Inflation Report: HANG ON TO YOUR RAGS

I'm a shopaholic; it's my only vice. What's more; shopping is good for my soul. There's nothing like the excitement of waiting to get my hands on something I've ordered online. If it disappoints upon receipt, that's okay. I'll get over it. On to the next package. I don't shop online because I'm lazy but because I'm large, and because I have specific preferences in fashion according to my age and body type. I like flowing garments that smooth over my middle, not the skimpy, revealing clothes that most stores offer nowadays. Brick and mortar shops consider the sizes and styles I wear as somewhat of a "specialty", and so they usually don't carry them. The large-size garments they do have are HORRENDOUS and positively geriatric-looking. Retailers

seem to have forgotten that the millions of Americans who got older and fatter still need clothes that fit and don't make them look like museum pieces or teenybopper wannabes. So, many of us have deserted brick and mortar for the web, a place of infinite choices where you just might find what you need. Of course, there are pitfalls. You'd better watch what you click on or you might end up with something you didn't order or want. When shopping online, you have to assume that everyone's out to rip you off because, to some extent, they all are. Give your personal information only to major websites and reputable merchants and you'll diminish the chances of identity theft. In particular, sidestep Chinese websites that carry shoddy goods and too-tiny Asian sizes. Or Chinese websites that are nonexistent and out to steal your information so they can empty your bank account. You can pick out these impostors because they'll advertise fancy designer goods for sale at improbably low prices, their writing reads like translated Chinese, their graphics are weird, their links dont work and their background information is nebulous or absent. Where are they based? How can you reach them? What are their policies? If you can't tell these things from a website, don't shop there; stick with the known sellers and you'll be (mostly) okay. As for me, I have so much of everything that I can go shopping in my own closets. I don't ever have to buy anything else again, unless I'm moved to reach for my wallet by some extraordinary piece of goods. I really don't need any more clothes, jewelry or shoes. And I'm grateful for that surplus; inflation threatens to turn online shopping into one of its many casualties. The price of everything has skyrocketed. These days, before I buy anything, I ask myself: Do I really WANT it? Do I really NEED it? But more importantly, do I already have two more like it in the closet? That's my new policy of austerity, motivated by the current economic situation. I can't tell you how often I see a pair of boots, jeans, or a dress, listed online or in a catalog at $30-$100 more than I paid last year for the very same item. Womens' sweaters made of cheap synthetics --NOT cotton or wool-- are going for $70-$90 a pop. Shoes and bags made of plastic are going for what used to be leather prices. Faux fur prices have been jacked up as though fake fur is the real thing,while authentic leather and fur are now unaffordable. Worse,sellers are making it increasingly difficult to return things, hoping that you'll give up and take the loss and let them keep your money. So I'm hanging on to my rags, and I recommend you do the same.And if I ever feel the overwhelming urge to shop, I'll just find some teeny-tiny item at a discount, buy it, and hope that it holds off my shopping addiction, at least for a while.

Like Choking on Cotton Balls

I used to work for a senior editor whose appearance reminded me of a rabbit: whitish hair, pale skin, lashless eyes, thin lips, blank stare. Her managing style was equally bland, but very precise, and in her sweet, muted way, she admitted no deviation from her editorial mandates--no flash, no passion, no fancy flights of style in the magazine pages we produced. I did learn many useful writing and editing techniques from her, but keeping in lockstep with such creative absolutism exacted a spiritual price.

It was, a coworker once grumbled, like "choking on cotton balls". That is sort of how I would describe what's happening today, as far as the propaganda being cranked out by the Old Guard press and politicians in the mainstream Democratic apparatus and aimed at what they hope is an otherwise uninformed public. They want the rest of us to choke on

cotton balls. The faked sweetness of their message conceals barbs of treason. They're saying: Let's all, Republicans and Democrats, unite for the good of our country. Let's turn our backs on the Left Wing "extremism" and "identity politics" that only exacerbate divisions. Let's, maybe, shift politically more to the center and accommodate conservatives a little more. And above all, let's donate to the Democratic Party. Give us your money and we'll achieve great things for you, we promise. And we will all be happier.

. These are all deliberate lies. What they're really hoping is to consolidate their own grip, trying to head off any shifts to the Left

caused by discontent in their constituencies. It's not only that they don't want to get off their asses and work honestly for the liberal values they are supposed to represent. It's worse. It's more like, they don't want us to push for our rights because our rights are in direct opposition to the objectives of mainstream Democrats and their Big Donors-- staying rich and in charge. So these Democrats will not admit they're putting up a veritable wall of cloying bullshit misinformation, like a dense barrier of cotton balls, to blind and seduce the public. That's why Old Guard Democrats won't admit there can be no partnering with Republicans intent on cannibalizing the whole system, that edging out Left Wing "extremism" equals trying to eliminate free expression and alternative viewpoints within the Democratic Party, that there's no sense in donating to a Party who ignores the electorate and won't give it a voice in return for its funds, that any references to "identity politics" as the Party's possible downfall are really a dog whistle against Democrats who are not white or straight, and that "shifting politically to the center" really means shifting politically to the RIGHT (which they've been doing in increments, starting with Bill Clinton, followed by Obama, now with Biden as the latest installment. Kamala Harris? Sorry, from here she smells like more of the same: a corporate Democrat masquerading as a progressive to gain votes.) Yes, times have changed since presidents like FDR and LBJ championed a more liberal social climate in the United States. But times haven't changed that much as far as our ongoing need for justice in civil rights, in the economy and in preservation of the environment. My suggestion? If you want an honest appraisal of the current situation, don't listen to Old Guard Democrats and their media cronies; start tuning in to any of the kickass leftie podcasters on YouTube. Oh, and join the Working Families Party.

Oh. Well.

We Cubans say that "Más vale caer en gracia que ser gracioso" (It's worth more to be liked than to be likeable). That must certainly be true of Donald Trump, a brazen, dangerous, repulsive "fantoche" (charlatan) who inexplicably enjoys substantial popular support. It just won him a presidential reelection in the United States. And it was no glitch, this heinous creature won comfortably-- the popular AND the electoral vote. But why? How? You could wave it off as

simply the result of a backlash from all the white, uneducated redneck bigots in our middle and southern states. But then, what about all the Latinos who voted for Trump? Gone now is the assumption that US Hispanics are knee-jerk liberal champions for the downtrodden by virtue of being downtrodden ourselves. In truth, we don't see things that way, and I recently began to suspect as much. I had been chatting with cab drivers and other NYC working class Latinos before the elections and listening to their complaints about a bad economy and about Latino newcomers as criminal liabilities who profit unfairly from public largesse (while more established Latino immigrants struggle to survive). When I was a journalist, I learned that if you hear the same opinion from two or three random individuals, then that's what La Calle ("The Street") is generally saying. It's public opinion. Too bad Democrats haven't been listening and so Latino voters--by 54%-- switched to the GOP during this election. Didn't seem to bother us that Trump has stated Latinos are rapists and criminals who are bringing the country down and polluting its bloodstream and cultural heritage. We (mistakenly) believe he is talking about those OTHER latinos, not us, not the ones whose kids were born here, who work and pay taxes. Unfortunately, Trump is a racist who imperils all of our destinies, and we need to face it. Years ago, when I first travelled out West, I met Mexicans who cautioned me to always carry my legal documents and watch out for La Migra (US Immigration) checkpoints along the roads. Otherwise, I might get sent back to Mexico, never mind that I'm Cuban. Being also from New York, I was bewildered; such atrocities were unheard of back East. Now the threat is ubiquitous. I'm already hearing fearful whispers about the possibility of naturalized US citizens being deported to strange countries,right along with the illegals. Alas, we all look the same to our would-be deporters. But we are not all illegals, nor do we want a tsunami of newcomers washing over urban areas and competing for our jobs and educational slots, driving up crime rates and giving the rest of us a bad name, depleting resources with the money WE pay into the public coffers. Why should those misgivings surprise anyone? And why should other minorities criticize us? When it came to choosing a president in 2024, many black males refused to vote for a black female. Machismo is in their DNA. It's in ours, in fact. You can't deny that Latinos of both genders love Trump's macho swagger. It has the feel of protective reassurance, or at least its promise. It's familiar. It conforms to the old caudillo (chieftain) notions of leadership; to Latinos, Trump is the much-needed "strong man" who will restore order to the mess that Democrats left behind, Latinos seem to have forgotten the harm a succession of "strong" men did to their own countries and they don't appear cognizant of the ominous fascist outlines of Trump's intended policies. But we're not the only group who ever favored personality cults over rational politics and Latino political discontent is obviously not the sole catalyst behind the virulent resurrection of Trumpism. The unvarnished truth may be that most Americans are stupid and lazy, that most don't analyze or even pay attention to the news,that most would rather facilitate a takeover of fascism than, say,fork out $1 more for a dozen eggs or a gallon of milk. Or maybe we're just looking at things the wrong way. Perhaps we are voting Republican not out of some newly developed affinity for rightwing ideology, but because we have noplace else to go. The Democratic Party Leadership has been bought out by large money interests. The Democratic Party has been consolidating its power not by fighting conservatives, but by muting progressives. The Democratic Party has been paying lip service to liberal causes while supporting the runaway capitalism status quo. The Democratic Party is now a Caucasian gerontocracy of the affluent who uses younger, colored puppets such as New York Representatives Hakeem Jeffries and Richie Torres as fronts to blame the "Far Left" for their woes. This infuriates me; the only thing about it that brings schadenfreude to my soul is how divided the old troupers really are. While Kamala Harris shakes her fist at the fates that brought her electoral ignominy, Joe Biden appears positively joyful that she lost. His tacit message is "See? I could have WON, COCKSUCKERS, but you made me step aside!" (Which is exactly what he said when the party nominated Hilary Clinton over him in 2016. And lost. No wonder Old Joe appears to hate women, too.) Now he's announced "plans" to finish out his incumbency by mulling happily over his achievements. And yes, there WERE some-- largely tentative, watered-down half-measures, overshadowed by all the catastrophes that would accumulate in the end. We should have suspected as much at the beginning, when he fucked up the American withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, causing chaos and deaths among civilians and troops alike. We couldn't know this was just the start of a stream of failed domestic and foreign initiatives, of weak excuses for not getting things done, of not standing up to enemies and not supporting friends. So WHAT has been Biden's "legacy"? Runaway inflation? A lousy job market? Wholesale genocide in the Middle East? A nonexistent immigration policy? Failure to prosecute criminal insurrectionists? The lies intended to cover up all these disasters? Let's just say that his legacy is all-inclusive; he's become emblematic of everything wrong with the Democrats today. So folks, stick a fork in the Democratic Party; it's done. Let's all of the like-minded band together and create other avenues of thought and action. And let's hope that the rest of the country wakes up after one or two years of Trump.

Halloween a la criolla: un cuento cubano

Antes de que nos mudáramos a Estados Unidos, mis padres intentaron establecer la tradición de Halloween en nuestro barrio habanero. Recuerdo que nos llevaron en grupo de niños a tocar puertas y pedir golosinas, y había que explicar a los confundidos vecinos de qué se trataba. Entonces, nos daban barras de dulce de guayaba y puñados de kilos (centavos) prietos. Recuerdo que por aquel entonces, alguien compuso una guaracha dedicada a Halloween. Ya comenzaba la fecha (10/31) a figurar en el Calendario Nacional de Parrandas Oficiales (invento mío), cuando llegó la Revolución y acabó con todo lo que oliera a propaganda Yanqui. Eliminaron Halloween, pero nos dejaron a los fantasmas-- siempre que fueran fantasmas CUBANOS, claro, o al menos importados de Latinoamérica. Nada de Jinetes Sin Cabeza en el Valle Hudson. No sé por qué en Cuba, tantos cuentos de fantasmas--al menos, los que conozco--tienen lugar en el campo. Difícil comprender como esos paisajes soleados y verdes, bordados de lomas y palmeras, esos cielos tan azules, pudieran inspirar temor a nadie-- y es que de noche, el ambiente cambia y se vuelve más bien tétrico. ¿Será la falta de luz eléctrica? El caso es que nadie quiere que le agarre la noche dando tumbos en la oscuridad de los bosques y quizàs toparse con el fantasma cuyos chiflidos presagian muerte,o con la que llora a gritos por los hijos que mató, o con La Luz de Yara, alma en pena del Cacique Hatuey que flota por los campos de Guantànamo. Nadie quiere anochecer atravesando a caballo una llanura donde la luna lo perfila todo en plateado y negro y no se escucha màs que el silbido lúgubre del sijú (buho nativo). Nunca me encontré en semejantes circunstancias; mi familia sólo salía de la Habana para visitar a mis abuelos maternos en la provincia contigua de Pinar del Río. Entre las promesas que mi padre no cumplió fue la de llevarnos algún día de paseo por toda Cuba --partimos para Miami antes de que eso pudiera ocurrir. Debí conformarme con las historias que mi hermano mayor traía de sus excursiones escolares a las provincias, cuando los estudiantes acampaban en centrales (haciendas azucareras) abandonados. Mi hermano tejía cuentos de murciélagos revoloteando entre los tinajones,cuentos de campanas que tañían a media noche en ausencia de un ser humano que las hiciera sonar, cuentos de sombras extrañas en la oscuridad. Pero el cuento campestre que más me impresionó fue uno que hacía mi padre, de cuando aún era soltero y visitaba la finca de unos amigos. Alguna noche calurosa salieron a cabalgar en grupo, a modo de paseo y para tomar el fresco. Ya se habían alejado de la casa por varias millas cuando a lo lejos divisaron un bohío (vivienda campesina) todo iluminado y hacia allá los impulsó la curiosidad. A medida que se acercaban, podían escuchar los acordes de un guateque (fiesta campesina) en progreso. No anunciaron su llegada para no interrumpir la fiesta; más bien, se limitaron a mirar por las ventanas. Era una boda. Adentro, músicos con maracas, guitarra y un tres (guitarra de tres cuerdas dobles) animaban el ambiente. Los hombres lucían guayaberas blancas; las mujeres, vestidos de algodón a colorines. Todos bailaban. "Las guajiras sin compañero bailaban con otras guajiras", contaba mi padre, a quien por algún motivo le hizo mucha gracia ese detalle. Al centro de la estancia se veía una mesa larga, cargada de manjares típicos: yuca con mojo, tostones, arroz congrí --y un enorme lechón (puerco) que sin duda habían asado al aire libre por el día. Se acercaba la media noche y tras debatir si entrar a la fiesta,o no, el grupo de jinetes optó por marcharse. Al día siguiente contaron su aventura al dueño de la finca, quien pareció sorprenderse y les informó que por allí no había otra vivienda en millas a la redonda-- y que el bonío en cuestión estaba abandonado desde hacía muchos años ya. Incrédulos, reiteraron lo que habían visto, y el hombre ofreció acompañarlos al mismo lugar, para demostrar que era él quien tenía razón. Todos se encaminaron, ahora de día, hacia el bohío en controversia. Al llegar, vieron, no la alegre vivienda de la noche anterior, sino una casucha despintada, con puertas y ventanas tapiadas por tablas de madera. Un bohío abandonado por largo tiempo, al parecer. Para mí lo extraordinario de este cuento es que lo narraba mi padre, un hombre serio e incapaz de recurrir a la charlatanería para entretener a nadie. Y que lo hacía en una voz normal y serena, cual si estuviera describiendo un día de lluvia, y no una noche de fantasmas.

The U.S., Arabs, and 9/11: General Sherman Remembered

As I write this, Israel, with help from the US, is waging war on Arabs, and Arabs are retaliating. And some of us who remember the bad old times are waiting for the other shoe to drop--how will we have to pay for THIS? Years ago, shortly after Arabic terrorists crashed two jet airplanes into the twin towers in lower Manhattan, I happened upon a collection of New York Times Magazine essays about the tragedy. The authors all sounded quite shaken by the rawness, newness, and atrociousness of the thing. Their horrified voices reminded me of a poem my grandfather taught me: "Vinieron los Sarracenos, y nos molieron a palos, que Dios está con los malos, cuando son más que los buenos." It was about how Arabs expelled Visigoths from Spain in 711 by grinding them to a pulp, because "God is with the bad guys when they outnumber the good". Although its authorship is in question, some scholars say Visigoth King Roderick wrote it. The New York Times essays had that same plaintive tone, same theme of Arabs grinding good guys to a pulp. But one particular essay stood out to me. It was by a Southerner, or maybe a longtime transplant to the South, comparing 9/11-- not to the conquest of early Spain by the Moors--but to one particularly egregious episode of the American Civil War: Sherman's March to the Sea. In different parts of the United States, people feel differently about what matters. Maybe that's why 23 years later, I've been unable to retrieve the author's name from the annals of New York Times history online. Has he been forgotten? Maybe. This writer was a Southerner spinning a tale of regional angst-- so do New York Times readers really care, 23 years later? I'm probably one of the few who does. Because I'd spent considerable amounts of time down South--specifically, Georgia--visiting relatives, bunking with them--and absorbing local perceptions of Southern culture and history. Salient in their thinking was that Northern Army General William Tecumseh Sherman Lives On (and On, and On), well over 100 years after his violent conquest of Georgia during the American Civil War. And that in their eyes, he was still a villain of the first order. It's true that Atlanta has changed in the two decades since I read that NY Times essay. The city is now 47% Black, and Blacks don't talk about Sherman. He didn't burn down THEIR property because,as you'll recall, they had none back then. But the 43% of whites who huddle in nearby commuter towns and in the leafy neighborhoods that ring downtown Atlanta are still talking about what happened to their forebears. Then there's the rest of Georgia, where Whites outnumber blacks by nearly 20%, and those Whites will remind you that in 1864, Sherman cut a 60-mile wide swath of death and destruction, from Atlanta in Northern Georgia, to Savannah, 285 miles South, by the Atlantic Ocean. Sherman's infamous March to the Sea lasted a month; his goal, to demoralize and eliminate any support for Southern Armies opposing him in the region. Which he did. Southern property was destroyed and white civilians butchered or abused along the way. Southern tombs were desecrated at the end of the road, in Savannah. The North won the war and President Abraham Lincoln won reelection. Revisionist historians now try to whitewash the sheer brutality of Sherman's March to the Sea by calling it "cruel but necessary." White Southerners, however,continue to see Sherman through the collective memory of their victimized ancestors. People still talk about which towns were razed or left standing, whose great-great granddaddy's barn got burned to the ground, which mansions were totaled and which merely raided by Northern invaders.Then there's the (unverified) assertion that even now, 160 years later, you can see physical traces of the catastrophe from the air. And way above that, above the folk tales of woe, above the smoldering embers of incinerated "legacies", the lament still floats: "why did this happen to us?" Southerners seldom mention that between 17,000 and 25,000 enslaved blacks were freed by Sherman during the March to the Sea. Southerners may want to forget that they held slaves, that they habitually owned, bought, sold, mistreated and even killed, other human beings,that they kept them dispossesed and in abject ignorance. They may want to forget, but others remember. What's more, my New York Times writer suggests that the Advent of Sherman was some sort of biblical vengeance wrought upon Southerners by a God outraged by slavery--and by the blind arrogance of those who still don't understand what their people did to "deserve" the March to the Sea. And here's where my essay writer's comparison to 9/11 comes in. He writes that Americans wring their hands and search for karmic justification to September 11, 2001, when Arabic terrorists crashed four planes into American soil, killing thousands of innocent civilians in Pennsylvania, New York, and Washington DC. We lament: "Why us? Must be because those Arabs hate our freedom and our Democracy". Yet grieving patriots seldom acknowledge how the US has traditionally interfered with Arabic countries stealing their resources, manipulating their governments, battling their religion, supporting their enemies. Does any of that ring a bell? Antebellum Southerners were enslavers of black people; modern Americans have shared in the attempted colonization of brown people.Thus, 9/11 and the March to the Sea could be interpreted as forms of karmic payback. Of course, that would justify neither. One kind of barbarism doesn't absolve another; all who suffered and died during both 9/11 and the March to the Sea are at least worthy of compassion-- no matter what they, their ancestors or their relatives may have done. The point is not to assign blame, but to try to see the nature of a tragedy, its sources, its whys and wherefores,so we may be better equipped to countenance despair and temper it with understanding.

Cognitive Dissonance

This is NOT a pro-Trump MAGA diatribe. Far from it. Trump and most Republicans, with their fascist politics and shameful grandstanding, aren't even an option for sane voters in the USA Presidential Elections in November 2024. We won't discuss them here because they're beyond the pale, beyond the realm of possibility for functional governance. Trouble is, Democrats aren't too far behind. They'll tell you something but you'll be seeing something else. Is the Democratic Party trying to gaslight you for your vote? You know that things aren't as great as Biden claims when large corporations are doing massive layoffs. And nobody, least of all the corporate Democrats who are now running things, objects to this. After all, that's the way of capitalism: a downsized corporation becomes more profitable, the stock price goes up, stockholders get happier, richer, fatter. But Wall Street and Main Street are not the same thing, stockholders are a comparatively small elite. What about the many wretches who lost their jobs in the downsize? Where do they go? Where's the wide open labor market Democrats keep extolling? Where are the many jobs that the economy has supposedly added? Whatever jobs ARE available--do they offer decent pay and benefits? Nope. But nobody will tell you that, nobody will admit that steady employment is fast being replaced by minimum wage gigs or three-month contracts with temp agencies. And that even

those minimum wage gigs are hard to come by; I invite you to apply for a job online. If you seek a position walking dogs, you'll have to compete with 150 other applicants for the privilege of scraping dog shit off the sidewalk. You'll soon discover that major employers want college degrees from schleps who will be required to stack shelves or bag groceries. Worse, you'll need two of these lousy jobs because the pay won't go very far, now that prices are soaring. That's another example of cognitive dissonance: if as Democrats claim, inflation is abating, why are we always broke? There's evidence of this kind of doubletalk and deception everywhere. If the US is the "good guy" in foreign policy issues, why are we contributing to the genocide of millions of Palestinians? Or why has Biden been ignoring the mess at our Southern border? Or the disruptions provoked by masses of immigrants streaming into our cities unsupervised, unfunded, unvetted? These people are draining our resources and making our streets more dangerous, while Biden just lets the problem build up and Progressive Democrats advocate for leniency at the border. None of this represents our opinions or serves our needs as USA Latino voters: We don't want our lives overrun by these strangers, we need border control and financial aid to our cities, but nobody is listening to us. Because Biden wants to ignore the true nature of his base: it is largely composed of brown people-- Latinos, Arabs-- and educated white kids. And let's not forget the black voters who revived his anemic bid for the Democratic primary in 2020. Unfortunately, Biden craves voters who are white old men like him, but those are already taken. Trump has got them, and they ain't going nowhere, as far as anyone can tell, though this doesn't seem to discourage Biden. It will take more than that bit of reality to dent his determination to remain on the throne. Biden, you see, is a guy who feels outdone by the young black upstart who managed to get to the presidency before he did, a geezer who just wants to be President once more before he drops dead, and fuck everything else. Despite his folksy charm, his famous gift for compassion born from personal suffering, he strikes me as an arrogant old coot. Efforts to make him look warm and cuddly fall flat, licking ice cream during photo ops won't make him a nicer person; his nasty nature slips out when he interacts with rank-and-file journalists. Biden has managed to squelch all divergence of opinion within his party to make himself the only choice for the presidency in 2024. Additionally, it's not customary or easy to primary an incumbent, and a progressive third party candidate might split the vote in favor of the GOP. What to do? Biden is IT and he plays on this, because he knows that Trump shouldn't even be an option with non-crazy voters. So I guess we will have to vote in Uncle Joe, the lesser evil, while refusing to believe his bullshit and working to force a more righteous conscience onto his second term.

My Date with a Girl: A Valentine’s Day Tale

I divorced twice, back in the days when nice little Latinas didn't move out on their parents unless they were safely married. To do otherwise was disreputable, so I married both times to get away from my parents--specifically, my mother, a creature straight out of Joan Crawford's meanest maternal exploits (Read "Mami, dearest", April 2021). So, I never really enjoyed one of those idyllic, Hallmark relationships of mutual adoration so celebrated in song and poetry. I've had the dubious privilege of having my heart broken, of feeling that sort of temporaty insanity that typically washes over the lovestruck, and that has to be enough for me. Because mostly, I've loved men who didn't love me back and vice versa. I suspect that many other women are in the same boat though they would never confess it, because all these years after "spinster" became an outdated term to describe a single lady, it's still shameful for a woman not to be someone's object of desire. Like it or not, a woman's value is still largely measured by whether some man wants her, so we tend to choose loveless liaisons rather than being alone. I've seen gorgeous, accomplished women marry wretches just so they can be married. It's been said that if you can't get what you like, you better like what you can get, but I say it's more dignified to be alone than to hook up with some freak. Yes, it's always possible for just about anyone to scrape the bottom of the barrel and come up with some reject to marry. (And if calling undesirable men "wretches", "rejects" and "freaks" seems cruel, remember how cruel men can be when discussing females among themselves). I'm reminded of the stories about women sitting outside prison gates, waiting to take home newly-freed strangers. Likewise, if I wanted a partner badly enough, I could head over to Manhattan's Roosevelt Hotel and pick out a new arrival from the stream of indigents crossing the border. Or I could pair off with my adoring roommate, a dwarf with a yarmulka and a leer. Or with one of the psychos who board at the local hospital (I once had a suitor like that). Or I could try to steal my ugly neighbor's handsome artist boyfriend (he's willing)--and support him, like she gladly does. But I'd rather hold out for someone who doesn't look like Quasimodo, is in reasonable mental and physical health, unattached, straight, respectful and solvent. Age is no problem--I don't mind younger guys and they don't seem to mind me (the love of my life is 18 years younger). And anyway, I'm approaching the time when men my age or older start dropping like flies. My requirements may seem like a low bar for older single women, but they're really a tall order in today's seller's market of mature dudes, also pursued by younger women looking for sugar daddies. So I'm still waiting for my prince. Point being, anyone can get a guy if she's willing to pay any

price. Even knowing this, Valentine's Day is still my most hated holiday besides New Year's Eve (which I call "Compulsory Be Happy Night"). Valentine's still depresses me, making me feel like a loser, as though I'm missing out on something vital, as though I've been excluded from some important club. On this note, I have to wonder why merchants never bothered to expand the concept of Valentine's Day beyond sexual love into all kinds of affection, say, love for your siblings, or your favorite old teacher, or the unfortunates you help when you do volunteer work. That would be more lucrative for the economy and more pallatable for people who are not coupled off. But back to me. I have found a way around my anemic romantic history, I may not have the memory of a great forever love to my credit, but I do have the memory of some single, magical evenings with wonderful people I never saw again. By "people", I mean men, of course. A friend once said that becoming a lesbian is like "giving up". Anyway, I'm not attracted to women and have never been with one, which is what makes this next Valentine's Day Tale so weird. It was a Friday or Saturday evening, and I was drinking alone in a semi-seedy bar accross from the Roosevelt Island Tramway station on 2nd Avenue. Two stools away from me was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, with straight, shoulder length black hair and a navy blue business suit. Her voice was low and smooth, her demeanor poised and intense-- I don't remember her smiling once during the whole evening. And I don't remember what we talked about, but at some point, she said something along the lines of "let's get out of here", and I accepted. We drove to Greenwich Village, to a little blues club much in vogue at the time. We sat at the bar and she slid her arm accross the back of my seat, without touching me. She was paying for everything and I let her. I realized that she had adopted the role of the man, though there was nothing masculine about her. It was more like like play-acting; I don't think she was gay, and there were no sexual overtones to her attitude. She was just being a gentleman and I felt strangely comfortable with that. Eventually, my mystery woman drove us back to the place where we had first met; our goodbyes were brief and curt, no mention was made of ever meeting again. But if she had proposed it, to this day I really don't know what I would have said.