A Diary Left Open

The Real First Underwater Mountain Bikers - Photo and Story by Patty Mooney

2012-02-01T14:15:00.000-08:00

For today's "Retro Wednesday" blog post, a little history about the first Real Underwater Mountain Bikers (including me.)

Back in May 2006, Scuba Diving Magazine published the above article about a dive master in South Caicos who was cruising too close to the end of a pier on his mountain bike when he fell in. "Surprisingly he was able to stay on his bike and ride it on the sandy bottom." And thus he had "concocted" the new "extreme sport" of "underwater mountain biking."

When I saw the article, I knew I had to set the record straight, as my posse and I had been the first to ride mountain bikes underwater. 20 feet under, to be exact, off the west coast of Costa Rica in 1994, fully 11 years before this guy, Gerald Charles, claimed to do it in 2005.

Here's the letter I wrote to Scuba Diving Magazine which they never published:

----------------

Dear SDM,

My partner, Mark Schulze, and I were both intrigued by Martin Pepper’s story (in your May 2006 issue) about how Gerald Charles, a 32-year-old dive instructor in South Caicos had “conceived” the idea of underwater mountain biking after he’d fallen off the pier and found himself pedaling underwater on his bike.

Au contraire, the idea was first conceived by the intrepid mountain-bike team of Mark Schulze, Jason Borner and myself (Patty Mooney) over chips, salsa and beers one balmy evening at a tacoria in Costa Rica in January 1994. Mark and I were amidst an around-the-world video adventure with mountain bikes; Jason was our Costa Rican guide. We were discussing what we could do that would cast Costa Rica in an awesome light. The answer was to combine two of its most popular recreational activities: mountain biking and scuba diving.

The following week, we chartered a dive boat to take us to a site called Tres Sombreros, and covered the sequence on video from the boat as well as with a Hi-8 underwater camera. Jason, Mark and I took turns riding on a “sacrificial bike” 20 feet underwater on the sandy, rocky bottom (no coral). The underwater mountain biking adventure appears in our video, “Full Cycle: A World Odyssey” which garnered fifteen international awards. Over the last decade, stock-footage clips of our underwater mountain biking “jamboree” have appeared on Real TV, a Nintendo commercial and several corporate videos.

Just wanted to set the record straight on who the true pioneers of this “fledgling sport” really are. It was a one-time occasion, a farce, really; we didn’t think it was a good idea to regale it as a sport as it would be too easy for less-than-responsible divers to wreak havoc on the oceanic environment.

Sincerely yours,

Patty Mooney & Mark Schulze
----------------

Jason Borner, just before his underwater mountain biking experience. Actual underwater sequence can be seen on "Full Cycle: A World Odyssey" documentary trailer:

Blogaholics Anonymous - by Patty Mooney

2012-01-06T11:11:00.000-08:00

My name is Patty Mooney and I am a blogaholic. I have Cyber-estate that dots this virtual landscape from desert to mountains to sea. I love to let my fingers do the running as I expound on mountain biking, poetry, travel adventures, romance, and politics. When I "hung ten" upon my first "net-surfboard" - via a Macintosh SE back in the late 1980's - I had a healthy fear of the unknown. No surfer wants to get scraped up on rocks or have a big chunk taken out of their ass by a Great White shark. So I was careful of scammers and spammers. I learned everything I could about Search Engine Optimization, Google Analytics and keyword optimization.

And then I started to blog. And it was fun! But then one blog was just not enough. So I'd get home from a video production gig and work on A Diary Left Open as well as A Life In Business. And then there came a day when I was lured into the Wordpress zone, and started a blog that featured some of my Pocket Productions (music and poetry videos that I shoot with my small Canon camera - not what I would consider professional, but fun). And then my blogaholism really escalated. It was simply too easy to click on "Add Another Blog" and within minutes I had another one.

There's Pocket Productions, and Air Poetry, the Lamp Hat Collection, Soldiers Heart and Diary of a San Diego Video Production Crew. Yes, I do type pretty fast. But by day, I work as a video editor and sound technician. And on my time off, I enjoy mountain biking, sleeping in and long walks on the beach... Not to mention breakfast, lunch, dinner, and time with the hubby. And did I mention mountain biking? And long beach walks?

So I hope you will forgive me, dear reader, for appearing to be more elusive at A Diary Left Open. Yes, I'm still here, trying to come to terms with my blogaholism and time-management skills. Barkeep, pour me a tequila shot. Make it a double.

Please feel welcome to join me at my Facebook Lamp Hats page and Facebook Air Poetry page.

"Jerry & Me" - The Time We Interviewed Jerry Lewis - by Patty Mooney

2012-01-04T21:30:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, everybody!

As you know, you are as pertinent as your latest blog post. But if you have been blogging for years, many of your articles have gone unread and unnoticed by many. And who bothers to ever read your stuff beyond the current week? I mean, if you had readers who were going that far back into your blogroll, you might even think they were stalking you.

So, I would like to introduce my latest idea that struck me today as I was cruising around on my mountain bike at Mission Trails - "Retro Wednesdays!" You know that great quote, "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle?" Why couldn't it apply to a blog?

Here's a blog from January of 2009 about the world's greatest living comedian, Jerry Lewis. Enjoy! And let me know what you think about "Retro Wednesdays."

Patty Mooney poses with Jerry Lewis on his boat in 2006 (Photo by Mark Schulze)

Many times we are asked who was the most interesting person we have interviewed for our broadcast clients. We have met quite a few celebrities. Vince Vaughn and Jewel both stand out as talented yet humble people who were gracious to the crew, whereas a sailor and a basketball player, both named Dennis, gave the sound operator cause to worry about retrieving the lavalier mic in one piece.

The man who comes to mind as the most interesting is a comedian by the name of Jerry Lewis. We were hired to shoot Jerry giving a video homage to his good friend, Norm Crosby, who was to receive an award. Our crew arrived at the marina where Jerry moors the boat he lives on when he is not in Las Vegas. We set up our equipment quickly, put a lav on Jerry and were about ready to begin the interview when Mark, the shooter, said, "Mr. Lewis, if you would move to your left about half a foot then you would not be back-lit."

Jerry responded, "This ain't the Academy Awards, kid. Let's just get this show on the road."

Jerry turned out to be what we in the business refer to as "a one-take wonder" and as we wrapped the equipment, I asked him what he had thought when Don Rickles had referred to him as a "Jew whale" at the 2003 MDA telethon. He laughed and said, "I love that guy!" Jerry explained that at the time he had been on steroid medication that had ballooned him out an extra 63 pounds. Although Jerry still had medical issues, he felt much better and had lost a little weight. He was also delighted to have just written his book, "Dean and Me: A Love Story," which has garnered high ratings on Amazon.com.

We would like to say thanks to Jerry Lewis, for delighting us all with your comedy for six decades!

Happy Holly-Daze, 2011

2011-12-24T16:40:00.000-08:00

We want to wish every one of our friends and family a wonderful holiday season and new year.

Grant yourself time to enjoy moments with YOUR friends and family as much as possible. May you laugh often and acknowledge your gratitude of the bounties we all enjoy, simply by being alive.

As an abbreviated overview of the past year -- Mark and I have visited Mother Nature as often as possible. This has been the one major constant in our lives since the day we met (2-14-82). Oh, by the way, we will be celebrating our 30th anniversary this coming year, on Valentine's Day.

UCSD enjoyed their 50th anniversary and Mark and I attended several fun and amazing events, including one at the Scripps Aquarium, where this photo was taken.

2011 is the year when I finally shared the idea of "Lamp Hats" with the world. This is me wearing a "lamp hat" (a few umbrellas substituting as actual lamp.) [Photo by Mark Schulze]

This is Mark in a lamp hat. [Photo by Patty Mooney]

Mark and I adhere to our schedule of riding every Saturday (and when we can, on a weekday) in the mountains on our mountain bikes. That's how we recharge our "batteries" and encounter Nature in all Her Glory.

Dancin', dancin', dancin'!!! [Photo by Mark Schulze]

We stayed rather busy this year, producing, shooting and editing video productions for our discerning clients. This is a still of a video interview with the programmers of Call of Duty - Modern Warfare video game.

Buncha clowns!

This is a brief excerpt from my latest avocation/passion/obsession - Air Poetry. It's the gathering/ capturing of phrases, ideas, conversations, historical moments which hover "in the air" long enough to be received, considered, recorded, and shared with readers from around the world. I started an off-shoot site on Facebook where people may post their conception of what Air Poetry is... But Air Poetry, in its purest form, as I conceived it, is the documentation of verbatim conversation.

Here I am, ecstatically recording some Air Poetry in the San Diego outback.

Mark and I hope that you enjoy every moment as it comes, with the conviction that you can manifest fabulous times with the power of your mind.

Leaving you with a private concert given by Jefferson Starship the night the lights went out in San Diego and people thought the concert would not go on, so they didn't attend, but there was a generator and the concert indeed went on.

Happy Holidays!

Love,

Patty & Mark

Marking the First Anniversary of the Death of My Brother

2011-12-06T13:06:00.000-08:00

It was on December 7th (Pearl Harbor Day) of 2010 when we learned that my brother, Joe, had passed away on the 6th. Of course this immediately threw a wrench into the well-oiled workings of my family. We were still reeling from the loss of Dad (in April 2010). But at least with Dad, we could all see it coming for years. Joe's death was a blow to us all, as it was unexpected. Joe seemed the epitome of good health. I would have thought that he'd die in a fiery motorcycle accident, as he was a buff Harley guy.

In the woulda-shoulda-coulda category: If Joe had enjoyed the status of Americans who have health insurance, and if he had paid regular visits to a general practitioner, then MAYBE his arterial coronary disease would have been detected, and MAYBE he would still be with us. We could have all celebrated his 54th birthday with him. He would have come over on Autumn weekends to watch the Charger games with us. He would have been over on Friday nights singing Karaoke with us. We would have attended more cook-outs at his beloved Ranch that he named "Valhalla."

But no, Obama's plan for health insurance for all has met with such resistance from the opposing party, it is so deflating. Why is it considered a Socialist notion - and therefore bad - to funnel some of our tax dollars into a healthcare fund for all Americans? Why can the Canadians, New Zealanders, Aussies and Europeans make this concept work, and not us? And why are we allowing our tax dollars to go into the coffers of the defense industry and let's not kid ourselves, toward killing people on the side of the planet? The idea of my hard-earned money going towards murder has never sat well with me. But it would stress and then probably kill me if I actively thought about it every minute of every day. So I think about other things.

But every now and again a nasty grenade gets lobbed your way - i.e., the untimely demise of your little brother - and those thoughts creep up again. In countless conversations I have heard, "The Democrats are just as bad as the Republicans." Well, not really. If you look at any Congressional "report card" it's the Republicans who are always voting down legislation that is supposed to protect We the People, and our beautiful America. It's Republicans who vote to "Drill, baby, Drill!" in the pristine Alaskan wilderness. It's Republicans who vote against a woman's right to choose whether to have a child or not. It's Republicans who vote to shoot nearly-extinct timber wolves in Idaho. It's Republicans who bought up the media and the Supreme Court, and who convince gullible Americans that "The Patriot Act" is only for their own protection (and not a handy way to squelch civil liberties).

I could go on, but I really think you ought to go and do your own homework on scalliwags like Rupert Murdoch (who ostensibly sanctioned phone tapping at his "News of the World" agency) and the Koch Brothers who are spending their millions on their Tea Party shills. Go and do your homework and let's turn our "Titanic" away from the iceberg.

Let's make sure all Americans can enjoy healthcare. Don't we work hard for our dollars? Don't we deserve healthcare benefits? Please don't get duped by the people who are trying to take our liberties away. Do your homework.

I miss you, Joe.

Steve Mason's "The Wall Within" - Story and Photos by Patty Mooney

2011-11-11T11:11:00.000-08:00

I originally posted this amazing poem in February of 2009. I repost it today to honor the memory of our veterans who gave the ultimate sacrifice so that we can enjoy our freedoms today. My father and mother both served during World War II, and my sister served in the 1980's.

This is a poem I have read and re-read many times, and illustrates perfectly why a soldier is the best proponent of peace.
- Patty

Children at Vietnam Wall - Photograph by Patty Mooney

Today I was going through some old files and found the copy of a Congressional Record from January 30, 1985. It was the copy of a poem entitled "The Wall Within" which Vietnam Veteran poet laureate, Steve Mason had presented on Veterans Day 1984 on The Mall.

According to the Preamble by the Hon. Stewart B. McKinney of Connecticut, Veterans Day had taken on a new dimension. "The Vietnam Memorial was completed, dedicated and turned over to the United States and its people. Most of my colleagues were unable to prticipate in the Veterans Day ceremonies on The Mall, but I would like to share with them a part of the observance which I believe to be a positive sign in the healing process from the Vietnam war.

"The National Poet Laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, Steve Mason, read to the vast crowd that day an excerpt from his work "Johnny's Song." Having served his country in Vietnam, Steve Mason knew a lot of Johnnys. Having known a lot of Johnnys, Steve Mason continues to serve his country."

Steve Mason had signed the document and written something to me:
"For Lady Patricia,
who writes poetry
in a world led by men
who make no music and
have no dreams -
Thanks for being who you are."
-Steve Mason

I thought back to when I had met Steve at a writers' conference in Southern California in the late 80's. I remember feeling honored and touched when he had first given me the poem. I'd read it and put it in my file cabinet. Then 20 some years later, after having produced a documentary on homeless combat veterans ("The Invisible Ones") this document finds its way into a virtually whole different set of hands, mine, in that I now have a better understanding of what Steve went through as a veteran of the Vietnam War.

I googled "Steve Mason" to see what had become of him and found that he had died on May 23rd, 2005, from Agent Orange exposure.

---------------------------
By RUKMINI CALLIMACHI / Associated Press

Poet Steve Mason — a soldier who became the unofficial bard of the Vietnam War — has died at the age of 65.

Considered the poet laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, Mason's blank verse gave voice to a generation's wounds. It was his poem, "The Wall Within" which was read at the 1984 dedication of the Vietnam Wall in Washington, D.C.

Mason, a resident of Ashland, was a longtime proponent of Oregon's Death with Dignity Act. But his family said Mason, who died at his home of lung cancer last Wednesday, did not use the lethal dose of pills which had been granted to him.

"It gave him great comfort to know he had that option, but I think in the end he didn't need it," said his daughter, Jessica Mason, 24, in a telephone call from Ashland. "The hospice nurse said it was one of the most peaceful deaths she had ever seen."

Mason began to write poetry as a way to make sense of the war and connect with others who had shared the same experience, said his first wife Diane Weirch.

"It was a long time before the vet centers opened and before Vietnam vets stopped suffering alone," she said.

He began by writing love poems in the 1970s, co-writing "Moths and Violets" with a friend.
Eventually, he began opening up the wounds of war in blank verse, publishing the trilogy he is best known for: "Johnny's Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran" in 1986, "Warrior for Peace" in 1988 and "The Human Being — A Warrior's Journey Toward Peace and Mutual Healing" in 1990.

His verse reverberated with feeling. "His poetry, though you could tell he was no dummy, was all emotion — and that's a language that reaches everyone," said Weirch.

In one of his best known poems, he compares the Vietnam Wall to the internal wall he has created in an attempt to keep his life from spiraling out of control:

"There is one other wall, of course. / One we never speak of. / One we never see, / One which separates memory from madness. / In a place no one offers flowers. / The wall within. / We permit no visitors. / Mine looks like any of a million / nameless, brick walls_ / it stands in the tear-down ghetto of my soul; / that part of me which reason avoids / for fear of dirtying its clothes."

His family said that in letter after letter, veterans who had never met Mason reached out to thank him, saying he had given them a voice. Some used Mason's verse to explain to wives and children how they feel about the war they could not themselves speak about.

Going through his possessions, his family discovered "legal pad after legal pad after legal pad" brimming with poems, said Weirch, a collection the family hopes to someday collate into a posthumous volume.

He is survived by three daughters and one son.
-----------------------

So I decided to post today's experience on my blog, as well as the poem, "The Wall Within" by Steve Mason. A poem that took me over 20 years to fully appreciate. A poem that needs to be shared.

Delivered at the commencement of the National Salute II in Washington, D.C. on November 10, 1984, as part of the official activities prior to the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial ("The Wall) as a national monument. It honors the personal list of love and loss that each American has marked in his/her heart. Poem entered into the Congressional, January 30, 1985. Johnny's Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran. Steve Mason. (May 1986). Bantam Books.

"Dedicated
to all of us
who know the true cost
of war
and have paid the price."

The Wall Within

Most real men
hanging tough
in their early forties
would like the rest of us to think
they could really handle one more war
and two more women.
But I know better.
You have no more lies to tell.

I have no more dreams to believe.
I have seen it in your face
I am sure you have noticed it
in mine;
at the unutterable,
unalterable truth of our war.
The eye sees
what the mind believes.
And all that I know of war,
all that I have heard of peace,
has me looking over my shoulder
for that one bullet
which still has my name on it--circling
round and round the globe
waiting and circling
circling and waiting
until I break from cover
and it takes its best, last shot.

In the absence of Time,
the accuracy of guilt is assured.
It is a cosmic marksman.
Since Vietnam,
I have run a zigzag course
across the open fields of America
taking refuge in the inner cities.
From Mac Arthur Park
to Washington Square
from Centennial Park
to DuPont Circle,
on the grassy, urban knolls of America
I have seen an army of combat veterans
hidden among the trees.
Veterans of all our recent wars.
Each a part of the best of his generation.
Waiting in his teeth for peace.

They do not lurk there
on the backs of park benches
drooling into their socks
above the remote, turtled back
of chess player playing soldiers.
They do not perch upon the gutter's lip
of midnight fountains
and noontime wishing wells
like surrealistic gargoyles
guarding the coins and simple wishes
of young lovers.

No.

I have seen them in the quiet dignity
of their aloneness.
Singly, in the confidence
of their own perspective.
And always at the edges of the clearing.
Patrolling like perimeter guards,
or observing as primitive gods,
each in his own way looks out to the park
that he might "see" in to the truth.

Homeless Veteran, Rosecrans, San Diego - Photograph by Patty Mooney

Some, like me
enjoy the comfortable base
of a friendly tree that we might cock one eye
to the center of the park
toward the rearing bronze horsemen
of other wars
who would lead us backwards to glory.
Daily, they are fragged
by a platoon of disgruntled pigeons saying it best for all of us.

And with the other eye,
we read the poetry of America the Beautiful
as she combs her midday hair
and eats precise shrimp sandwiches
and salad Nicoise catered by Tupperware--
and never leaves a single crumb.
No wonder America is the only country in the world which doesn't smell like food.

...and I remember you and me
picnicking at the side
of the Ho Chi Minh Trail in the rain
eating the Limas and Ham from the can
sitting easy in our youth and our strength
driving hard bargains with each other
for the C-ration goodies
we unwrapped like Christmas presents.
Somehow it really seemed to matter
what he got versus what you got.

It wasn't easy trading cheese and crackers
for chocolate-covered peanut butter cookies!
And the pound cake--Forget about it!
I knew a guy who would cut a hole in it
and pretend it was a doughnut.
For six months I watched that
and refused to ask him about it.
I did finally. And you guessed it.
He hated pound cake.
And remember the water biscuit
that came in its own tin?--
I think they had the moxie to call it a cookie--
it came with the marmalade
and was made by that outfit in Chicago
we promised to burn to the ground someday.
Damn, how did your buddy, the animal,
ever eat that crap?
Then, we'd happily wash down the whole mess
with freckly-faced strawberry Kool-Aid
straight from the canteen
some days there'd be goofy grape
(anything to keep from choking on the taste of purified water).
Bleck.

But somehow I sensed all the while
that I'd never be able to forgive myself
for enjoying your company so much
or being so good at the game we played.
We were the best--you and I.

In our parks there are whole other armies of veterans
mostly young and mostly old
but always ageless
who are not alone.
They share with their families
and their friends
these open-aired
above-ground time capsules
of our national culture.
They read aloud to themselves
and their children
from the plaques and statues
monuments and markers
those one-line truths
of our common experience
as if there could be a real significance
in words like Love and Hate tattooed
on the clenched, granite fists of America.

"Mac the American" Photo by Kenny Shackleford

Sometimes, when I am angry
it seems as if I could start my own country
with the same twenty Spill and Spell words
we shake out at the feet of our heroes
like some crone spreading her hands
over the runes prior to a mystic reading.
Words like:
peace and sacrifice, war and young
supreme and duty, service and honor
country, nation, men and men and men again,
sometimes God and don't forget women!
Army, Air Force, Navy, Marines and freedom.

Then, just as quickly, the anger passes
and reverence takes its place.
Those are good words, noble words, solemn
& sincere.
It is the language of Death
which frightens me;
it is unearthly to speak life concepts
over the dead.
Death is inarticulately final
refusing forever to negotiate.
That, and the awesome responsibility
we place eternally on our fallen
teenage sons,
seems unbearably heavy
against the lengthening prancing
shadows of Sunday's frisbees.

Apparently, there is no period
which can be placed after sacrifice.
All life is struggle.
An act of natural balance
and indomitable courage.
As it is with man
so it is with mankind.
If we permit Memorial Day
to come to us every day,
we ignore the concept of sacrifice
and dilute its purpose.

When we do that
we incur the responsibility to effect change.
If we are successful, the sacrifice has renewed meaning.
It seems there is no alternative to life.
But there may be to war...

The values of our society
seem to be distributed in our parks
and find only confusion and sadness.
Strange, I have observed no monuments
to survivors.
No obelisk to mark the conflict
of those who risked
and lived perhaps to fight again
or perhaps to speak of peace.
Nowhere, yet, a wall for the living.
There is no wonder
guilt is the sole survivor of war.
We do not celebrate life after combat
because our concept of glory
lives neither in victory nor in peace
but in Death.

There are plaques at the doorsteps of skyscrapers;
in New York on the 10th and the Avenue
of the Americas it reads:

IN MEMORY OF THOSE
FROM
GREENWICH VILLAGE
WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
IN THE KOREAN CONFLICT
1950-1053

In Nashville's Centennial Park
in a shaded wood
to one side of the Parthenon
built to scale and to the glory
which was Greece,
a small statue stands;
it is inscribed:

I GAVE MY BEST
TO MAKE A BETTER WORLD
1917-1918

I stood there one fall
ankle deep in leaves
and looked up at the night sky
through a hole in a ceiling of trees
wondering how much better the world
might look from up there.
From the moon
only one manmade object
can be viewed by the naked eye:
The Great Wall of China
(a tribute to man's functional paranoia).
It's a peculiar perspective
because we're a lot closer
and the only manmade object we see
is THE Wall in Washington, D.C.
(the veterans' solemn pledge to remember)

There is one other wall, of course.
One we never speak of.
One we never see,
One which separates memory from madness.
In a place no one offers flowers.
THE WALL WITHIN.
We permit no visitors.
Mine looks like any of a million
nameless, brick walls--
it stands in the tear-down ghetto of my soul;
that part of me which reason avoids
for fear of dirtying its clothes
and from atop which my sorrow and my rage
hurl bottles and invectives
at the rolled-up windows
of my passing youth.
Do you know the wall I mean?

I learned of mine that night in the rain
when I spoke at the memorial in Washington.
We all noticed how the wall ran like tears
and every man's name we found
on the polished, black granite face
seemed to have our eyes staring back at us,
crying.
It was haunting.
Later I would realize
I had caught my first glimpse
of the Wall Within.
And those tears were real.

You and I do not walk about the Wall Within
like Hamlet on the battlements.
No one with our savvy
would expose himself like that
especially to a frightened, angry man.
Suicide loiters in our subconscious
and bears a grudge; an assassin
on hashish.
We must be wary.
No. We sit there legless in our immobility
rolling precariously in our self-pity
like ugly Humpty Dumpties
with disdain even for the king's horses
as we lean over the ledge to write
upside down with chalk, bleached white
with our truth
the names of all the other casualties
of the Vietnam War
(our loved one)
the ones Pentagon didn't put in uniform
but died anyway.
Some because they stopped being who they always were
just as truly as if they'd found
another way to breathe.
Others, because they did die
honest-to-God casualties of the Vietnam War
because they lost the will to breathe at all.

My mother gave her first recital
at Carnegie Hall at age eleven.
Sometimes, when I was a boy
I'd watch her play the piano
and wonder if, God, after all, was not a woman.
One evening when I was in the bush
she turned on the 6:00 news
and died of a heart attack.
My mother's name is on the Wall Within.

You starting to get the idea?

Our lists may be different
but shoulder to shoulder
if we could find the right flat cloud
on a perfect, black night
we could project our images
upon a god-size drive-in theatre
wide enough to race Ben Hur across
for a thousand years...

Because the Wall Within
adds up the true cost of war...
We can recite 58,012 in our sleep
even the day after they update it,
but how many of those KIA had kids?
How many of them got nice step-dads?
Whose wall do they go on?

Sailor Kissing Nurse - Photograph by Patty Mooney

And what about you vets
who came home to your wife and kids
only to divorce her because
there wasn't anyone to be angry at?
How many dimes
have you heard long-distance fathers
dropped into the slot
to hear how another man
was raising your children?

Yeah, Yeah, I can hear you hollerin',
"Put it on the wall! Put it on the wall!"
Damn right, it's on the wall...
And you remember how that came down?
you told the three year old
his daddy loved him
and his mommy loved him
and nothing would ever change that.
But it did anyway.
But not because you didn't love him enough,
but because you loved him too much
to be a part-time daddy.
And you couldn't explain that to him
because you couldn't explain it to you.
What the hell? I mean who were you,
Spinoza? You came home a twenty-two-year-old
machine gunner for chrissake,
you did the best you could.

PUT IT ON THE WALL!!

And somewhere, in an art gallery, maybe
is a portrait of American Grieving Parenthood.
Handholding, Rockwellian caricatures
of wisdom and forbearance
and oh yes, pride
sitting on the front porch
of the township
waving their lemonades
at the Greyhound bus driver.
Baloney. The names go UP!

Because every time you can't find Mom,
you damn well better call Doc Smith
cause she's up on the second floor again
sitting on the floor in Johnny's closet
smelling his Varsity sweater
with the sleeves around her shoulders
sobbing something maybe only Johnny ever
understood.

But don't worry about dad,
who never fished again,
or watched a ballgame on TV again
and won't talk to anyone this year
between the ages of thirty and forty.
He's doing fine.
He just doesn't exercise
as much as he should,
but Doc Smith assures us there's no medical
reason why the folks should have separate bedrooms;
Dad just likes to read a lot these days.

If you and I were men of common conscious
we might agree on a collective dedication
to our Walls Within.
As for me
they could all read:
This wall is dedicated
to mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
wives, husbands,
sons, daughters,
lovers, friends,
and most of all dreams
of the men and women
who risked it all in Vietnam
while you continued to lose them
during and after the war
with less a chance than they for a parade
and no chance at all for an explanation.

You lost them to bullets, internment,
drugs, suicide, alcohol, jail, PTSD
Divorce, but never never did you any of you
ever lose them to the truth
which is now being shared
across this great nation
in such an act of spontaneous
moral courage, it's like many
never have been seen on any battlefield
in the history of mankind....

Amen to that, brother.
***********************

From Johnny's Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran by Steve Mason (May 1986).
A Bantam Book

"Four Johnnies", MCRD, San Diego - Photograph by Patty Mooney

After the Reading of the Names by Steve Mason

(Shared at the Peace Memorial,
Old Town, San Diego, Memorial Day, l984)

I just call him Johnny;
like in Johnny went off to war
and Johnny didn't come home.
And remember him,
like Johnny was a helluva ball
playerand Johnny's girl believed in dreams.
And I can find him,
like in Johnny's folks
moved away that year-some say, Minnesota;
but his name's still here
not two miles from his old high school
on a Peace Memorial
(which is a funny name for it).
Sometimes like today,
we read All the names
some call it "the reading of the names."
Me, I just call it Johnny's song.
And as much as I love the words,
I've come to really hate the music...

Pythagasaurus - A Short Film

2011-10-27T11:21:00.000-07:00

A rather Tim Burtonesque short animated film. Sort of a Beavis & Butthead meet Jurassic Park.

What Does America Mean to Me? - by Paula Cohen

2011-10-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr[I posed the question, "What Does America Mean to You?" on LinkedIn and several people took their precious time to answer it for me. It's always an honor when people engage in conversation with you. Some mentioned the crumbling infrastructure of the USA, the Wall Street greed, the relationship with Canada, Mexico and South America. But then I read Paula's answer and knew that I wanted to share it with you... - Patty]

Still, after all these years...the Stars and Stripes snapping against a blue sky in a fresh autumn breeze. The sight of the Blue Ridge Mountains marching, wave on wave, into the distance, and the words "For purple mountain majesties..." running over and over through my head.

The Gettysburg battlefield in early July, where -- if you just listen closely enough -- you can almost, just barely, hear the sounds of the battle all around you, and feel the goosebumps rising on your arms. The road from Boston to Lexington and Concord, still there, with the stone walls on either side...the same road on which the British marched back to Boston, after the first shots of the Revolution; the same stone walls from behind which the Minutemen fired at
them...all still there.

The first sight of El Capitan and Half-Dome, as you enter Yosemite National Park from the southwest, which renders you speechless with wonder, and half incapable of believing that such beauty can exist, even as you're looking at it. The little islands off the Maine coast, just peeking through the fog at daybreak, reminding you of what the world must have looked like when it was
young.

"The shining city upon a hill," in John Winthrop's words. A country founded to give its people opportunities that no people had ever known before. A country made and governed by men -- human, and flawed -- a country that has made some terrible mistakes; a country that has, nevertheless, tried -- and very often succeeded -- in learning from and correcting those mistakes...in picking itself up and moving on to greater and ever greater strengths.

A generous, big-hearted people. A land of big cities and small towns, of hard workers, who like their independence and relying upon themselves. The country of the Lady Liberty, lifting her lamp beside the golden door. The place where people -- including my grandparents, on both sides -- have always come, and continue to come, for the chance of a better life.

In Abraham Lincoln's words..."the last best hope of earth."

"Liberal" is Not a Four-Letter Word - by Patty Mooney

2011-10-05T11:12:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr

Last night Mark and I saw the premiere of a wonderful movie called "Just An American," featuring vignettes of various citizens who each follow a dream to its fruition, demonstrating that anyone with enough passion, dedication and self esteem can achieve what they set out to do on this magnificent land we call "America." A stand-out scene is a naturalization ceremony inside the Hall of Liberty where our Declaration of Independence was signed.

The producer of the film, Fred Ashman, a friend of ours, is an erudite man with many intriguing stories to tell. Some of the best of these you will see in "Just An American." Layered between stunning cinematography of America, "from sea to shining sea," there is the story of a young Vietnamese girl whose family emigrates - literally by boat - to America and who overcomes language and cultural barriers to become a successful business woman. There is the young black man who survives life in the ghetto to become a doctor. A Brazilian boy also faces language barriers to achieve success first as a restaurant manager, and then as an elite Navy SEAL. His dream veers off-course when he loses the use of his legs during a mission in Panama. However, he overcomes his disability to inspire others as a Paralympian.

After the film, as the audience filed out of the theater, there was a video camera set up outside to record impressions of the viewers. I stood by as a local radio personality named Rick Roberts, spoke about his impressions of "Just an American." Mr. Roberts is the founder of The Warrior Foundation, whose "mission is to help injured and disabled military heroes leading the fight in the war against Terror."

As Mr. Roberts was finishing up his interview, the last thing he said, and I paraphrase, was "I challenge any liberal to come and see this film. It would have to change who they are." I made sure that the camera had stopped rolling and the interview was completed before I stepped forward and said, "Well, I'm a liberal and I enjoyed the film." He then said, "Then you should see it again." As he scurried off, I called after him, "I DID see it again." Fred had given Mark and me a copy of the film to watch several months ago. I enjoyed it then, and I enjoyed it last night. Furthermore, I wouldn't mind seeing it again.

I would have loved to converse further with Mr. Roberts about my impressions of the film, and his definition of "liberal." However, he could not leave my presence fast enough. It was sort of like watching a clock come apart, with the springs boinging away, and with no idea how to put the darn thing back together.

Maybe someday when Rick Roberts googles himself, he will come across this blog, and learn that this woman who had the guts to call myself a "liberal" in his presence - a man who daily vilifies liberals on his radio talk show, has this to share: No two people are alike. So why paint "liberals" with such a broad stroke? It leads me to wonder just what his definition of a liberal is. I admit, I have never listened to his radio show. I'd rather be mountain-biking in nature, or blogging about my adventures, practicing philanthropy or loving people. I stay away from hate.

Would it surprise him to learn that I come from a family of eight in which three members served in the military? Would the shock jock be shocked to know that I had spent a year of my life editing a documentary about homeless veterans? Just why was he in such a hurry to leave my presence?

I applaud his work with The Warrior Foundation. That's wonderful. But I think Mr. Roberts would do himself a favor to realize a few things. First, he is not the owner of the trademark for America. How boring would it be if every single American had the same ideas, feelings, desires and emotions as he did? I believe the great Rod Serling already covered that topic handily in "The Twilight Zone." The very diversity of Americans makes us great. Second, I may not have served in Afghan or Iraq, but I survived a brutal rape at 18, a grizzly bear attack at 31, a deadly fall off a cliff at 44, and Mr. Robert's snide comment last night. I'm both a warrior and a proud American. So my question to you, Rick, is this: Why alienate a wide swath of Americans when - with a little diplomacy - we could all work together to achieve the kind of America we all dream about? Just saying...

My Magnficent Obsession - by Patty Mooney

2011-09-28T13:11:00.000-07:00

When I was 15, I started writing poetry because I was the new kid in the neighborhood and nobody liked me. Well, how could they? They didn't even know I existed. Since I didn't have very many friends, I retreated into the written word where I could spill out the contents of my soul. And I seemed to have a knack for it, because my teachers encouraged me to keep writing.

Image via Wikipedia
Then I went to college at Michigan State University. I had the good fortune to take a Poetry class with Carolyn Forche who mentored me and even helped me submit my work to the Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Middlebury, Vermont, for a summer "waitership" there. What a great day it was when I received notice in the mail that I had been selected to spend a week at Bread Loaf serving coffee to, and "rubbing elbows" with some of the greatest living poets of our time: Robert Pack, Marvin Bell, Rosellen Brown, John Gardner, William Gass, Anthony Hecht, Mark Strand and Mona Van Duyn.

Fast forwarding to the 21st Century, I still love to write poetry although am under no illusions that I will ever make a career of it. Instead, I began to focus on poetry as entertainment. A way to make people laugh. These are not poetry's usual environs. Many poets are inspired to write when they are feeling down, depressed, angry, and as if there is no place to go but up.

Still, I have loved the work of impish writers like e.e. cummings, Billy Collins and Lewis Carroll. So I knew that there could be a way of imparting poetry to the everyday person who may or may not include the reading or writing poetry in their list of avocations.

And then I stumbled onto my "latest invention," which I call Air Poetry. After my brother died last December, I sought solace in my poetry-writing, which I had allowed to languish over the prior decade. I dabbled with Haiku and began sharing them with my friends. I started to carry a small notebook with me everywhere in order to jot down random poetic thoughts. And then... I started recording bits and pieces of overheard conversation that struck me as funny, thoughtful, startling, insane... I noticed that many of these seemed to hold their own as poems. When I read them aloud to people involved in the conversations, they were highly entertained. When I read them aloud to people who had not been involved in the conversations, they, too, were highly entertained.Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr

I realized something special was emerging here, and I bought the Air Poetry url. When I shared the idea of Air Poetry with friends and encouraged them to write some, the results were positive. I will be posting the work of an eight-year-old boy and an 18-year-old young man in the next couple of weeks, proving that the exercise is a good one for kids.

Other friends and new acquaintances have begun to post their work. And I love it.

I have thought of this as the "mainstreamization of poetry," which may irk some of the traditionalists, but maybe Shakespeare irked a few people with his sonnets. The thing I really like about it which is different than most poetry is that it takes you out of your own mind and into the stream-of-conversation that is available to anyone, anytime you put yourself into a social situation. I have garnered some great Air Poetry from parties, shopping malls, restaurants, at the side of a stream, on top of a mountain, and on video shoots.

If like me, you enjoy experimenting with the written word, the company of other people, and entertaining others, maybe you should give Air Poetry a try. Submit your work to the Facebook Air Poetry page.

The sky's the limit.

And now for a few examples:

To think
or not to think.
I am a fly.
- Sandra Shapiro

Shopping at Target
There's honey.
Raspberry seeds
stick in my teeth.
You're the one
with the sensitive ass.
Nobody around here
has a sweet tooth.
Thank you.
Have a good evening.
- Patty Mooney

It's America 2011
We have no expectations.
The bar is so low
that it's rolling down the street.
It's an authenticism.
As long as I'm on bass guitar
that's all I care.
- Patty Mooney

Why I am Not Surprised the Tigers are in the Playoffs - by Patty Mooney

2011-09-21T10:27:00.000-07:00

Back in June, while my husband and I were visiting family in Detroit, my brother, Tom, treated us to a game of baseball at Comerica Stadium featuring the Detroit Tigers versus the Arizona Diamondbacks. It was a searing Sunday, one of the hottest days I had ever experienced in Detroit, made all the more obvious as we were sitting in the standing-room only section without shade in the sold-out venue. I even stole away to the women's room a couple of times to soak my shirt in the sink for some cooling relief.

The Tigers that day were celebrating the life and times of beloved manager, Sparky Anderson. Right from the start the day was looking to be quite special.

The Tigers pulled ahead right away in the first inning with a home run. But in the second inning, the Diamondbacks were ahead by 2 - 1. For the next several innings the score remained the same. Then in the 8th inning something happened that I have never seen before. The Tigers scored 7 runs without any home runs, all in the same inning. The crowd went wild.

Meanwhile, I had brought a small plastic egg filled with my brother, Joe's, ashes because it was my intention to spread those ashes onto the ball field. "Say what?" you might be asking. It's like this... Joe died last December. While he and I had "emigrated" to California back in the late '70's, we both spent our formative years growing up in a Detroit suburb. Motown was where Joe became a man. The ground that Comerica Park stands on is where Joe spent his wild teen years.

Anyway, as the game drew to an end, and I was contemplating how to sprinkle Joe's ashes onto the field, I noticed a pronouncement on the marquee: It was "Kids Day" which meant that after the game, kids could run around the bases. I then enlisted the aid of my newphews Charlie and Peyton, who both were too weirded out by the idea, so I decided to do it myself.

As Mark distracted the usher who was directing kid traffic onto the field, I slipped behind him onto the field, clutching my ash-filled plastic egg. I remember thinking how quick the transit was from home plate to first, and before I knew it I was advancing upon second base where the Tigers' esteemed, and very tall, mascot, "Paws," stood, cavorting with the kids. As I approached him, with my left hand rising in a high-five, I surrepticiously opened the egg and unleashed the coarse bits that had once been my brother, there in the center of the field.

The rest of my orbit around the bases and into home was a blur and I may have even forgotten to tag third base. When I arrived at home base, Mark, Tom and the boys were there to high-five me.

Mission accomplished.

And when I recently learned that the Tigers had entered the Playoffs, I was, curiously, not surprised.

Cowles Mountain, Rescue Central - by Patty Mooney

2011-09-14T09:34:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr

August 05, 2009 - A 55-year-old man died this afternoon while hiking on Cowles Mountain. The man was found passed out on the trail, and had been lying for an unknown amount of time in a hard-to-reach area of the mountain.

February 13, 2010 - An injured male hiker, with four other people, was about half a mile up the trail from 7000 Golfcrest Drive near Navajo Road when he became injured. The hiker was hoisted off Cowles Mountain by a San Diego Fire-Rescue Department helicopter Saturday and taken to a hospital with minor to moderate injuries, officials said.

March 28, 2010 - A 13-year-old boy who fell and broke his arm near the top of Cowles Mountain Sunday was plucked off the hill by a rescue helicopter and flown to a ground ambulance waiting at Mast Boulevard and state Route 52.

April 25, 2010 - A 50-year-old woman was rescued from a Cowles Mountain hiking trail after suffering an ankle injury Sunday, according to the San Diego Fire-Rescue Department.

January 15, 2011 - A 60-year-old woman in distress was hoisted on a helicopter and rescued from Cowles Mountain on Saturday.

January 18, 2011 - Firefighters used a helicopter twice Monday to rescue hikers who were injured on Cowles Mountain. A 41-year-old woman had either fallen or collapsed while hiking up, and another woman who suffered a minor injury.

March 6, 2011 - A 24-year-old woman who injured her leg Sunday while hiking up a trail on Cowles Mountain was airlifted to safety.

April 1, 2011 - An injured hiker was rescued from Mission Trails Regional Park Friday evening

----------------

Because we live on a hill that overlooks Cowles Mountain, we have been observing the accelerated frequency with which rescue helicopters hover, dip, and collect unfortunate hikers. Last month we were awakened from a deep slumber at 3 in the morning to the sounds of a helicopter picking up someone who chose to hike in the middle of the night. The list above is not at all comprehensive, but gives you an idea of who gets into trouble on the most-climbed mountain in the City of San Diego.

Some advice to the would-be hiker who wants to tackle a rather steep, technical and often hot trail: Work up to it. Hike along the lower-lying trails, and preferably ones that feature streams or rivers so you can cool off if you start to overheat. Build up some endurance before trying to zip up a trail that may be over your capability. Make sure you don't have some kind of condition that will be exacerbated by a technical hike. Wear the right shoes, and make sure they are broken in. Take plenty of water. If you are accompanied by your dog, bring plenty of water for both of you. Remember that however far you hike up, you will need to hike that same distance back down. So if you are starting to get weary sooner than you'd like, stop and rest. If you still feel tired, then turn around and hike back down. This is not an Ironman marathon. Listen to your body and enjoy your time outdoors, whether you're briskly hiking or sitting on a rock, contemplating Nature.

I Used to be Addicted to Falling in Love - by Patty Mooney

2011-09-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr As Jerry Seinfeld once said so aptly to the Hertz agent, "You know how to TAKE the reservation but you don't know how to HOLD the reservation." The same is true with love. Maybe you know how to FALL in love, but you don't know how to STAY in love. Well, my friends, roll up your sleeves, because there is work to be done in order to keep love alive.

Maybe you are a junkie for falling in love, as I once used to be. I just came across a journal I had typed on an electric typewriter from 1979 through 1981, just before I met Mark. It was like finding the diary of a completely other person. I have no memory of many of the people and situations I wrote about. It's like coming across a sexy blog in pre-computer times. I was 24 in '79; just picture a "recovering Catholic girl" who realizes that she is free to do anything and everything she feels like doing.

If I didn't appreciate the way one boyfriend treated me, then I could simply walk away and find a new one. So that's what I did. By the time I met Mark I was seeing four guys at the same time. I got to be pretty good at juggling them, but I was also keeping each of them at arm's length. Each of them knew and loved a different facet of me. No one man knew ALL my facets; this was my way of protecting myself.

And then along came Mark. The universe cleared my calendar on Valentine's Day of 1982 so that the only thing I planned to do was sing in a play called "Pandora's Box." And thus Mark and I met while standing on the balcony of the theater before the play was to begin. He was a videographer who had been hired to shoot the play.

Next Valentine's Day will mark 30 years together. Even though we have stumbled across bumps in our path, most of our time together has been stellar. Any relationship worth having is going to go through an annealing process - like the scene in any Merlin movie where the sword goes through a fire and is stronger for it.

We have now reached the point where we barely even have to talk to each other because our telepathy is so strong. We have multitudes of shared memories that we can share via a simple wink. In our 30 years together, I can say that it's only gotten better.

Are you addicted to falling in love? Wishing you the joys of true love.

Whose Lens? - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-08-31T09:09:00.000-07:00

Whose lens
captured the cheese
cake pose of my mother
before she mothered six
before she met her husband-to-be
on Grande Ballroom balcony
before she walked off
that frothy Bermuda beach
before she stood up, climbed down
the pumice throne
like the hoary head
of a dragon
which lifts her above
roiling sea and quickening sand?
She is alone in the shot,
her smile, breeze-lifted hair
black two-piece,
pale Slavik skin
exposed to the sun
of the day.
Who knew
how her dreams
would develop?

Two Missing Children at the Beach

2011-08-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr One of my most "popular" Facebook status updates in recent history was when I shared how two children had gone missing at the beach that Saturday. I was part of a video crew that followed the San Diego lifeguards on rescues and beach patrols across Ocean Beach, Mission Beach, Pacific Beach and La Jolla, for The Weather Channel's first reality documentary.

With around 30,000 people populating the beaches each day on the weekends - even as summer is waning, I found it amazing that there weren't MORE crises. What occurred during my five days of trolling the beach were a few stingray stings, a nasty sunburn, a woman who experienced heat exhaustion and one who suffered from hypothermia, a woman who hurt her neck while trying to ride the simulated wave at the Wave House, a drunk and disorderly guy, and of course the two missing children.

I learned a lot about this all-too-common and excruciating scenario. First, San Diego lifeguards enjoy a 100% success rate in reuniting every missing child with their family. This lovely statistic does a lot to help calm the frayed nerves of the shell-shocked parent who has no idea where their child is. The parent of course feels horrible about letting that child out of their sight, but these things happen. Especially if the child has an "agenda."

In the case of little Monica, she became separated from the rest of her family while they were hiking towards the Mission Beach jetty. By the time they realized she was gone, and enlisted the aid of the lifeguards, Monica had ended up walking in the opposite direction all the way to Lifeguard Tower 23 which is about a mile and a half from the jetty. Monica was eight years old. According to the lifeguard at Tower 21, he had observed a small girl without any apparent accompaniment, just merrily strolling along the boardwalk. Because the first priority of a tower lifeguard is to keep watch on the water, he took note of the child and was able to respond by radio to the main lifeguard tower when they put the call out with a description of Monica. By that time she had reached Tower 23 where she was gathered up into a beach patrol vehicle and then reunited with her family.

Sergeant Rick Strobel, who has orchestrated more child-family reunions than you'd probably care to know about, said that children tend to walk away from the sun and the wind because it's uncomfortable for them. Thus it is logical that Monica had turned to walk in the opposite direction.

In the case of little Alex, another eight-year-old, his family had been making a final use of the bathroom prior to heading back home to Montana. It seems plausible that Alex was not quite ready to leave San Diego, and so he trekked from Mission Bay, crossing frenetic Mission Bouleverd, and ended up at Tower 13 south of the rollercoaster. He must have had second thoughts, as it was he who alerted the lifeguards that he had been separated from his family.

In both cases, there was a panic-stricken angst for about two hours until child and family were together again. Not having had children of my own, I can only imagine the stark terror that one would feel to have no idea what had become of your loved one. The mother of Alex said that she was haunted by the thought that her child would end up on Amber Alert.

Sergeant Strobel offered up some words of advice to help prevent the separation of a child from their family. First, when you arrive at the beach, make sure you tell your children where you are going to hang out. Don't use generic locators like "blue tent" or "yellow beach blanket." Instead, use the lifeguard tower as a marker - for instance, halfway between towers 13 and 14. Next, instruct your child that if they get lost, they should approach a lifeguard and let them know.

For that matter, a lifeguard should be your all-around beach guide. If you are into surfing, they can tell you where the best waves are, or where the rip currents are. It is their sworn duty to protect and serve beach-goers and they WANT you to ask for their help. When it comes to safety, there is no such thing as a stupid question.

Queen Califia's Magic Circle

2011-08-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

The work of Niki de St. Phalle is showcased in Queen Califia's Magic Circle, in Escondido, California. This scultpure garden is second only to a garden of de St. Phalle's work in Italy. Kit Carson Park, which houses the sculpture garden, is only minutes off of Highway 15 (north of San Diego). What a great place to spend at least half an hour!

This is a slideshow of images from de St. Phalle's sculptures:

A Mountain-Bike Passage Through India - by Patty Mooney

2011-08-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr The doors to India were many: continual flights and airport waits, customs lines, and sleep deprivation. It took two days of travel through invisible time lines to reach the smudgy netherworld of New Delhi at 3 in the morning.

Many people were out on the streets, like it was the most natural thing to be up and about at that time of night. I figured with a population of eight and a half million, Delhi was a city that never slept.

The air was filled with a scent of burning cow dung laced with incense. As Mark, Marco and I wheeled two big carts of luggage and video equipment – 900 pounds of it – a cavalcade of cabbies and street urchins who wanted to assist with our bags accosted us.

“I help you!”

“No, I help you!”

“No, me!”

“Thanks anyway,” we told them as we rolled the massive carts ourselves toward our waiting bus.

Two dark-eyed, dirty-faced boys began to fight each other, trying to commandeer our carts.

“No, thank you,” Mark said with a finality that scattered the boys, sending them back to the airport for other potential work.

The other members of our tour group were hauled away on a bus. A second bus for the video crew and our baggage awaited us. We stowed our belongings aboard, and then climbed on. The bus belched forward. I settled back into my seat, too tired to dwell on the honor of having an entire bus to the three of us plus the driver and his assistant.

The bus zoomed along, joining a highway with heavy traffic. Through the smeared bus windows, we saw cyclists weaving in and out of thick traffic. The handmade steel-framed bikes were a far cry from our neon hybrid-metal ones.

As we slowed to a crawl, I wondered at the practicality of driving to a hotel an hour away for two hours of sleep, after which we would turn around and then return to the airport.

-----------------------------

You can find the story in its entirety at Mountain Bike Tales.

Making Escapes - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-08-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

It will not be easy
this time. This time
an Egyptian boy,
black olive eyes,
rattan hair.
Our hearts handed over
on the train
to Piraeus, port town
on the fringe of Athens.

I could have caught the boat
to the islands sooner,

I could have sailed
hours ahead, from out
of the deft butterfly collector's fingers.

-------------------

I wrote this in 1980 when I was 25 and had parted from my boyfriend, George, to travel alone to Greece. I recently came across the journal containing this poem, that I had written throughout my journey and it reads like fiction to me now.

Air Poetry - It's All Around You

2011-07-27T10:10:00.000-07:00

For several months I have been writing down little gems uttered in the conversations around me, in my notebook. Recently, I began sharing the idea with my friends who all loved it. My friend, Jody, even gave it a name: Air Poetry.

I immediately bought the domain airpoetry.com and have now pushed a new little paper boat out into the stream.

Still in its experimentation phase, I have been taking my notebook with me, jotting down the gold nuggets strewn across the sky that leap from the mouths of friends and strangers. Many of these notes turn into complete little air poems. Some are hilarious. Some are surprising. Some are very terse, taking up even less space than Haiku.

My friend, Connie, enjoyed the idea and wrote this at my birthday party:

Did you make it?
Eaten alive.
It's yummy.
How in the hell do you walk in those?
Fabulous.
You should write that down.
Tape worm from South America.
What about that?
I love food.

Pretty quirky, isn't it? My friend, Judy, loved the idea so much, she designed the Air Poetry logo.

I encourage you to try it. Go ahead, become that "fly on the wall" at the next party you attend. What's fun is first creating the air poetry, and then sharing your nugget(s) with your friends. I guarantee, you will be the star of the show.

If you create a masterpiece that you'd like to share with the world, leave it in a comment here or at the Air Poetry site, or the Facebook Air Poetry site and I'll post it (providing it's not full of obscenities, of course.)

Rollin' on the River - A Pictorial by Patty Mooney

2011-07-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

Just back from a lovely long weekend of floating at the Kern River, outside Bakersfield, California. The town is duly named, as you could fry an egg on the sidewalk there. The best place to be is in, on or near the Kern. Even the cows know it.

The river is way up this year, due to all the rains and snow melt. And river tubes have come a long way from those beefy black tire tubes. Fun, fun, fun! As with any endeavors in Mother Nature, one must respect the river and be constantly aware, as it's easy to get swept into low-hanging branches along the bank. Safety first!

You can see that the surrounding hillsides are burnt blonde and yet everything next to the river is a verdant green.

We had two or three river runs every day. We splashed around, conversed, laughed, and even shared a little Air Poetry. (I will tell you more about this new concept of mine in a future post.)

As any child knows who spends all day outdoors under the sun, there is a time for splashing, a time for floating, and a time for snoozing. All good things under heaven.

If you're interested in a rafter's view of a river - the Merced - check out this helmet-cam video shot by my husband, Mark Schulze.

Steam Punk Jewelry, the Latest Craze - by Patty Mooney

2011-07-13T15:16:00.000-07:00

I recently had a great conversation with JC, my favorite jeweler. Over the years, he has repaired pendants for me, re-strung pearl necklaces, re-glued stones into rings and earrings, polished my wedding band, and sold me a few of his unique pieces. We go way back.

Quintessential Steam Punk Ring by LondonParticulars, Etsy

When he saw the bicycle gear I was wearing on a chain around my neck, which I'd bought from a vendor at our local farmer's market (believe me, it's much MORE than just fruits and veggies there) he mentioned the latest craze in jewelry: Steam Punk Jewelry.

Nuts, Washers 'n Crystals Pendant, Steel Deco Design, Etsy

This made me curious to look it up on Google, and when I did, all kinds of odd and amazing pieces came to view, especially on that awesome site that reveres all things home-made: Etsy. From what I gather, artists have embraced the whole "recycle and re-wear" movement by creating one-of-a-kind pieces of jewelry using such objects as computer chips, vintage watches, music-box keys and other things that you might find up in your grandma's attic.

So these pieces have a very "vintage industrial" look. I've grabbed a few photos off of Etsy so you can get the gist. See if you notice any of your friends sporting any bracelets, pendants, rings or earrings that bring new life to old and nearly forgotten elements. Or maybe you can be the first in your circle to show off your steam punk jewels.

Robot Cuff Links, Cosmic Firefly, Etsy

A Wheatfield, An Artist, A Bicycle - Haiku by Patty Mooney

2011-07-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

Haiku inspired by Wheat Field with Rising Sun, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889
Happy Fourth of July!

Wear long socks walking
through the wheatfield or suffer
chafing by the chaff.

-----

Was he myopic?
What with the ear he lopped off
He'd need monacles.

-----

Only thing missing
in this masterful canvas
is the bicycle.

-----
Thanks to Magpie Tales for the inspiration.

Better Red Than Dead - by Patty Mooney

2011-06-30T10:11:00.000-07:00

Just back from a trip to Michigan to celebrate a few occasions with my family. My mom turned 90 so we threw her a big party at St. Pat's in Detroit, complete with a video documentary about her that I edited, and a couple of sets by The Root Doctor Band, in which my brother-in-law, Freddie, is the lead singer. A friend of my mom convinced her to go red for the big shindig, and my mom, after at least three decades of sporting a silver do, shocked most party-goers by arriving in a short red mohawk.

The Root Doctor Band delighted the crowd of 100 or so people who had come to help Magi celebrate, even soaring on a departure from their normal blues itinerary - one of Magi's favorite songs, "New York, New York." Many of the attendees were family, of course, and friends Magi has known for decades. They all love her timeless wisdom, her unflagging activism and her love for Detroit, the city where she was born.

While visiting Michigan, Mark and I enjoyed a fun-filled weekend, including an evening in Windsor with our friends Michael and Kathleen, and a Tigers game at Tiger Stadium on Sunday. I happened to have a small container of my brother, Joe's, ashes, and after the Tigers soundly spanked the D-backs (scoring 7 points in one inning, and none of them a home run - Wow!) I joined a long parade of kids who after the game ended, were allowed onto the field to run the bases, and I spilled Joe's ashes at second base, while high-fiving the Tigers mascot, Paws.

That's me, after the "deed," departing the field (pun intended.) Joe would have enjoyed the idea of having some of his ashes spread at the stadium for the irreverance (Joe was "Born to Be Wild!") but also because Tiger Stadium is in the heart of Detroit, where he spent a lot of time as a teen growing up into a man.

On the following day, Monday, we interred my dad's ashes at the Great Lakes National Cemetery for veterans in Holly, Michigan. I wrote about it at my other blog, Soldiers Heart in a post called "Goodbye Daddy."

On our last evening in town, the six "survivors" of our eight-member family posed for our traditional family portrait on the porch of our childhood home. Oh family, I am proud and honored to be a Mooney! Love 'n Hugs, Patty

Exploring Vegetarianism - by Alyssa Johnson

2011-06-27T08:08:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr We have a guest writer today, Alyssa Johnson, who has provided this thoughtful piece about exploring the vegetarian lifestyle. Enjoy!

Life as a vegetarian can be equivalent to the dangers of a new, uncharted expedition. Adjusting to the ways of a vegetarian is tough. The world was not made for us. It's like being 7 feet tall, and having your apartment ceiling only reach the height of 6'6''. Along the way there will be various meats, providing more than enough temptation to stray away from the veggies that we love so much. Even if we can abstain from meats, there are always those foods that may or may not have meat inside them. Meat seems to always be at your doorstep, with no escape. Introducing new friends becomes troublesome. I feel a cringe every time I say, "Nice to meet you." Starting out as a vegetarian can be tough, but after you get used to it you will see the benefits almost immediately.

Venturing out into the grocery store can be troublesome. At first it seems easy enough. All you have to do is go to the produce section and pick out the freshest vegetables, right? Every variation of salad for weeks straight can start to get old. Next, things like bread, chips, muffins, and bagels seem to be the next best alternative. But these carb-stuffed snacks are a quick way to gain weight. The best thing I've found was to gather veggie-friendly recipes before you visit the supermarket. This ensures that you know what you are going for, and experimenting with new meals is always fun. What some people do not know is that there are always alternatives to meat for vegetarians. Veggie burgers, hot dogs, sausage patties and even turkey for Thanksgiving. Try them; they all taste great!

Once you have the grocery store figured out, a complication you may come across is dining out. The "dinner menu" at various restaurants is a vegetarian's nightmare. Giant burgers, racks of ribs, and chicken fingers are dotted all over the menu along with pictures. There are usually only a couple of things that you can order to stay true to your vegetarian roots. One of those meals is almost always a salad. They may have one other entree besides a gourmet salad that is veggie friendly, and you may not even like it. There really is no solution to this, except wisely selecting the restaurants where you dine. Beware, because you never know what is going into your food. That is the advantage of cooking at home. Successfully sticking to your vegetarian diet will also benefit your health.

Diving into a plate full of vegetables has endless health benefits. The first thing I noticed was almost an immediate increase in energy. I wasn't feeling sluggish, and I found the will to remain active more often and for longer periods of time. The vegetarian lifestyle also helped me to lower my blood pressure, and aided my digestion, too. All of these health benefits are most definitely worth finding the right foods to eat. The most important health benefit for me was improving the health of my skin. I have always struggled with acne, and the vegetables helped to control the oils my skin produced, clearing my skin in the process.

Vegetarian lifestyles are not for everyone. It is hard to find food in a meat-dominant world. On top of that, dining out can be a hassle. One thing is for sure, the health benefits are there, you just have to stick to the veggie diet, and you will see them. Why not try it? Explore the vegetarian in you if only for a month, and you will see all the things it can do for you!

Here are some of Alyssa's additional articles:

Everything You Need to Know About Cystic Acne

Why Beauty of Your Skin is a Reflection of Your Good Habits

Healthy Menu Selections When Dining Out

Alyssa's business website is: Acne Center

San Diego, America's Finest City - A Video

2011-06-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

After having traveled the world and having lived in about thirteen different places, I settled in San Diego which I personally believe is America's finest city. Of course there are other great places to be, but I always love coming home to San Diego.

This is a video I made recently for a client that shows off some of San Diego's finer aspects.

Rattler, Ahhhhhh!

2011-06-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr This is a Haiku that came to me while mountain biking at Cuyamaca a couple of days ago. I did not spot a rattler this time, but when you are out on Southern California trails, you are always aware of the things that can "getcha:" deer flies, sunburn, heat stroke, poisonous spiders, scorpions, and rattle snakes. I was thinking that these dangers probably prevent a lot of urban dwellers from experiencing Nature at Her best. Well, I guess that's okay.... It separates the fearful from the adventurous.

Rattler, Ahhhhh!

A fat and sassy
rattler on the path. Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!
Rattle, rattle. Ahhhhhh!

The Elegant Octopus - by Patty Mooney

2011-06-07T14:12:00.000-07:00

Secretary's Day is officially celebrated in late April. But, like Mother's Day, it really should be acknowledged every day. Every secretary should be greeted by her boss with a rose in one hand, and a latte in the other, as a show of gratitude for the person who makes his work life livable.

I was just leafing through an old journal and found an entry I'd written 30 years ago about how it felt to be a secretary, after I'd left the profession to become a massage therapist (which is what I did prior to entering the field of video production). What's interesting about it is that the role of secretary has not really changed all that much in three decades, except for a more palatable title that now includes males who find themselves in the role of "Administrative Professional" or "Executive Admin." So with no further ado,...

There is no bigger nuisance to me than the telephone. For nearly ten years of my life I plowed the secretarial fields of boredom, redundancy and monotony, ever striving for better, always scheming to get somewhere else, out from behind that desk covered in papers and figures and runny ink pens and telephones. The funny thing about a telephone is that no matter how quiet it has been all day, the moment it begins to ring, two more lines will start buzzing as well. Everyone calls at once. And it's up to me to be the diplomat, the efficient receptionist, the elegant octopus. I have never been more disgusted with any employment as that of secretary, the most thankless job in the universe.

"Here, make two thousand copies of these reports, and copy on both sides of the page," is one directive that haunts me in nightmares to this day. "I will never never never ever find myself in that position again," I retort, and the black dream clouds lift and disperse, but never so far away that I would ever forget what it was like to be a secretary.

A boss is a boss is a boss. Female bosses can sometimes be a little better than male bosses, especially if the woman began her career at the bottom-most rung of the ladder, as somebody's "Girl Friday" - a term which calls to mind a modified Gauguin jungle girl with bared breasts holding a platter of coffee cups and a memo pad. Whatever else a girl Friday must do, the ever present memo pad lends credibility to her position, taking down someone else's notes. Came a time when I wanted to be the one giving notes, dictating into a recorder and having someone else type out my sage thoughts.

For some, secretarial work can be the first rung in the ladder leading up to psychosis, insanity and intense self loathing. I know it was this way with me. I kept feeling that there was something else out there for me. This is not to say that I didn't learn a lot of valuable information regarding filing systems, addressing envelopes, the proper way to answer a (choke) phone, how to write a striking business letter and how to market oneself. But after a few years, the lessons began to boomerang, laughing at me; at what expense these lessons, I began to wonder.

There is one day a year, "Secretary's Day," that was always an embarrassment to me. This is the one time in an entire fiscal year that a boss would remember who he's got out in the front office, minding the telephone and scraping together the coffee every morning. He might buy her a single long-stemmed rose, and/or take her out to lunch, filling that one hour sandwiched between two halves of grueling labor, with more business talk. Secretarying is one job that goes everywhere with you: to any restaurant in the city, to the bathroom when all you want to do is mend your makeup, and then home, to bed. There were times when, after a full eight-hour day of non-stop labor (even a coffee break is laborious), I would come home and dream of undergoing another eight-hour work day. Then I'd wake up and be faced with the same thing again, thus enduring 24 hours of work in a 36-hour period!

I never again want to:

-have a copy machine break down in my presence and begin smoking with the 72 reports that need to be copied and sent (today) going limp in my hands;

- be in charge of making coffee that half the members of the office consider mud and the other half think is like drinking watered-down ink;

- get "dealt on" by the boss. Although this happens in any profession, as a secretary it feels just a little more degrading and one almost believes that it may just be included in one's job duties. Filing, typing and making it with the boss.

Sometimes, between massage jobs, I think, "Well, I can always make some money as a temp typist" and it's a deadly thought. Sure, one can make some money, but think of the price. The new kid on the block is always the most belittled. If you are a new face at the front desk, the older, wiser employees assume they can drop anything into your in-box and you'll do it. You don't know any better. And they always delight to see if you can answer twenty lines on the phone at the same time as rub your tummy and scratch your head. Hello, catatonia!

I want to take this opportunity to thank some of my past bosses for all they have done for me: Thank you, Paul Stein, for teaching me the best method of filing: The boss stands there and hands the secretary each and every piece of paper to be filed and makes up categories on the spot. And thank you for mixing business with pleasure. The vacuuming, cooking and other assorted duties rounded out my meager secretarial existence. Thank you for your astute attraction to me and thanks for the Irish coffee. Thanks for your affection but the pay was not quite up to par. And having your bedroom located in the same setting as your business office was somewhat disconcerting.

Thank you, Nancy Jensen, for being my wisest instructor. You are the one who taught me how to follow my feelings. The times were up and down but I was never happier as anyone's secretary than as yours. You are the one who suggested I look into massage as a vocation, and I have never forgotten how we grew to respect one another for who we were, and for these things I still maintain a deep respect and love for you.

And finally, thank you, Fred Parks, for your business-like approach to business. You're the one who first took me on when no one else would, thus beginning my sweet and sour career as go-fer and go-between, my education in life from a secretary's viewpoint, the "school of hard knocks," as my dad would have put it.

Happy 90th Birthday, Mom!

2011-05-23T18:20:00.000-07:00

My mother was born 90 years ago today. Happy birthday, Magi!

She served in the WAAC (Women's Auxiliary Army Corp) during World War II and has just received a special letter from Congressman Bob Filner, former Chair of the Congressional Veterans Affairs Committee, thanking her for her service to our country. She was surprised and pleased, as she showed it to me on Skype last night.

She has lived an interesting life, from those WAACy times to becoming a nurse, then mothering six children and then retiring from motherhood to address worldly concerns, such as sexism, the patriarchy of the Catholic Church, the revitalization of Detroit and peace. She once ran for Mayor of Detroit and received a surprising number of votes.

She has outlived my father, Joe, who died a year ago. They were married for 56 years.

She's a crone, a peacenik, an avid reader, an Amy Goodman aficionado, a Facebook friend, and a rabble-rouser. And now she is a Nonagenarian.

Happy Birthday Wishes from your eldest!

A Whopper, A Red Bull and Thou - by Patty Mooney

2011-05-18T13:29:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr I like to mull things over in bed before I get up in the morning. Today I was thinking about how we as a society have reached a point where we don't mind handing over our rights, our freedoms, and our treasures in exchange for fast foods, television and gasoline.

When I was a kid, it was a treat for our parents to take us out for a Whopper and a shake. That happened maybe once a month. Most of the time, our parents did what they could to adhere to the USDA "food pyramid" and feed us properly nutritious foods. I had an apple or an orange in my lunch bag every day. And they TASTED like an apple or orange. Today I see children hopped up on sodas and the sugar that is crammed into every boxed and canned food out there. Why don't parents bother to read the ingredient panels on the food and beverages they are giving their children? Sometimes the first ingredient listed is "Sugar," meaning that it's the main ingredient. There are more instances of ADD, autism and other brain-addled diseases today than ever before. And why? Well, could it possibly be about what these kids have been eating?

What with all the hormones and crap in meat, and the lack of enough leafy greens in the typical American diet, no wonder children are obese, diabetic and uninterested in going outside to play. And then after their childhood is whiled away on violent or frenetic video games, they are happy to go across the world and shoot up our global neighbors. And for what? Oil. When are we ever going to move beyond that crippling addiction?

Our children are our treasures, and look at what we are doing to them. School programs are the first thing on the chopping block while the corporations ransack our IRAs, our savings, our dwindling fistfuls of money. People complain about politicians and bankers, but frankly, what are we American citizens doing about it? As long as we give these corporations our hard-earned dollars for their fake food, their Red Bulls and their beef-fed beef, their Frankenfoods and their soylent soybeans, their vapid promises of the "good life," then I guess we just get what we deserve. Don't we?

Haiku - A Collection by Patty Mooney

2011-05-16T09:09:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr Maybe it's the season, or maybe it's MY season, but lately I have enjoyed less than more. What I mean by this is, I have been more into the quiet of a secluded meadow than the chit-chat of for instance a morning radio team all juiced up on coffee and Red Bulls and spilling out every random thought that crosses between their ears, which they dump out of their mouths without any filters. The irony of this is that that secluded meadow really is full of sound - the sparkly laughter of birds, their wings cutting through the sky like knives through water, the crashing through dried leaves of the lizards, the rise and fall of cricket speak, the whine of distant military jets...

So, reflective of my recent segue into Walt Whitmanville, I have written some Haiku that I enjoy and thought I would share with you.

The Keebler Elf Tree

First, gored by lightning.
Years pass, then, an inferno.
Obliteration.

Upon the News of My Brother's Demise

I couldn't sleep. Grief.
Cried so hard my jaw bones ached,
pillow drenched with tears.

Haiku to Cher Upon Viewing "Burlesque" with Postscript to Gary Shandling

If only you were
not such a caricature
of who you once were.

Life Is Stress

I am a spirit
trapped in an aging body.
The palm trees whisper.

Mother Resigns, Learns How To Be Selfish - by John Askins

2011-05-09T05:55:00.000-07:00

In honor of Mother's Day, I decided to reprint a piece by Detroit Free Press Staff Writer, John Askins, that was originally published on May 10, 1974, about my mother. I posted this on my blog two years ago but I believe it bears repeating.

"Mother's Day is over," the woman said over the telephone. It is the title of an anti-motherhood book, and she knew it was, and she wasn't even calling about Mother's Day, actually; it just sort of worked its way into the conversation.

She called because she wanted equal time on a story the Free Press ran about depression. Why should a man tell women about depression just because he was a doctor and supposedly an expert? she asked. Why couldn't she, as a woman who was sometimes depressed, be an expert, too?

"And what was she depressed about?" she was asked. Motherhood, for one thing.

For her, Mother's Day is over because she has decided to resign her position. Her children and husband are no longer allowed to call her "Mother" or "Margaret;" now she's "magi." With a small "m" because "I'm still a baby." And no last name.

She said she has found a judge who is willing to grant the name change but first she must complete certain legal steps which she was a bit hazy on.

"See, I take one step at a time, and I don't know all the ramifications of what I want to do. But I'm gonna do the first step, which is to type out my paper and then take it back there with the birth certificate and my marriage license to prove I was who I say I was, and to change to who I want to be."

She is 53, or will be in a couple of weeks, and she has six children, the oldest 18, and she has realized for a couple of years that she "resented having to feel responsible for other people's lives." She had thought that being a mother and wife meant doing things for the others; now she decided she was going to do something for herself because it seemed she had lost her identity somewhere along the way.

Over the phone she sounded bright and aggressive and a little squirrelly, but in a nice way. She described herself at one point as "the biggest bitch I know," and she seemed to veer back and forth from patting herself on the back to feeling guilty and wanting reassurance. It hasn't been easy, she said.

"When you say you're gonna be selfish and you're gonna look after yourself it sounds terrible, doesn't it? I have to learn how to be selfish."

She said marriage almost ruined the relationship between "the man I live with" and herself. She is still married to him but feels "psychologically divorced," she said.

"He can do his thing and I can do mine. And in order to do mine, I have had to cut myself away from both my father and the man I married and say, 'I will stand under this one banner: magi.' A four-letter word.

"It sort of evolved, from Margaret to Margie to finally -- there was something in the Bible about the wise men, the gift of the Magi, you know? So I'm playing with words. But it's a technique for me to get out of the lock-step. And it's working. The only people I have trouble with are the driver's license people and where I register to vote."

She tried to get the others to pitch in on the menial work around the house, using cajolery, coercion and money, but when they don't, she just lets the clutter and dirt accumulate, she said, and when it gets too bad she goes out and does "something that makes me feel good."

Mostly that seems to mean going to public meetings and seminars, writing letters and doing other constructive work to correct social problems. One gets the feeling she does this as much for the sense of self-worth it gives as for the sake of the cause itself.

"The thing that's frustrating me," she said, "is that I'm sure I have a talent. If I could just channel it in one direction, I could -- I could carve my name someplace or other."

When Magi made her big announcement to the family about how she was tired of doing all the dirty work, the response was a kind of collective yawn. They didn't believe she was serious, apparently, and they didn't seem to get the point; she has had to make it without their support.

She has had to learn to say no when her inclination was to say yes, and has had to learn to make deals: If I do this for you, what will you do for me? Sometimes when the pressure gets too great, she leaves rather than staying and fighting. She thinks that's cowardly, but at least she's not giving in.

"American women just don't know how to be selfish," she said. "I have to do it consciously, and then it seems kind of contrived, you know?

"But I have to do it, to get out of this lock-step I've been in, because I've followed those patterns for so long, doing the things a good mother should. You know, there's so many 'shoulds' laid on us... and if we try to live according to somebody else's 'shoulds' we get lost and then we start deteriorating and when it's too late we're called senile.

"I don't think I ever really wanted to be in this position, but it was the thing to do. Get married, have children. In retrospect it was stupid, making carbon copies of yourself and feeling like a god but not getting all of the benefits of a god.

"So I finally was able to say I hated these roles. And nobody put me in jail or killed me for saying that, and the kids are still living, they're eating well, they're healthy and strong, we love each other, we hate each other -- young people learn from the whole community, not just one female.

"When I was playing mother, they hated me. Oh sure, they were quiet and obedient, but they hated me. I was taking away some of their options, their right to think and do for themselves because of this terrible desire to do things for them.

"Let them wash their own damn socks. They'll be better off."

And happy Mother's Day.

Drop the Spray Can, Chachi - by Patty Mooney

2011-05-02T16:21:00.000-07:00

San Diego County was blessed with a lot of rain this year. In a place so fraught with drought, this is something to celebrate. My husband decided to take me to some waterfalls I had never seen, in the 30-some years I have lived in San Diego... Adobe Falls, located close to San Diego State University.

The urbanization of a natural setting disturbed me. I felt conflicted about seeing what I would otherwise consider some pretty good art, tagged on most of the available faces of the granite boulders in the area.

I thought about how some of the last surviving records of the ancient Anasazi civilization exist in red-rock canyons as petroglyphs and pictographs. Albeit, some of those have been graffitied and pumped full of shotgun holes.

Self-aggrandizing crap like somebody's initials or inane observations are not what I call "art." Who cares whether Chachi loves Joanie? Why do these people feel compelled to deface Mother Nature?

With these mixed feelings in turmoil like ingredients in a speeding blender, I admired the beauty of the falls while realizing that I would probably not return anytime soon.

Tip of the Day on how to enjoy Nature: Leave the paint cans at home, please.

Figs - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-04-29T11:23:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia The first figs of the season were offered to Bacchus, and at festivals in his honor, devout females wore garlands of dried figs.

The Prophet Mohammed once exclaimed: “If I should wish a fruit brought to Paradise it would certainly be the fig.”

The fig was Cleopatra's favorite fruit with the asp that ended her life brought to her in a basket of figs.

Pears, oranges, mangos,
and in the case of Wendy Whoppers,
porn star--Casaba melons--
comprise the universal scale
of a woman's breasts,
fruity, squeezable, scrumptious,
from small to extra large.

And the yield of a man?
Luscious figs.
Note the shape, the heft, the texture.
No other object so perfectly approximates.
Nuts?
Balls?
Jewels?
No.

Now figs, those succulent, sun-stroked fruits
which even at this moment, hang ready
for plucking and eating, are sweeter than
you know; each contains more Vitamin C
than an orange.
And Calcium,
Potassium,
Iron.
Think of it!
For a season those fig trees bow
to me with their bounty:
Calimyrna,
Mission,
Kadota.
I nip, suck, swallow, swoon.
The shape, the texture, the heft.

A New Day, A New Way - by Patty Mooney

2011-04-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

I have been fascinated by the workings of my digestive tract, ever since I was about a year and a half old and conducted an experiment of swallowing a penny to see how long it would take to land in the potty. Fortunately it did not get stuck anywhere on its way down and I believe it was a day and a half later when it was delivered to the "designated location."

When over the last few months my stomach felt bloated and the digestive process seemed sluggish, I consulted my physician who drew blood and gave me a clean bill of health. Still, looking at my profile in a mirror and seeing that I looked pregnant, and now I was experiencing pain after imbibing alcohol, I knew something was amiss. As if that weren't enough to inspire me, my younger brother died in December of coronary arterial sclerosis. And our good friend, the magician, Steve Dacri, just passed in February from colon cancer.

I pulled out some old nutrition books I had up on the shelf by Dr. Norman Walker, about colon cleansing and juice fasting. I knew that there must be some toxicity in my system and that in order to heal myself, I would have to start from scratch.

I decided to eliminate sugar, salt and white flour from my diet. I decided to eliminate alcohol and denatured foods (those found in cans, boxes and in the frozen foods department). And I decided to eliminate dairy and meat. What's left??? Well, in making this radical decision to eat living foods, a whole new world has opened up to me. I pulled out my 40-year-old Champion juicer which still works like a champ, and started to make juices with carrots, apples, cucumbers and leafy green veggies. I voraciously gobbled the book, "Green For Life" by Victoria Boutenko, bought a Blendtec blender - you know, the one in which someone blended a cell phone and it went on ticking, and went to our local Farmers' Market, picked up some fresh organic fruits and veggies, and have been going to town on green smoothies. When I get hungry in the afternoons I munch on organic raw nuts and dried fruits. At the moment I am sipping a green smoothie that contains grapefruit juice, orange juice, bananas, blueberries, strawberries, apple, and a variety of greens and sprouts. (And it tastes awesome.)

I feel better than I have in a long, long time. My elimination process is going swimmingly. I get up a couple of hours earlier than I used to - voluntarily and happily. I have more energy. Yesterday (Easter Sunday) I climbed to the top of a mountain and looked out over a beautiful valley featuring pines, manzanita, yucca and a singing stream, far from civilization. Oh yeah, and I've lost seven pounds. I no longer look nor feel pregnant, after only about three weeks.

ICover of Green for Lifet makes so much sense! These green smoothies are the best way to deliver protein and necessary nutrients to your system. Your stomach and intestines don't get so clogged and bogged down as they do with meat and white starchy foods. And these smoothies taste delicious. Of course the dairy and meat industries do not want you to stray off their products. They really have a stranglehold on people, and I believe that fast-food joints are the downfall of humanity. If you decide to explore the pleasures of eating living foods, I'll bet you'll be happy that you did.

Experiments with Peeps - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-04-21T11:21:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia Pink peeps on Rice Krispie
baskets grouted in marshmallow.
Sweet peeps glisten
eyes wide, beaks mute.
Half-eaten peeps
headless and landfill-
bound after Easter.

The garbage truck strains
and grinds, shrieking
into the early morning
as though lending language
to those stiffened peep
corpses buried
under potato peelings,
congealed fat
and suburban stench.

Chirrup twitter chirp tweet !
Those tiny peep voices
rise in a sugary dirge.
Resiliency's an asset
as pink as a fresh
pack of peeps.

Blood Diamonds - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-04-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia Since 1991, the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) has fought to overthrow successive Sierra Leonean governments it accuses of widespread corruption, nepotism, and mismanagement of the country's vast diamond and mineral resources. The rebels use axes, machetes, and knives to kill and maim hundreds of people, including women and children. This is a poem I wrote in 2000 about the issue (prior to the movie starring Leo DiCaprio):

Blood Diamonds

From the fields of Sierra Leone

to the shops of Belgium

blood diamonds in the pockets of rebels,

black hearts black market,

this priceless booty extracted

from severed hands of women and children.

What kind of mind would wield that rusty axe,

hack away the human potential to take, to give, to touch?

You've seen the ads: Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

This girl has no fingers.

Eyes luminous, she tells the reporter:

I don't want people to buy diamonds.

Diamonds are killing us.

Malegram from Jimmy the Bartender - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-04-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr

When the cousins are just sitting around, start tossing them a football. Think about the guy a mile away, the dog, a stick, and a pile of leaves. A lot of anger swirling around. Shut down the vent. It’s not hard. Just don’t show your friends your garbage can.

Note: This is a cross-out poem, created from circling the phrases I like and crossing out everything else, in an article entitled "Malegram from Jimmy the Bartender."

Miniature Flowers for Mom - by Patty Mooney

2011-04-08T10:55:00.000-07:00

My husband and I went to a local street fair last weekend and as we strolled past all the crafts booths, Mark spotted one that really stood out. I wandered off in another direction until he came, grabbed my hand, and drew me back to that booth. He pointed at an array of pendants that were full of color. As I looked closer, I saw that these were like teeny gardens that you could wear around your neck.

The woman running the booth informed us that her pendants and earrings were made with real flowers that were specifically grown to be miniature. Amazing! Each handmade piece of jewelry was preservd in acrylic and encased in Sterling Silver, with no two alike.

Since Mother's Day is around the corner, I wanted to let my lovely readers know about these extraordinary pieces. Nope, I am not getting a commission. I'm just breaking some news here... These would make great gifts not only for Mom, but for any woman in your life who ever has a birthday, or with whom you share an anniversary. Or for no reason at all! Take it from me... There is simply nothing better than an unsolicited gift of jewelry from your lover. Right, ladies?

You can find these pieces at Etsy. Just look for "Real Flowers."

Agora - A Film Reflection by Patty Mooney

2011-03-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

Image by louisiana via Flickr Many people have never heard of a woman named Hypatia who lived in Alexandria around 400 AD. She was a philosopher, astronomer and mathematician. She was brilliant. But she was a pagan woman during a time of Christian revolt, and a Bishop named Cyril decided to put an end to her because her actions (teaching philosophy at the Alexandria library) and her gender were displeasing to God. It was God's Word - albeit written in a book by men - but yeah, God Himself was quoted as saying that women existed to be slaves unto men. Can't argue with a book, right?

So Cyril incited a bunch of his zealot followers to go and murder Hypatia, who had the audacity of being an intellectual woman.

The film, "Agora" (2009) starring Rachel Weisz as Hypatia, takes a few liberties with recorded history. By that I mean, intact history, for most of her work, other than a few bits of correspondence between her and a student, went up in flames when the Christians burned down the Alexandria library. She was not actually stoned to death; instead, she was ripped limb from limb, the flesh scraped off of her bones with clamshells, and then pieces of her were burned and flung into the streets. Oh yeah, and then a few years later, Cyril was sainted by the Church.

Image via WikipediaAlthough Cyril was not present among the throng of murderers, his influence was palpable. So in the light of the 21st Century, one looks back and wonders how the sort of human being who sanctions violence against women is not only NOT vilified, but actually rewarded for his actions? It's like presenting Jeffrey Dahmer with a Nobel Prize. To paraphrase Shakespeare, Something smelled rotten in Alexandria. For those who wonder why I am not a practicing Catholic any longer, I ask, why would I belong to a club that still considers a mysoginist like Cyril a saint?

Weisz does a great job in this role as a woman who is driven - obsessed - by the behavior of the Earth in relation to the universe. Nature and Science were the religion to which she was devoted. And isn't it the human right of each person, whether man or woman, to decide what "God" they will kneel to?

Elizabeth Taylor, Icon of a Generation - by Patty Mooney

2011-03-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia Elizabeth Taylor was a huge star when I was a girl. She was the talented, beautiful, strong woman that girls like me wanted to be when we grew up. Her passionate romance with Richard Burton was inspirational, too, while it lasted.

In her later years she fell under the radar, as many celebrities do when they are no longer ingenues, and when the only roles available are for matrons or crones. People like Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood both died young leaving "beautiful corpses," and now history will always portray them as young enchanting women at the peak of their careers.

It must be very difficult to have once been Cleopatra herself, and then find yourself relegated to a wheelchair throughout one's last, waning years.

I remember Elizabeth Taylor in "National Velvet," "Cleopatra" and "Who's Afraif of Virginia Woolf," all roles that seemed to define her. Her cavalcade of marriages and propensity for fried chicken always made headlines. In a way, she was one of the last "grand dames" - movie stars who held the attention of the world for decades. These days there are so many "It Girls" on the scene and none that unequivocally claim the Queen's throne. Not like Elizabeth Taylor, a woman who held sway on that throne for decades and whose movies, grace, philanthropy and inner beauty are gifts to all of us.

The Young Dubliners Perform Foggy Dew - by Patty Mooney

2011-03-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

Happy St. Patty's Day, everyone! This is a great time to share a video we shot and edited while we were visiting Ireland in March 2008. We joined a Young Dubliners tour and followed them to four different venues while making a dent in the Guinness kegs from Dublin to Shannon and back. My husband, Mark, used his "stealth" DV Camera, small and light. Also the lighting conditions were not the greatest (at night in dark night clubs) but you will see the essence of the performance. As editor, I mixed three of the Dubs' performances into this one piece.

According to Wikipedia, The song (also sometimes known as “Down the Glen”) has been performed and recorded by most well-known Irish folk groups, including The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, The Dubliners, The Chieftains with Sinéad O'Connor, Shane MacGowan, and the Wolfe Tones. The song is also played before every set by the Dropkick Murphys and an Irish rock band known as the Young Dubliners have also done a cover. Sinéad O'Connor provided the vocals for a mournful version of the song on the Chieftains' 1995 collaboration album The Long Black Veil. It was also performed by the Italian Epic Metal band Wotan in their second studio album Epos.

The lyrics, which describe the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin, follow:

The Foggy Dew

As down the glen one Easter morn

Through a city fair rode I.

There armed lines of marching men,

In squadrons did pass me by.

No pipe did hum, no battle drum,

Did sound out its loud tattoo.

But the angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell,

Rang out through the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town

They flung out the flag of war.

‘Twas far better to die ‘neath an Irish sky,

Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.

And from the plains of royal Meath,

Brave men came hurrying through,

While Britannia’s Huns with their long-range guns,

Sailed into the foggy dew.

But the night fell black and the rifle’s crack,

Made perfidious Albion reel.

Through that leaden hail seven tongues of flame,

Did shine o’er the lines of steel.

By each shining blade a prayer was said,

That to Ireland her sons would be true,

And when morning broke, still the green flag shook out,

Its folds in the foggy dew.

It was England bade our Wild Geese go,

That small nations might be free.

But their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves

On the fringe of the great North Sea.

Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side

Or had fought along with brave Cathal Brugha,

Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep,

‘Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

But the bravest fell and the requiem knell,

Rang out mournfully and clear,

For those who died that Eastertide

In the springtime of the year.

While the world did gaze with deep amaze,

At those fearless men and few,

Who bore the fight that freedom’s light,

Might shine through the foggy dew.

As back through the glen I rode again,

And my heart with grief was sore.

For I parted then with those gallant men,

I ever will see no more,

And to and fro in my dreams I go,

And I’ll kneel and I’ll say a prayer for you,

For slavery fled, oh you gallant dead,

When you fell in the foggy dew.

Happy Hypatia Day! - by Patty Mooney

2011-03-15T10:03:00.001-07:00

History has come alive for many who are remembering the death day of Hypatia of Alexandria. I am not really sure that you can pin her death date down to March 15th because so many of her records were destroyed by marauders and Christians who despised her. But it's a good day to honor her, just the same.

This is a piece I wrote for a Women's History class several years ago, which will impart the story of Hypatia to all who are curious.

Hypatia - Shining Star of Alexandria

When I first learned about Hypatia, I was enthusiastic to find out more about this ancient philosopher, astronomer and mathematician. Here in the 21st century, a woman who could claim all those capabilities would be considered a peer of people like Leonardo Da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson and Buckminster Fuller. This woman born in approximately 375 C.E., was admired by her contemporaries and drew students from all parts of the empire. According to Jone Johnson Lewis, in her article entitled "Hypatia: Astronomer, Philosopher and Mathematician," when the Arabs invaded Alexandria around 642, they burned the contents of the library, including the works of Hypatia, as fuel for their baths. Fortunately, historians have been able to piece together a portrait of her via letters written by her students and contemporaries, and through the works of others who quoted her. (Jone Johnson Lewis)

"Hypatia studied with her father, and with many others including Plutarch the Younger. She herself taught at the Neoplatonist school of philosophy. She became the salaried director of this school in 400. She probably wrote on mathematics, astronomy and philosophy, including about the motions of the planets, about number theory and about conic sections." (Jone Johnson Lewis)

Hypatia appears to have cultivated intellectual capabilities even deeper than those of her father. Most historians conjecture that she was somewhere between the ages of 35 and 45 when she reached a self-composed maturity which included lecturing to dozens of adoring students. One named Synesius, who later became Bishop of Ptolemais, wrote letters to her and about her for many years. These missives are the basis from which historians have gleaned the most knowledge of Hypatia. She dedicated her life to the pursuit of natural science and the philosophy of natural science, and she has been credited with inventing "a brass hydrometer for determining the specific gravity of liquids, an astrolabe for astronomical observations, a system of distillation and other devices." (The Pharmaceutical Journal)

"Her beauty did astonish the survey of eyes,
Her words all ears took captive." (Mangasar Mugurditch Mangasarian)

Renowned for her beauty as well as her intellect, Hypatia wore the robes of a philosopher and socialized with such political figures as Orestes, governor of Alexandria. Like Hypatia, Orestes was a pagan; however, many Christians in town were intolerant of the pagans. According to Lewis, Orestes was an adversary of Cyril, the new Christian bishop, a man who would one day be canonized by the Catholic Church. Lewis says that Orestes "objected to Cyril expelling the Jews from the city, and was murdered by Christian monks for his opposition." Hypatia, a pagan espouser of experimental science and friend to Orestes, was blacklisted by Cyril who was appalled at the behavior of a woman "who didn't know her place" (Lewis). Historians believe that his tirades against Hypatia incited an angry mob of "fanatical Christian monks in 415 to attack Hypatia as she drove her chariot through Alexandria" (Lewis). They dragged Hypatia into a church, then stripped her and killed her by flaying the flesh from her bones with oyster shells. They then ripped her apart, scattered pieces of her in the streets and burned the remains in the library of Caeseareum. This was a murder of passionate hatred, a misogynistic act of epic proportions.

Some historians believe Hypatia's assassination heralded the Dark Ages during which the patriarchal Church ruled with an iron fist, stifling the arts and natural sciences for the next thousand years. Christian historians paint Hypatia with colors that justify Cyril's actions, calling her a pagan enchantress who seduced those in power and defiled God's name; they insist she deserved her fate.

My conclusion is that Hypatia was an amazing woman who inspired many in Alexandria during her lifetime. Many citizens enjoyed attending her philosophical lectures and for them, her gender appears not to have been a consideration. She was "Hypatia the Philosopher." Cyril, a rigidly dogmatic man, grew envious of Hypatia's popularity and intellect, and instructed his henchmen to martyr her, so as to please God. Cyril thus ironically ensured Hypatia's longevity in history. The hypocrisy of Cyril's actions reflect back onto Christianity which I believe is the bastion of patriarchy. There is a poster that became the icon of the Viet Nam anti-war movement: "War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things," in black letters on a yellow background. One could easily substitute the word "patriarchy" for "War," as patriarchy is the war that men wage against women. Hypatia reigns as a heroine to any woman who defeats great odds to become a strong, poised, articulate woman with intellect, beauty and good self esteem. Hypatia, may you live on in the hearts of all women!

Living the Life of My Dreams - A New Book

2011-03-09T11:11:00.000-08:00

My story is included in an inspiring book that Features 30 Ordinary People Sharing their Experiences Living EXTRAordinary Lives!

This book is a must have if you want to be inspired by some amazing stories of people who have gone from ordinary to EXTRAordinary!

Introducing: "Living the Life of My Dreams: Essays & Interviews with 30 Ordinary People Living EXTRAordinary Lives"

Featuring People Such as:

• Nora Dunn, The Professional Hobo
• Shelly Rachanow, Author of “What Would You Do If You Ran The World”
• Sally Shields, Speaker, Radio Personality and Author of #1 Amazon.com Bestseller “The DAUGHTER-IN-LAW Rules”
• Pablo Solomon, International Artist
• Shirley Cheng, Blind at 17, Author with over 25 book awards a decade later
• Achayra Sri Khadi Madama, Yogi, MMA trainer with 4 black belts earned after age 50!
• Patty Mooney, Video Producer, Documentarian, Mountain Biker, Poet

Here is what people are saying about this astounding collection of stories:

“I work with people facing challenges every day. I teach them to create the reality they dream of by taking action and changing the way they see themselves and the world around them. With faith, all things are possible. This same thought process works in all aspects of life.

The inspirational stories included in "Living the Life of My Dreams" offer incredible life lessons on the importance of focus, clarity, determination and most importantly, always remaining true to the passion within your heart!

A must read for anyone ready to take the wheel and steer their own course!”

Bill Bartmann
National Entrepreneur Of The Year

To order just click on this link to Living the Life of Your Dreams.

Intoxicated Pachyderms - A Found Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-03-07T10:03:00.000-08:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr Four wild elephants that ran amok
after becoming intoxicated
on bootleg rice beer
in northeastern India’s Meghalaya state
were electrocuted when they brought down
high-voltage power lines during
a drunken rampage.
Forestry officials said
the herd stormed out of the forest
and into villages
after smelling the fermenting brew,
then drank from open casks of beer
in a remote area.
The death toll
among the elephant raiders could have
been higher, but about 20 pachyderms
moved away from the site,
sensing danger
just before the power lines
came crashing down.

The Saddest Vanishing Act of All - by Patty Mooney

2011-03-03T17:31:00.000-08:00

I had just returned to a rather even keel of day-to-day living a few weeks after my brother, Joe, suddenly passed away. And then I learned of the passing of a wonderful friend, the great close-up sleight-of-hand magician and Las Vegas entertainer, Steve Dacri on February 11, 2011.

Steve was a man's man, an entertainer's entertainer, and of course a loving husband to his wife, Jan. He also doted on a litter of kittens that had recently camped outside of Steve and Jan's home. He loved a good cigar, a nice shot of tequila on a special occasion, and the gift of laughter. He would do everything in his power to make people laugh.

He worked very, very hard to be the best magician. He told Mark and me once that he practiced each one of his tricks for 1,000 hours before he performed it in public. He also mentioned that because he had such fast hands, whenever he appeared on television, and the producers asked him which angle he wanted to be filmed from, he would say, "Any and all angles." Most magicians would have to be videotaped from one side because the trick would be too obvious from any other angle. But not Steve. You could put fifty cameras on him, and you would not be able to see how the trick was done.

I remember tears streaming down my face from sheer delight at one of his extraordinary stories about his life and times in magic and show biz in particular. It focused on the great comedian, Milton Berle, who was known within the industry for his man's "accoutrement," let's call it. Steve was a young buck at the time, appearing on The Tonight Show every so often to perform magic for Johnny Carson who really loved Steve's work. Anyway, Milton and Steve were both in the dressing room where Steve had a bird's eye view of Milton sans pants. When Milton saw Steve glancing at him, Mr. Berle grinned and said he'd made many a woman very happy with what he had. According to Steve, Milton's "package was like a rolled up garden hose."

I told Steve he oughtta write a book. He had lots of stories involving great American icons like Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope. Steve said he was working on it. What a shame that he was not able to finish it.

One project that Steve and I worked on together for a couple of solid days, was the editing of footage shot by his wife, Jan, through many years during which the couple had produced an Italian-Jewish dinner theater. Steve and I laughed, and laughed. Those are the memories that really stay with you. The joy, the laughter, the love.

In case you are interested in seeing that little documentary, here it is, in honor of Steve Dacri, the World's Greatest Close-Up Sleight-of-Hand Magician and Provocateur:

Millennials and Gen X Women, Your Time is Now - by Patty Mooney

2011-03-01T10:58:00.000-08:00

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

When I was growing up in the 1970's, there was a very clear-cut struggle for "women's liberation." Gen X and Millenial women will have no idea what an amazing moment it was for Billie Jean King to turn the male-dominated game of tennis upside down and downside up when she beat the arrogant Bobby Riggs in the "Battle of the Sexes" 1973 match. I'm certain that the moment in 1920 when American women finally won the right to vote, after imprisonment, hunger striking and forced feeding (see "Iron Jawed Angels") was even more incredible. But when you look at a global chart that shows Saudi Arabian women winning the right to vote just FIVE YEARS AGO, in 2006, you can see that there is still much work to be done in the "women's liberation" department.

It's been said - many, many times - that "those who do not remember history will be doomed to repeat it" and this is a special message to Gen Xers and Millenials to don your face masks, knee and elbow pads and mouth guards, because it's your fight now.

GOP politicians, including ironically enough, WOMEN, are now attempting to turn the clock back a few centuries by cutting off funding to Planned Parenthood because they offer abortion services. Let us not mistake the facts here. This is a war on women.

I was a very naive 18-year-old. It's a good thing that the guy who "popped my cherry" mentioned (afterward) that it might be a good idea for me to go to Planned Parenthood for some birth control. And so I did. I marched into the Lansing clinic and got myself a diaphragm, some spermicidal jelly and an education. A few months later, I had to go back in for a pregnancy test and some counseling because I'd been raped. If I had been pregnant, I certainly would have gotten an abortion.

Now, over 35 years later, we have a cotillion of people (mostly men) in power who think it's in everyone's best interest to cut funding to women's health clinics, especially Planned Parenthood. Really, who do these people think they are?

Gen X and Millenial women, if you are not vein-burstingly angry over this, then you are not paying attention. This is like King Kong dropping Fay Wray - on purpose - off the top of the Empire State Building.

More than 85% of the services that Planned Parenthood provides to women have nothing to do with abortion. But the morality police are on the job, and they are with one sweep of their broom brushing away a multitude of hard-won rights in terms of women's medical care that took decades to accomplish.

I'm past child-bearing age, so I don't have to worry about unwanted pregnancy anymore. I feel grateful every single day of my life that I did not bear children.

I do, however, have several nieces whom I care about. And it breaks my heart to see the kind of disdain for them that is perfectly evident in the actions of politicians who have once again put Planned Parenthood and other women's health-care clinics on the chopping block. Let us be clear. It was not women who created our financial mess, who funneled trillions of dollars into Middle Eastern wars with no ROI (Return On Investment).

As happy-go-lucky as I normally am, I feel very angry about this latest "skirmish" in the war on women. All women who realize that they alone are in charge of their own bodies, especially in terms of reproduction, need to be angry, too. And make your voice heard.

Because the truth is, the world will be a much better place when women are revered for creating life, honored for making the hard-thought decisions, and respected for those decisions.

Tattoos - by Patty Mooney

2011-02-25T09:25:00.000-08:00

I am not a big fan of languishing content. According to Thought Leaders at the recent San Diego Online Marketing Summit, "content is King." And so begins my "Retro Friday" when I share an old blog post that perhaps not all of you have seen. I mean, how could you? If you read everything that every one of your favorite bloggers had written, you'd pretty much have to be a computer.

"Tattoos" was written two years ago to this very day. Enjoy this "Retro Friday" offering!

Self Portrait "On the Trail" by Patty Mooney

"I don't want to pass through life like a smooth plane ride. All you do is get to breathe and copulate and finally die. I don't want to go with the smooth skin and the calm brow. I hope I end up a blithering idiot cursing the sun - hallucinating, screaming, giving obscene and inane lectures on street corners and public parks. People will walk by and say, "Look at that drooling idiot. What a basket case." I will turn and say to them "It is you who are the basket case. For every moment you hated your job, cursed your wife and sold yourself to a dream that you didn't even conceive. For the times your soul screamed yes and you said no. For all of that. For your self-torture, I see the glowing eyes of the sun! The air talks to me! I am at all times!" And maybe, the passers by will drop a coin into my cup.” - Henry Rollins

I don’t go in for tattoos.

Although I appreciate people’s tattoos, each one as individual as the person who wears it, I would not do that to my body. And gratuitous scarification - those badges of pain that make the observer wonder, “Why would someone do that to themself?” - does not attract me. But I proudly wear the scars and tattoos that Nature has given me throughout a lifetime of assorted adventures.

Starting from my feet and working up, you will first notice the bruises splashed upon the calves and thighs. The big one on my inner left thigh is particularly resplendent. It’s two by six inches of purple, mauve and burgundy, edged with a touch of vermilion. As days pass, the hues deepen, then diminish. The bruises fade then eventually disappear. These impermanent ‘au natural’ tattoos fulfill my body’s need for colorful ornamentation. I have no desire for permanent etchings.

On my left inner knee, the scar shaped like a train track happened after I fell off a cliff and landed 30 feet below where I launched off, on a coincidental ledge. My bike kept bouncing 800 feet down to the bottom of Carrizo Gorge. The fact that the scar is train-track-shaped alludes to the abandoned rail that runs along the gorge, next to which I had been riding my mountain bike, in a spot where the trail gives way to cliff. I was tired after riding 30 miles. With ten more miles to go, feeling distracted, and perhaps a little delirious, over I went.

At first I sat there in shock and gratitude to the forces which had kept me from dying. But my eyes were drawn to the orange pixel my Klein Attitude had become in the far distance at the bottom of the gorge, and I moved as though to retrieve it. My husband, Mark, pushed me back and moved like a Dahl buck down that precarious cliff to collect my bike.

Even as our friends, John and Lisa helped me back up to the trail and “onto the saddle” of Mark’s bike, and even as I said “I’ll never come here again,” I knew in my heart I would ride Carrizo Gorge again when the wounds had subsided into flesh. Nearly a year to the day of the “cliff dive,” I returned to the "scene of the crime" with a coterie of males to catch me if I should fall, or so they said, and with plenty of sunscreen on my train-track scar. It turned out to be one of the best rides of my life. I looked fear in the face and also had a chance to say “Thank You” for my life.

Moving up to my right hand, there are the teeth marks of a potato cod the size of a small VW Bug which spotted a baggie of food that I was feeding to small fish 60 feet under the Coral Sea off the coast of Australia. I thought that hiding the bag behind me would make the cod forget he’d seen it. But no. He came straight at me. I surrendered the baggie too late. He had it and my hand in his ample mouth. Reflexively I drew my hand back, toward me, against his razor teeth. Unconcerned, he spat out my hand.

Seeing black dots of blood on my hand, I began my ascent, knowing the smell of fresh blood draws other kinds of sea life that could and would make a meal of you. Later that afternoon my buddies on the Spoilsport asked me if I had noticed the hammerhead circling below me during my ascent.

My right elbow is where I landed when I flew over the handlebars of my bike in Noble Canyon on my 43rd birthday. For weeks there existed a big red-brown scab surrounded by Technicolor bruising. When friends and family spotted it, they gasped and wondered how I could ever climb back on a mountain bike. But that strawberry was nothing compared to past injuries. Besides, if I sustained such injuries during the act of sex, would people expect me to stop making love? I think not.

This faded scar on my cheek which people don’t see until I point it out, occurred when I was riding down a rutted hill and passing a rider at breakneck speed, while mentally congratulating myself on beating a guy. It’s true that pride comes before a fall. I was too far forward on my bike and when I hit a rock hidden under a clump of grass, I flew over the handlebars and landed on my face which was now a bloody mess.

Kirsten Dunst and "The Gash" at VSDA Show in Dallas 1994

This happened just a few days before an annual video convention which my husband and I used to attend for our business, so by the time I stepped off the plane in Vegas, the bruising that accompanied the gash in my face was brilliant. This convention features photo opportunities with celebrities. That year, I collected shots of “Anne Rice and the Gash,” “Theresa Russell and the Gash,” “Pinhead and the Gash,” “The Star Trek Cast and the Gash.” I became an icon at the convention. Strangers would ask, “You’re the woman who crashed on a mountain bike, right?” It wasn’t exactly the fifteen minutes of fame I had imagined.

This little half-inch scar on my right eyebrow? I got that when I was two and walked into the coffee table in the living room. My parents had just taken me out to dinner, and I felt as uplifted as a helium balloon, proud and maybe a little catty, since my brother, Joe, was too young to go, and he’d had to stay home with a baby-sitter. Yes, pride indeed comes before a fall.
My parents sped me on to the hospital for a few stitches and a lot of attention. I can’t say I didn’t like the attention. Maybe my early emergency-room experience set the stage for others to come.

This scar on my left elbow came out of a hospital emergency room, when as a 22-year-old, I hopped up on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet after the driver had had a few beers. As we were heading down Post Street, San Francisco, towards the Marina, a car cut in front of us, then slowed down, trying to turn left into a gas station without seeing us. Charles tried to swerve into the next lane, but hit the back end of the car. Charles and I both sailed off the bike. Next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance bound for San Francisco General.

I learned a memorable lesson about promises and expectations that night. The handsome young doctor who assessed my injury said my arm did not appear to be broken, and that I’d probably be released in a couple of hours. “I still need to see your x-rays,” he said, oozing charm.

In less than an hour, he was back to say “Whoops. The x-rays reveal a hairline fracture. I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you here a couple of days. We’ll put a pin in there tomorrow.” I started crying as soon as he drew the curtain around my bed and walked away. Surgery? It was the end of my life. More than anything, I wished that I could close my eyes, fall asleep and when I awoke, none of this would have happened. “Please, spare me this pain,” I thought.

But the next morning, the pin went in as scheduled, then two months later it was removed, leaving a slim four-inch scar along the elbow.

My friend, John, has said that there is but a thin scar between pain and pleasure. I have never thought of myself as a masochist. I have always claimed to despise pain. And yet after a close scrutiny of my body, all the war wounds would seem to prove otherwise.

I have other marks I have not touched on, both physical and emotional. Over time I have learned it is best not to reveal everything at once. Just as I suspect Nature has not finished her handiwork on my mortal skin.

I have always said this, and would not retract it now: “When I turn this skin back in to ‘The Creator,’ it will have been very well-used.” It’s not my style to slip on a bar of soap in the shower and konk myself out. No. I will again dance in the arms of Nature and be grateful for her show of strength on the map of my body.

Poet Ilya Kaminsky Reads to a Rapt Audience, La Mesa - by Patty Mooney

2011-02-23T11:11:00.000-08:00

Last week I went to a poetry reading that featured the Russian-American poet, Ilya Kaminsky who teaches poetry-writing at San Diego State University.

As I learned in Wikipedia: Ilya Kaminsky was born in Odessa, former Soviet Union in 1977, and arrived to the United States in 1993, when his family was granted asylum by the American government. Ilya is the author of Dancing In Odessa (Tupelo Press, 2004) which won the American Academy of Arts and Letters' Metcalf Award, the Dorset Prize, and the Ruth Lilly Fellowship given annually by Poetry magazine. Dancing In Odessa was also named Best Poetry Book of the Year 2005 by ForeWord Magazine. Ilya has served as a Writer In Residence at Phillips Exeter Academy and worked as a Law Clerk at Bay Area Legal Aid, and National Immigration Law Center. He lives in San Diego, California, where he teaches at San Diego State University.

He truly has a performance style all his own. It's a power-packed minute and a half.

A Pocket Production by Patty Kay Mooney Follow her blogs: http://www.adiaryleftopen.com, http://www.alifeinbusiness.com and http://www.soldiersheartblog.com.
Visit Patty's award-winning San Diego professional video production company, Crystal Pyramid Productions, crystalpyramid.com, now going on 30 years in business. New & Unique Videos, is a stock-footage library of archival and contemporary images from around the world, http://www.newuniquevideos.com.
Feel free to hook up with Patty on LinkedIn:
http://www.linkedin.com/in/pattymooney

I Had the Craziest Dream - by Patty Kay Mooney

2011-02-21T12:41:00.001-08:00

Image via Wikipedia I had the craziest dream the other night. My best friend, Mary Lynn, was visiting my husband, Mark and me in our cottage that was located about a block from the ocean. (Not in real life.) Mary Lynn was holding her newborn infant on her lap. When I looked at the infant, I had the same reaction as Elaine in the Seinfeld episode about the ugly baby when a guy called it "breath-taking." Mary Lynn's baby was bald with an earring and tattoes and he looked like a little old man. So I, diplomat that I am, said, "He's an old soul in a baby's body." And then I said, "What an interesting time for him to be born."

Mary Lynn replied that it was a very dangerous time and that the world was going to end due to an electrical event, and that many people would suffer greatly.

I woke up shortly after that vivid vignette. And that's when things got weirder. When I related my dream to Mark, he mentioned that he had been reading an article while I was sleeping, about a super collider in Geneva, Switzerland. UCSD scientists are involved (UCSD is located a block from the ocean, by the way) and they are trying to replicate the Big Bang via particle collision. According to an entry in Wikipedia, "The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is the world's largest and highest-energy particle accelerator." I would think that it runs on electricity.... ??

Sometimes the membrane between reality and dreamscapes seems so permeable. Have you ever had a prescient dream? Are we living our dreams? Or are we dreaming our lives?

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!!!!! - by Patty Mooney

2011-02-14T09:58:00.000-08:00

Happy Valentines Day, everyone! This is the 29th anniversary of the day that I met my husband, Mark Schulze, and today marks the beginning of our 30th year together! The story of how we met is here at my bi-monthly column at Mountain Bike Tales called "Valentines on Wheels."

Now I'd like to share a beautiful "Pocket Production" featuring our young friend, Lonnie Ramirez, who performs "Over the Rainbow" to honor the memory of his brother, Emilio "Mil" Ramirez, who passed two years ago.

Hot Child in the City - A Youtube Video

2011-02-11T10:07:00.000-08:00

Hazel McCallion is the Mayor of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. The unique thing about her is that she has served 31 years and is now 88 years old, with no signs of slowing down. In fact, she outpaces the reporter on a stationary bicycle and on the hockey rink.

According to Wikipedia: Hazel McCallion, CM (born February 14, 1921) is the mayor of Mississauga, Ontario, the sixth-largest city in Canada. McCallion has been Mississauga's mayor for 32 years, holding office since 1978. She is affectionately called "Hurricane Hazel" by supporters as well as the media at large for her vibrant outspoken style of no-nonsense politics.

She is one of Canada's best known and longest-serving mayors. Now aged 89, she was easily reelected in October 2010 for her 12th consecutive term, holding a 76% majority of the votes, and has often been reelected without even needing to conduct an actual campaign.

Mayor McCallion has worked with a variety of federal and provincial governments, and has not expressed a consistent party preference, preferring to work with each elected official.

Her principles are grounded in the belief that a city should be run like a business; thus, she encourages the business model of governance. Her family's business background, her education and prior career in a corporation prepared her to approach government with a business model. Mississauga is one of the few cities in Canada that is debt-free; it has not had to borrow money since 1978. However, Mississauga may have to borrow money to build new capital projects in 2012. She has been described as a "small-c" conservative.

Out and about with Mayor Hazel McCallion... By the way, Happy 90th Birthday and Valentine's Day to Mayor McCallion.

Pink Saris Trailer

2011-02-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

Something I came across today and wanted to share. Very compelling, called "Pink Saris Trailer."

Internationally acclaimed director Kim Longinotto's PINK SARIS is an unflinching and often amusing look at the all-woman vigilante Gulabi Gang in Northern India and their charismatic leader, Sampat Pal, who acts as judge and jury for girls and women who are being abused by outlawed patriarchal traditions and the caste system.

"A girl's life is cruel...A woman's life is very cruel," notes Sampat Pal, the complex protagonist at the center of PINK SARIS, internationally acclaimed director Kim Longinotto's latest foray into the lives of extraordinary women (SISTERS IN LAW, DIVORCE IRANIAN STYLE, ROUGH AUNTIES). Sampat should know -- like many others she was married as a young girl into a family which made her work hard and beat her often. But unusually, she fought back, leaving her in-laws and eventually becoming famous as a champion for beleaguered women throughout Uttar Pradesh, many of whom find their way to her doorstep.

Full Moon in Tahiti

2011-02-03T23:45:00.001-08:00

This story appeared in "First For Women" Magazine in their "First Blush" column about a year and a half ago. The staff slightly re-edited it for comic effect, and this story infers that it was the most embarrassing moment of my life. (Hardly.)

“Mooney’s Mooning Mishap”

I was in Tahiti shooting a mountain-biking documentary, and the last day of filming was long and grueling. So after a difficult eight hours of riding on Mt. Orohena, one of the other riders, Steve, and I came up with a plan to lighten the mood; We were going to moon the production team as they returned to our hotel – a perfect plan since we usually get back before they do.

Around dusk we headed out to the parking lot to prepare. After a few minutes, I observed a pair of headlights coming toward us. “They’re coming,” I shouted. “Get in position!” When they were close enough to see us, Steve and I dropped our bike shorts and bent over. Then, hysterically laughing, we pulled up our pants and quickly turned around to see our victims’ faces, only to discover the vehicle (which was the same make and model as the one our crew was traveling in) contained five complete strangers! They were cracking up, and I even heard one of them yell, “Nice butt!” The most embarrassing part? Production was right behind them and saw the plan go awry. I guess the joke was on us. Luckily, we never ran into our flash prey again. But I think it’s safe to say that was my first – and last – mooning attempt!

- Patty Mooney, 54, San Diego

A Valentine Found Poem - by Eileen Dillon (Murphy)

2011-02-02T10:02:00.000-08:00

This is a blog post that I first published two years ago. I still love it and refuse to allow it to languish. So in honor of Valentine's Day, I am sharing it again, with you, my friends.

Aunt Eileen Dillon-Murphy in 1971

It's amazing what your file cabinet can yield. In a file marked "Historical," I found two pieces of crumbling yellow notebook paper folded in half and when I gingerly opened them, I found the following poem, written by my Aunt Eileen as a young woman. I thought to myself, well, this totally deserves an entry in my blog. There were some missing chunks which I tried to fill in the best I could, including the title:

A Valentine Found Poem

1.
Mary and John dwelt as friends on an old dairy,
Fell deep in love and became engaged to be wed,
Until one day, up went the nose of sweet Mary
Angry with John, at what some other girl said.

John simply smiled, he was so fond of teasing
And some old song quickly quartetted to sing.
Mary with rage every moment grew warmer
And at his feet she threw the engagement ring.

"I won't be your wife," said Mary.
"Thank Goodness for that," said John.
"I hate such a brute," said Mary.
"But other girls don't," said John.

"I'm going back to the dairy."
"T'would be just as well," said he,
"I hope you'll attend the wedding
Of Molly Malone and me."

2.
Mary turned around taking a step or two from him
Then stopped again waiting patiently near,
She was so sure that he was already repenting
But all that he said was don't wait for me, my dear!

Out with his pipe, soon the smoke he was puffing
Into the air, stretched out full length on the green.
Mary stood by, somehow her heart was nigh breaking;
Had John become tired of his village queen?

"Well, am I to go," said Mary.
"I don't care a rap," said John.
"To spite you I won't," said Mary.
"Then maybe you won't," said John.

"Why are you so contrary
I'll drown myself, sir," said she
"Stop on your way, dear Mary
Send Molly Malone to me."

3.
Tears filled her eyes as with her apron she covered
her pretty face heaving a heart-broken sigh.
Then turned away why should she wait any longer
As she walked away, she quietly said "Good-bye."

He kissed all the tears away from the face of sweet Mary,
And told her the tale fond lovers always try
And oh! how he hugged his Mary
As Mary crept close to John.

He vowed that as fair a fairy
He never had gazed upon
So now they are quite contented
As she has her head on his breast
So with that I'll conclude the story
No doubt you can guess the rest.

E. Dillon, Dec. 29, 1918

My my how the tug of war between men and women has not changed much over the last century, has it?

Peter Case Performs at Adams Avenue Street Fair - A Music Video by Patty Mooney

2011-02-01T13:32:00.000-08:00

I love running around street fests with my camera and capturing stellar talent. This is someone I had never heard of before, a guy named Peter Case.

An entry on Wikipedia says this: Case was born in Buffalo, New York and lived in nearby Hamburg. A veteran of several rock bands and the local bar scene as a teenager, Case dropped out of high school when he was fifteen (he would later earn a GED), and after several years of traveling arrived in 1973 in San Francisco, where he performed as a street musician. During this period a documentary about the local music scene, Nightshift, directed by Bert Deivert, captured the young Case on film. In 1976, he teamed up with Jack Lee and Paul Collins in to form the early new wave band The Nerves in San Francisco. The group's 1976 single, "Hanging on the Telephone", was later recorded by Blondie.

When the Nerves disbanded, Case moved to Los Angeles and formed the pop-rock band The Plimsouls in 1980. The Plimsouls found a measure of success when their songs "A Million Miles Away," "The Oldest Story in the World," and "Play the Breaks" were featured in the movie Valley Girl, but by that time the group had already broken up. Case briefly toured with Gurf Morlix, Victoria Williams (Case's first wife), and Warren Tornado Klein as the Incredibly Strung Out Band, but their collaboration never resulted in a record.

To find out more about this talented musician, check out the Wikipedia entry on Peter Case.

In the meantime, listen to his music. I took the opportunity to insert some of my Lamp Hat Collection photos. So live and laugh!

Blues is the News - by Patty Mooney

2011-01-27T17:34:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite all-time blues bands is the one my brother-in-law, Freddie Cunningham heads and sings in, Root Doctor, out of Lansing, Michigan.

Here's a little taste... (When he sings about the woman he loves, he's talking about my sister!)

Remembering the cranes - by John Hulme

2011-01-27T11:11:00.000-08:00

I have always loved dockside cranes. There is just something so magnificent about the way they tower defiantly over the horizon. If you don't recognise the emotions such a sight stirs in your soul, if you don't know what it means to feel cold and isolated against an evening sky with a chilly tide lapping scornfully at your feet, then you really haven't lived yet. It's the place we all go to when the walls start falling down and you find yourself quietly amazed at the fragility of things.

Most things in this life are fragile, and none more so than the precious things:
small, withered hands looking for something to hold, perhaps; or a smile that lights up an entire room and pours fresh hope straight into your heart; somebody giving you a place to sit and talk when you've been wandering scared and lost through the streets all day; somebody hugging you just when you thought you were on the point of vanishing.

I spent much of this morning sitting in a car, quietly shivering as the cold winter air burrowed deeper and deeper into me. It's not the smartest thing to do, and I do sometimes wonder why I still do this at such regular intervals.

It's a throwback to a difficult time, during which I spent a great deal of time freezing in a car, not quite sure if I had anywhere else to go. But I think there's also something cathartic about it, quietly riding on the verge of hypothermia for a while with nothing but my own feelings and a cloud of ice breath to sustain me. I need to disappear into uncomfortable, melancholy places occasionally, to remind myself that there is still a crane in here somewhere, scanning the cold horizon for small treasures.

These are the kind of treasures that keep me alive. They have no innate power in themselves - you can't win any fights or topple any dictators with them, or buy any countries or oil rights. According to the standards by which our world is judged, they remain essentially worthless.

You can invoke them in speeches if you want to make people feel warm and fuzzy, but being somebody who nurtures such treasures has no intrinsic value in a world where money talks with such a loud, obnoxious voice. You get what you pay for in this world - and if you're out of that loop, your stock of treasure means precisely nothing.

Leading up to next year's Holocaust Memorial Day (held on 27th January, the date in 1945 that Auschwitz-Birkenau, the largest of the Nazi extermination camps was liberated), a project called Hidden Histories has been initiated by the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust.

The project is based on the kind of stories that small items - perhaps a watch, or a pendant, or a small comb - leave in their wake. Sometimes, such things had to be smuggled past the guards in the camps. Sometimes their mere presence in the world conjures a trail of memories, the only remaining echoes of people snuffed out by hatred. Small treasures, just like the fingers that once held them.

This is a world of small treasures, or it is nothing.

If we believe what the world tells us, we need money, power and influence to truly make the world a better place. If we believe what the small treasures tell us, we need to be cranes when the big waves come, and we need not to fear the cold. That way it will not matter who shuts us out. That way, it will not matter how cold the streets are, while the big money looks down on us from its gilded watchtower. That way, it will not matter how icy the water gets, how isolating our streets become, or how indifferent our neighbours seem when our world falls apart.

In a world where money talks with such a loud, obnoxious voice, we need to discover the kind of strength that is only born in silence. We need to re-learn how to whisper, how to touch with soft fingers. Most of all, when the world makes us feel cold and vulnerable for doing these things, we need to remember the cranes.

"Religion" - Haiku by Patty Mooney

2011-01-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

Image via Wikipedia Ever since I saw two red-shouldered hawks circling above my head in the canyon last week, while feeling the presence of my dad's and brother's spirits, as though the two were dancing concentric figure eights, I have been channeling poetry again, after just a few dollops of poems over the last decade. I feel this is a gift to me, and to anyone else who enjoys reading them.

Here's a haiku that came to me last night in my sleep. I remembered it all through the night and jotted it down when I woke up. It's pretty funny.

Maybe I should explain that I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic school from Kindergarten through 8th grade, at about which time I stopped going to church. Why? Simple. Women are not allowed to be priests. Having a firm grip on my worth as a person and not a piece of chattel, I have no interest in following a religion that looks down its nostrils at me because I'm female. My true "religion" is entering the realm of nature where I can see "God", "The Universe," "The Creator" or however you want to put it - in Full Glory. I don't often use the word "God" because I think it's a limiting term. I fully subscribe to the notion that "We are not humans living a spiritual existence, but are spirits living a human existence." - Teilhard du Chardin

So with no further ado, my haiku:

"Religion"
Sort of like wearing
underpants over your jeans
because God said so.

A Day As Grey - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-01-24T13:41:00.000-08:00

Image via Wikipedia
A day as grey as the belly
of a darting rat.
That rat is finished,
its corpse flung
into the canyon
fodder for coyotes
the fig trees
dripping with rain.

Out and About in America's Finest City - by Patty Mooney

2011-01-21T10:10:00.000-08:00

Photographing the Photographer - Regatta Marshal, Warren Allen

By air and by sea

One of San Diego's many colorful murals

Mural Detail, downtown San Diego

Stars & Stripes yacht, winner of the America's Cup (1987 and 1988), with "Stars & Stripes" American flag

Singing Coffee Shop Guy at Detroit Metro Airport - A Video by Patty Kay Mooney

2011-01-19T11:19:00.000-08:00

When I arrived in Detroit a few months ago to visit my elderly mother, I spotted this gorgeous young guy at the airport coffee shop. He regaled me with this rap song, customized for me, on the spot. Talented AND cute. :)

Ice Master - A "Found" Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-01-17T11:17:00.000-08:00

Ice Master
(Funeral March of the "Karluk")

Lying swollen and helpless, he was afraid to travel the Arctic.
The icescape looked different, an amplified wasteland.
Eyes useless now, all sense of direction lost:
impossible to avoid long stretches, to veer,
to tell the land from the sky; the game was thinning.
He was suffering, fingers and lips turned blue.
His skin freezing, the Bear vivid in his brain.
The Gray Specter now the Unseen Guest,
blond with the baby-fat face.
Everyone said hello – if not to him, to me. If not to me, to him.
He never made me cry. Never hurt me. Never let me down.
He treasured me. Now he was gone.
The midnight sun was gone. Blank horizon.
He must have died trying to reach Siberia.

Back at Skeleton Island, falling heavily and drifting badly,
they could still hear music echoing from the galley.
Winds and snow helped wash down the pemmican.
Deep water on top of the ice, Ice Master at the helm
as the ship nosed her way sluggishly, slivers of water
held captive. The old itch for adventure,
a grisly, bone-chilling roar, thickening fields of white.
Ice thrummed ominously. It rattled. It sounded like drums,
and then thunder, shuddered, continued its deafening
symphony grinding, churning, listing badly to port.
Two small daughters were crushed. Surprised.

A slight puff of steam seemed to straighten with great dignity.
He could feel the tears welling, weary and frozen.
What had he agreed to?
The worst in each man will behave without hesitation.
This strange clan – polar bears and offshore seals,
nothing beneath their feet but ice. As far as the eye,
only ice everywhere. Ice and darkness. Safety precarious.
Still there, adrift in the middle of the Arctic night.

Afterward, only chaos. The dogs wild and fighting.
The next full moon watched for trouble to a sound like gunfire.
Ice pressed tightly in these sanctuaries.
See the water pouring in, a long painful death,
a shard of ice thrust through at speed.
Snow blindness, to his thighs, his waist.
Slow suicide made a man of him.
Peace, peace, when there is no peace.
Say goodbye to the bottom of the ocean.
11/21/00

Yarn Art - by Patty Mooney

2011-01-14T11:14:00.000-08:00

A pink boa I knitted for a wild and crazy lead singer of a rock and roll band

Two capes I crocheted with yarn remnants

An artsy boa modeled by a ravishing woman at an art gallery

Another artsy boa worn by an artsy woman

A manly scarf that I knitted and gave to my brother for a cold ride on his Harley

True Grit - A Film Reflection by Patty Mooney

2011-01-12T11:12:00.000-08:00

This is the era of prequels, sequels and re-makes. Some re-do's, like "Psycho" with Vince Vaughn (though I love him) seem futile. No way could it top the original. It's like that with music, too. When a band covering a song sounds exactly like the original band, then why bother?

But the Coen Brothers got this one right. The original "True Grit" starring John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn, a wizened U.S. Marshal, and Kim Darby as Mattie Ross, a precocious 14-year-old, is hazy in my mind anymore, as I myself was 14 when it came out in 1969. John Wayne, icon of classic westerns, won his only Academy Award for his performance.

The Coens' "True Grit" features Jeff Bridges as the eye-patch-sporting Rooster Cogburn who favors rot-gut over water and can still put a man six-foot-under with his six-shooter without too much trouble. And Hailee Steinfeld who plays Mattie, with her honed bargaining skills and cigarette-rolling capabilities, steals the show.

I enjoyed watching this film on the big screen because it features a lot of scenic beauty, and the interplay between Mattie and Cogburn is riveting. She has to prove her own "true grit" in several astounding ways in order to convince Marshal Cogburn to accompany her on a manhunt for Tom Chaney (Josh Brolin) who murdered her father. It so happens that Texas Ranger Le Boeuf (Matt Damon) is also hunting Chaney for murdering a Texas senator.

There is never a lack of conflict in this classical western as the three unlikely "amigos" cross into Cherokee country to track down the murderer Chaney. The bond that grows between Mattie and Marshal Cogburn puts a lump in the throat of any daughter who has lost her father. When you see this roughest-of-the-rough show his tender side, it's a sight to behold.

I give this movie five stars and feel inclined to watch the original version of "True Grit" again, just to pay homage to John Wayne and screenwriter Marguerite Roberts, who interestingly enough had been "blacklisted in 1952 for refusing to name names in her testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee" according to Wikipedia. If you ask me, it's Ms. Roberts herself who had True Grit.

"My Stalker" - A Haiku Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-01-10T13:49:00.001-08:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr You know who you are.

You're probably reading this.

Take a clue. Adieu.

Happy Chef - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2011-01-10T10:11:00.000-08:00

Image by cleopatra69 via Flickr In the Happy Chef
Greek restaurant
garish pink walls
the owner's wife's whim.
Good food.
I await your return,
thoughts turning
to how stark life would be
without you
suddenly alone, not
the most pleasant of thoughts
at the Happy Chef.
The worry
something
has gone awry.
Just then
my spinach pie arrives,
and your gyros plate
as though to reassure
me the shaved lamb
confirms your return.

A Diary Left Open

The Real First Underwater Mountain Bikers - Photo and Story by Patty Mooney

Blogaholics Anonymous - by Patty Mooney

"Jerry & Me" - The Time We Interviewed Jerry Lewis - by Patty Mooney

Happy Holly-Daze, 2011

Marking the First Anniversary of the Death of My Brother

Steve Mason's "The Wall Within" - Story and Photos by Patty Mooney

Pythagasaurus - A Short Film

What Does America Mean to Me? - by Paula Cohen

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