Monday, October 17, 2016

Trump Can Grab My…

This picture I saw on the Internet and felt compelled to download and try to make sense of its message.

I do not recognize this woman and I don’t know her, nor do I want to. I’m just astonished that any woman in 2016 would belittle herself in this way.

Was she wearing this apparently homemade shirt as a joke or did she really drink the Trump-Kool-Aid and become a member of The Cult of Trump? She spelled everything correctly so I would assume she knows what those words and arrow mean, right?

Does she really want Donald Trump to grab her crotch? (Notice I did not use the word p***y.)

What would she do if Donald Trump saw her in a crowd and walked up to her and grabbed her crotch? Would she feel “special” and “happy” that it was her crotch that he - the real Donald Trump – chose to grab?

Maybe she’d send him a Hallmark Thank You card along with a donation to his campaign.

This photo is no “I am woman hear me roar” proclamation. It’s more an “I am woman watch me degrade myself” proclamation. Sad. So very sad.

This photo will live forever on the Internet and she will have to someday explain this to her children and her grandchildren.

Maybe she’s proud of it and has already put a copy in her family photo album right after her baby and high school graduation photos and before her maturity photos.

Maybe she’s framed it and placed it above her bed so it’s the last thing she sees at night and the first thing she sees in the morning.

All I can hope for is that this woman eventually grows up, looks at the photo and cringes, and feels some sort of remorse for wearing the shirt and embracing such a filthy phrase.  She should be ashamed of herself.

In the meantime, she needs a shower.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

Dimes in the Payphone

Where’s my dime? I lost my dime. Help! I need to make an important phone call!

Hey mister, can you spare a dime?

For those old enough to remember, before the ever-present cellphone, there was the payphone in the phone booth. The cost per call was a mere ten cents.

Phone booths were the Starbucks of their time, on every corner, and everyone foolishly thought they’d be there forever. (Starbucks, take note.)

Without a phone booth, Colin Ferrell would never have made the movie “Phone Booth,” keeping audiences on the edge of their seats while he was trapped in a phone booth facing dire consequences, a sniper’s gun, if he hung up.

Before cellphones there was no driving and phone-talking at the same time. If you wanted to make a call, you either waited until you got home or you pulled over to the side of the road and used a payphone.

For emergency purposes, people always kept a dime or two in their pocket, or in their sock or their jock or their bra, or someplace safe where they knew it was happily snuggled until its emergency need arose.

I was always a little frightened yet drawn to payphones. At times I saw them as a living breathing bed of germs and snot and oily fingerprints and enough DNA to populate a village. But they also had their own mysterious story… what kind of conversation did the person before me have on the payphone?

I remember being in a phone booth and watching a drug addict shoot up in the adjacent phone booth. I was so entranced that I dialed the wrong number, and lost my dime. Luckily, the drug addict next to me gave me a dime.

The site of a lonely dangling phone receiver was always an omen of something terrible happening… Remember when Becky dropped the phone’s receiver after telling Roseanne and Dan she eloped with Mark and hearing Roseanne screaming from the dangling phone… scary… yet funny.

The other day I came across a payphone and it brought back the best and the worst memories:

Dirty. Gross. Germs. Fingerprints. Snot. DNA everywhere. Ooh, is that a speck of blood?

One time I got a chin infection from cradling the payphone receiver between my shoulder and chin while I wrote down driving instructions.

Another time, I walked by a ringing payphone and picked it up. The caller, a woman, started talking dirty. What did I do? I joined in and talked dirty. It was rather arousing.

Aaah… imagine a memory-tear running down my cheek as I say…

I miss the heyday era of the payphone.

Monday, October 03, 2016

A Glass of Wine... A Good Song

There’s nothing better than a glass of red wine on a moonlit night… and a song playing softly while the rest if the world’s asleep. Oh yes, a good song can sweep you away to places you only dream of or into the arms of someone you yearn for…

I would like to share with you a song I wrote with Jeroen Bos called The Freedom I See In Your Eyes.

I wrote the lyric while in a hotel room in Philadelphia. I was wrapped in a blanket in an easy chair by the window…

Hope you like it.

Here’s the lyric:

Music by Jeroen Bos, Lyrics by Michael Coscia

Do you know how I get thru the night
when you’re not here
Do you know

Do you hear my voice whispering
calling out your name
Do you hear

Wrapped up in the blanket we share
In the easy chair by the window
Oh I’m lost in love lost inside

Do you feel me like I’m feeling you
when you’re alone
Do you feel

Do you dream of us making love
when you close your eyes
Do you dream

Wrapped up in the blanket we share
In the easy chair by the window
Oh I’m lost in love lost inside

Do you know
Do you hear
Do you feel
Do you dream of me

Wrapped up in the blanket we share
In the easy chair by the window
Oh I’m lost in love lost inside

© Coscia/Bos