Sunday, August 30, 2009

If I Asked You A Question

If I had something to say,
Would you be the one to listen?

If dreams were a gift,
Would you be the one bestowed?

If you possessed the cure to heal,
Would you share the knowledge freely?

If you acknowledge those less fortunate,
Do you not feel empathy for their plight?

If you offered your hand,
Would it be to help or to harm?

If kindness guaranteed our tomorrows,
Would your sleep be peaceful tonight?

If I asked you a question,
Would I get a reply?

-Terri Bonney

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Steph In The City is an award-winning blog and I love to read what this particular young woman has to say about stuff. She recently blogged about Miley Cyrus' pole performance. My comment and humble opinion flowed through my fingertips tumbling onto the keyboard like the winnings from a slot machine. Before I knew it I had written a blog myself!

Mauling Miley

I slammed my coffee down on the kitchen bar, ignoring the mess of splatter, reading the latest disaster scrolling across the bottom of the tv. As I take in the news, I can’t help but sink into the nearest chair and read in horror. How could this happen? Didn’t the people in charge understand the consequences of their actions? Apparently not; and as a result, the world as we know it has been completely and utterly knocked off its axis. All because Miley Cyrus danced on or around a pole! Ooooh my gooooodnesssssss!

I'm so glad I didn't have any little girls to worry about, but I did raise two little boys and I did worry about them. I wanted them to respect women as equals and yet see them as the softer sex. I wanted them to be proud of themselves for good reasons. I suppose every parent dreams of raising their children in that way; helping them to become all they aspire to, teaching them the stars are within their reach. And believe me, there is a whole lotta teaching in that concept alone!

Sex is and will always be a sales pitch. Communication between a child and parent is a vital aspect of the relationship and should be open to the discussion of any topic, no matter how sensitive. The how-to’s of hopscotch, riding a bicycle, the birds and the bees, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Acme products, are just a few of the basic life-instructions parents need to be prepared for.
These questions and others will always be queried at the most inopportune times; and in my experience with no warning or time to prepare the proper responses. Here’s the tricky part of the answer: finding the middle ground, then hoping your child grows up to be a non-judgmental, and yet well-grounded personality tolerable of many different life-styles and cultures. Why? Because these are the children that will raise your future grand-children! As for me, I don’t know one parent who is proud of their kindergartener bully who makes little Sally cry because she has two mommies!

As for Miley and her dance, most likely she was extremely nervous about the performance; all the ifs of the situation have probably caused not only her, but her parents as well, to lose more than a few nights of sleep. I ask myself, if I were her parent how would I make such a difficult career decision, knowing it’s your child’s future and her dreams. As a parent myself, I know more than anything, I would want to help my child in whatever way I could to understand each and all ramifications from such a fickle public.

I guess when Elvis danced on stage in his early days; my grandparents must have thought that all hell had broken loose! I can’t help but imagine my dad holding Granma’s broom like a microphone, pretending to be Elvis! No, Elvis didn’t have a pole to hang onto when he danced but he was very scandalous to Granma and Grandpa! How naughty Elvis was to gyrate his hips. Wasn’t it nice of Ed Sullivan to endorse Elvis? If Mr. Sullivan said Elvis was a fine young gentleman, choir-singing-church-going-boy of good character, then it must be so! Elvis suddenly went from the devil’s advocate to the poor thing that couldn’t control spasms!

Role models grow up, that's just life! Do we like some of their actions or behaviors, not always. Should we judge them, I don't think so. Should we help our children understand empathy, it could be a good thing.

Miley is a beautiful young lady and I for one hope and pray that she makes the leap from child to adult; after all, WHO are her role models? Shouldn't she have one WE could all hold up on the Miss Perfect Celebrity pedestal?

How about this party idea for the next young tween's or teen's birthday bash? For the girls, we could have 'Miss Perfect Celebrity' piñatas. The boys could do a 'Mr. Perfect Celebrity' piñata. We could design them to look similar to the actual celebrity in the spotlight at the moment, we could arrange to hang them from the highest tree, and give all the good little boys and girls big baseball bats to bash their freaking celebrity to pieces until they bleed candy and treats, showering the participating party crowd with blood, (oops I meant) the much anticipated rewards!

That would be a grrrrreat thing to teach our kids, right?

It’s just something to think about.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Leaves of Time

The young lady pointed to the aged and decaying leaf
And remarked on its beauty.
Thoughtfully touched by its wrinkled old texture,
And marbled bright colors.

The small child looked at the old leaf,
And saw in its face an adventure of sorts.
Weathered by the sun and carried by the wind.
And whose story was enchanting, full of grace and charm.

The old man took hold of his bride’s hand,
Withered and aged, spotted and brown.
And glimpsed in her eyes a mischief still young,
A wealth of old knowledge
And a beauty comparable to none.

-Terri Bonney

My Mother’s Words

I heard you say,
“I’m so bored!”
And wondered why
You had no chores.

Idle hands
Can do no good.
They’ll make you sick,
And tired and bored.

Hands that work
Will play their part
To make you smile
and warm your heart.

A chore when done
Can build you up.
Make you think
And feel grown up.

A job or task
Is all you’ll need
To fill your soul
With self-esteem.

And when at last
Your chores are done
Reward yourself,
Read a book
and have some fun!

Written by T.Bonney

Can’t lives on Won’t Street

Phillip Seymour Hoffman portrayed a flaming drag queen and vocal coach hopeful of a trans-gendering surgery named, Rusty Zimmerman. Robert DeNiro’s character Waldo Koontz, was a narrow-minded homophobic, retired police officer possessing many chauvinistic intolerances. The two characters were neighbors in a cramped brownstone located in Manhatten’ Lower East Side who despised each other and their lifestyles tremendously.

In the midst of a heated argument over what is morally correct and socially acceptable behavior, the two adversaries were matched blow for blow until Rusty knocked Waldo’s breath out with this simple yet profound statement; “Can’t Lives On Won’t Street”. The (1999) film Flawless depicts two, extremely strong-willed people who desperately need each other for different reasons. The journey that bridges the gap between them reveals that the pair are not as dissimilar as once thought; but are indeed each possessing the same qualities both esteem in their friendships, love and life. Together, they find the road between them is a common one full of the same aspirations; to be genuinely accepted, appreciated and loved by those they’ve come to care for the most.

This is one of the best films I have ever seen. Poignant and punched full of twists that will make you rethink your own biases, stacked on top of superb acting by two of the greatest talents in film history will lead you to the same conclusion. Phillip Seymour Hoffman won four awards in 2000 for Best Actor including the Golden Globe and the Screen Actors Guild.


Regardless of the substantiated facts, the sensationalism and propagation allowed by or pushed by the journalistic editors of all phases of the media are outrageous. It is contingent only on whether or not the subject has the means whereby to sue for liable or slander. Journalism, at its best, seems to be nothing more than permitted, glorified gossip vandalizing and wreaking havoc wherever, whatever, or on whomever the story sizzles for the moment.

As a creature of habit, I usually awakened to the sound of Mr. Coffee brewing and wonder what has happened while I slept the night away. Curiosity was reason enough for me to watch the A.M. news on a local TV station while drinking my first few cups of ‘pumped-up sky juice’. Every morning I watched the news and witnessed, in living color, the devastation wrought by mankind, brought to my silver screen by way of journalism. The eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, kind of mentality dominating the storylines was unthinkable, unimaginable; but still the ratings of the show was evidence enough that society as a whole thrived on such luridness.

Sipping my coffee, I wondered if there were any rainbows, any kind deeds, any boy scouts left to walk the old and crippled protectively across the streets. In search of better news, I walked to my driveway and retrieved the daily morning newspaper in hopes of finding good news. I eagerly scanned the pages carefully for valiant articles uplifting our golden rules. With coffee in hand, I turned the pages and found more pain and suffering, printed neatly in black and white columns.

In stunned silence, I sat and sipped my now cold coffee evaluating the price I paid for cable and papers, weighing the worthiness of these expenditures. The only concentration my feeble mind could grab onto was the fact that my subscriptions were supporting these efforts at journalism. I was a newsmonger. In facing this fact, I realized I was no better than the germs committing the murders, the rapes, the gang promoters, the liars, the thieves, or the terrorists.

Disgusted, I figured some music was what I needed to pep me up and lift this pessimism befalling me. I tuned in a local easy listening radio channel and heard; albeit, one more tale of ‘believe it or not’ newsworthy journalism. Needless to say I turned off all hopes of optimistic entertainment to start my day.

With the beeping of the microwave, signaling my coffee ready and hot, the telephone rang in harmony. I answered with high hopes of stimulating conversation. The friend on the other end of my line, excited by illicit tales about another, was calling to let me know ‘just exactly’ what was happening. Although I did not contribute to the slander, I did listen long enough for conviction of my own wrongdoing to sink into my thick skull. I willingly lent my ear to scandalous reportings; therefore, I was just as contrite. I had greatly harmed an innocent victim. My victim would not be allowed a trial, for she had been found guilty by sheer pettiness alone. Also, my victim was most likely unbeknownst of the lynching of her character. She knew nothing of the devastation in progress that was sure to force the complete destruction of her reputation. The journalism was not yet completed nor quite ready for printing. I again wondered at the validity of my telephone bill.

I wish I were stronger in character: that I had the strength to be a better person, to do the right thing always, to stop this malignment of humanity. However, I realize that cutting off the cable and paper subscriptions and disconnecting my telephone are a bit far-fetched and will undoubtedly bring on a series of ‘psychotic’ rumors about me. I can and do have the power to pray and beg God to bridle my tongue; therefore starting in my own backyard, I will clean up the thriving, viciously nasty grapevine that pricks so vehemently with its thorny and venomous barbs.

In my opinion, the definition of journalism today has been replaced by magnified gossip. And gossip, in my opinion, is an underhanded rape of the lowest form, full of deadly poison and once started, cannot be stopped nor ever righted. Rape by tongue: a destruction mankind uses with little regard and all too often, glorifies it by payment or audience. Journalism or gossip, who knows the difference?


Consider, if you will, the storylines our media representatives chose as news during the confirmation of Judge Clarence Thomas in the fall of 1991. Judge Thomas’ reputation was greatly harmed by slanderous remarks that were unsubstantiated. He will never be able to wipe these accusations from our minds or the records.

Judge Thomas was confirmed to our Supreme Court on October 15, 1991.

Tales of the Exit Monsters

I stood in the large open area where a few of the tangled hallways collided. It seemed as though the Langoliers had just visited the place. Everything looked the same; untouched, neatly ordered, sanitized, and familiar. An abundance of identical chairs, lined up and stood guard at the wall. Eager to be read, the usual plethora of magazines rested atop randomly scattered side tables. Overly large prints, offering the customary landscapes, full of horses, fox hounds and fences hung on the windowless walls. Yes, everything looked right; but the air seemed heavy, hard to breathe, the quietness of the place had become a terrifying noise roaring with pandemonium. Where were the people?

Right before I started crying, I usually started to shake violently. Already underway with an excellent head start, pressed firmly up against my internal panic button was the beginning of a multitude of freakish behaviors; all due to my paranoia of empty, ghost-filled buildings. The haunting, uncontrollable vibrations of my limbs were beginning to look like I was trying to channel Elvis at the end of a concert. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, fear-scented sweat was popping out from my pores like a spicket. Within moments, I was soaked, completely drenched and looking as if I needed a good hormone replacement therapy.

Where were all those people who sat upon the garrison of chairs? The sad ones who groaned and moaned, wishing someone would pay homage to their pitiful whimpering. I should have had more mercy for them, for even now they have deserted me. No friendly faces, no friendly smiles, no happy laughter. Rolling like thick bloated fog, the petrifying silence, eerie and cold drifted in and around the enormous expanse of empty corridors.

Bright red ‘EXIT’ signs antagonistically glared at me; a few of the braver ones blinked on and off as if to say, “I’m the one you want, I’m the one that leads the way out!”

Oh, how was I to decide which exit to run through; none were properly signed as to their direction.

The gamble was on. It was time to square-up or cry like a baby.

Being chased by a serial killer while creeping through a haunted mirror maze, seemed more appealing than the hollow, spider-legged complex with it’s devil-eyed exit signs, which were beginning to wink and whistle at me. Odd on and off sounds of schtiz, schtiz, schtiz, called my name; the blood-soaked bloodshot exit-eyes were enticing me to come their way!

I could be brave. However, most of the time that happened in between the tears and the Elvis act. Alone and afraid, I stood frozen with indecision. Would I crumble in a heap of tears and pee a little bit on the floor; or grumble up growling ready for the rumble with this over-inflated exaggeration of ghoulish, spooky monsters that preceded and accompanied my psychotic breaks with reality.

Suddenly, there she was, this angel from on high. Her halo was brightly luminescent. The slightly darkened and scary hallways bulging with a mosaic display of red exit signs were no longer a threat to my sanity. With a smile full of kindness, and eyes full of twinkles, she offered to lead me out. Assuring me with promises that she would make notes in my patient file to only allow morning appointments. I believed her. I was comforted. I knew I would never again be caught as the last patient of the day. Never in my life, would I be lost or frightened again at the…

Swimming and Smiling and Pretty Is As Pretty Does

Swimming and Smiling and Pretty Is As Pretty Does

When I was twelve, in the summer between my 7th and 8th grade years of junior high school, I had a swimming accident. I was knocked unconscious in the water.

Before I lost consciousness, I was aware that something had just happened. I wasn’t sure what but I knew I was sinking and I knew that the red in the water was my blood. I remember trying to swim up to the light as I sank deeper. I had no time nor thought to think of anything else; just to push my arms through the water, and kick to move higher to get to the light. I knew I’d make it if I got to the light. I remember, how the water looked and swirled red with blood, and I remember sinking, but I don’t remember thinking I was drowning, or actually possibly dying. I watched the red water float around me, my eyes were wide open, and as I lost consciousness, I remember my limbs were heavy. It didn’t bother me, that I could no longer climb through the water, that I was sinking. It was strangely peaceful.

That image has haunted me my whole life. It’s funny how on a clear blue day, the memory will swiftly flutter through my mind, and I still wonder what that peace was that took hold of me, how could I have given up. I question if at the age of 12, I could not process what was going on, or does death come to everyone in that way.

That accident shattered my face. I do not remember what the guy looked like that pulled me from my grave and administered CPR. I do not remember the doctors. I do remember a brief moment of the blinding lights in the operating room. I remember my mother crying. I remember wondering what was wrong and where and what this place was. I didn’t know what doctors in scrubs and masks looked like, nor an operating room.

With a broken jaw, cheekbone, nose, and an upper lip in pieces, I’ve often thought the guy that saved my life had to have been one of God’s own Angels. I’m not sure whether I could help anyone in the exact way that he helped me. My own son, at the age of 5 had a bicycle accident resulting in blood all over his face; and I reacted first by vomiting.

As a child, I thought that I would grow up and be as beautiful as my Barbie dolls. I was going to be a model, or a movie star; people constantly fed my enormous ego with remarks about my stunning beauty.

My sister was very cruel and called me names that referred to my hideous scarred face. But then, she was my sister, and my older sibling by 4 years. Siblings can be cruel; it’s just natural. However, because of that ribbing, I learned to smile.

I smiled all the time. I felt like I was hiding the ugly face when I smiled. When people stared, I smiled back at them. Then, like a miracle straight from God above, they smiled back at me. It is amazing how powerful a tiny, little smile can be.

I no longer thought I would be a model, or a movie star, or beautiful. My head and face was as big as a watermelon for 3 months. And for 3 months, the only place I would leave the confines of my bedroom for was the local public swimming pool, the scene of the accident. I got there late, after everyone was gone and the pool was closed, the managers would let me in to swim while they cleaned up the pool area. I would go two or three times a week, I was determined to take back my courage and whatever else the water had stolen from me.

I have since undergone several surgeries, and no one would ever know, unless I told them.

My point to this story: pretty is as pretty does.
Smile and the whole world smiles with you.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

I usually have something to say about everything! However, tonight I find I am speechless!

The computer as a whole tool intimidates me with voraciousness. I'm coming from a world where I have never been required to be that computer person; the person that inputs everything for you because that is their job. I have always relied on the knowledge of others for these types of tasks. Now, well now, I feel as though I've been caught in a time-warp. One foot stumbles backward and the other foot tumbles forward, leaving me to straddle a virtual world. It's a world full of scary flying monkeys and apple throwing trees with sirens of nasty, wicked laughs screaming from the speaker at my fingertips!

I've had a few viruses that threatened to completely destroy my laptop and managed to scare me witless. And believe me, there were a few times I thought I had done pee'd in my chili!

Seriously, with the laying aside of petty euphemisms, I go boldly where I have never gone before! I'm excited and fearful. I'm nervous and vexed. I'm also too cautious and yet overly curious. My basic nature will push me forward and I will continue to scoot up closer to the instuctions; therefore, I will learn. I'm too stubborn not to.

So all you good people wish me luck and wish me brains, for I am jumping off into the deep end here, and I only have one of those long silly noodles to keep me afloat and my head above water!!! Smile.