Swift moving storms pulled by low dark clouds racing across Barnegat Bay on a planet so full of wonder that such beauty exists in Jersey.

Before my eyes, a rainbow formed on the horizon, under that tight ceiling of dark clouds. Deep, rich primaries screaming, “Look at us!”

The storms sped south, leaving in their wake a hazy blue sky full of white clouds following along at a slower pace. And as these more tenuous clouds spread themselves out, the rainbow grew, anchored and vibrant in the north, sketching its semicircle mile by mile. Though fading as it bent to the south, it finally touched down on the far horizon.

I saw the wind shift in the clouds and the southern half winked out; the northern half started crumbling. Slowly, over a quarter of an hour, the rainbow evaporated, wasting away from right to left, south to north, top to bottom, shrinking with each breath.

As I watched it go, as the intensity of the colors drained, I thought it would simply fall back to the horizon. But then the root itself detached from the Earth and its fading edge started climbing up to meet its mate sliding down. And then it was gone.

And now, now it’s back, that stubborn lower arc. Fuzzy, faint and steady, it sits on the horizon, almost watching me as I tell its tale.

(And now I’m gonna go watch the sunset. Happy Earth Day.)

“Oh my God! We were just talking about you.”

Morgan tends to stretch out the final syllable of her sentences. “Anne and I were saying how much we missed you in our writing group.”

Here on my side of the Hudson, in among tight-packed suburbs connected by busy county roads, we make up for our small town libraries by stringing groups of them together with interlibrary loan¹ and reciprocal lending. If yours doesn’t have the book, they’ll get it from someplace else, although another suburban librarian (whom I used to make giddy in an entirely different way and who doesn’t otherwise appear in this story) once told me it costs $35 per book for that service. Seems highly inefficient. If the book is on the shelf in a nearby town, it’s generally quicker for me to go get it.

Which is how I found Morgan’s writing group. A few years back, I was in her library one town over and I saw the flier. I’m not much of a joiner but I signed up anyway. I ended up going three times but didn’t keep up with it. Why not? Read on.

A few weeks ago, I was there again, checking out a book I couldn’t get here in town, when Morgan saw me and exclaimed, “Oh my God…” She works the circulation desk and Anne [not their real names, btw] is The Librarian. Back when I was going to the group, they were both (overly) impressed by the graduate program I was in and they liked my work. I mean, they *really* liked my work.

“Oh my God, Anne, look who’s here.” Anne didn’t recognize me at first but did soon enough. We talked a bit about scheduling—the group meets on Tuesday night but, as everyone knows, Tuesdays are for stick-fighting—and then she said, “We wish you could come back. You were our favorite writer.”

She left and Morgan said, “You really were” with that giggle and sigh that are so common among married suburban mommies.

But that’s kind of why I left. Not because she was into me; that’s not what her sigh was about. It was the praise that drove me away. Or rather, it’s that they had nothing but praise for my work. Zero criticism. I mean, accolades are cool and all and I often dig being the smartest (or whateverest) person in the room. But for me, writing groups, classes and workshops are all about the criticism. I’m not there for an ego stroke; I’m there to get better. If I’m not getting soul-crushing edits, if everybody only has good things to say, I’m in the wrong room.

—
¹ – That should probably say something like “we used to tie our libraries together” since Governor Stupid Fat Fuck has eliminated libraries from the state budget. If that matters to you, click on over to Save NJ Libraries and take some action.

Every month or so, I grab an hour’s visit with a friend of mine who lives in Hell’s Kitchen. Yesterday, I spent that hour and then aimed my car for the Lincoln. After moving maybe two car lengths in 15 minutes on 11th Avenue, I realized I was an hour away from the tunnel and decided that an early dinner in Chelsea or the Village was a better way to spend that time and, hell, I had a computer with me meaning dessert in a WiFi cafe wouldn’t suck either, so I pulled out of the tunnel queue and into the free flowing, southbound lane. Another driver did the same but that guy wanted to jump the line; the foolish bastard tried to cut back in right in front of a traffic cop, who was having none of it. Hand to god, the cop pinched his fingertips together, shook them in front his face and shouted, “Whaddaya think you’re doin’?” My friend did not get back in line.

Meanwhile, I was headed down the free side of 11th Avenue, content in my moment and clean of bad intention.

But as I crossed 40th Street—which is where that 11th Avenue traffic, both northbound as well as south, turns into the tunnel—I noticed that there were almost no cars approaching from the other direction. I doubled checked, twice, to make sure the entrance was open and, sure enough, with literally less than half a block’s worth of line, cars were flowing right on out of the city. I had driven past eight blocks of solid, unmoving traffic going south and now, a few quick turns would point me north and put me into the tunnel.

Across from the Javits Center at 36th Street is one of the rarest spots on earth, a vacant, unfenced lot on Manhattan’s west side. With the curb cut for driveways, it begged to be used for a U-turn and make my short cut even shorter.. Imagine if *you* were unused land in Manhattan, imagine how valueless you would feel and how eager to be of service.

I pulled suddenly into the left lane, preparing to make my turn. A cop car grew large in my rearview, so I pulled back just as suddenly to the right. Ethical though my impending deed was, it’s legality was fuzzy at best and behind the police is where I wanted to be. They passed me by. I slid back into the left lane, made a legal left onto 36th, a quick left into the lot and a quick right back out onto 11th Avenue in the other direction, and boom, in the tunnel in 90 seconds, jumping the line with clean karma and conscience.

I had not intended to talk (much) about my family and had vowed to stay away from politics, since I don’t do that anymore. So I’ll just comfort myself with the fact that my son appears only in passing and I’ll pretend this is philosophical rather than political because I really need to ask these questions.

Due to Governor Chris Christie’s educational spending cuts, several teachers in my son’s school are losing their jobs, including two of the three faculty members involved with the drama department, the musical director/band teacher and the English teacher who supervises all the tech. It blows but this isn’t about that; New Jersey, you elected Governor Stupid Fat Fuck and you knew what his priorities were. And besides, I don’t do politics anymore, ‘member?

The students in my son’s high school have organized a protest, a day where they’ll post signs on the school lawn representing all the departments being cut and sit out on the lawn with their signs and “do what the teachers that are getting laid off taught [them] to do.” They intend to go back into the school for afternoon classes.

In order to avoid chaos, so the rationalization goes, the administration is not interfering with the protest and any student who brings in a note from their parents will not be penalized for participating. No note, however, and the kid gets marked for cutting class.

Am I wrong to be uncomfortable with the man being so intimately involved in protest? The conspiracy theorist in me recoils at the idea of giving your name to the government in return for the right to demonstrate. But this involvement may also stifle protest in a more practical, less paranoid way. This is a very Republican town; these kids’ parents voted for this guy and I’m sure that will keep some, not all but some of them from signing the note.

The school claims it is supporting the kids by adding this layer of organization, and the kids don’t seem to mind, but their involvement makes me feel like they’re using the kids as a tool and I have to wonder, is the school providing the kids with a good civics lesson or are they coopting the kids’ protest? My answer seems to be: embrace the power of and.

The head of my client’s studio is heavily into nicknamification. Everybody gets one, ‘cept Jack, and most get more. Nothing particularly imaginative, Goldstein becomes Goldy, the dude with the beard halfway down his chest, ZZ, and on down the line. Now that I’m an honorary member of the studio, I qualify. Berk and the hated since childhood Berkie are to be expected. As is, if you know me, you know where I’m going with this, wait for it, Son of Sam.

The day that fucker was caught, I was 11 years old. It was summer and we were in the bungalow in Wurtsboro. It was a weekday morning and the TV was on, this old black and white with a 17” screen, encased in dusty black plastic with two big dials on the front, VHF and UHF. My mom had on some morning show and I remember vividly his dopey moon face smiling under that bouncing mess of curly hair, surrounded by the cops taking him on his perp walk. I remember being confused that we shared a last name and a home town.

I know it was a weekday because we went to day camp that day, at another bungalow colony down the road. I know we went to camp because I got in three fights that day, wild, flailing, screaming fights with kids whose names I no longer remember. I wasn’t much of a fighter so I’m sure I didn’t do much damage. I don’t remember being hurt either.

And since that August day in 1977, he has been my constant companion. Well, not constant so much as persistent and frequent enough to notice. At least once a year, a new acquaintance cannot help but bring him up or ask if we’re related. (We’re not.)   Hell, the studio head did it himself the first time we met a few years back. A thorn in my my side more than a cross to bear but Hill Street Blues reminds us that there are worse names to share.

So what if I have two failed blogs in my past?

So what if I kept a powerful, semi-private blog during the last weeks of my marriage, those between “I guess it’s over” and moving out?

So what if I’ve got a seven year-old LJ that was essential to my growth as a writer but which I haven’t touched in a year?

So what if I won’t update every day?

So what if the design is subject to change?

So what if Will Dana said to me, “Good magazine writers aren’t put off by dead-ends. They see them as a challenge. Some people, they run into a locked-door, they give up and become bloggers.”?

I’m starting a new damn blog. Deal with it.

I had meant to stop there but this is a good exercise, so let’s keep the irrelevancies going.

So what if I have no real idea what I want from this blog?

So what if I haven’t been on stage since November?

So what if I have no idea how to write a novel?

So what if I have a Relevant Degree from a Prestigious School?

No reason for any of this to be in my way.

So here we go.