Boo-Boo tongue!

Background for a new post…in case you missed this:


Boo-boo tongue

The calendar on the wall, the daily kind where you tear off a sheet each day, said November 12.  Even now, six years later, I can’t simply say what day it is, I need to go “JanFebMarAMayJune JAugSeptOctNOV!”, with my lips moving to keep my place, or else I have to start all over again. The day in question is November 12, 2006, the first post-surgery day/date that I can remember. (While I remember little to none of the following events, notes from my journal enable me to share them with you now).

Three distinct things stuck me:

  1. I have boo-boo tongue!
  2. How can it be the 12th , I’m pretty sure it is the 2nd.
  3. If it really is the 12th, why am I still in the hospital?

I wanted to talk, but my tongue hurt! It had a boo-boo. Why doesn’t someone…

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Jayesbrain featured in The Mighty


Flashback! Or, why would you ever leave Florida? (Warning: Possible Triggering Language)

This was a happy day before all hell broke loose. It was around Halloween, as evidenced by my orange cup.

Always the attempt to look writerly and content.

He had a severely handicapped little girl, about seven; he said was the result of the Agent Orange from ‘Nam. I had no idea what any of that meant. I knew ‘Nam was ‘Nam as in Viet and I had a very literal idea what Agent Orange was from my childhood friend whose dad was some big shot at a company where one of the components was still manufactured. They kept the herbicide in the garage for emergency weed infestations and a couple of drops made gallons of the desired effect. We shot some of the stuff into a weed with a hypodermic needle to see how it worked. This was before the internet and kids did science experiments with deadly chemicals for fun.

He was a friend of a friend, and no doubt the brace on his foot had something to do with my offering help that day. Someone told him I was a writer and he had this elaborate camera that hung around his neck. It was confusing why someone would add the burden of the camera to their already precarious mobility-but I recognized an artist when I saw one. The photo I was using for my “author” picture was getting old so I said “yeah, what the hell. Take the picture.”

I never thought about something untoward happening because his miniature mute daughter was always with us. Until one day she wasn’t. He pulled up in his handicap equipped station wagon without her, which didn’t strike me as odd since he had joint custody and I just figured it was the wife’s turn to keep her out of danger.

He stepped out of the car with his good leg and dragged his braced leg behind him.
“I’m glad you’re dressed so nicely, today I’m going to take your picture.”

My faulty warning bell did not go off, but this compliment should have been ringy dingy number one.

Soon we were driving down the road in his wagon packed with photography equipment and on the seat between us, a small handgun. Seeing me see it, he stowed it in the glove compartment.

“I always want to be able to protect my companion. That makes up for my bum leg.”

Somehow this made perfect sense to me, and I was happy it was out of sight. Ringy dingy number two.

We arrived at the park where the third warning bell would go off if I hadn’t been so hell-bent on getting a photo for the back of my book jacket. It’s OK to laugh, I think it’s funny, too.

I helped set up the tripod and despite our previous friendly conversations there was something different going on, something I mistook for concentration and poetic license. He looked down into his camera and when he lifted his head back up, he had the gaze of a dog licking his lips in anticipation of a treat, a German Shepard-like anticipation dripping from his clenched jaw. It suddenly occurred to me that I was in a heavily wooded area with a man with a gun. This was before the day of cell phones and my head started pounding so hard I couldn’t hear myself think. I was trying to think of what to do when I heard him over my racing heartbeat suggesting I take drop a sleeve off one of my shoulders, “for the camera.”
The therapist had an office in the upstairs bedroom of his lovely home. Decorated in multiple shades of blue throughout, extra warmth provided by a fluffy little white dog that would eventually settle down into my lap after jumping around for a bit,  it was covered by my insurance.  I forget the guy’s name, and I had little respect for him when I found out he was working on his MSW. This, to me was like finding out my brain surgeon had previously, by way of experience, removed a few splinters from a child’s hand. He was getting his MSW and here I sat, owner of my own Diagnostic Manual, a gift from a friend. When you get a DSM-IV for your birthday aren’t you entitled to at least a psychiatrist? This was how my insurance worked, so…

I didn’t feel that I needed someone to talk to concerning the string of things to which professionals like to cling.

“Oh, you were adopted? When and how did you find out? Did you ever want to find your real parents?”
My real parents were George and Bernice and I resented mental health professionals insinuating that this was where my issues might be buried. I went to this particular guy for about a year, and the house noises made by the baby and things like the dishwasher that I never got used to. As unusual as the whole scene was, it was unbelievably pedestrian compared to the college counselor who took his consignees to Happy Hour after our sessions.

I escaped without physical harm or contact from the photo session in the woods, but it came up a couple of years later. I was spacing out, massaging the dog, when a tap on the desk snapped me to attention.

“Earth to Jaye.”

He didn’t raise his voice nor did it contain any sort of intonation at all, and you could tell this wasn’t only his  counselor’s voice, that “flat” would describe his everyday demeanor. I tuned in, my glance betraying my little space-out.

“What were you thinking about just there?”

Some stupid shit I did.

“Did you want to talk about the stupid shit?”

His use of my word startled me just slightly.

I kept a poker-face but the dog betrayed me.

My brain said “no” but my lips, often out of sync with the master cylinder, kept going.

I’ll tell you something stupid I did and you will tell me I was young, anyone could have done it, it was no biggie.

“I promise not to say any of those things, let’s have it.”

So on I went about the man in a leg brace with the Agent Orange daughter and the big camera.


In college I was on a first name basis with the handful of security guards, several who surveyed the campus round the clock. Almost everyone chose the school for it’s waterfront, if not the waterfront program specifically. I didn’t exactly choose it at all so much as it chose me. They gave me a handful of money and they had a kid playing French horn on the cover of the catalog. Let that sink in, young parents…I chose my college because there was a kid playing French horn on the cover of the catalog. There were other reasons, sure, but I wanted to continue with my band activities and without further due diligence I assumed French horn kid would be there to show me around the tiny campus.

In actuality, the world-famous organ program, with one of only three (at the time) Flentrop organs in the nation and an outstanding choral program were the only music programs the college offered. The music program was outstanding but in its infancy and there was no place for my Selmer clarinet and me.

If you sat about playing guitar into the night campus security waved at you. They were a friendly sort with implementation of the original ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy firmly in place. I had a friend explain it to me this way: the city has a deal with the school-they don’t police the campus and the school doesn’t depend on them to do so; if you do call them it better be goddamned serious because a single call would likely change this lax position and the city was aching to do it. This, explained to me by my friend that escaped being sprayed by Agent Orange by being a conscience objector and serving two years in a Veteran’s hospital.

I didn’t really believe all of this about the campus police but 36 years later I’m still reading a lot about apologetic swimmers and rape culture so I guess it is true now and it was true then.

Years later while therapist shopping I would recount the experiences both on the on the yellow plastic  couch and later, with the little fluffy dog in the blue room. I reluctantly talked about leg brace man but I couldn’t remember what happened to him. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome was still reserved for military personnel but there was a suggestion that whatever ended up transpiring on that day was blocked out my memory due to trauma. I have never bought into this, but I’m pretty sure there’s some connection here: Around the same time as the Gulfport murder I stopped feeling safe sitting outdoors at various waterfront venues with my guitar. It was time to leave, but I didn’t know it yet.


The Stanford Convicted “Sexual Assault” Case…One thing you can do

In whose dictionary is rape "20 minutes of action?"

In whose dictionary is the definition of rape “20 minutes of action?”













In May of 1984, I was a young mother hanging baby’s clothes out to dry, the intense gulf coast sun finishing the job before the laundry basket was empty.  Problematic sand-spurs surrounded my feet, which did not curtail my loud wailing of Gershwin’s “Summertime.” Our neighbor, George, would sometimes offer up something from the day’s catch, and in the evenings we would push the stroller down to our little beach and watch the sun go down.

It’s impossible to avoid cliché when talking about losing our innocence after the rape/murder of Karen Gregory occurred just blocks away from our home in the serene town of Gulfport, Florida. Her name might be familiar to some of you as her case had some unusual twists and became the subject of a television series, extensive news coverage, and a book; titled by Pulitzer Prize winning author Thomas French.

My friend Beverly was a close friend of Karen’s and came to my apartment the next day to tell us the news. We sat and cried together and went to the hardware store for new locks-fifty dollar locks on our $205-a-month apartment.

Not a stranger to rape-that-makes the news (I wrote about it here) I decided to let the professionals write about the Stanford rapist, Brock Turner. I really didn’t think I had anything to add to the extensive media coverage the case has already seen. Until flashback!

Beverly was a social worker and a champion of rights ahead of her time. We were outdoors at a music festival where she operated a booth displaying her wares: silicone breasts with lumps in them (to teach about breast self-exam) and lots of literature about  contraception and self-defense.

It was Beverly on that day that taught me that rape was not about sex, but about violence.  There were ad campaigns stating just this very fact in every media outlet (before internet this meant Walter Cronkite and your mother). Women and men shared a rare united front on the topic: rape is violence against women.

Fast forward to today and how far have we come?  The (accepted) term “rape culture” in itself is problematic. There’s a blurry, underlying sort of fuzziness that seems to say “It is part of the culture. Get used to it.”

The Stanford Rapist (excuse me, the Stanford Convicted Sexual Assaulter to be legally correct), wants you  to “get used to it.”  In case you have been living under a rock, his dad even explained, in his comments to the judge:

These verdicts have broken and shattered him and our family in so many ways. His life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.

If you don’t want to “get used to it” (after all, it was “only 20 minutes of action”-if the dad talked like this did this swimmer  have a decent chance growing up?), we need to remove a judge from the bench whose judgment clouded by swimming medals. We need to return to the 80’s on this one and re-frame rape as the act of violence it is.

I like to post about adoption, kittens, my favorite self-loathing authors and the like. It seldom occurs to me to sign a petition, mostly because I never really expect it to help much. Here is your chance to be heroic. Go to Change.Org. Be Karen’s Hero. The Stanford Victim’s hero. My hero. Thank you.


In The words of Emily Littella, Never Mind.



Announcement: Comedian Vinnie Brand has no more fucks to give.

Intense, and intensely funny!

Intense, and intensely funny!

Figuring out how to get six people from four different families together for a night out on the town is no easy task. Fortunately The Stress Factory is there to lend a hand, providing the location, the drinks, the eats and the laughs.

We began when our overly efficient waiter zipped one of our beers away before we drank it. Other than that, the service was super friendly and effective, so choreographed as if it was part of the show. (They did bring a new beer). I thought of dinner as just something to line my stomach before accepting the two-drink minimum challenge, but it was actually a tasty and economical solution to the “how do we all meet up” before the show question.

We were at Vinnie’s fourth show of a five night stand. You would think he would be tired (a geezer by today’s standards) but the opposite is true, he is just hitting his peak. It helps that he no longer gives a fuck! It is a life philosophy that serves him well, and has you leaving the show not giving a fuck about whatever baggage you carried in. Politics, racism, kids today, whatever is eating at you, it is eating at Vinnie too-and he has no more fucks to give!

Vinnie worked the crowd with an especially funny “If you see something, say something” bit that killed. Part of his special comedic magic is the truth underlying most of what he points out about society. Profiling. Piercing. Race. Nothing is sacred. As you can see on the set list, he began by telling you “Don’t be offended.”

His ability to spot and select audience members that will either 1. eat out of the palm of his hand, replying in predictable ways that will give him the opportunity to advance through his plan or 2) say something so unpredictably shocking, which gives Vinnie the chance to do what he does best (winging it). People who were ‘hightlighted’ during the show were seen leaving with Stress Factory swag bags for their troubles; nothing says “I’m sorry” like a mug with someone else’s logo on it.

As a lifelong follower of Vinnie’s career (our dad’s were part of a trio of friends that snuck beers into each other’s coffins so they could enjoy them together in heaven), I had a front-row seat to watching Vinnie’s career grow like a “this is your life” episode. (Ask your grandparents). While older, tried and true material is always enjoyable, this new set is less about family and friends and more about the head scratching issues faced in society today.

A bit about tattoos provides a prime example of audience reaction. DTF (go ask your kids) was both an observation of todays tattoey peircey culture and an education on the type of slang one might see in an online dating profile. 50 percent of the crowd gasp-laughs-bellows and the rest shake their head in amused agreement.

At 54, there are a lot of things Vinnie no longer gives a fuck about. When you leave the Stress Factory after a night of laughter, you won’t give a fuck either, and that is the main point of comedy, right?