Marrying George Clooney

yesterday, i woke up with a massive bug up my ass. it was called the right-itis bug. i needed to be right about everything. EVERYTHING. i should’ve just called the exterminator, and had it removed. but instead, i decided to walk around with it – lugging it like a third leg – this god awful bug. ken of course was tongue lashed all day.

you. are. wrong. ken.
wrong. ken.
oh my god you are so fucking wrong ken.
wrong.

we all have these kinda days. nothing works so we need to be right. the hair doesn’t work. the clothes are too tight. the shoes don’t fit. the computer doesn’t respond, verizon sucks. the cable goes out. omg, a royal wedding. another tornado. local politics. and of course, there’s donald trump. trumpitis. i’m totally convinced that along with irritable bowel and restless leg syndrome, TRUMPITIS will makes it’s way onto webMD. this i am sure of. it will be related to any & all rectal problems.

i have amazing women in my life. amazing. i am blessed beyond belief. north south east west. i mean, from childhood friends – ellyn kline, to brand new friends – brenda ruello, and i have many friends who are kind beyond kind, generous beyond generous and loving beyond loving. and there are two women – two friends in particular – nancy isola, and kristine van raden – who both witnessed and experienced first hand “devil-doll amy” yesterday.

OMFG.

hell hath no fury.

and i wasn’t scorned.
i was tired.
i was cranky.
i was on allergy medication.
i was irritable.
i was NASTY.
i was a mo-fo squared.

i was vile.

and i was unkind to both of them.
and…
i felt horrible. awful.
i reacted impulsively, emotionally.

i did.
and, it sat there, like a bad meal. churning.

i knew i had been unreasonable, anxious, on edge.

and today i called them – individually – and told them how sorry i was.
truly. deeply, sorry. holy shit sorry.
sorry enough to be calling from my NO PLAN phone, the one with no minutes available. none. zero. i apologized & i spent money. a twofer.

and today i understood – really, deeply – the power of saying, i am sorry
and the holy shit power of … “i accept your apology.”

erich segal was wrong.
WRONG.

okay, i don’t always go into my spam folder. occasionally. when someone says geez i sent you an email, maybe it’s in your spam folder… i go in and skim the spam.

today i went into that folder, the one with all sorts of offers. the curled index finger of come hither.
this is what i found:

i found a senior village looking, searching for same sex seniors, they wanted photos and personal information and of course all would be confidential. SPAM.
i found a vaginal cream that supposedly lasts for almost a week, the promo was all about “juicy.” for whatever reason i imagined myself dripping everywhere i went, drip drip drip, and decided that if i want juicy, well, then… SPAM.
i found senior’s day at KOHL’S. hmmm. 20% off on top of 45% off on top of…. but then i saw how kohl’s was spelled: KOLLS. no thank you SPAM.
i found foreign banks wanting to give me money (with my account information being given to them) and colleges wanting to give me a PHD-LMNOP from home, and a few job offers that required i spend a month or two in lockdown, iPads for free, lessons in farming & nursing with fake pigs, and more drugs for cheap than i could ever hope for.
i found a psychic connection, a woman who claimed she could find my long lost friends, and talk to my deceased animals.
i found what i thought was a golfing retreat – GIMME WOOD – which turned out to be a porn site.
i found give-a-ways and take-a-ways and hide-a-ways.

and as i deleted all the spam from the folder, i had a flashback a memory a moment: i remember years ago being in waldbaums with my mother, walking the aisles, and i picked up a can and my mother immediately gave me a look that was filled with humiliation, and shame, and she took the can out of my hands and back went the can on the shelf, and with her index finger and a teeny wave… my mother said:

“No spam. Jews eat tuna.”

it’s all so … deep.

Gary didn’t much believe in the afterlife.
He didn’t.
He wasn’t a spiritual type.

He played the stock market, and often described events and people in ‘market’ terms.

He believed in living in the moment, being completely and utterly true to his word, and living life fully. He was cool and sexy and rode a motorcycle, and owned a hugely successful bar (actually two) in New York City and had a bunch of young and sexy girlfriends – as in ‘gold bullion digging’ young, sexy girls – who didn’t have a clue how lucky they were that they were with him, because, well, he had a wonderful big gigantic heart. They didn’t care much about that because what they saw was the long hair, and the sexy face, and the gorgeous eyes, and the Harley Davidson that was parked outside the Bar, and of course, they saw the Bar with the cash register that went ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching every single minute on every single night, particularly on Friday and Saturday nights when you couldn’t even get into the Bar because it was so crowded. I asked him once, while a few young sexily clad women were draped and hanging all over him, what it felt like to be Mick Jagger, he said, “Good, real fucking good. This pays dividends.”

Gary died in a motorcycle accident. But before he died in a motorcycle accident, he went to the Caribbean, where his boat capsized and he was all alone, literally, in the middle of the ocean, clinging to both his life for four days, and a new found God, and it appeared that God found him, and he, Gary, said he remembered so much while his skin was literally baking in the sun: every nuance of his life flashed in front of him. He begged for forgiveness, he screamed at injustice, he wept at his horrible relationship with his parents, he was pissed at himself that he let the one girl he loved get away, he was out-loud livid that two of his close friends screwed him out of money, he was grateful that he could build a bar, and refurbish all the rooms in his gorgeous townhouse with his bare hands, he was deeply appreciative that he was generous and kind and that he truly deeply loved life. And he also, while baking in the sun, remembered that a psychic told him that he would die before he was fifty, and that in fact his death would be categorized as two fold, because he would actually “die twice.”
“What fucking bullshit. No one can die twice.”
He swore that the psychic ‘broad’ was completely nuts, “a fucking fruitcake.”

So, while he was both clinging to life and the capsized boat, he made a deal with God, to let him live just a little longer so he can make sure that he said good bye properly to all the folks he loved.

He lived just another year.

And in that year he prayed everyday to God, he went to church, he became a born-again, he found peace and faith, he gained weight, and met a woman who was close to his age and had some poundage, and one could even categorize her as an Earth Mother, and what was most beautiful about her was in fact her spirit and her laugh and the lines around her eyes. I told him she was the sexiest woman he had ever been with. “Yeah,” he said, “This one’s a triple AAA rating.”

And in that year he managed to tell everyone he loved that he loved them all dearly and with all his heart. And a few folks who screwed him royally, he told them to rethink their lives. And a couple of the girls who draped themselves over him, he managed to tell them to stop hanging on to men, stand tall, and don’t give it away to some schmuck who has a wad of money and no intent on ever getting married.

He was killed in a motorcycle accident. Coming home from Long Island on one of those long crazy summer weekends.

He would tell you, if he were alive, that yes, that was in fact called two fold, and the first time he died – clinging to life on a capsized boat – that in fact it was he who saved himself, but he gave all the credit to God, because he made a deal, and Gary never reneged on a deal.

my mother used to go to the beauty parlor where she and her friends would get their hair done, and nails done and they would sit and chat and laugh and cry and share and joke and complain and gossip and talk about other women behind their backs and find out who was getting divorced, remarried, having an affair. they would talk about men and children and knitting and mah jongg and shopping and bargains and good times and bad times and love and marriage.

i would wager most of our mothers had the same weekly experience.

a gathering. a circle. a community. a gab fest. girl talk, girl time.

as i sit here in bed, with my cup of coffee and my MacBook, it is astonishing to me that i too have a community of amazing women friends that nurture me and lift me and offer a shoulder, a hand … that i get to share the best and worst with, the good, the bad, the ugly… the pain and sorrow, the joy and happiness, the victories and defeats, daily life and middle of the night musings – without ever leaving my house.

i am in awe of the community of women that have gathered through networking. from seattle to portland to los angeles to san francisco, from houston to colorado to san miguel and back. to jersey and long island, to brooklyn and queens. from uptown to downtown. from new paltz to new mexico.

from beauty parlors to nail salons to spas…

… to sitting in bed, with a cup of coffee, cheering & rooting our girlfriends on.

the god card.

okay, who out there believes we ought to stop using god as an excuse for the shit we do to each other?
i for one am getting really tired of people doing and saying all sorts of crazy, mean, horrific crap.

seems to me the level of crazy has risen.

the truth is human beings are flawed, we make mistakes, we fuck up royally, we say shit we don’t mean, we hurt each other brutally, we beat up on each other physically and emotionally, we are intolerant, unforgiving, at times extremely vile, and insincere.

we bruise each other, we batter each other, we keep each other at arms length.

we can be cruel, unfair, unkind.
we are often mean spirited and rude.

we blame others for our short comings and goings.

we love conditionally and want in return what we don’t want to give.

we sit in church on sundays, shul on fridays, mosques on wednesdays, buddhist temples and community centers on mondays, islamic temples on tuesdays. we sit, we pray. we say we’re good christians, tolerant buddhists, kind islamics, forgiving jews.

and then we step out into the world, into our daily lives and we call folks bad, bad names: niggers, kikes, evil doers, faggots, spics, schvartzes and worse.

and we cheat on our spouses, and beat our children, and rape our women and girls, and abuse our boys and men, and kill our animals and then… THEN, we go back to church, temple, shul, community centers and we pray and chant and we bow and we sit with our neighbors and friends and family and then once again…. we step out into the world and the cycle repeats. the anger, the brutality, the cruelness. the nasty and mean.

then we get caught, are found out.

a racist slur, a vile comment, a hate crime, bullying, a woman is battered, a child is beaten to a pulp and out comes the god card.

and yes, yes, yes … oh my god yes, there are many, many, many – oh so many – folks who do find god, and goddesses and buddha and spirituality and awaken to their humanity, finding the best in themselves and each other.

because the truth is we are flawed, we are imperfect … we make mistakes, we fuck up, we say shit we don’t mean. we hurt, we bruise, we react, and we are each – every one of us – capable of greatness. brilliance. beauty. more and better. kinder and tolerant.

we are capable – each and every moment, every single day – of such extraordinary goodness.

i wrote a blog today about the power of standing side by side with women. i love my women friends. they give me strength and hope and joy and laughter and all that good stuff. it was my riff on BEHIND EVERY GREAT MAN… it’s called BESIDE EVERY GREAT WOMAN.

but then i read this quote by newt gingrich*:

“we’re never going to win until we demonize the democrats. stop saying they’re honorable people with whom we disagree and start saying they’re bad people, evil people.”

well, that goes under the HOLY CRAP category.

demonize.
the.
democrats.
stop.
saying.
they’re.
honorable.
people.
with. whom. we. disagree.

this from a man who desperately wanted to impeach bill clinton while he himself was getting blown six ways to sunday by an intern. this from a man who then cheated on his second wife only to find God (and apparently the deep love of country) after another woman was down on her knees. this from a man whose desire to divide this country is far greater than his obvious love for blow jobs (does that go under unemployment?) and sexual favors.

which brings me to this:
behind every single stupid, manipulative, angry, bitter man (could be) a woman who needs to step out from the shadows and scream:

THIS TIME … YOU’RE GOING DOWN!

*noted – thank you jane – from a barney frank interview.

I’m going to call her Mary.
Mary was not her real name, but she was, for a period of close to two years, my personal psychic slash adviser. A friend of a friend had seen her, had a reading with her, and said she was so spot-on perfect, so unbelievably accurate, that it was downright scary. And…and… she was a psychic to ‘the stars.’ That’s always a big major plus. Not only do you want her doing a reading for you, but you also want to get real buddy-like close, and have her spill all the juicy gossip about all her famous clients. I call her; we set up a ‘in person’ consultation and psychic reading. She comes to my apartment, an apartment I was sharing with a friend on the Upper West Side, and because it was a one bedroom, every month we switched off sleeping arrangements. It was my month to sleep on the pull out sofa in the living room. Mary walks in – she is very short (five-foot, five-foot one maybe), very tough (a tattoo with a dagger on her forearm), no mincing words (fuckin’ this, fuckin’ that), and has a noticeable limp. She looks around the living room, takes in everything, turns to me and says: “You are destined for greatness.” Wow. Oh. Wow. Destined for greatness. I ask her if she is sure she doesn’t mean my roommate? No, You (emphasis on you) are destined for greatness. I wanted to pick up the phone, call the guy who had just broken up with me and scream into his phone machine, “Guess what, you are so fucked, I, me, moi, am destined for greatness and you are such a fucking asshole fool.” But before I could even finish the fantasy, Mary tells me that a man with the first initial B, as in Bob, Brandon… Brian – BINGO was his name-o – was lethal to women, lethal, and was so lethal in fact, so incredibly fucked up, that she could see him, as in a premonition, in prison, serving time for tax evasion, and – and – not only would he cheat on his taxes, but she was pretty sure, had he not broken up with me, he would cheat on me.

Hey, I think, how does she know he broke up with me?

I spend an hour and a half with Mary and I am convinced that she is a genuine true blue intuit. This was before Google, so in fact there was no way she could have possibly known half the shit she knew about me. I ask her how often people consult with psychics; she tells me with an accompanied shrug and facial gesture some of her clients call her weekly, some every few weeks, but most every month. It’s very important to maintain your psychic relationship, and she offers me a special deal. For every visit, I can get a free phone consultation. I agree, and tell her that I will now have to get a full time job so that I can afford to see her and consult with her so she can tell me, because she is a psychic, when to quit the job because my big gigantic break is coming soon. She tells me I will make a lot of money being funny. Being funny, I ask? Yeah, like a comedian, like a funny comedy writer. I ask her how much money. She says a boatload. I ask her how big the boat is, she says big. I leave it at that. Some things you just want to be completely surprised about.

Mary and I see each other frequently, and talk often and when I feel unsure or want to know what’s going to happen, or could happen so I can be well prepared, I call her and she advises me. I now have a jump start on my future. Sometimes our conversations went like this: “Will he call me?” “No.” “No?” “No. Never.” “Why?” “Because he doesn’t like you.” “Why?” “You’re not his type.” “What’s his type?” “Blonde, blue-eyed, big tits.” For a rather small-cupped brunette that was not encouraging, but she saved me from myself enough times, and she liked me enough to keep me on the phone when she could sense I was unsure, or lonely, or feeling vulnerable.

She became a friend.

When my dog got lost, and he was gone for over a week, she knew exactly where he was. When I was let go – okay, fired — from my waitressing job, she knew the restaurant was going to call and re-hire me, when I met another god-awful wrong man who I absolutely believed was Mr. Right, she would tell me with ‘great patience’ that he was so fucking Mr. Wrong even a blind person could see it. When my mom had a minor heart attack, she saw it, she felt it and she called me, telling me she saw my mom’s ‘heart was blocked,’ but I shouldn’t worry because she will be fine. And sometimes she was just utterly and completely wrong, and boy oh boy did she hate being wrong. She hated being told she was wrong, and I was thoroughly convinced that she would put some kind of reverse psychic spell on it so that she could make it right.

I am in Los Angeles for five days. I am here on ‘screenwriting’ business, seeing friends, and it is Valentine’s Day. I am on a date with a guy I met through work, he being a television Producer. He takes me to some fancy-schmancy restaurant up in Malibu Canyon, and I’m on my second glass of wine, having just finished my frisee and pear salad with bleu cheese, when the headache starts up again. Pounding, pounding, pounding – it feels as if my head is going to split open and explode. I have been having horrible blinding headaches for about a month, and they keep getting worse, and here I am experiencing a god awful blinding headache, and this time, at this restaurant, on this first date, it comes back in a fury. I am trying to act normal, until I can’t any longer, and I tell this guy, this guy that I hardly know at all, that I’m awfully sorry, but I think I need to be rushed immediately to a hospital NOW, as in this fucking minute. I stand up, and ask him if he would like to take me to Cedars Sinai, or… or, and I would completely understand if in fact he didn’t want to, I could have the restaurant call me a cab. He offers to take me, but asks if we could just wait a few minutes, so we could get the food we ordered to go. We don’t have the time, I tell him. At this point, I am convinced that I am dying, and I don’t want to dilly-dally. Although, I don’t tell him that, it feels like too much information to share on a first date. He throws down a wad of cash to pay for a meal that is costing an arm and a leg not to mention a piece of my brain, and we make a mad rush out of there. He drives directly to Cedars Sinai in Beverly Hills, and we proceed to push our way up the queue in the Emergency Room line. This being Hollywood, I notice a couple of B slash C movie actors in the waiting room. Now it’s my turn with the emergency room nurse and she asks me what’s wrong. I tell her that I believe I have a brain tumor. My new friend turns absolutely white, “A brain tumor.” he says/asks. Yes I say, a brain tumor. I don’t think he wants to see me anymore. I think he wants to leave, and go back to the restaurant and try to pick up the cute waitress who was flirting with him, who, by the way, appears to have a very long life in front of her. The nurse gets me a semi-private room within the emergency room area, and my friend tags along. We wait for what feels like hours until the attending Emergency Room physician makes his way to see me. Long story short – they take an X-Ray, there’s a small tiny cluster that appears on the X-Ray, and I am now officially unofficially told that I have what appears to be a brain mass, or what is commonly known as a brain tumor. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.

They put me in a private room, where handwritten on a board directly above my head, it reads, “Brain Tumor.” My friend stays with me, and we get to know each other, because, well, clearly I don’t have much time left. We chat. He’s a Pisces, and loves Opera; I’m a Sagittarius, and I love the Rolling Stones. He loves algebra and calculus, anything and everything mathematical, I like none of that. He loves watercolors and ink drawings, I love sculpture and modern art. He loves Betty White. I don’t even know how or why that came up. I like romantic comedies, thrillers, and 40’s film noir; he likes sci-fi and musicals and loves, with a capital L, game shows. Clearly, this is not a match, not even close. But he stays, and I think he stays because he has no-where else to go, and for that I am grateful, but not grateful enough to engage in any sexual activity as a thank-you. Another attending doctor comes in, a small wisp of a guy, and asks me if there is anyone, a family member or otherwise, I would like to call. The specialist brain tumor doctor will be in first thing in the morning, to take a look at the X-Rays, but in the meantime, they’ll give me some pain medication to ease my pain: Percocet, percodan, and/or codeine. And again, asks me if there is anyone I would like to call. Yes, I say, I want to call Mary. “Your sister?” “No. My psychic.” If I wasn’t convinced enough that my new friend’s eyes glazed over with the brain tumor line, this certainly clinched it. I dial Mary’s number, I’m pretty sure she’s asleep – it is three hours later in New York – but, she answers the phone. I tell her I am in a hospital, I’ve just been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and… and…I knew it… I knew it, I just knew these headaches were life-threatening, and she stops me mid-sentence, interrupting me, telling me point blank, “It is not a brain tumor, whatdya fuckin’ kiddin’ me, who the fuck told you it was a brain tumor, they should have their fuckin’ medical license taken away, you wanna know what you have? You wanna know what’s wrong, you have sinusitis.”

Huh, I say. Really?
Yeah. Sinus headaches. It’s that time of year.
But I never had this before.
I never had a weight problem, but I have one now. You don’t have a fuckin’ tumor.

Well, she’s not always right.

My new friend asks, “So, uh, what did your psychic say?” with enough cynicism that I knew – it was all in his tone – I knew that he wasn’t a believer.
“It’s not good,” I tell him.

I spend the night. The nurses and attending physicians tiptoe around my room, treating me like the terminally ill patient I am, with kindness and the occasional handholding and the big toe grabbing. And then morning comes. My friend has also spent the night, having fallen asleep in the chair. The specialist comes in, a very lovely older gentlemen with a shock of gray hair and a lovely smile, and he introduces himself and says, I hope you didn’t call your parents because that little cluster that the attending emergency room physician read on the X-Ray was in fact the sinus cavity, and it appears that you have what is commonly known as sinusitis.

He then gives me a Claritin, which I can now buy over the counter at any pharmacy or drug store.

My friend asks me if I would mind terribly taking a cab back to my hotel room. Shortly after our date, he left the television and film business, moved back to Vermont, where he owns and operates a “Welcome to Vermont” tchotchkes store.

And according to another psychic, someday I will run into him, and he will avoid me like the plague.

And yes, I have sinusitis every year, right around Valentines Day.
And I still on occasion believe it’s a brain tumor, or brain cancer.

today, spring.
truly.
it wasn’t a bullshit spring day – it was the real deal. warm. sunny. flowers growing, popping. yellows. purples. sexy.
my husband is in a “creating new stone staircase mode” moving rock after rock after rock AFTER ROCK.
my husband is seventy years old.
we live in a park.
literally.
our home is in the middle of park land. stunning. just stunning.
we live in a wonderful park – think central park – rock and quarries and trees and stone and animals and wildflowers, bigger rocks and bigger stones and we have a bunch of acres and ken loves L.O.V.E.S. moving rocks. creating beds, vegetable & flower, out of stone and rock. he makes his garden grow. big & bigger.

today as i was washing dishes (drum roll, please) i stared out the kitchen window and there was ken, my ken, staring down a massive – if i tell you a fucking huge bolder – rock. ken, his hands on his hips, eyeing this bolder. staring, his eyes getting smaller, his intent fiery. i stopped washing the dishes. this was a much better way to pass the time.
i’m not joking, ten minutes passed. ken & the rock. a frickin’ standoff.
and then ken knelt down, touched the rock, soothed the rock with his hand, as if it were the most important piece of god given material, of nature, and then ken closed his eyes and i swear… he became herculian. no shit. ken lifted the bolder, my guy ken, and moved it to where he wanted it to be. the beginning of a stone staircase.

i watched as my husband turned into superman. i witnessed his power, his contemplation, his concentration. i saw it with my own eyes.

i spritzed a little eau de stone-ridge on my breasts and lay down on the bed, so when ken came into our bedroom, i made believe i was the bolder.

he laid down next to me on the bed, “oooh, you smell good,” and two seconds later… snoring.

my super HERO/MAN.

(a blog worth repeating)

I had just moved into my new apartment on the upper Westside. It was my first grown-up apartment.

It was January 15th, 1990.

I walked into my building, got into the elevator, and before the doors closed, two huge black men got into the elevator with me.

All I thought was, “Oh my god, I’m gonna be raped.”

I grew up in a family where the word schvartza was sprinkled about as frequently and as often as salt and pepper on steak. If there was an abandoned car on the side of the L.I.E with all tires stripped, my mother would casually say, “Schvartzas.” If there was a robbery or a break-in in our all white neighbor, it was the “schvartzas” who would be blamed. Anything unattractive, unappealing, it was always, undoubtedbly, the schvartza.

Schvartza, goy, faggot… not uncommon words used in my house. And these words were passed down generation to generation. Rumor has it that when a black person got up from their seat on a bus, my grandmother would take her cotton handkerchief and wipe it down. And yet, I can’t say that my parents were hateful or prejudice. My parents were friends with gay people, non-jewish people, “colored/non-white” people. All races, all walks of life. I think the truth is there was an underlying unease, feelings of superiority and unconscious (or not) fear that seeped out without any thought what so ever. Both my brother and I, on more than one occasion, were mortified at what came out of our mother’s and father’s mouth. An off color joke here, a nasty remark there, a vile dig here, and a loud rant there. My mother often said that if I dated a black man she would disown me, and I would often respond, joke, ask … “what about sleeping with one?” She would laugh and smile. I had then, and have now, many friends who are black.

BUT… I grew up with the word schvartza embedded – like a chip – in my soul, and I would wager I’m not sharing anything new, however, it is not something I have ever admitted.

Back to the elevator.

There I was standing in the back of the elevator, convinced that these two men – both at least 6’7” – were going to hurt me. Rape me. Kill me. I heard the word schvartza playing over and over and over in my head. I heard my mother saying it, I heard my grandmother saying it. Schvartza. I knew I was afraid. I knew I was petrified.

I also knew it was the night of the Cooney/Forman fight, a big night in boxing. One of the guys asked me, “You like boxing?” I said, “Yeah, oh, yeah.” “Really?” he asked, “who you betting on to win?” Without blinking, I said, “I’m betting on the Black guy.”

They both laughed.

It turned out one of the guys lived in my building, in the penthouse. He was a professional basketball player. He played for the Nets. He was throwing a party that night – a Cooney/Forman party – and right there in the elevator, invited me to come, as his guest.

I asked if there would be any food.

“Yeah,” he said, “We’re roastin’ the white guy.”

I lost every bit of color I had regained. He looked at me, and saw how scared I was.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m jokin’. Really. Cooney’s gonna lose, Forman’s gonna knock him out in the first round. Please, come on up… we’re ordering Chinese. You like Chinese?”

“Yes, I like Chinese,” I said.

I was the only white person in a sea of black people watching Forman punch the shit out of Cooney in the second round.

At the end of the evening, my new friend made sure I got home safe and sound – two floors below him – and thanked me for coming to his party. He was gracious and kind, and he and I remained good friends until he moved out of the building a few years later. He was traded and moved to a different city.

As I think about what’s happening in this country, and the tapes that play over and over and over again in someone’s head – the words that are embedded, the phrases that stick, the stories repeated, the hatred circulating, the ugly, the nasty … the nigger, the faggot, the homo, the goy, the kike, the jew, the queer…

I think about that night, in that elevator, and that bet that I made … and I never, ever thought years later I would say, “I’m betting on the black guy,” out of complete love and respect, and not one ounce of fear.