haircut - then all that Vatican, Colosseum, Pantheon stuff.
On a bitter January day, I left my mom and Reggie, boarded for the friendly skies, and placed my faith into two things – air travel and a Patriots Sunday win.
Venice
Venice – what a gem! It blew my mind. Of course I had seen pictures of Venice, but to be there, a completely different story! It is sinking, it is crowded, it is confusing – and it is magical. Any city with no cars and strong commitment to boats immediately has my heart.
My great friend and ace travel agent, Jonathan, once again delivered - an affordable hotel in the thick of it, breakfast included. The only challenge was finding it. As I wandered the alleys trying to figure out what direction I was heading in and cursing myself for not purchasing one of those TJMaxx turtleneck sweaters, I kept wondering What did people do before google maps? Even with my GPS, it took serious effort to negotiate the narrow walkways, bridges and steps. Let’s not forget: I had the big suitcase, not the carry-on, but the motherload, so this was no easy sledding.
I found it. Hotel Montecarlo, a quaint little place with a cheery front desk person who methodically delivered the hotel information. Breakfast from 7am – 10am. Tea served from 4pm - 6pm. And always leave the key at the front desk.
My room was small and great. The walls were decorated with a funky fern patterned wallpaper, a dark, British style floral rug covered the uneven floors, and a window adorned with heavy green drapes looked out over roof tops. Hello Venice!
I took myself out for a celebratory first-night-and-here-I-am-in-Italy dinner. It was lovely. A glass of Chianti, fresh bread with olive oil and glazed balsamic, and a pasta carbonara.  A bonus was the newlywed Aussie couple who sat at the end of the table and told me about their upcoming adventures in Lithuania. A great start!
The restaurant was only twenty steps from my hotel so I had no trouble getting back. I thought I would have a little down time and watch a show but I failed getting on my mother’s Amazon account to watch my Britbox addiction and Ambien substitute, Shakespeare and Hathaway. Amazon did not transfer that series to Italy, a minor yet disappointing glitch but I was not too worried since I had traveled for twenty-two hours, had sensory overload, and opted for that second glass of Chianti. I figured I would sleep like the dead.
I did.
Until the dead woke me.
It began with the lights. In the pitch dark I woke up to a glowing light display on the ceiling. I thought I was tripping but then reminded myself that I have never taken a hallucinogenic. I sat up and took stock, where am I?  Once I regained my bearing and hydrated, I sprang into action.
Obviously, the lights are coming from an outside source, or so I thought. The single window was blocked by the ceiling to floor drapery which could have been used for the Van Trapps children’s play clothes.  The drapes were closed. No light was coming from the bathroom. I scoured the room. Nothing. Just as suddenly as they began, the lights stopped, and I willed myself back to sleep.
Sometime later, I was awakened by noises - footstep noises, coming from the walls. Someone was having a dance party in there which was impressive considering I was in a solo room with no shared walls. Then the glowing ceiling lights returned.
Surprisingly, I was fine. Not panicked. Not scared. I was oddly accepting of whoever wanted a rave inside the walls with a light show on the ceiling. Once again, I willed myself to sleep.
It was a short nap.
I woke to a frightful darkness - an ominous presence that seemed intent on enveloping me. I was terrified. I switched on the lights, hoping for relief, but the feeling of doom and danger clung stubbornly to the room. My instincts told me to flee, to run as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I was jetlagged and lazy.
Instead, I tried channeling positive thoughts. That accomplished absolutely nothing. So I mentally asked my deceased father to step in. This actually helped – briefly - but my father was notoriously ADHD, so his protective presence wandered off almost immediately. As the darkness crept back in, I escalated and summoned his brother, whom I had never met but who was universally regarded as a genuinely lovely person. That did the trick.
When in crisis, or frankly, for every day matters, I consult my brother. I called him in LA. He urged me to take action, Go to the front desk and change rooms. I explained that this was not the Marriott and perhaps, just perhaps, since Americans got coal in their stocking this year, they consciencely put me in the haunted room.
I needed a strategy.
Step one: leave the room at daylight and not return until completely exhausted.
I hit the streets and walked the city. I stared at countless crucifixions, annunciations, battle-and-victory paintings. I got endlessly lost and turned around. I was sufficiently tourist fatigued.
Step two: forgo dinner, slam a glass, or two, of wine with two Benadryl, and slip into a sleep coma.  
Happy to report, success. A full night’s sleep, no ghost gang.
When I checked out, I asked the front desk clerk if there had ever been concerns about ghosts in my room. He calmly informed me that there were ghosts in other rooms, but no one had ever mentioned my room.
I said, “Add it to the list.”
 

Physically spent. Mentally mush. Emotionally exhausted. The end of the fall semester and I was toast. 
As an adjunct professor every semester is like a blind date, or my tennis serve, you never know what you are going to get. I teach Art History survey classes and Fine Art studio classes at two community colleges in San Diego. Pre-covid one of my bosses asked if I would be willing to teach a college Art History class at a local high school, the idea being to introduce high school students to college. “Fuck no” spewed from my mouth before he could finish his pitch. When covid hit, my boss stated, “You are teaching a class at the high school,” my “fuck no” landed on deaf ears and high school zoom-land became my reality.
It started out ok, they checked in, I showed some art, gave an assignment, and an hour and twenty minutes later we waved bye-bye. A huge positive was the smaller class size, 25 students as opposed to the college zooms of 45, piece of cake. I was enjoying the high school kids - so much so that on a Friday night, with a bottle of wine, I watched their 3 ½ hour-live-zoom production of Les Misérables; my biggest screwups had leading roles and sang their hearts out. Jean Valjean could not remember Monet to save his life but he did not miss one line and knocked “Bring Him Home” out of the park, I was so proud! Then the world opened and the joys of laptop lecturing ended; in-person classes were required. Fuck.
The fall semester is a marathon regardless. Classes start in August, summer, when no one wants to be in class and there is no break until Thanksgiving by which time no one can stand the sight of anyone else. Then it is a slam and suck-it-up period until mid-December. It is endless.
There I was in August at a high school. Fuck. I had given myself endless pep-talks, seriously, how different could it be in person? Hmmm, turns out LOTS!! It was a lot different in person! Most notably, there was no “end meeting” red button to click. There was no “mute all” button. There was no “bye-bye” wave. There was no escaping them.
Day one on campus. Initially I thought I was walking into a post sleep-over party, so many students were wearing pajama bottoms. Why and where did this trend come from? I am all for rolling out of bed but this seemed extreme. Matching, or coordinating, with the pj’s was a fashion fiesta ranging from crop tops to army jackets to ballerina tutus. These kids put serious thought into how they were presenting themselves. One of the more showstopping outfits was on a soon-to-be Art History star who waltzed in wearing a pink leather halter bikini top paired with a cheerleader skirt and white leather platform boots which would have been the envy of any cast member from Priscilla Queen of the Desert. I scanned the room looking for reactions but not one looked up or paid any attention. I quickly learned that teaching in High School was like teaching in a prison, the key was not to react and for the love of god don’t show fear.
During my first class there were two immediate and obvious challenges, head-phone chick and the floor sitter. Headphone girl came in with massive headphones which almost toppled her over. I said, “no headphone in class” to which she replied, “I can hear you” then promptly put her head on the desk and closed her eyes. Always important to declare the vibe of the classroom on the first day, it is like peeing on your territory; but I had not received my “paperwork” yet and did not know about any “accommodations” so I let this slide. Besides, I had the sitter to deal with. This young man came in and sat on the floor with his back to the screen – an act which he repeated throughout the semester. Floor sitter was the easy one, all I had to do was yell and he would ever so politely acknowledge me and then sit in his chair at which point I would quietly say, “I yell because I care.”  It was our routine. Headphone chicky was another story. On one of my rants to the counselors I learned that she did not have accommodations for headphones to be worn in class – I had been played – game on. From that day forward it was war. Headphone chick was not letting go easily. She lost the headphone battle but then insisted on keeping her eyes closed with her head on the desk. Keep in mind that this is Art History, the visuals are rather important. Every time I reminded her of this fact she would reply, “I’m listening!” Bless her heart, she held her ground and fought the good fight until I played my professor power card and booted her from the class. Tears flowed but the ball had dropped.
I repeatedly reminded everyone that this was indeed a college class and they were expected to act like college students; I might as well have asked the JV ping-pong team to be ready for Wimbledon. Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. I too was out of my league. The poor receptionist at the front door would look at me with pity as I entered and as I left. I went into the councilor’s office after every class so that I could vent my frustrations and eat their candy. But then around mid-semester I was thrown a bone, floor sitter stayed late after class and said, “You are my favorite teacher.” Awwwww! My heart warmed. Why fight it. I learned to roll with the world-class Eddie Haskell suck-ups and the defiant fuck-you groupies. Even the bathroom boys who left the classroom at the same time every class did not rile me. We forged on together. By December we were all exhausted for all our own reasons, but we finished.
The New Year brings a new semester and in another few weeks I will be back at the high school. I will be rested and ready – and I will have a bottle of wine on ice for the spring production of ABBA. Mamma Mia here we go again!

​My love for profanity got me reprimanded in an online scrabble game. Apparently not everyone appreciates the “C” word.
When I need a mental break I hop on an eastern bloc website for a quick scrabble game, and I mean quick, ten minutes max. I lose a lot. I have not retained the knowledge that xu and oi are viable words and I am forever confused about what letters go before and after “y.” My ranking on this site is unimpressively in the 200’s. I tend to get randomly match with anonymous players in the 500’s and consequently I get my butt kicked - not dissimilar from my tennis game lately, but I will save those horror stories for another time and after shock therapy.
My ill-fated match was against “Catfish” who had a ranking of 620. I was outplayed from the start and quickly 40 points behind. Catfish had no pity for me and crushed it by using all his/her/they letters and adding to an “o” to put down “brought” for another 74 points. Pathetically I threw in a hail mary challenge, lost that, and was now desperately behind. But then I saw the “t,” Catfish had left the “t” on the bottom row and set me up to use that “t” in a triple point word, oh happy days! Among my other letters was the ever unpopular “u,” unless of course you have the “q” and can figure out some sort of a word, and a “c” and a “n” …hmmm, cun…and there was the “t”! BAM! (Ok, full disclosure, I did have an “o” and could have put down “count,” but “count” was not speaking to me so I put down my four letters for a solid 24 points.) I was quite pleased with myself.
Catfish went dark. Seconds ticked by. I thought Catfish was scrabble-stumped. Two minutes lapsed and my hopes for winning brightened as I thought Catfish would run out of time.  No such luck. Catfish came back and Catfish was pissed! How dare I use that word!? First Catfish expressed hurt feelings, shock, and disbelief – honestly, you would have thought I stole their puppy. Then Catfish went on to lecture me about using obscene words and how I ruined their day and their joy of the game…bla bla bla.
I wanted to scream “for fuck sake Catfish get over it”, but I channeled Dana Santas and did a 15 second cleansing breathing exercise before responding with “sorry, didn’t mean to offend, I didn’t have any other letters”. I was expecting Catfish to be psychic and reply, “liar, liar, pants on fire,” but instead Catfish took another opportunity to give me a sermon on profanity and how it is ruining our culture. I refrained from typing in “seriously, Catfish, lighten up,” and instead suggested we play on. Catfish had less than two minutes left on the clock, I had a robust 4 minutes. I had the “j” and a “s;” but I didn’t stand a chance; Catfish’s anger was focused on the game and I was destroyed.
That was my only game against Catfish. No doubt Catfish blocked me. Have I since used the “c” word? Yes, of course, just not yet in scrabble, I am waiting for that triple word again.

This past December I swung by the Cincinnati Museum of Contemporary Art while in town for my brother’s wedding. They were in-between shows so I spent more time in the gift shop than in the galleries. In general, museum gift shops rock and this was no disappointment - front and center in the jewelry case were two necklaces with dangling letters which spelled out FUCK. The gods were speaking to me! One necklace was silver, the other gold, tempting on both counts but I stuck with the silver; $62 later I was the proud owner of necklace profanity.
Fuck is one of my favorite words; it rolls off the tongue and covers so much with tremendous clout. Saying it releases tension, voices excitement and vents frustration. Shouting it expresses anger and conveys power. Doing it, well, all great there. The F bomb can be directed at others or ourselves. How many times have I hit a piss poor tennis shot and mumbled, “Fuck me”. Helen Mirren stated, “At 70 years old, if I could give my younger self one piece of advice, it would be to use the words “fuck off” more frequently.” Noted Helen.  I really don’t think I know of a better word…mind you the C word is climbing up the ladder fast, but I digress.  
Loving my brother’s outstanding fiancé/wife, I did not feel the need to wear the necklace to the wedding, and in general, I was a bit shy about flashing this fine word. Back in southern Cal, I wore it once to a happy hour when a friend subtly suggested, “Maybe not so appropriate to wear when you teach.” Fair enough. I put it away and opted for other beaded necklaces which coordinated with tennis outfits.
Then the world dropped, again. How could things get worse? We voted out the frump…we don’t live in fear of our President running off on a love-filled weekend with Putin or vacationing in North Korea…but then Friday, June 24th happened. This was not a surprise but shocking all the same. Amy Clown Barrett was put in a seat of power sitting alongside the horrible Clarence T who in a perfect world would still be on parole for his crimes of sexual harassment. Alas, we do not have a perfect world. The Supreme Courts decision slapped women across the face which was noted worldwide. Fuck and fucked, not in a good way.
I put my necklace on that day, June 24th 2022. It is not my intention to offend or shock anyone, I wear it for me. I take it off for certain occasions, like weddings; but otherwise, the F bomb graces my neck and knowing it is there makes me smile. I find the word and my necklace comforting. Interestingly, I am not actually saying the word out loud as often as I was, and I did say it a lot, but I think I don’t say it so often because the word always has a presence with me.  
I am thinking of embracing gold as well.

Here is my blog which I wrote four years ago. Fuck, I hope we make better progress in the next fours years.
 
CONTNUAL HEARTBREAK10/24/2018

I vividly recall watching the Anita Hill hearings. I was glued to the TV.  I knew she was telling the truth. I remember looking at the committee and listening to their questions and it was obvious to me that they also knew she was telling the truth. My heart and a bit of me broke when they ignored her and put that disgrace of a man on the Supreme Court. I felt sucker punched and a seed of disgust towards those who are indifferent towards women was planted in my soul.
Kavanaugh, another predator who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him in the butt, won his bid for the Supreme Court. His anger was rewarded.  Again, I felt broken.
Michelle encourages us to “go high when they go low” – but when hope is in the gutter that is no easy task.
Tough times, heavy on the heart.
A life-raft was thrown my way when a friend wisely stated, “Art is the answer.”
Back to work.
 

​On one of my trips back east, my dad picked me up from Logan as he often did. I saw him by the baggage claim and as psyched as he was to see me, he was equally excited to get out of there because he had parked illegally. He got jumpier when he noticed a policeman giving him the eye and then actually approaching us. I thought we were busted in Boston – but no, the officer broke into a huge smile and said, “Mr. Horne!?”  He was a former student of course. The policeman told me his story, that he wasn’t particularly college bound, but my dad told him, “You’re going to college” and together they filled out an application to Merrimack and he went to college and he was now a policeman in Boston.
This happened a lot, running into his former students and they were always eager to tell the tales about specific and perhaps unconventional classes my dad taught – for example, one class he brought everyone outside to lay on the grass so that they could watch the clouds float by. Another class my dad decided to make up music and sing the dialogue between Romeo and Juliet. During another class, the entire class period was devoted to naming his new truck, Lola.
My dad was a teacher but he was also committed to learning. He read all the time. It would drive me crazy when he passed along a book because he would have highlighted the heck out of it and the margins would be riddled with his notes but I knew he was just excited to share the info that he found interesting. 
He was a wonderful correspondent; he loved writing letters - wherever I was in the world I was always so happy when one of his letters, a piece of home, would find me.
He was great showing up in my life, either with a letter or in person and there was never a dull moment.
It was rare for him to go directly from point A to point B.  A 10-minute car ride to run a quick errand could easily end up taking 2 hours - there was always somewhere to stop to get something to eat, or to find someone to chat to, often Powers, or some new place to check out. And when he got on his bike, forget about it, there was no telling where he would end up, he never knew, there was no plan or specific route. On one trip he said that he was heading south and he showed up at my old roommate’s apartment in the Bronx, he didn’t tell them he was coming and didn’t wait until they got home, he just left an apple pie and a note on their doorstep, hopped back on his bike and headed across the George  Washington Bridge.  
Life was an adventure and a performance piece for my dad. He loved to entertain and he danced getting off airplanes and sang entering rooms.
Not too long ago when we spoke on the phone he said, “I am going to sing you a song and I want you to record it.” I played along and gave him the go ahead to start singing. He then proceeded to sing Danny Boy. I wish I did know how to record it because he really was a beautiful singer. When he was done he gave me permission to post it on youtube and generously told me to keep whatever money it earned.
My dad gave me a great sense of adventure, a fearlessness to go explore, and certainly an ability to create and handle chaos.
I will forever miss his singing.