"Do You Want to Sniff My Butt?"

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

Mother Theresa was often asked how she could bear to do the work she did . . . how she could expose herself, day after day, to the wretched refuse of humanity, as it were.

Her reply to that question has served me well for many years now. She said, with a smile, "I think to myself: 'Here is Jesus, in one of His more distressing disguises.'"

"Here is Jesus. In one of His more distressing disguises." That surly waitress? Jesus . . . in disguise. That jerk who cut you off in traffic and then flipped you the bird? Jesus . . . in disguise. That little boy with Down's syndrome over there? Jesus . . . in disguise. That arrogrant prick at the office that everyone tries to avoid? You got it. Jesus . . . in distressing disguise.

It's an ancient concept, actually, and appears in some form or other in most religious traditions. In Hindu Sanskrit, for example, it becomes "Namasté", which translates to something like: "The Divine Light in me honors the Divine Light in you." But it was Mother Theresa and that Mona Lisa smile of hers that drove the idea home for me.

When someone irritates me, angers me, disgusts me . . . I try to remember that it's Jesus in disguise. And that helps me see the Divine Light that shines even in jerks and imbeciles. (If my light were a little stronger I probably wouldn't refer to them as jerks and imbeciles . . . but I'm a still a work in progress . . . and a New Yorker, after all.) But if it's Jesus . . . I guess I can be a little kinder. A little more patient.

SO. A few nights ago -- on one of those 5 degree days here in Gotham City -- as I was waiting for a friend in the movie theatre on 14th Street, I saw a homeless woman huddled on one of the benches in the lobby. I watched her for a while, as she rifled through her various bags and muttered to herself.

I had half a sandwich in my bag. A delicious sandwich, actually. I was planning to share it with my friend and, truthfully, I didn't want to give it away. But, well . . . we could easily get something else to eat and this woman looked like she didn't have that luxury. So, I made my approach. (Cautiously. There are many, many people on the streets of Manhattan who are in desparate need of medication. She hadn't done anything that suggested violence . . . but you never know.)

"Excuse me," I said. "I have a chicken sandwich in my bag and I wondered if you might like to have it?"

She eyed me suspiciously and replied, "Do you want to sniff my butt?"

I almost dropped my bag and I'm pretty sure I took a step back. This was NOT a response I had anticipated. I assured her that I had no interest in sniffing her butt, it's just that I thought she might enjoy the sandwich.

"Oh," she said. "It's just that usually when people offer me food it's something that a dog wouldn't want to eat. Most people want to give me dog food."

Now, the sandwich in my bag was one of my favorites . . . chicken with curry-flavored mayo, raisins and fresh grapes, topped with crisp romaine and rolled in a whole wheat wrap. No way was it dog food. But it occurred to me that there are people in this world (I even know a few of them) who detest curry.

"Well, it's not dog food. It's leftover from my lunch and it's my personal favorite. But . . . do you like curry?"

She wrinkled her nose derisively. "Not especially, no."

"Ah. Well then, you probably wouldn't enjoy this. It's made with curry."

"Right. I wouldn't like it. But thank you."

Here's what I liked about her. She was feisty. She was dignified. She was wearing the best pair of glasses I've ever seen on a homeless person . . . 50s style cat eye glasses, with rhinestone chips on the bows. And she is the only person who has ever asked me if I was interested in sniffing her butt. (Um . . . and may I say that I hope she keeps this distinction, too. No butt sniffing for me, thank you very much.)

Who knows? Maybe she wasn't homeless. Maybe she was just an especially eccentric New Yorker. Maybe she was a little crazy. Or a lot. But we definitely had a namasté moment, she and I.

And, as we chomped the rest of my sandwich in the darkened theatre, my friend and I were very glad she doesn't like curry.

Martin Luther King Day

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

Here IDW, Martin Luther King Day is a Big Deal. IDW, it's not about one man, but rather about a movement that changed the world and an opportunity to remember that each and every one of us changes the world every day with the choices we make.

It's a day to honor Dr. King and all who worked with him and paid with their lives, surely.

But moreover, it's a day to remember that civil rights matter, and that when they are not protected, atrocious things happen. Lynchings. Pogroms. The Holocaust. The Killing Fields of Cambodia. The massacres in Rwanda. Sadly, history is filled with cautionary tales of what happens when one group of people believes it is intrinsically better and more entitled than another group of people.

Think about this too much and living in a cave somewhere far from the madding crowd starts to sound pretty good. I'm not suggesting that. For one thing, it's really hard to get good take-out delivered to a cave. And you pretty much have to wear sensible shoes. I hate that. So I'm not suggesting any of us don sackcloth and ashes.

But maybe, one day a year -- perhaps today, Martin Luther King Day -- pause for just a few moments and remember those who have paid with blood for standing up to injustice and tyranny. Be grateful for these people. Honor them in whatever way is meaningful for you. And remember that the world isn't changed by superheros; it's changed by ordinary people who make extraordinary choices.

Then, watch the video below just for fun. My friend Lisa shared it with me; it's a sweet, whimisical reminder that love really is the universal language.

http://www.maniacworld.com/Elephant-and-Dog-Are-Best-Friends.html

And A Little Child Shall Lead Them

Photo: Richard Spencer

Oi vey. Almost a week has gone by since my last post. And another six birthdays! (Not all of which involved mojitos. Mores the pity.) One of these belonged to one of my adorable and -- happily! -- adoring nieces.

During our birthday phone call, she educated me on the benefit of mosquitos. In all honesty, I've always thought mosquitos were useless creatures. I hate them. More often than I can count, I've needed a course of Prednisone due to an allergic reaction to a mosquito bite. Grotesque swelling and a wound site hot enough to grill on are my decidedly unpleasant associations with mosquitos.

But my now-10-year-old niece told me that the species is a vital player in the Grand Scheme. Apparently, mosquitos are a natural enemy of locusts (?! who knew?!) and thus help to protect grain crops. AND they aid in the pollination of pumpkins and assorted fruits. I have not checked the veracity of these facts, but she's an extraordinarily clever girl -- and, like her father and uncle before her -- a bit of a science wiz, so I'd be surprised if she didn't have her facts straight.

Honestly, it was a fascinating conversation and she made me feel a grudging respect for those whiny little bloodsuckers. She then launched into a discussion of sharks. Clearly, she has inherited the family trait of championing the underdog and seeing the good in everyone! (And/Or she's got some Addams or Muenster family blood in there somewhere. Because she also regaled me with tales of the carniverous plants she received as a birthday gift. I asked her where she was going to put these and she replied, "Oh, somewhere that they'll never run out of food.") Hmmmm. Sugar and spice and everything nice? Absolutely. But in this case, obviously there's a little heat in those spices! (Of course, she comes by THAT trait honestly, too!)

After sharks, we moved on to wolves. And today, I opened a magazine to an article about wolves that I can't wait to share with her! Written by Jim Dutcher, the article mentioned that when wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park (after being exterminated in the 1920s), they brought balance back to the ecosystem of the park in just a few years: "... the wolves dramatically strengthened elk herds by culling out weak and sick animals. Willows and aspens, long decimated by overpopulated elk, regrew along stream banks. Trout returned to shady, cooler streams. Beavers built dams. Migratory birds flocked to new wetlands. An entire park was revitalized by 31 wolves." Following so closely to the conversation I shared with my wonderful young niece, the article made me see anew how interconnected everything is. Even the lowly mosquito has a role to play!

Not long ago (shortly before the election, actually), a friend said to me, "I love the environment, but I love my children more." I declined comment, but privately I thought it sounded like Orwellian double-speak. Putting aside for the moment that what he meant apparently, given the context of our discussion, was that his children NEEDED to ride around in Hummers and drink chocolate YooHoo more than they needed, say, a rainforest or wetlands or tundra, the comment is completely nonsensical. Bearing in mind that your children's most fundamental needs include air and water first and foremost, you must then concede that you cannot sacrifice clean air and water without putting their lives at risk. They can get along quite nicely, thank you very much, without riding around on fossil fuel. We all can. But not one of us will last more than a few minutes without oxygen or more than a few days without water. So you can't choose your children over the environment. You have to protect one to ensure the survival of the other. Conservation really isn't optional.

Luckily, the wolves have Jim Dutcher. And the mosquitos have my niece. Passion like theirs makes this world a more beautiful place, literally and figuratively. And for this, I say thank you.

Mojito Mojo

One nice thing about the birthday of a dear friend is that it gives you an opportunity to drink mojitos, guilt free. Tonight is all about celebrating one of my January Babies.

She's a 5'1" dynamo, with a head of thick, glossy black hair and a smile that is so full of playful mischief that all children seem to immediately recognize her as a kindred spirit. Seriously, they dance around her the way Junebugs dance around a porch light. I haven't seen one yet who didn't connect to her.

It's not just the mischief in her smile, of course. It's the light in her eyes. You know immediately -- whether you are a child or not -- that you are in the presence of a kind and generous heart. And you instinctively relax.

But it's the mischief that makes her fun to be around! This is a woman who, upon playing a board game called Dirty Minds -- or something like that -- complained that the game "wasn't dirty enough." Trust me on this. It was plenty dirty! Just not, apparently, dirty enough for frolicsome wood nymphs . . . or Belvedere vodka drinkers, perhaps. In fact, tonight after mojitos, I may have to walk her past that ad . . . and if she agrees that it's over-the-top? Well . . . I'm going to pull a couple of red markers from the supply closet just in case!

Happy Birthday, dear friend!! The world is a nicer place because you're in it. (And please remember that I wrote this when you slice the birthday cake . . . I mean, I'm not saying you should give me a bigger piece or anything . . . but maybe a little extra frosting!)

The Birthday Season

Photo by Shawn Lea

For me, the month of January is all about birthdays. This month is filled with the birthdays of loved ones. Almost every week contains at least two and there are several days where I have two or three birthdays that are cause for celebration.

As this is the case, this seems the perfect opportunity for me to discuss The Birthday Season. I do this as both a tribute to my friends AND as a public service . . . because I think the word needs to get out on this!

A decade or so ago, I decided that it is patently absurd to limit ourselves to ONE day of celebration where the birthday is concerned. Really people . . . ONE day?! It's not nearly enough. Too many people in our lives for ONE day to be adequate. Hence, IDW (that's In Deborah's World, for any novitiates), we observe the Birthday Season.

Consider: Christmas is one day and New Year's Day is one day, but we celebrate for very nearly a whole month!! (Hanukkah and Kwanza both last at least a full week anyway . . . but most folks who observe these throw themselves into the full month known as the Holiday Season, too.)

The Birthday Season does not go to such extremes. It lasts a more modest fortnight, traditionally beginning on the eve before one's actual birthday -- but it's a fairly young tradition as traditions go, so you can be flexible about this should occasion demand.

This two weeks is a time for personal reflection and renewal. It is also a time for celebration. It acknowledges that there are MANY important people in our lives and they cannot possibly ALL get together on the same day, year after year, to celebrate us properly. The Birthday Season makes it possible for them to celebrate with us on a day that works for them and also provides Quality Time with those special to us that a more traditional day-of party does not.

Further, the Birthday Season gives one time to arrange for a private celebration of self . . . like, you know, Spa Day or Fabulous New Shoe Day or something equally self-indulgent! (Guys, Fabulous New Shoe Day and Spa Day may not appeal to you, I know . . . just tweak it to fit ... with --I don't know? -- Filet Mignon and Merlot Followed by Great Sex Day . . . hmmm . . . come to think of it, that one would trump Spa Day for most of the ladies I know. But probably not REALLY Fabulous Shoe Day . . . I mean, like Christian Louboutin fabulous. DAMN! I LOVE his shoes! I . . . wait, what was I saying? Right. Birthday Season.) The point is, plan a day that includes a healthy dose of YOUR personal favorites!

I know a lot of grown-ups think birthdays are a little silly . . . that no one over the age of ten should celebrate them. In fact, there have been years when I have BEEN one of those grown-ups. But the truth is, the fact that we're on the planet at all defies the laws of probability and statistics. Yes, we take it for granted . . . but in truth, we really shouldn't. It's AMAZING that we make it here at all! And if we're lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love us and want to buy us drinks and dinner and shower us with gifts in recognition of how we brighten their lives? Well, we should relax into it and enjoy it!

So Happy Birthday Season to all the January Babies in my life!! I'm so happy to celebrate each and every one of you!

Sex Sells . . . But This Is Ridiculous

Photo Art: Petr Kratchovil

One of the perks of having one's own blog is that it gives one a place to vent one's spleen . . . I mean, if one is given to such venting, of course. Not that I am. It's common knowledge that I am a bit of a shrinking violet . . . shy and reserved. Almost demure, really. Why, many's the time you've lamented about my inability to form an opinion and express it . . . what? You didn't?! I could have sworn that was you . . . Ah well. No matter. Because I have formed an opinion about something and am about to express it now.

Every weekday morning I am assaulted by multiple billboard ads for Belvedere vodka. To be honest, I never really looked at them closely. I am not a vodka drinker . . . it's very nearly at the bottom of my list of preferred beverages, actually. Just slightly ahead of turpentine. So maybe that is why. Or maybe it is just because there is so much CRAP advertising around that one has to wear the visual equivalent of hip boots in order to slog through the EXCREMENT day in and day out. (Aren't you glad I'm so shy and demure? Imagine what I might say if I were opinionated.)

So anyway, for several weeks (at least), I hurried past the ads, intent only on scaling the 78 steps between the train platform and the street. (Yes. I've counted. It's rather a lot of stairs to master before morning coffee.) Then, one morning, I noticed that someone had scrawled something - in huge red letters - at the top of one of the billboards. The scrawl read: WE ARE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS!!! Hmmm. I made a mental note to, possibly, take a closer look at the ad. Sometime in the future. When I was less distracted. And there weren't still two flights of stairs between me and an excellent cup of coffee. And maybe a pear granola muffin. Maybe.

The next morning, as I topped stair-flight No. 4, the billboard once again came into focus and . . . the red letters were GONE!! During the night, the Belvedere Boys had come and re-papered over the comment with a fresh, new and identical piece of advertising. Which made me think the comment must have had some validity because, after all, it's pretty rare for graffiti to eliminated at all. And overnight? It was remarkable. So. I strolled over and took a good look at the ad.

It is outrageous. It shows a doe-eyed, very startled looking woman, with a serious case of bed-head, reapplying lipstick. The red lipstick is held between her dewy, parted lips in a way that suggests she is more interested in painting her tonsils than her lips. And she is doing this on her knees. In front of a man's fly. Using his oval silver belt buckle as her mirror.

Excuse me?! There is, admittedly, a gray area between the erotic and the pornographic. The gray area varies from age to age, culture to culture and even from individual to individual. One of my nearest and dearest, as an example, is a brilliant visual artist whose images are shockingly raw. I suspect some would find them pornographic, while I would argue that they are not. But back to our ad. Putting aside for a nanosecond that the ad lacks imagination -- sex and alcohol? Gosh . . . who would have thought of that?! It's my admittedly-less-than-humble opinion that to use such an overt suggestion of fellatio to sell alcohol is so vulgar and crass that it crosses into the pornographic realm. (And don't even get me started on the whole women-as-mere-sexual-objects angle. AAARRGGGHHH!!)

Ultimately, I have to agree with the red-marker wielding graffiti critic: We ARE better than this. At least some of us are. So the next time you get a hankering for a Screwdriver or a Vodka Tonic, please -- I beg you! -- ask for Grey Goose. Or better yet, Absolut. Remember those ads? Of course you do!! Why? They were creative!! Not just a blur you filtered out on your way to work.

Perchance to Dream . . .

Rendering by: VK Wade

My subconsious mind is very busy these days . . . er, I mean nights. Most of my readers probably will have picked up on the fact that there's been some turmoil in my little corner of the world recently and I've been working in my sleep to sort things through and figure out the best course of action. The result has been a fairly steady stream of anxiety dreams.

All of these dreams have been vivid -- with sound effects and technicolor. Occasionally, they have been harrowing -- as when I was asked to shoot a series of rapids with a group of other people, in a raft we'd constructed from a bedsheet. Did it bother me that I'd be shooting rapids in a craft that wouldn't float in swimming pool? Not as much as it should have . . .

Instead, I was scopelocked on the fact that I had been given charge of an infant. I was in the front of the "boat" and was terrified that, when we hit the white water, he (or she) would slip from my grasp and be dashed against the rocks and drowned. So I strapped the infant to me . . . but then worried that if I fell overboard, there would be no way to save the baby. Riiiiigggghhtttt. Anyone surprised that I was exhausted when I woke from this somnabulistic misadventure?

Sometimes the dreams were equally crazy but more literal . . . I spent one night in Dreamland trying to talk my real-life boss out of making a documentary entitled The Making of Footloose. (He kept saying, "But Deb! The music is great! And these things are all about the music!") I told someone about this and she informed me that there really IS a re-make of Footloose in pre-production. So I dearly hope this WAS an anxiety dream rather than precognitive . . .

But the best . . . the absolute best of the lot came a few nights ago when, it would seem, my subconscious decided that stress was no excuse not to have a good time and cast Martin Scorcese as the Albert Einstein-esque genuis-hero in a sci-fi flick wherein an evil villian was intent on obliterating the planet. Martin had to rush to the top of the control tower to save us all, with the Evil Lord in hot pursuit. (Dressed appropriately in a black robe -- the subconscious is not much for subtlety. Ask Freud and Jung if you don't believe me.) Martin wedged himself into a narrow corner at one point, and attempted to make himself invisible. But, for all his genuis, he was a self-taught wizard and this trial-under-fire did not go as he'd hoped.

There was a shower of green and blue sparks and then Martin emerged again . . . still fully visible. And now, with one leg and foot replaced by the thick club of a dragon (or dinosaur) leg and sporting a long, spiked green tail (of a dragon or dinosaur.) Did this slow our hero down? Not a bit of it!! He glanced at the leg and then muttered to himself, in that distinctive Martin-Scorcese voice that I'm sure earned him the role for its comic effect -- "Never mind. Never mind. Carry on. Just carry on. You can tend to it later." And lunged for the stairs leading to the control booth. He wedged himself behind the control panel, hindered only slightly by the fact that the dinosaur/dragon leg and tail wouldn't fit. He might be uncomfortable, by Jove, but what was that compared to saving the planet, after all?!?!

The Evil Lord entered the chamber, breathless from the chase. Four spectators (including, inexplicably, Liz Sheridan, who is probably best known for playing Seinfeld's mother on the sitcom) were seated comfortably in front of a wall of screens to the left of the control tower. Liz cordially offered the panting Evil Lord her seat, but he pushed her aside, looking wildly for Martin. Aha!! He spied him and headed for the stairs . . . but - curses!! - he tripped on the hem of aforementioned black robe and went down in a most undignified sprawl. Martin was pushing buttons on the control panel and . . . I woke up.

But don't worry. I'm pretty sure Martin saved the day. My sanity, however . . . that may still be up for grabs.