Today's MOZEN: Anger Management

F LoBuono

It happened again - I lost my temper. And, if you've ever been unfortunate enough to be on the wrong side of my wrath, it ain't pretty. In fact, I often use the image of the ultimate symbol or rage, the comic book character The Incredible Hulk, to express my ire. Like the mercury in a thermometer left on a hot stove, my anger rises quickly and precipitously until it cannot be contained.

Look, I get it. Everyone loses it from time to time. Hell, even the divine are not immune - think Jesus at the Temple raging against the moneylenders. It's a release of emotion on a grand scale. For a moment, it can even feel liberating. And, we often justify our rage as righteous: someone insults us or our families. Or, we have such ideological differences that we lash out to prove our intellectual superiority over our opponent, especially if they challenge our core beliefs.

Sometimes, we can be validated by our anger. For example, if someone treats you in a racially inferior way or questions your integrity, you may be completely justified in an appropriate response.  However, for me, it's a fleeting sentiment because after I explode I feel as bad (if not worse) than the person who was the subject of my wrath?

So, how do we justify something that comes naturally to most of us while, at that same time, ultimately creates so much discord?Perhaps, the key to acknowledging the reality of all our emotions while at the same time searching for a more compassionate way to live is within the degree of that response.

Let me give you a personal example - the one that actually prompted this post.

A friend, a good friend, questioned my integrity and motivation on a very raw, emotional and personal matter. Or, at least, that's the way that I saw it. And, it made me angry - VERY angry. So, I lashed-out in response. Now, again, I may have been justified in my anger. After all she did question my principals and sincerity without knowing enough of the backstory to make that kind of judgment. And, I called her out on it - viciously. I felt personally attacked and I returned the favor - in spades. I got ugly. I said things to degrade her and were deliberately hurtful.

However, after all that anger blew through me like a summer thunderstorm, I didn't really feel better or even vindicated - at all. In fact, I felt terrible - literally. It felt like having a hangover; it was cool getting there but, now, it was painful! I apologized fairly quickly but, unfortunately, the damage was already done. Now, we have two people feeling like shit. Therefore, ultimately, what was the point?

We can't undo what has already been done. So, going forward, what is the lesson that we might learn to prevent this from happening again? I believe the answer is 3 fold:

1. Check yourself. When someone says or does something to make you angry, take a moment. Breathe. Let it pass over you like a ocean breeze. Then, measure your response.

2. Be honest. Let that person know WHY you are angry - without taking, or making, it personal.

3. Refuse to engage further. Be clear and forceful. Let it be known that you are now in territory that you are not comfortable discussing any longer.

When we lose our temper, no one wins. The person on the receiving end is certainly affected but, so is the one who loses it. Because, at that point, no one is really listening anymore. The release may feel good, but only in the short term. In the long, nothing is truly accomplished.

Now, if I can only remember this for the next time . . . 

Today's MOZEN: History Will Judge US

Photo: Julia Le Duc, AP

First, the photo shocks. Then, it saddens before it turns to a sickening anger. A young father and his toddler daughter lie face down, arm in arm, on the banks of the Rio Grande river in which they drowned together. Their names are Oscar Alberto and Valeria Ramirez. It's the type of photograph that can, and SHOULD, spur people into immediate action.

It has, if you will forgive the irony, become the face of the human tragedy that is emblematic of our Immigration policy (or, lack of one) on the Southern border.

And, it's shameful.

Any society will be judged by history on how it treats the least fortunate within its care. And, I don't give a shit if you say that these people should not be in our care. We will be judged harshly because the reality is that THEY ARE.

It's true, tens of thousands, mostly families, are leaving hellish conditions in their own countries (often caused by policies instituted on behalf of the US government) for the promise of a better life here. It is overwhelming the border, largely because our policy to deal with them is not only inept, it's draconian. So much so that, apparently, this young father and daughter risked their lives by attempting to swim the width of the river because there was no means for them to processed the so-called legal way.

And, they come because they believe in the promise of America, the soul of America. Perhaps, you've forgotten. It's enshrined on a bronze plague at the base of this huge statue that dominates New York harbor. It reads :

 "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

So, it's pretty simple to me: you either hold this in your heart and soul, or you don't. And, it's getting to the point where we know EXACTLY who does and who doesn't. I know where mine lies. How about you?

photo: F LoBuono

Today's MOZEN: I'M AS MAD AS HELL!

F LoBuono

I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!! Howard Beale, Network *

If you don't feel that way now, after all that has been going on lately with our current Administration, then you are either delusional, foolish, or both!

Misstep after misstep, lie after lie, blunder after blunder, this President continues to undermine the integrity and character that had made America the envy of the world.

His moronic tweets, loaded with malapropism, poor syntax, and spelling errors, provide ample fodder for late night comedians. And, they might even be funny if they were not coming from someone who holds the title "Most Powerful Man in the World".

It would be reasonable to describe the President's foreign policy as chaotic at best, dangerous at worst. Mr. Trump's lack of diplomatic skill has contributed to us being on the brink of a potentially disastrous armed conflict with Iran. His immigration policy (if we can even call it a "policy") is not only ineffective, it is draconian in nature, heartlessly separating families and threatening millions with immediate deportation. He has gutted the EPA, proving his disdain for the environment and the scientific process. And, yet ANOTHER woman has come forward to accuse the President of sexual misconduct.

And, unfortunately, I could go on.

So, what we have for a leader is a bilious, bellicose, bulbous, boorish bully. All he is good at is promoting himself and his family, mostly to the detriment of all around him - including our Country. Fear and Loathing are his mantra. Confusion and chaos are his tools.

It's pretty simple: Mr. Trump is a megalomaniac who, if he had his way, would be comfortable wearing the crown of a king. Well, screw that! I will serve no king - or, Donald J. Trump. I don't do well with bullies - never have and never will. I'm not that big nor that tough but I will never yield to a bully - never. And, I won't to this one now!

I do not support this man or his policies and I never will. We do not share a vision for American on ANY level. Therefore, I will resist this Administration in every way possible. So, GET AS MAD AS HELL AND DON'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE - vote the bums out at every opportunity! Let people of conscience win the day and take our Country back.

*Written by Paddy Chayefsky

Today's MOSTLY TRUE STORY: Fear of Failure

F LoBuono

When I was a kid and then young man, I was a pretty damned good baseball player. Perhaps not great, but really solid. In fact, I was good enough that, in my junior year of high school, by my recollection, I was the only member of the team who played every inning of every game. And, I played it all of the time - during the school year and all summer long in various leagues.

I was not much of a power hitter but could run like hell. Speed was my game. So, I used it, and also being left-handed, to great advantage. Because I batted from the right side of the batters box, I could slap a ball into the hole between short and 3rd and beat the throw to first for an infield hit. Then, I was almost sure to steal second base. I loved doing it and dared pitchers to pick me off and catchers to throw me out - and, they almost never did (almost never, anyway!).

Being left-handed had its advantaged but some disadvantages, too. It limited me to pitcher, first base, and the outfield. As a young kid, I did them all. Later, in high school, I knew that I could never pitch. So, I concentrated on the others. And, I played them all almost flawlessly. I could run so well that I covered an enormous amount of territory when I played center field and, thanks to some great coaching, had solid footwork around first base.

And, I virtually never struck out. In 40 at-bats my junior year of high school, I only struck out twice. That's 0.8%. Modern day major league hitters K at the rate of 22.6%. So, I was WAY ahead in that department. I just hated to strikeout. The point of the game is to put the ball in play - and, that's exactly what I did.

There was just one problem: in those 40 at-bats, I only had 4 hits. That's an anemic .100 batting average. Major league hitters batted at .248 average for 2018. So, I sucked there. I wasn't stinging the ball. I was trying too hard to simply control it.

I had become obsessed with not striking out! So, instead of attacking the pitch, I became very defensive. I was making contact, but weakly. I eventually came to realize that my anemic average was the symptom of a larger issue than simply adjusting my swing. And, that was fear of failure. I came to take striking out almost personally. It's just you and that guy on the mound - and, if you can't even put the ball in play he has won -totally. I hated that. But, it also crippled me. That fear of failing made me defensive and indecisive. Therefore, it limited my real effectiveness and, ultimately, potential. 

Of course, there is a moral to the story, a lesson to be learned:

If the fear of failing becomes greater than the joy of outrageous fortune, we are doomed to a life of mere mediocrity masquerading as efficiency. Without the sting of failure, we can never know the joy of success. It is a life in balance.

Remember, failure is as much a part of life as is success. In fact, without the courage it takes TO fail, we would never even attempt to accomplish the great things mankind has achieved. The list of those who have overcome consistent failure to attain tremendous success is long, distinguished, and often surprising. But, one need not think of this just in terms of greatness. It can be applied to everything we do in life - just don't be afraid to strike out every once-in-a-while.

Today's MOZEN: For My Father

F LoBuono

Perhaps, it was because he lost his father when he was just a boy - 12 to be exact. But, nothing was more important to my old man than being a father. Nothing. And, he both said it AND demonstrated it on virtually a daily basis. Even when I was an adult and living on my own, my father still played an active role in my life. In fact, he called me on the phone virtually night that he was alive.

Here was a typical conversation:

What ya' doin'?

Dad, I just got home from work. I was going to do some laundry, make something to eat, and probably just watch the Yankee game.

Oh, well, your mom is cooking so you can come here, eat, do your laundry, and we can watch the game together.

Sometimes I'd take him up on the invitation but, often time and logistics prevented it. However, it never ceased to make me smile. It was so genuine. You never had to bring him anything but yourself. Your very presence was gift enough.

Well, I'm amazed when I hear others complain about absent or even deadbeat fathers. That's so alien to my life! My father was so loyal and loving to me, my brother and sister that I think that our relationship even made my mother jealous!

So, here's to the dads who actually do give a shit. I know that you are out there. And, I salute you. There is no greater gift than to give of yourself to your children.

Epilogue: It's so strange, but in searching for a photo of me and my father together, I could not find a single one . . .

Today's MOSTLY TRUE SHORT STORY: Kissing God

F LoBuono

"All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong and then he repairs the error. The only sin is pride." Sophocles

When I was a young man, I might have described myself as a closet rebel; I got good grades in school, was captain of my high school and college football teams, president of my senior class, and was generally seen as a good guy. However, internally, I was a wild man, willing to, on occasion, take extreme risks, often simply for the sake of the experience. Not many knew of this dichotomy. And, I kept it that way - not being expected to behave badly gave me the opportunity to fly under the radar and get away with shit others would never have.

Simply put, there were few things that I wouldn't do on a dare. I saw myself as a bohemian and did my best to act the part. I read Kerouac, Kesey, Faulkner, Hemingway, and Huxley and listened to Waits, Morrison, and Dylan. I took The Doors of Perception almost literally - I was determined to break on through to the other side - to an altered state of consciousness, one that would let me see further into my own soul. My closest friends and I were as hard as the devil's conscience and did not fear death. It was too far away - too remote. Besides, I was god damned bullet proof - or, at least thought so. We were determined to live fast, die young, and leave only a bare husk, desiccated and depleted, behind. We would not go gentle into that good night. That was to be our misguided legacy.

To accomplish this, it would require some extreme experimentation. Since the time period was the late 70's and early 80's (I was in my 20's), that generally meant a copious amount of drug use . Excess was often seen as the key to Success (remember Studio 54). And, boy, my friends and I sure did our share: uppers, downers, speed, coke, mushrooms, pot, Quaaludes, crack, and, yes, for some of us, even heroin (more on that in a moment). If it could produce an altered state, we were interested in its consumption. However, it's important to note that we never (rarely?) did these things simply to get high (although that could be a convenient by-product) but, rather to see where they might lead us, i.e. through the doors of normal perception and into the world of the imagination. If you are going to Talk the Talk, you'd better be prepared to Walk the Walk. It was essential to live the experience. So, it was not simple escapism in the way we often associate with so-called recreational drug use. There was a deeper, less insidious purpose for us. At least, that's what we managed to convinced ourselves.

Of course, there was inherent danger in what we were doing. And, in fact, friends were lost because of drugs and addiction. But, the effort to find out more about ourselves and the world around us, by whatever means necessary, was a price that, personally, I was willing to pay. In a sense, because it was not  without risk, it made the experimentation even more important. So, I suppose that, for me, the reward was worth the risk.

And, one of those high risk experiments was my one, and only, brush with heroin.

As part of my so-called bohemian lifestyle, despite my undergraduate degree and Masters credits, I rejected a 9-5 existence and was driving a taxi to make ends meet. It was a good gig in its day. If you hustled, you could make a buck and you ALWAYS met interesting people. I dressed however I liked and never took the job home with me. I wore my hair as I pleased, including a shoulder length ponytail. If I missed shaving for a day or two, there was no one who really cared - even me. In other words, it was simply a means to an end - not a career.

One of the most interesting passengers I ever had in my cab was a wealthy, regular rider named Mike (I will not use his last name to protect his privacy) with a most unusual appearance. VERY tall at 6'7", he had a pear-shaped body (thinner at the top, thicker at the bottom). His family was the largest importer of Teamo tobacco products in New York. So, he had the means to live almost anyway he chose. And, he chose to live as a heroin addict.

He had an account with the cab company I was working for at the time and would take regular trips into the City to buy his drugs. He liked me because he thought that I could challenge his intellect, which was considerable. So, he would often request me as his driver to take him from his luxury apartment in Fort Lee, N.J. to the drug dens on the seedy part of the lower East Side of Manhattan known as Alphabet City. Mike had long since burned through his own money to support his habit so he often bilked his wealthy parents for the cash necessary to feed his addiction. He was also a terrible gambler. I once watched him borrow $10,000 in cash from his father, place it in a plain brown paper bag, and bet it on NY Knicks game (I think he lost!).

On our trips into the City, Mike and I would have long, philosophical discussions about life and love. He claimed that he was a Vietnam vet and had acquired his addiction there. However, it was hard to believe Mike - after all, he was a junky. Well, one day, he turned my head around so much that it was difficult to disbelieve anything he said after. On this particular trip to score his drugs, from the back seat, Mike said to me:

"You think you're pretty sharp, don't you? You think you have this great lexicon - but, it's not as good as mine. And, I'll prove it. I'll tell ya' what: I need another ride into the City tomorrow and I'll request you as my driver. Between now and then, I want you to go to the dictionary and look up 3 words, any 3 words - the more obscure, the better. When I call for you tomorrow, bring them with you and test me."

Well, I did what he asked and researched 3 of the most bizarre terms I could find, wrote them down, and brought them with me to challenge Mike. After I picked him up and he settled into the back seat, he immediately asked:

"Did you bring the 3 words?"

"Of course" I replied and then preceded to test him, word by word. They were so abstruse that I can't even remember them today. However, I do recall that he got their exact spelling and meaning IMMEDIATELY and CORRECTLY. He didn't even have to take a second to think about them! He laughed:

"Is THAT the best you could do?"

It was amazing. He was a lost soul, desperately mired in addiction, but still had the mental acumen to best me at my own game. After that, I never doubted him again (well, almost never).

One question, however, that I never stopped asking Mike was, "why? How could a man with so much talent and so much to offer be so hopelessly addicted to heroin? He always danced around the question, never giving me an honest, complete answer. That is until one day, I asked again, "why"? He replied simply:

"Because it's like kissing god."

And, he left it at that.

I was dumbfounded. What could that possibly mean? What synthetic compound could be so potent as to be compared to looking into the eyes of god? I so wanted to know more. No, I NEEDED to know more. However, even as intrepid as I was, heroin was simply beyond the pale. At that time, it was seen, if you will, as a ghetto drug, one only used by those people so down and out it was the only way to feel "up". It was not meant for some white, mostly suburban kid. Yet, here was Mike, a wealthy Jewish kid living in a luxury high rise doing it on nearly a daily basis. So, my curiosity was peaked. In my world, the only way to truly KNOW is to DO. Still, the stigma was, at that moment, too great to overcome. It simply wasn't done in our world - until that changed.

One day, after driving Mike on the rounds to score his dope, I was dropping him off at his apartment. After signing the receipt for his trip, he pressed something into the palm of my hand. It didn't feel like the usual healthy tip he gave after every ride so I checked it out. It was a small, about 1" square, cellophane packet. On its face was stamped a blue train. I learned later that these "stamps", like the train on mine or a red rose, identified the quality of the drugs within. I asked him:

"Is this what I think it is?"

Mike replied:

"Yes, it is. It's time to stop asking me and find out for yourself the answer to the question you continue to ask."

Immediately, I responded:

"Sorry, big fella' but I ain't sticking any needles into my veins!"

I may have been crazy, but I wasn't insane.

"You don't have to", he countered:

"You've snorted cocaine, right? (At that time, just about everyone had). Do this the same way. There is enough in the packet for about 4 small lines of heroin. Just snort 2, the same way you do coke. Remember, you can always do more if want but once you do, you can't go back."

I shoved the packet into my pocket, thinking that I would probably never cross that line but saved it anyway should I ever change my mind. Besides, I was so damned curious.

When I got home, I appropriately placed the packet in my desk draw where I kept my other drug paraphernalia like a small compact mirror and straw for snorting coke. In a sense, I was salting it away for the proverbial rainy day - one that I felt was right, if ever, for that level of experimentation. As much as I wanted to overcome my fear, I suppose it was healthy to make sure that I was doing it for the right reason - that shit can kill. Besides, there was the stigma. So, I waited for my moment.

A week or two must have passed with it still sitting in my desk draw, untouched. I can't say that I was compelled by it but, still, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mike said: "It's like kissing god." What could possibly have that effect on human consciousness. Sooner or later, I would have to know.

My chance came one Friday evening.

I was sharing an apartment with another taxi driver, an Irishman we'll call Tom Mahoney (a pseudonym) who may have even been crazier than me, and an old German Shepard dog named, Brucie (his real name). We lived in a two bedroom apartment in old house at the corner of Pine and Accomondo Streets in Fairview, NJ. It was located right on the edge of the Palisades, high above the Hudson River, across from 100th St. in Manhattan. So, we had spectacular views of the City making us the center of our social world. We were so bohemian that we created our own club called The Accomondo He-Man Women Haters Club in honor of an old The Little Rascals episode. What made the club so unique was that it had as many women members as men, with Tom's sister acting as Vice President - anything to be contrary. To paraphrase the Eagles, "we threw outrageous parties, without paying the heavily bills" - at least in terms of money. Our physical and emotional well-being may have been another matter entirely.

Both of us having worked the identical shift at the cab company that day meant we arrived home at about the same time. Since we were both bachelors, Friday night was a big deal. The boys would marshal at our place before a night of drinking, drugging, and debauchery out on the town. But, before that, my roommate and I need to resupply for the night, i.e. get more beer and booze from the corner supermarket. For some reason, I felt that night might be the right night to experiment. I would be among friends and the Friday night revelry beckoned. I was told that, by snorting it, the heroin might take some time before the full effect kicked in. So, before we left for the store with the dog, I crept into my room and pulled out the packet and my cocaine kit.

I unfolded it and poured out a small pile of a brownish, sand-like substance. It wasn't a lot. Just enough for 4 small doses as Mike had told me. Following his instructions, I cut 2 small lines (each about an inch long) out of the pile and left the rest. I quickly snorted the 2 lines, one in each nostril. I remember a slight burning sensation in my nose but felt nothing else at that moment.

We grabbed the dog and started our walk to the corner store.

We tied the dog outside the store and went in to begin our shopping. It wasn't very long when the feeling started coming over me in waves. It was not too strong at first but seemed to be intensifying with every passing second - a deep, nagging nausea was beginning to well-up deep within my gut. At first, I didn't think too much of it. I was told that it was not unusual to feel some discomfort, especially the first time. So, I just went about my business.

But, with each passing moment the nausea was becoming more and more intense. At one point, I started to feel dizzy, as well. I was doing my best to keep my composure but that was becoming virtually impossible. The nausea was overwhelming me. I felt that if I didn't get some air, I would certainly either vomit, pass out or both! I needed to get out of the store and quickly! So, I made an excuse to Tom, saying:

"I think that I hear the dog barking, I'm going out to check on him."

Tom replied that he didn't hear anything but that I should check him anyway. He would finish up and meet me outside.

When I reached the parking lot, the dog, of course, was fine. But, I most certainly was not. The cool fresh air helped but did not cure my rising affliction. However, I felt that if I could just compose myself, perhaps this terrible queasiness would abate and I could get on with the business of KISSING GOD.

Tom emerged from the supermarket with the goods and we gathered up the dog for the short walk back to the apartment. I remember being exceptional quiet for the trip as I was using all of my concentration to fight off that awful feeling. When we arrived home, we went into the kitchen to place our groceries away. I remember working with Tom to stack the stuff on our selves when I just couldn't take it any more. I knew that if I didn't LAY down, I would certainly FALL down. I said to my roommate:

"Tom, I don't feel very well. Would you mind finishing up while I go into my bedroom to lie down for a bit."

He looked over at me and replied:

"Holy shit. You'd BETTER lie down. You're fucking green!"

I'm not sure of the actual accuracy of that statement, but at the moment, I sure felt like it was true.

I went into the bedroom, closed the door, and laid on my back, fully clothed on the bed. I laid there as still as I possible could, my arms straight at my side, looking strait up. As long as I didn't move too much, I could control the nausea. However, even the slightest movement of my head or arms would send waves of biliousness over my entire body. I did not sleep, nor move. I just lay there, motionless, staring at the ceiling.

As it was a Friday night, as I mentioned, my buddies would be dropping by to begin the evening's festivities. One by one they came into the room to check on how I was feeling. The most common response from them upon seeing me lying there was:

"Jesus, Frank. You look like shit!"

Believe it or not, as long as I didn't move my head or body, I could actually respond - feebly. I thanked them for their concern and told then I wouldn't be joining them for that night's debauchery. Then, I went back to my misery. The evening came and went and darkness fell. I still could not move. At one point, I remember thinking that if I could just make it to morning, I just might survive this debacle.

The night passed slowly. My friends had come and gone and, still, I could not move for fear of losing my shit. All night I simply lay there, desperately wishing for this sickness to pass. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a faint light began invading my bedroom. Dawn was breaking. I had indeed made it through the night! Perhaps, the worst was over. I tried sitting up. To my surprise, I did so without the sickness that had overwhelmed me that long night. I decided to see if I could actually get out of the bed and stand. So, I did. Again, it was without that gnawing sickness.

The only other time that I had felt such an intense, immobilizing affliction was many years before when on a fishing trip I experienced the debilitating effects of sea sickness. I remember feeling that, at first, I was afraid that I would die from it. However, after suffering for a time, I was afraid I WASN'T going to die. I was that sick. My heroin experience left me with the same sentiment. And, strangely, just as the effects of the sea sickness departed as soon as I got on dry land, the effects of the heroin on my body seemed to disappear just as quickly that morning. As I moved into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, I didn't feel any lasting impairment. I was amazed because I had been SO sick just a few hours before.

At first, I didn't tell anyone. I wasn't sure that people would understand my motivation for this experiment in the first place. There was that stigma associated with the very word heroin. But, I felt like I needed to share that experience with someone. So, after my roommate joined me in the kitchen for a cup of joe, I decided to come clean with him and share my entire story.

Tom was a kindred spirit of sorts, a fellow bohemian. So, I hoped that he might see things from a similar perspective to mine. And, he did. When I recounted the previous night's adventure he wasn't judgmental at all. In fact, he was fascinated by it - so much so that we called a mutual friend who was more experienced than we were in such matters to find out what went wrong. Tom said he wanted to try what was left over. When we told him what happened, our friend chuckled, explaining that my experience may have been a bit extreme but was not atypical. He suggested that if we should ever try again, we might begin my coating our stomachs with an antacid to ward off the nausea. And, the experience would improve once our bodies adjusted to the substance, i.e. over time.

Well, I had enough. It reminded me of my initial experience with smoking cigarettes. When I first tried them, I hated it! The smoke made me gag and my throat hurt. All of my friends who were smokers all told me the same thing:

"Don't worry. Give it time. You just have to get used to it. The experience gets better with time."

Really.

My reaction was the same: why would I WANT to give it MORE time? My body gave me the strongest message possible. It totally rejected what I had tried to force it to accept. In other words, it repudiated the substance in no uncertain terms, saying clearly - POISON. POISON. POISON. DON'T DO THIS TO ME EVER AGAIN!! (BTW, I never smoked cigarettes and still don't)

So, I gave the remainder of the packet to Tom to use in whatever way he saw fit (a story for another day). I was done with a capital "D". As I said, I may have been crazy, but I was certainly no fool. As had always served me well in the past, I would listen to my body.

I continued to drive Mike on his almost daily trips into the City to score more and more drugs. He asked me about my experience with the "packet" he had given me. I gave him all the gory details. But, Mike had one more life lesson to teach me. After returning from one trip he said:

"Frank, you have a romantic vision of the world, especially when it comes to rebellion. I want to show you something."

He preceded to invite me to his apartment. It was on the top floor of an exclusive hi-rise in Fort Lee. It had to be very expensive. But, when he opened the door, I was shocked by what I saw. The place was a filthy mess. There were empty bags of McDonald's hamburgers and other garbage scattered around the entire place. Dirty, foul dishes littered the sink. The windows were so filthy as to almost obscure the spectacular views the apartment offered. And, the place stank.

He cleared some garbage off a seat and asked me to sit while he got his "kit" out. He sat across from me and rolled up his sleeve to expose an arm that was loaded with festering pustules created from his constant injections of dirty needles. Mike then preceded to wrap a rubber hose around his upper arm while clenching his fist. This would cause his veins to be more easily exposed. He then preceded to "cook" the heroin in a spoon being heated over a lighter before drawing it into the syringe.

I didn't want to see anymore but Mike would not let me turn away. He brought the syringe, now filled with smack, to his bulging vein where the needle found its mark. After emptying the contents, Mike let out a deep sigh and collapsed back in his chair, obviously in the throws of making out with his god.

It had the desired effect. It was one of the most vile things I have ever witnessed. In the end, Mike had delivered to me a great service - there was NOTHING romantic about it at all.

The bottom line, I suppose, is this: the whole point was experimentation to explore just how far I could push myself in the search for truth. Well, the only truth that I found there was degradation and death. Fortunately, my parents instilled in me a certain strength of character to, ultimately, respect my body above all else. I believe that it helped me avoid the scourge of addiction that effected so many others. And, besides, I never got god smacked!

Soon after, I stopped driving the cab, eventually making my career in TV news. And, I never saw Mike again - that was until one day, years later, at my father's wake, I saw a strangely shaped, very tall man standing at the back of the room. It was him! I approached him and we shook hands. He told me that he was clean and sober and doing his very best to stay that way. I smiled broadly and wished he well. Then, he departed and I never saw Mike again.

That was over 30 years ago. I'm sure that he is gone now, as are the drug dens and shooting galleries that once infested Alphabet City and Mike knew so well. Times change - sadly, heroin is no longer just a ghetto drug. It has come to the suburbs in a BIG way. One need not risk their life buying it on the Lower East Side. It has become cheap and readily available. And, it is an epidemic. We are losing our young people to heroin and opioid addiction at an alarming rate. It's a complicated issues that is beyond my ability to solve. However, I will say this to anyone who might be listening: you will not find god there and, in the end, only darkness.

When You Think About It: GIRL POWER!

F LoBuono

On this date, June 4, 1919, exactly 100 years ago, the 19th Amendment was passed, giving women the right to vote.

Now, the 15th Amendment which prohibits the federal government and each state from denying a citizen the right to vote based on that citizens "race, color, or previous condition of servitude" was ratified on February 3, 1870. Simply put, it gave former slaves the right to vote.

Do the math: the lowest members on the social rung, former slaves, were given the most important and basic of freedoms for Americans, the right to vote, almost 50 full years before we gave it to the other half of our population, i.e. women.

So, when you think about it, stop complaining that women, especially through the #MeToo movement and beyond, are asking for too much! Yes, they have come a long way, despite the efforts of a patriarchal society to keep them down, but still have a long distance to go (women make .78 cents to every dollar made by a man).

Let's use the day to salute the women who sacrificed and suffered to earn them the rights they should have always had and commit to total equality for the future.

GIRL POWER
   GIRL POWER
       GIRL POWER!!!!

Today's MOZEN: Agreeing to Disagree.

F LoBuono

A good friend, one whom I do not see eye to eye with politically, asked me a question yesterday. Before I give the question and my answer, a little background might be in order: when it comes to politics, we see things from VERY different perspectives. Simply put, he tends to be conservative and I lean liberal. We disagree often but have total respect for one another. In fact, we actually enjoy one another - a lot. It's one of those relationships where we can agree to disagree and still like each other at the end. It's sort of like Yankee and Red Sox fans - they hate other during the game but can still share a beer after.

Anyway, he asked me "why do those who oppose President Trump actually hate him so much?" He went on to explain that he understands why people may not agree with him politically but not why they are so vehement in their disdain for him as a person? He went on to declare that he rarely agreed with former President Obama but never hated him. He asked with all due respect and was anxious for my answer.

I responded that, for me, it's beyond politics. In a sense, it is personal. And, I believe others feel the same way. As I have written on this blog, I am not a political scientist, lawyer, or economist. Therefore, the focus of my criticism is not in those areas (mostly!). But, as a photographer and journalist, I do believe that I know human nature. And, as such, I do not respect Donald J. Trump as a person. I find him to be a bully, braggart, and a womanizer. And, he lies - constantly. I find most things about him to be abhorrent. His arrogance offends me. His ignorance is astounding. In other words, personally, I would not have him as a friend. In fact, I wouldn't bid him the time of day.

And, because of these personality flaws, he is fundamentally changing what it means to be an American in ways that I also find offensive. He excludes instead of includes. He intimidates instead of initiates. And, his naked greed makes him ugly. In the final analysis, hate may (or, may not) be too strong a word, but I certainly don't admire or respect him.

So, I turned the tables on my friend and asked HIM this question:

What is there to LIKE about Donald J. Trump?

He responded with the standard conservative, Make America Great mantra: Well, I don't like a lot of what he says. And, I don't like a lot of what he does personally. But, he is OUR President and he has the Country headed in the right direction.

So, I guess we wound up back where we started - agreeing to disagree. And, we have over 2, full years to continue. I just hope that at the end of his term we have enough of the America I know and love left to continue the bold experiment in democracy that IS (or, was) our Country.

When You Think About It: Awash In Blood

F LoBuono

On this morning's CNN program Smerconish, the host, Michael Smerconish, asked a survey question: Will America's Gun Problem* ever change?

My simple answer was a resounding NO - at least not in the foreseeable future.

And, my reasoning is this - America doesn't have just a gun problem, we have a VIOLENCE problem. We can pass all of the gun legislation that we can conceive of, and although it will certainly help, it will NOT solve the problem until we deal with our obsession with violence, as well.

Think about it.

Although the US earns its title of the world's greatest gun loving country (with 2x's as many guns per capita as the 2nd place finisher), other countries, like Norway, for example, have a culture that honors gun ownership, too. However, none of these other countries suffer the type of wanton gun violence that we experience here in the United States.

Why?

From the research I have done, the answer appears to be two-fold:

1. Other countries strictly control what type of guns you may own and WHO gets to own them. Generally, the process to even apply to own a weapon is often long and tedious. Background checks are thorough and there are no loopholes. Safety courses into the proper use and safe storage of weapons are usually required.

2. While other so-called gun cultures appreciate their weapons as part of their heritage and often a component of everyday life, i.e. hunting, they don't seem to view them in the same light as Americans do. It would not be hyperbole to claim that we worship them.

Let's review some history.

Our very creation as a nation came about through the violent over-throw of a monarchy. We even enshrined our "right" to own a gun in our most sacred document of existence, i.e. the Constitution. Our western expansion was accomplished by the merciless military suppression of our native population. We slaughtered each other, our fellow Americans, by the hundreds of thousands in a brutal Civil War just to keep our country united. We have initiated coups abroad and supported them militarily to suit our best interests. No war seems to too big OR too small for our consideration. In fact, in our Country's 243 years of existence, we have been at war for 226 of them - that's nearly 95% !!

Most of our heroes have become legend through some type of military conquest. Even Actor Clint Eastwood's character, "Dirty Harry", master of the .44 caliber magnum handgun, has become part of America's mythology.

To put it simply, we are awash in blood - and, always have been.

So, when you think about it, we can pass all the gun legislation we want. In a sense, that trite, NRA rationalization for the mindless addiction to gun violence can actually be seen as making some perverse sense: Guns don't kill people. People kill people.

Unless and until we change our ethos and learn to solve our problems without the use of guns and violence, their effectiveness will remain limited and we are condemned to an endless cycle of gun carnage.

*Michael Smerconish