I'm the problem!

 

Dear you,

Deforestation, compliments of unchecked development in the Panhandle beach area, is bloodier by the day.  Road kill everywhere.  And the creatures who do manage to dodge death by car are forced into residential zones seeking food, water, anything to survive.  Hence the appearance of racoons here at Beachwood Villas.  According to the nosey old farts snow-birding with us, this is my fault. Because for the past year I've been feeding two feral kitties who have been here longer than me. So what's the big deal?  Racoon poop, that's the deal.

Night before last, a really revved up racoon gang hit the Villas and pooped all over the landings of my building and the one next to me.  The old farts were outraged!  Poop on the landing!  "They are here because of that cat food put out by that snotty fast-walking lady who ignores us."  (Yes, this is my survival strategy.  I walk fast with earbuds in so I don't have to engage.)  When I saw the poop near my front door, I thought it was hilarious.  And really, cleaning up after a furry friend is so much easier than cleaning up after barbaric "guests".  Believe me, I have found much worse that coon poop on my landing.  

Anyway, the farts ratted me out to our condo management dude, who I actually like.  He forbid future feedings; his minions tossed out the cat dishes and spread cat repellant (or worse) around the green spaces. I don't want to know their plans for the racoons.  This won't end because with or without Joyce treats, racoon habitats are vanishing and they will continue to show up, searching for anything, especially in our dumpsters. But don't blame the developers or greedy investors, of course.  Blame me! Yep.  It's me.  I'm the problem. Cue Taylor Swift, "Anti-Hero": 

It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me (I'm the problem, it's me)/ At tea time, everybody agrees/ I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror/ It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.

I love that song!  More relevant lyrics from the same:  Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism/Like some kind of congressman?

I guess the farts saw my cat care as a self-indulgent show. Fuck them.  But speaking of congress and poop (bullshit to be precise), how about this dude?

This guy is unbelievable, literally. Doesn't he look like the love-child of Marco Rubio and Gov. Ron Desantis? Startling resemblance. My favorite Santos lie is how he claims to have been a volleyball star at Baruch college, a school he never attended. Why volleball?  Why Baruch? Such an eccentric little falsehood. But apparently HE is NOT a problem.  And neither is the Missouri state legislature that has created a new rule for their female representatives. They can no longer show their bare arms. So very Taliban, these legislative versions of my old fart snowbirds.  And apparently THEY are NOT a problem either.

It's me. Hi.  I'm the problem.

Racoon poop, Santos, and a bare arm ban in Missouri.  The year is already deeply absurd.  And it's only January.

End.

Joyce, your ever-evolving condo criminal

Woke! The bird, the man, and Democracy.

Dear you,

January 6, 2023, the second anniversary of the failed coup.  I exhale and remember that day.  I think about what it means to pay attention to what matters, to be aware, awake. The week's events, small and large, played out that theme.

Wednesday, annoyed by the roar of the cleaning person's blower and the image of Matt Gaetz wrecking Congress on my TV screen, I heard a loud smack, like a hammer on wood.  Alarmed, jolted out of my annoyance, I saw a strange, beautiful bird stunned on my balcony.  She had flown head first into the sliding glass door.  Her little body, black with white dots, appeared frozen.  But then I saw movement as she began to breathe. I resisted the impulse to interfere and just gave her time.  I distracted myself by washing dishes.  Ten minutes later, I went to check her status and saw she was gone!  No blood left behind.  No signs of damage.  She recovered and flew away.  She woke.

Yesterday, tracking the hoped for recovery of NFL Bills player, Damar Hamlin, after his heart attack on the field Monday, I scrolled and scrolled online looking for good news.  Yes.  Doctors on the job released statements that Hamlin was recovering, neurologically intact, and awake!  He woke. 

January 6, 2021, that event at our Capitol, an attempted insurrection fueled by lies and fear, played out "like a movie".  People died. Many officers defending the People's House survived but carry the trauma with them still.  We watched and, most of us at least, realized Democracy is not necessarily a forever thing.  We woke.

This state of wakefulness is transient. Still, we can celebrate it today. For the moment, hallelujah!  The bird, the athlete, the abstract dream of democracy are with us.  Let's stay awake too.

Happy dance.

Joyce

Resolved!

Dear you,

And now it's time for those New Year's resolutions! I googled the tradition and read some hilarious pieces about what NOT to add to that list.  For example, Realbuzz.com advised readers not to quit their jobs: "Surely drunkenly calling your boss up on New Year’s Eve and leaving an abusive voicemail about where they can stick their job is one of the worst New Year’s resolutions you can ever act on? Quitting your job over the festive period is bad news if you don’t have a new job to go to come January."  Sound advice. Advice I didn't take; in fact, I sent a few rude emails to my online tutoring gig team leader recently. I am pretty sure that working relationship is over. Acting like an asshole was NOT on my 2022 resolution list.  Now I have to find a new job, maybe one where I have to wear a visor and be a people-person. Karma's a bitch.  Anyway, the point is that kind of rash sassiness shouldn't make your 2023 list.  Here's some other things I would advise you not to resolve for 2023:

1. Make peace with Uncle Zippy who attends Trump rallies.

2. Learn to love unwanted facial and body hair; just let it go, baby!

3. Join a church whose philosophy repulses you to prove you have an open mind.

4. Replace expensive cigarettes with homemade smokes (fry beef jerky in skillet until golden brown; wrap it in toilet paper and ignite).

5. Sign up for the pickle ball team at the local senior center.

Yes, the resolved actions are pretty specific and that is supposed to be a good thing in terms of execution, actually accomplishing something.  But I advise you to do the opposite in all cases; instead, please resolve to:

1. Reject toxic family members.

2. Attend to your beautiful self and eliminate body hair.  All of it.

3. Stick to your principles without fear of judgment.

4. Embrace your expensive addictions.

5. Be a joiner if  and only if the joining makes you smarter, faster, and sexier.

That said, here's my list for 2023:

1.  Sell this damn condo and buy a quiet home somewhere civilized. (God in heaven, let this year be THE year this happens.)

2.  Read more poetry and watch fewer Bravo Below Deck episodes.

3.  Eat Chinese takeout whenever I want, even for breakfast.

4.  Keep resisting the pressure to wear flip-flops in public. Those things are for the beach or the shower. 

5.  Revel in the best, the sweetest memories; don rose colored glasses when looking back.

6.  Stay young and don't die.  

So resolved, so it shall be.  

Best for 2023,

Joyce

Potential

 

Dear you,

Continuing my search for a new home in this slim and costly market, I thought about Panama City.  Not Panama City Beach, but the town. Hurricane Michael almost erased that place, but the locals (who are really locals) have hung in there and aim to bring it back.  Yes, the crime rate is staggering. Numbers from bestplaces.net note that on a scale of 1 to 100, the Panama City violent crime score is 43.6. (The US average is 22.7). The Panama City property crime score is 84.6. (The US average is 35.4). Not good. But crime aside, there is an effort to make the town a real place again; see Harrison Avenue downtown, organizations like the Panama City Center for the Arts on East Fourth Street, and the Historic St. Andrews neighborhoods in general.  Definitely potential here.  But . . . money is walking elsewhere, to the beaches and the surging 30A "scene".  How to shift the focus and make PC a real town where smart, competent, cultured people can live?  People have to take a risk and imagine the possible, the potential.

Semi-persuaded by participating in that potential, I drove East over the Hathaway Bridge to check out an open house in that area.  It wasn't downtown, literally, but I thought it was near the town center.  I drove as directed by Google through the Panama City strip-mall scene on 23rd Street and then headed north on Hwy 231.  Forever, I traveled this road and could not find the street noted as the first turn off. After 30 minutes of wandering, I turned around and headed back south.  Forget the open house; I decided to just study the area.  I am a camera:

1.  Approaching Panama City from Hwy 231, I saw countless shuttered stores.  The only open businesses were nail salons and auto shops.

2.  For miles, no decent food options, just a few fast food joints that looked beat.  I observed a few employees sharing a smoke in a Burger King parking lot.  They looked beat too.

3.  About a mile outside PC, an older man had set up a roadside Trump 2024 station.  He was eating peanuts under a "Biden and the Ho Gotta Go" banner. The car ahead of me slowed to cheer his patriotism, lots of arms emerging from rolled-down windows doing that thumbs-up thing.

4.  Back on 23rd Street, I passed better stores like Dillards, decent grocery stores, and a few acceptable restaurants.  Parking lots full of big, big cars and pickup trucks.  Pedestrian life limited to the movement between car and store.  Obesity reigned.  So did whiteness.

5.  Right before Hwy 98 and the road home, I saw another half-dead strip mall.  The open venue was that Trump Store featured in the photo above.  Yes, they also sell coffee.  One must sustain rage; caffeine is required.

My point?  Convincing diverse, interesting peoples to make their homes in PC, to be part of a mini-renaissance, is going to be a difficult task.  The types needed to create an urban environment are going to be repelled by that "1 through 5" reality.

Potential Panama City?  Possible, but the odds don't look good. The damage done by Mother Nature (Hurricane Michael in 2018) can be repaired.  But the vibe of despair and prevailing lifestyle (cars, strip malls, acrylic nails, fast food, enraged Trumpers) might be beyond fixing.

Still, I might give the town another look. Roll the dice.

Potential cannot be realized without risk.

Still trying,

Nomadic Joyce

 

Dear you,

Happy holiday confusion! Tis the season to be on high-alert. No relief. The lines between my eyes are deepening daily as I continually scrinch my face in the "what the hell is going on?" way.  Someone should do a study on that.  Working title - Scrinchface, facial distortions in the early 21st century: the side-effects of giving a damn in an absurd world.  

My recent personal scrinch-inducers:

1. Kanye-Yay "likes" Adolf!  2. An ex-POTUS suggests we erase the constitution and install him in the Oval Office, forever! 3. My 30A scene should be quiet now since it's snowbird season, but no. The rip and roar of killing machines taking down trees to accommodate Airbnb assholes is the soundtrack of our lives! 4. The damaged and dim Herschel Walker could be elected to the Senate!

My use of exclamation points there is meant to signal alarm, not yippee-joy.  But here's the thing.  So many Americans would interpret those statements as good news.  "Hell yeah!"  What are we to do with them, again them? WTF?  Navigating this territory (oh look, there's another pickup truck with a "Fuck Biden" sticker in my parking lot) takes self-control.  During my morning workout, I repeat the basics of Toltec wisdom:   

Be impeccable with your words

Don't take anything personally

Don't make assumptions

Always do your best

That's the ideal.  But I need to vent. So. First of all, I have some pretty impeccable words for Yay, Ye or however he's spelling himself: Please just go away, you sociopath.  As for taking things personally, you bet I am taking Donald's attempts to erase democracy personally.  Please join Kanye in exile, you giant troll. Regarding the tree killers, I think it is perfectly logical to assume they are soulless bastards. See the evidence. To be brief, fuck them.

Rule four? I am trying to do my "best".  At this moment, I am trying my best to NOT toss eggs at the Deplorable's truck below my window. I'll aim away from the Biden slur and target his "Guns and God" sticker instead. Is this dude worth my $6 eggs?  Should I sacrifice a beautiful, fluffy omelet to annoy him?  Am I contemplating a criminal action here?   I Googled "egging cars" and found links to sites like absolutebailbonds.com and this post title: "How Eggs Can Get A Person Into Trouble."

OK, no.  I am not doing time just to annoy some redneck. He's not worth it.  And neither are Yay-Ye, Donald, or the Airbnb assassins.

Whatever the fuck is up with them, or why the fuck they do what they do, it is best for me to use my words.  Best to save my eggs for eggnog.  And better still to save my face from schrinchdom.

Wishing you a WTF-free holiday season,

Joyce 

Banksy and creative care . . .

Dear you,

Let us be careful, not careless. Full of care as in mindfulness, yes, full of the spirit of WOKE.

I hope to get better at that and be awake always, responsive to amazing grace. See the art of Banksy above in Ukraine.  Amazing grace.

Oh, the beautiful things we can make and do when we care.  And oh, the damage done when we are careless. We push and pull against the likes of Elon Musk playing with people's careers and a major social media site; care be damned. Is it worth it, Elon? Is it worth it, Putin? Is it worth it, Federalist Society? Is it worth it, censors of art and literature? Why do you need to break beautiful things?

As for art/literature, see Florida (once again), Indian River County, momsforliberty.org. Their intention is to do more than limit student access to literature; their intention is to keep "those books" OUT OF THE STATE.  The state itself.  What does that mean?  A bunch of morality police with nothing better to do intend to control libraries, bookstores, online book sales?  Well, consider the source:

Storm trooper boots. Tight denim. Big smiles! Enjoy the purge! They pose as caring, so grateful for "your" support: "Thank you for fighting with us for our children! We invite all who know that parental rights are always the MOST important. Whether it’s medical freedom, curriculums, overreach of public servants (school board/superintendent), or whatever else stands between us and the best education for our children, we will be stronger together!"  Woo.  "Parental rights are always the MOST important"?  Of course, because sassy-hand-on-hip-gal looks really qualified to assess the merits of anything academic.  And the "80's wants their skirt back" mom will most definitely be a contender to monitor History of Fashion course materials.  I could go on, but won't.  

 Pure carelessness, this.  Carelessness posing as protection. Words from one famous challenged text come to mind. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald:  "They were careless people . . . they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made."

Let's be careful.  And make beauty out of their mess.

To close, on a lighter note, I share this hilarious  #Thanksgiving2022 greeting from James Clow in NYC.  This would really piss off the liberty moms:

😄 Joyce

Sweet Dreams!

 Dear you,

November 8, big election day.  Quite an understatement.  MSNBC analyzes and experts predict while I attempt to clear my head by chatting in e-space.  Today's topic, inner space, my dreamscape.  A couple of nights ago I had a very vivid and obviously symbolic (if you believe that sort of thing or adore Freud) dream.  It wasn't blurred or erased when I woke, as I said, vivid. Spin this:  I dreamt about doing laundry.

Use your Google tool and search "dreams about washing clothes"; the interpretations are easy to guess:  you are seeking a spiritual cleansing, you are overwhelmed with tasks, you are tending to the banal instead of the critical, if the laundry is filthy, you are a hot mess. But here's the thing, my dream laundry was pristine and the rinse water pure.  I knew this because the washer had broken and I had to go inside the machine and fix it.  This is where it gets dreamy.  The washer was also a copy machine, like an old Xerox from the office-cubicle days.  When I opened the paper jam drawer, there was a lovely bright yellow and white striped towel hanging neatly over a rod.  I moved the towel from the copier rod into the washer bin and the machine started working again.  So what does this mean?  The clean, lovely laundry did not appear to need washing.  And instead of being frustrated and obstructed during the breakdown, I fixed what was broken.  I like that spin! 

Okay.  That was the inanimate object part of the dream.  There was also a human player on the scene, a young dude who looked like Kid Rock.  (Now we are veering into nightmare territory.)  We were conversant because he had something I needed, quarters, for the dryer I suppose.  After the transaction, I opened my hand and discovered only a few quarters and lots of pennies and a marble.  So what does this mean?  Am I feeling short-changed or ripped off?  Probably not, in the dream, I recall being calm but also calling him a "fucking idiot".  Kid Rock's feelings seemed hurt.  And then I woke up.

The one thing about this dream that made literal sense is the Kid Rock character. At the time, a group from Indiana was staying in the Airbnb across the landing from me.  One of the young men was a dead ringer for Kid R.  He even had that unwashed-probably-smelly thing going on. So I guess he seeped into my subconscious mind. Anyway, our only contact during their stay was when I passed him as he returned from the beach. I was headed to the garbage dumpster . . .  carrying his group's garbage.  They had left this gargantuan bag of crap by their door and I just wanted to make it go away.  So, as I passed Kid R., I lifted the bag and said "I love doing this."  He just smiled.  He either thought I meant it or he didn't give a damn. The Kid Rock in my dream was a lot nicer, even if he was a fucking idiot.  He gave me a marble.

And that is my dream journal for your contemplation on this massively important day.  Spin away and interpret as you will.

As for this night, I will probably pass out with the television on, tuned to MSNBC of course. Then I'll dream about Steve Kornacki!  He will be announcing an unexpected BLUE WAVE, a reprieve from creeping authoritarianism.  A disco ball will drop above the commentators' desk and a band of shirtless young people wearing Kornacki style pants (and no tops) will dash in from the wings and dance with wild abandon.  Random celebrities will appear on set to join the party. One  of the celebs will be Kid Rock. Rachel Maddow will interview the weeping Kid, saddened by the defeat of his red friends. Then I will appear on set as well.  I will give Kid Rock a pristine yellow and white striped towel, a few quarters, pennies, a marble, and a bag of garbage as a consolation prize.  And then I'll wake up.

I hope that dreams comes true.

Good luck, everyone. #persist 

Joyce