Snippets

On November 23 rd , 2018, the day after Thanksgiving, John Vincent Kaplan took his own life. He was 43 years old. I met John in September of 1993 when I was 17 and he was 18. We had been set up by a mutual friend, upon whom he had a massive crush. Said friend basically just wanted to get him off her back. John was exactly what my silly adolescent mind considered to be perfect boyfriend material: he was beautiful (vaguely resembled Jim Morrison, his idol); he had the soul of a tortured poet; great singing voice, with a rock star swagger to match; we had the same taste in music, movies and books; we shared the same sick, inappropriate sense of humor. Needless to say, my dumb ass was smitten. We were doomed. It took more than two years for me to realize that I had to end our relationship, and another year and a half before I mustered up the courage to actually end it. By then I was 22 and not the same person I was when I was 17. At 23, John hadn’t changed since the day I met him. I

I was given my first watch when I was 5 or 6 years old.  The face featured a little girl with blond braids (Swiss Miss-like).  The band was a kind of sea foam green shiny plastic; the kind of plastic that begs to be gnawed on, which I did.  I loved having the watch because it made me feel grown up.  I hated the watch itself because it was babyish.  (I remember my brother, Andrew, trying to sell me on how cool and classy it was, once when I was lamenting over it.  I wasn't impressed with his argument.)  I'm not sure when it disappeared, or to where it disappeared, but I was missing it by the time I was ready to start college.  I had only applied to one school. Bradford College was located in Haverhill, Ma, about 90 minutes north of Boston. A small liberal arts college, Bradford was founded in 1803 and closed its doors in 1998, the year I would have graduated, had I not made some poor choices. Haverhill wasn't exactly a happening town, but it did boast three featu

Just in case the second half of the title doesn’t make it obvious that this piece has nothing to do with abortion…this piece has nothing to do with abortion (that’s a topic for another day). This is about one of my favorite topics to debate: the death penalty. Show a little patience with me, while I give three reasons why. Let’s take a walk. Reason #1: The punishment does not fit the crime (whatever crime it may be). This can basically be equated with a heavy version of ‘go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done, junior.’ A person who has committed a heinous crime, worthy of the death penalty, should be able to live uncomfortably under lock and key for a long, long time, knowing that there is no chance of ever being free, preferably with a side order of living in fear for their safety (best case scenario all-around). State-sanctioned execution is the easy way out. More people might agree with that if life sentences, without the possibility of parole, actually

I bought the Vapor Shark four or five quit smoking attempts ago. Going cold turkey didn't help, the gum didn't help, the patch didn't help, acupuncture didn't help, hypnosis didn't help, I'm allergic to Zyban and Chantix is a story for another day. Everyone I knew who vaped swore by it as the ultimate quit method. It didn't take much convincing. I marched my butt on into that vape store and went nuts. I bought a pen, a charger, extra batteries, extra mouth pieces, refillable oil cartridges and a snazzy case to carry around the whole lot. $75 later, I was feeling really good about this decision. I was all set to join the ranks of ex-smokers who think they've beaten their nicotine addiction. (Seriously, y'all just traded one addiction for another. Prove me wrong and throw that thing in the drink. You don't need it anymore. You haven't smoked a cigarette in five years. Just, you know, get rid of it. Go ahead, I'll wait.)   My resolve

Imagine yourself as a pre-pubescent girl in 1987 (or, not). Unlike my contemporaries, I was not into the Sweet Valley High books. A pair of rich blond 16-year-old twins, who couldn’t be more different. Jessica was wild and outgoing (probably a little slutty); Elizabeth was shy and reserved; both loved boys, boys, boys. Oh! The antics! That wasn’t me; I was a rebel. I was smarter than that, my tastes more sophisticated. I loved fine literature. I loved history. I yearned for fine, historical literature. Enter the Sunfire romance novels. The Sunfire series was exactly what the previous sentence suggested, and they were geared towards teenage girls (I was a very advanced 11-year-old). These books were hopelessly (surely purposely) formulaic. Each book centered around a 15- or 16-year-old girl, with their first names as the title. In each book, the heroine would be pursued by two suiters: one, the young man her family expected her to marry; the other, a mysterious young man her family di

Warning: I expect to stray from the central thesis a lot in this article. A while back, I was obliged to explain the difference between racism and prejudice, after a fairly disturbed friend (not mentally, she was just upset) reported that she was called a racist during a casual dinner out with her husband and his raucous Coast Guard buddies. Although the explanation can easily be summed up in one or two sentences, I’m going to flesh it out a bit because it's way slow at work and I forgot to bring my Kindle with me. We’ll start with the official definitions. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “Prejudice” as: 1. an opinion that is not based on reason or experience; 2. dislike or unfair behavior based on such opinions. “Racism” is defined as: 1. the belief that each race has certain qualities or abilities, giving rise to the belief that certain races are better than others; 2. discrimination or hostility against other races. Back to my friend. Picture it: Benihana at

I've been thinking a lot about my own personal property, lately; my stuff. I own a lot of stuff. I have space for all of my stuff. I have so much space for my stuff, that I can't see all of my stuff by simply turning my head from side to side. I have multiple floors, multiple rooms, multiple closets and cabinets and corners. I have a lot of furniture. I have a lot of space. I have stuff and space. Most of my stuff is worth very little; much of it is entirely unnecessary. I don't need the big Kitchenaid stand mixer, with four attachments; I can get away with a bowl and wooden spoon. I don't need all this stemware and a dozen Tervis tumblers; I need a single plastic cup, to hand wash between uses. Do I need television? Not at all. I don't need a laptop. I don't need a cell phone. I don't need a microwave. I don't need a "fancy" bedroom set. I don't need crystal vases; I can slice the tops off empty plastic milk jugs, if I want to keep

If you ever hear me say "I don't remember," there is a 95% chance that I am lying.

Carole King is beautiful. She is majestic and brilliant and talented and legendary and she has great hair. I was still young and living in the city the first time I listened to “Tapestry” all the way through. I had already heard every song a thousand times, except “Beautiful”; this was the first. It is positive, upbeat, motivational; it’s fake it ‘til you make it; it’s see it and be it. It was the worst song I could have listened to back then. New York City will always be glamorous and exciting to anyone who has never lived there. Everyone needs to see it, at least once. Every Long Island kid needs to live there, for a least a year. In short, New York City is necessary. It also sucks; it is depressing and it sucks. Consider the city from the perspective of someone who can just barely afford to live there. Your small studio apartment is nothing more than a box; it is a small box within a large box. (I never actually did the shoebox studio, but work with me on this one.) You wa

This is the way my mind works – repetition, repetition, repetition – this is how I remember things. Movies, television, happy things, yucky things; nothing useful. I will watch movies in my head over and over again, on a continuous loop; usually three or four or even five at a time. Movies that are in no way related to each other, scenes interspersed, answering one another; over and over and over again. It’s not done on purpose. It’s only vaguely irritating. For every exchange I have with another person, every exchange I overhear, every thought I have, a movie or t.v. quote will instantly pop into my head as a response to whatever is being said. I know I can’t possibly be the only person whose mind works this way, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who can relate and I feel so very alone in the world because of it. Or…I would, if there had never been a television series based upon this type of thought process. This is the fun part. This is a very exciting time for me, because I just gav

Let’s just take a step back for a moment or two and consider the pause of the menses persuasion. Let’s, at least, consider my own experience in the past year (or two, or three, or however long it’s been going on for). I got my first period in October or November of 1988, when I was 12 years old. I was pissed. All I could see were decades ahead of pain, discomfort, stickiness, messiness, inconvenience etc. I couldn’t wait for menopause. End this misery! Are we up to speed? Great. Now, let’s jump ahead 29 or 30 years and backtrack a couple more, to when the real fun started.  (Warning: Some people might consider the details that I am about to put forth, to be “TMI.” Those people would be wrong. I am offering the exact amount of “I” required. Swallow it.) It was late September or early October of 2015 when my lady parts began to feel a bit wonky. (Just jump right in, the water’s fine.) Now, I’ve had my share of yeast infections over the years. What woman hasn’t? (If you just raised