Fountain of Money

43 years ago today we started production on the groundbreaking television show Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. I played Heather, Mary’s angsty tween-aged daughter – a role that forever changed my life in many wonderful and tragic ways.

I was incredibly fortunate to be on a cult hit with whip-smart, hilarious actors who expected me to work as hard as they did. I was beyond lucky to have an extraordinary tutor who actually educated me and broadened my intellectual horizons, while protecting me to the best of her abilities. There were many adults in the crew who allowed me moments of pure childhood fun on a super-adult show whose mission was to violate the entire Code of Practices for Television Broadcasters.

Even with all of these well-meaning adults looking out for me, my parents exploited me, as is the case with SO MANY child performers.



Imaginings 2

I was the face of ‘Lively Lines’ – it was part of Mattel’s first art-educational toy line, called Imaginings.


In 1975 I was an 11-year-old Fountain of Money, and my parents had been stealing my paychecks since I was 3. I had done so much work that I was able to get my Screen Actor’s Guild union card when I was 5, and my AFTRA card at age 7. In 8 years I’d done nearly 60 commercials and a few television feature spots. I’d booked dozens of print jobs and voice over gigs, I was on a candy bar wrapper, and I was the face of a Mattel toy – not a very popular toy, but, still…

I came to be part of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman at the last possible minute before production got underway. I went on the interview Wednesday November 5th after school. I got the call back and was offered the job on the evening of Thursday the 6th. On the morning of Friday the 7th I was sitting dazedly at the first table read on the lot at KTLA, on Sunset Blvd.

In 43 hours my life had turned on a dime.


Origninal Cast Call & Photo Shoot

Our first Call Sheet


Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman was the brainchild of television legend Norman Lear. Presented as a soap opera, MH2 was Lear’s grand statement on American Consumerism, and how marketing isolates us by targeting our fear of inadequacy. It was his poke in the eye to conventions, censors, and Pearl Clutchers.

In 2 seasons we shot 325 episodes of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. It was a half-hour show that aired 5 days a week, and had a cult following that goes on to this day. When Louise Lasser left the show left we continued on for one more season, filming another 130 episodes under the name Forever Fernwood – the name of the fictional town where the series took place. In total we filmed 455 episodes in 28 months.

MH2 was the first television show that proved you didn’t need a network to succeed or a laugh-track to be funny. It challenged sexism, racism and prevailing morals. It also introduced multiple positive LGBTQ characters to television at a time when Harvey Milk had not yet been elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. It is not overstating to call MH2 and unprecedented and revolutionary television show.

The list of exceptional performers who appeared on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and Forever Fernwood is a who’s who of funny and talented people from the 1970s: Louise Lasser, Mary Kay Place, Martin Mull, Fred Willard, Dabney Coleman, Doris Roberts, Dody Goodman, Graham Jarvis, Greg Mullavey, Salome Jens, Ed Begley, Jr., Howard Hessman, Shelly Fabres, Shelley Berman, Richard Hatch, Tab Hunter, Sparky Marcus, Marian Mercer, Gloria Dehaven, Orson Bean, David Suskind, Gore Vidal – just to name a few. It was just that cool at the height of its popularity that a cameo or a brief story arc was sought after by the biggest names in the business.

At one point Steven Ford, President Gerald Ford’s son, wanted to just come to visit Stage 5 to watch us film. Everyone was atwitter about such an important visit, until we found out not enough of the cast or crew could pass an FBI background check to allow Ford to visit the set for even one day.


Mary Hartman 1


The only reason I ended up in such rarefied air on the set of MH2 was because my mom had blown up at my agent, Iris Burton, for not getting me any good interviews.

Mind you: I had just landed five commercials in six months – including a Nestle’s $100,00 Bar spot that was a gusher of residuals (and would be for the next 6 years). But my mother demanded more from my agent.  She wanted better interviews and she demanded more readings for movies and television series. There were shouted threats of moving the fountain-of-money-that-I-was to different representation.

A few days after their angry conversation I got the interview for Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman – and it was nothing less than a grudge interview. My agent had submitted me for the role of a 13-year-old who was overweight and busty, a frizzy haired girl with bad skin. I was 11, skinny as a rail, with no figure at all. I had long braids and glasses and silky smooth skin. Iris had secured an interview for a role I was simply unsuited for as a way to show my mother not to question her judgment.

Two grown women were using pre-pubescent me as the badminton birdie of their avarice and rage.


$100,000 Bar


The interview for Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman was not-quite a Cattle Call, but there were dozens of young women ahead of me – not a one of whom looked like me. I was given a ‘side’ to study after I signed in, and glanced at it. (A side is a mini-scene for audition purposes, usually 2 or 3 pages long. These days it can also refer to the pages of a movie script that will be shot on any given day.) This side was a piece where the mother (Mary) is trying to talk to an unwilling daughter (Heather) about sex, and the daughter manipulates her mother by redirecting the conversation to make it seem like she doesn’t even understand what sex is, which relieves the clueless mother to no end.

I completely understood the piece the first time I looked at it. I got the joke.

Unfortunately there was a long wait, and my mother was determined to coach me death, as she did with every audition. She would drill me again and again on how I should say my lines and move my hands, and I every time I went through that door to an audition I ignored all of her terrible advice and did it my way.

There was nothing special at all about this interview, it was just another long afternoon with my mother, and I had no idea how it was going to change my life. It was simply one more of the fifteen or twenty auditions I went on every month. My time was never my own – it was more an all-consuming continuum of school, cars, auditions and work.

When I was finally called in to the interview, after at least an hour’s wait, I turned ‘on’ like a light switch. I was a pro. I knew how to look the casting director in the eye as I was crossing the room and saying hello with a smile and a slight nod, and to keep eye contact as I handed my litho forward, right-side-up with my name at the bottom. I had literally done this 1,000 times before.




The casting director introduced herself as Jane, and the Director as Joan. There were other people to whom I was not introduced, and who watched silently as I read the scene with Joan. Joan nodded when we got to the end of the scene, and asked me to do it again – this time miming the orange juice I was supposed to be getting out of the refrigerator. We did the scene a second time, and I a saw the a ghost of a smile from Joan.

Jane asked if I had any other auditions that afternoon, or if I could stay to watch the two pilot episodes of the show. Hearing that I was free the rest of the afternoon, Jane sent me to get my mother from the waiting room. Mary Margaret Lamb took a long moment to fold her knitting project and stow it in her bag before doing a positively graceless ‘My Kid Is Better Than Yours’ sashay through a sea of angry parents and dejected children.

We were led to a cold office, and we sat on a couch looking up at a monitor on a large metal rolling stand. The screen flickered to life and the episode began as a nearly sepia-toned video of kick-knacks on a table came into focus, and with it the swelling of over-dramatic music saturated with high-pitched violins. Out of nowhere a voice that could cut glass screeches, “Mary Hartman! Mary Hartman!!” so shrilly and gratingly I physically winced. Then came a gush of overwrought music heavy on the strings, parodying the soundtrack of really bad soap operas.

It is a distinctive open. Oh, so distinctive. I was tormented in High School with people shrieking it at me as I passed them in the hall. I’ve had grown-ups shout it in my face at parties as if I’ve never heard it before. I’ll bet you I’ve heard, “Mary Hartman! Mary Hartman!!” ten thousand times if I’ve heard it once.

Torture yourself, if you’ve never heard it.


Mary Hartman Opening



As I watched the pilots I clearly remember thinking, “This is weird.” My mother didn’t know what to make of it, either. The lack of a laugh track threw her off, and I remember her saying later she didn’t know if she was supposed to be laughing at things or not – especially the inappropriate subjects.

It was late when I read for the folks in the room a third time, and they thanked me as I left, asking if I had any bookings in the next week. We drove home in the dark, and – exhausted – I didn’t get my homework done again.

The next day after school I was crying in my bedroom, sitting on my bed unsuccessfully trying to figure out what my algebra book was saying. It had been a bad day. 10-Week Grades had come out and my algebra marks were poor from never having time to do my homework. I was struggling mightily in math and had gotten a D, and my mother’s answer was to verbally and physically abuse me. I was grounded (as if I ever had time to go anywhere), and sent to my room to magically figure out integers and angles I couldn’t decipher before.

Suddenly, my mother burst into my room without knocking, making the door crash against the wall. Privacy didn’t exist in my home as a child – and at that point I was not allowed to even fully close my door, lest my mother not be able to keep an eye on me at all times – and crashing doors usually meant more verbal abuse or hitting. I cringed, throwing my hands up around my head to protect myself from the expected blows. Instead of being wild eyed mad, she was wild eyed excited. She didn’t get angry at me for protecting my head like she usually did, and ignoring my cowering she said manically, “Get dressed! You’re late for a callback! They want to see you back from yesterday, but they forgot to call Iris to set it up. Hurry!! We should have been there at 5 pm. Where are your clothes?”

She was no longer hurling invectives at me, saying how stupid and worthless I was. She seemed to have forgotten the blows she had delivered to my head and back just minutes before, and was eagerly telling me to get ready.

My clothes from the interview the day before had been stuffed into the red laundry bag my mother had crocheted, and they were wrinkled. Frantically she snatched them from my hands and threw them in the drier to tumble out the wrinkles. She brushed and braided my hair, while having me hold a cold washcloth to my face to erase the swelling and redness from my sobbing.

“C’mon – you’re not really going to go in there looking like that!” she admonished, catching my eye in the giant round mirror above her sink, “Where’s your apple pie smile? Smile like you mean it – smile with your EYES!!” she encouraged/threatened me, as she pulled my braid too tight.

She was so focused on getting me to look exactly as I had the day before that she didn’t run a comb through her own hair, and she rushed out the door without changing out of her dirty black slacks and grubby sweater. For a woman so defined by façades my mother’s slovenly appearance that evening when she first met Norman Lear and Louise Lasser would torment her for the rest of her days.

Before I knew it we were out in the middle of rush hour traffic, heading over the hill on the Hollywood Freeway. It would take at least an hour to get there, and I was trapped in the car with a woman who was vibrating from excitement, drilling me over and over on how to do the scene her way.

Such was the Emotional Roller Coaster of my youth: Half an hour before she was screaming at me and hitting me about a bad math grade that might keep me from renewing the all-important California Work Permit, and now I was running lines her way and being told not to blow it because this could be The Big Break.

But beyond all that detritus and noise, there was euphoria about getting a callback for a Norman Lear series.






When we finally arrived we were waved on to the lot to park and I was rushed into Norman Lear’s office where he, Louise Lasser, Director Joan Darling, producer Al Burton, and writer Gail Parent were waiting. I made eye contact and gave them my apple pie smile, pretending my head didn’t hurt where my mother had been punching it 90 minutes ago.

I read the same side as I’d read the day before, only this time instead of reading with the Director I was reading it with Louise Lasser. Suddenly the scene was done, and they told me ‘Thank you, you can go’.

Thank you, you can go? But – we’d only read it once. How could it be ‘Thank you, you can go’?!

In less than 5 minutes I was in and out, and I found myself heading toward the elevator in dismayed shock, not understanding how I had failed so completely and astoundingly fast when it felt like a good read. I knew it was going to be a long, ugly ride home.

We were getting on the elevator in silence when Al Burton called my name down the hall. I heard the smile in his voice and I knew I had the job. My heart hit my feet as I stuck my hand out to stop the heavy elevator doors.

Al caught up to us and said they all really liked the way I read the part, and then he asked if I wanted to join the cast. “The job yours if you want it,” he said, smiling and looking me in the eyes like I mattered.

I remember gasping and jumping up and down. I remember saying, “Yes!!” and bear hugging Al, and then hugging my mom as she beamed and rocked me back and forth in that elevator.

I remember being happy – happy in a way you can only be when you’re too young to be wary and you don’t have the adult filter that stops you from showing what you really feel. In that moment I was validated for all the times I wasn’t chosen, and I felt special because this time I was the best. I was going to be on a Norman Lear TV show – and it felt like winning.

I don’t think that there was ever a time in my life that my mother was more proud of me than that evening in the hallway outside of Norman Lear’s office.


Mary Hartman Letterhead 2


Being cast on MH2 changed my life completely. One day I was attending Junior High school in the most polluted part of the San Fernando Valley, and the next I was sitting at a long table in a conference room at KTLA, meeting my cast mates and production people. We were given our scripts for episodes 3, 4 and 5 and did the first, last, and only table read we ever did for the show. There was never time after that initial day for the luxury of such a thing.

There was a lady there who took care of timing out the scenes and continuity named Susan Harris who had the patience of Job with me. I was absolutely fascinated by the cigar box full of gum and mints (Wow! Tic Tacs!) that she kept with her at all times. I must have looked like a chipmunk with all the gum I shoved in my mouth that morning. She was kind to an antsy, nervous kid.

We started in on the table read, and I was bored stiff by the time we were done reading the 3 scripts several hours later. It was an excruciatingly long exercise, and somehow something as simple as reading words printed on paper turned into a thing. Everyone was making a WAY bigger deal out of it than they needed to, and many hairs were split. I know now that everyone was staking out their territory, and planting flags for their characters, but it was painfully long and ego driven. That table read became the template for the rehearsal and taping of nearly every episode of the show.

After the water-torture of the table read we all went down to Stage 5, where a luncheon was held for the cast and the production people. It was catered by Chasen’s of Beverly Hills, a perennial favorite of Norman Lear. There were place cards, and I was seated up at one of the front tables next to Debralee Scott and Dody Goodman, while my mother was seated far in the back where I (thankfully) could not see her.

All of us had individual goody bags which were filled with kitschy things. My bag had a draw string and was sewn to look like a pineapple. It had a plastic charm, 4 tickets to the cancelled children’s show Sheriff John, a pack of stale gum, some ribbons, an Oscar Meier Wiener whistle and some other junk. Everyone else had similar stuff. Although I didn’t fully grasp it at the time, it seemed to signify the budget we were working under.

The adults all seemed to know each other, and as they laughed too loud at inside jokes I tried too hard to be part of group. I saw Louise again, and spoke for a while with Greg Mullavey, the man who would play my ever-adolescent father. Dody was charming and welcoming, and she and Phil Bruns (a grumpy man who had the sour smell of an alcoholic) played my meddling grandparents. Debra Lee, who played my oversexed Aunt Cathy, was a social butterfly who swore like a sailor. I spoke very little that day with the Victor Killian, a quiet man cast as my great-grandfather, who I would come to know and love as the grandfather I never had. Mary Kay Place and Graham Jarvis were delightful, down-to-earth people who played the neighbors: an unlikely crazy-in-love couple, where she was a smoking hot aspiring country-singer and he was a balding middle-aged man who would give you the shirt off his back.

After lunch we were prodded by a strange doctor so that insurance could be taken out on the production. As each of our physicals were completed we got into our wardrobe, and headed off to hair and make-up. My wardrobe consisted of the same pants, shirt, belt, bracelet, braids, barrettes and glasses I sported on the audition and callback – I can actually say I created Heather from the ground up.

We gathered for the cast publicity shot in the Shumway kitchen set, and as each new person arrived in character there was laughter and camaraderie. At that point in the afternoon we were giddy from it all and the slightest thing would set us off in gales of laughter.

The photo we took that afternoon is iconic, and a giant blow-up of it sits behind Norman’s desk, a profound tribute to our show, given the sheer number of them Lear has produced.

That afternoon all of the adults were as kind as they were capable of being to the young stranger they’d just met who had been hired to play a smart-assed, cynical tween. I may have been carrying the weight of being my family’s Fountain of Cash, but my cast and crew mates couldn’t see that. I was a child they’d just met, and they were more focused on how to make this show work when it was so different than anything else on television. They knew we only had 10 days to get mentally ready for the start of production, and the grind of memorizing, rehearsing, blocking and filming 125-150 pages of dialogue PER WEEK.

As for me? It never occurred to me that Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman was going to be anything other than a smash hit.


Cast Picture


My new-found station in life brought with it a well deserved bonus. Some frosting on the cake. A little something something for signing a contract on a daily AFTRA television series.

As an atta-girl for being cast on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman my parents saw their way to granting me a one-time bonus of the princely sum of $5 and dinner at Diamond Jim’s.

My break down was: $1 for a print job, $2 per commercial plus $1 extra if they make 2 spots out if it, and $5 (American!) for a series.

$5 for a series!

I didn’t get a regular allowance until I was 12-years-old, and even then it was only $2 on a $750 weekly paycheck. I’ll do the math for you: In 2018 dollars that’s me getting $9 a week allowance for a paycheck of $3,350.

I was truly a Bellagio Fountain of Cash.


Diamond Jims 2


I remember feeling so grown up the night we went to Diamond Jim’s, a past its prime cocktails-and-red-meat establishment on Hollywood Boulevard. Proud of my accomplishment, I boasted to the server as he led us to a high backed red leather booth that I’d ‘gotten’ a television series. He kept the celebration going with an endless stream of Shirley Temple’s (extra maraschino cherries, please!), while I’m sure my parents thought “Great! Now we have to tip appropriately.”

I imagined this would be a grand evening, like a supper club out of a 1940s musical. But the place was filled with smoke, there was no floor show, and they didn’t have any food for children. Diamond Jim’s was a stuffy disappointment after all the build up. My whole family should have gone to Shakey’s Pizza, followed by a trip to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor for a Zoo. Instead, my parents isolated me from all of my brothers and created resentment where none ever needed to exist.

The truth is that this was a restaurant for my parents, and I was just tagging along on their celebratory dinner because I was footing the bill.

I ask you – Which was more insulting? A $5 payoff for landing a union gig, (Oh, irony! Thy name is Unionized Child Labor!) or the 3 of us celebrating the impending plunder of my hard-earned money?





That night I felt like I was a successful grown up, and in a way I was. I may have only been 11, but I had a 26 week guaranteed Union contract as a regular on a series. With that contract and my commercial residuals I would earn more than double in 6 months than what my father would make in the single highest earning year in his whole life – and that wouldn’t happen for another decade, when he topped out at $33,500.

You bet your ass I was grown up.

My parents stole almost every penny I ever made as a child. Had it not been for the paper-tiger Coogan Law, I’d have lost everything that I would earn over the next 2 ½ years of working for Norman Lear. This larceny was unchecked by the State. Hell, it was APPROVED of by the court, who left me with the paltry sum of $20,000 when I turned 18. An amount that was further chipped away by the $2,000 delinquent tax bill my parents hadn’t bothered to deal with that I received as an Eighteenth birthday present.

There is no way to estimate the true figure of how much money my parents stole from me because they claimed I made different amounts to the IRS, the Courts, SAG, AFTRA, and to me.

How comforting to know that my parents were equal opportunity thieves who ran a racket and a half, and managed to get away with it.

Something that abetted their theft was that commercials were not covered by the Coogan Law at that time. So the parents of someone like me, who made a ton of money, weren’t required to do anything with the money but spend it on whatever they wanted.

My parents were more inclined to lie to the IRS than they were to lie to the Unions. They were more afraid of running afoul of SAG and AFTRA than they were of an audit, but not too afraid to have me do an appalling number of non-Union jobs that were never declared to anyone but my mother’s secret bank account and my father’s bookie.

My parents were bold about their lies to the IRS. In fact they lied about my earnings to the IRS from my very first job. They never claimed to the IRS any of of the multiple calendars, print ads or voice-over work I did before I had to join Screen Actors Guild in 1968, when I made $156 on my first union commercial – a long lost spot for Alpha Beta Supermarkets. It was only then they finally, reluctantly, filed taxes for me.

But here is my first ad from 1967:



Aero Jet 1

My first job, 1967



My parents pretended I did no work and earned not one dollar in 1969, despite the continuing print work, and me having been the face of Ford’s Tot Guard (their first child safety seat) during its test run, and doing a non-union Gain Detergent commercial that played so much during the daily soaps I was recognized for the first time while in the grocery store when I was 5 years old.

They continued to lie to the IRS, and were so far on the take they never reported my first 5 years of AFTRA earnings.

I will never know how much I really earned by the time I’d gotten on to Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. A conservative guess would be somewhere in the neighborhood of 250,000 of today’s dollars, if they had simply put it in a savings account and given it to me at age 18.


Mary Hartman Shirt



By 1976 my folks were in full swing, and had theft down to a science. Penn and Teller couldn’t make greenbacks disappear as well as Herb and Margaret could.

In 1976 I spent the full year employed under an AFTRA contract at a $750 weekly guarantee, there were summer residuals, as well as voice over promos for the show, which netted me upwards of $50,000. My parents declared to AFTRA I’d made $22,775.

My folks told Screen Actors Guild I’d made $32,500 in 1976. I was getting residuals for the 5 commercials I’d shot in 1975, with the Nestle’s $100,000 Bar spot itself bringing in a tidy $22,000.

Yet, it was declared to the IRS that in 1976 the grand total of my earnings was only $15,300.

They’d declared more than $55,000 in earnings to the Unions on who-knows-what actual earnings, and somehow I wasn’t audited for my parents asking the IRS to believe I’d made less than $300 per week as a main cast member on a screaming hot television show.

This mind boggling shell game continued until the show ended in 1978.

Using my tax returns I can see that my parents admitted to stealing $750,000 from me. Remember, this what they admitted stealing, and is only the earned income that I would have received at age 18. I would have had so much more had it been invested with a reputable money manager starting with my first job at age 3, in 1967.

What about the money my folks stole over and above what they declared to the IRS? Your guess is as good as mine. They consistently under-reported my income by 50%, sometimes by 100%. It would be reasonable to say I earned 2 to 4 times the amount they declared for me. Somewhere between $1.5M and $3M 2018 dollars, and not a dollar of it invested.

By rights I should have been a wealthy young woman when I tuned 18. It seems that for a lifetime of work and foregoing my childhood I should have had more to show for it than $1,000 a year. I can only imagine what my fortune would have been had they done the right thing.

All that was left of my meager My Coogan account allowed me to pay for 3 years of college tuition, while I worked to pay rent on my apartment. It also allowed me to move to Colorado in 1984 at the ripe old age of 20, and set out towards a place with mountains and skiing, far away from my parents.

Picture this – It’s 7 am on the first Saturday in June, 1984. *Knock Knock* “Mom, Dad – don’t get out of bed. I’m leaving for Colorado. No – really. Don’t get out of bed. My car is packed and I’m on my way. Buh-bye.” I was out the door like my ass was on fire.

Happiness was Los Angeles in my rear view mirror.

Within 2 weeks of leaving LA I had a job that covered all my bills – I was teaching acting in Denver.

I also used the money from my Coogan Account to buy my first Subaru – a Brat that I adored and that defined the new Claudia I’d become when I left Los Angeles.

Finally, I used the remainder to put a down payment on my first home.

I remember my mother wistfully opining in the waning years of her life, as she lived like the Merry Widow and denied the single request for help I’d made as an adult at Christmas in 1999, “It’s a shame you wasted your money from Mary Hartman.




My parents stole an unconscionable amount of money from me without batting an eye – and stole my childhood as well, and there is no way to forgive that. None. The healthiest thing a child performer who has been cheated can do is come to terms with it through therapy, or it will eat you up.

Every generation has child performers whose parents treat them like nothing more than a Fountain of Money. No matter what the law intends, every generation of greedy Stage Parents will find a way to steal from their children by exploiting loopholes and the lack of laws. My heart goes out to current child performers whose every move is being documented for Youtube fame, in hopes they will become the next Fountain of Cash, and their actual childhood is being monetized with absolutely NO oversight.

There are times when I think back to that night at Diamond Jim’s. That dinner really meant something really special to my parents. It was the validation of all of their hard work at marketing their children and what they’d been working toward: One of their kids was good enough to land a national television series.

It meant a spigot of cash. like nothing they’d ever seen had just been turned on. As far as they were concerned their income had nearly quadrupled in one fortuitous afternoon. What was not to celebrate? They were positively kicking up their heels

At least that night I didn’t know my parents were stealing from me, and I thought the celebration was for *my* accomplishment. That was one small mercy the universe extended to me.



November 18th, 1975, Joan Darling handed us all a small blue box before rehearsal. The gasps from the folks around me let me know it was something special. I untied the thick white ribbon, and greedily opened the tiny box to find a felt bag emblazoned ‘Tiffany & Co.’ Inside was a key fob with a charm that said ‘MH, MH’ on the front and ’11-18-75′ on the back, the date when we all set to work to make the best goddamn television show in the history of ever.

I will be forever grateful that I was part of that amazing company of actors, and that I had the privilege of learning comedy from them, and performing with them. Fortune was on my side when I think of the kind members of the crew like Susan who shared her gum, and Billy and Rick who taught me to operate a boom, and Harold who used to hide treats in the prop room for me to find.

I am thankful my teacher Joan indulged my love of reading, and made me actually learn and think about my future, and she took me to museums and to Star Wars and decided that watching Bob Hope rehearse with Donny and Marie one afternoon was a fine education.

Most of all I know that the time I was on Mary Hartman was where I began to write, and that writing was instrumental in every job in my adult life. The IBM Selectric typewriter Norman Lear had delivered to my schoolroom was a magical beast that allowed me to put my thoughts down faster than I could write by hand, and it opened up a whole new world for me. The classes I was able to take with writer Oliver Hayley when I was 16 convinced me that I could tell a story.

It has been a long and interesting path since then, and all of these people and their kindness helped me lay a foundation to build a path to get out and away from my toxic parents. I remember selling my first joke, opening the mic on my first full-time Talk Radio show, publishing my first article, anchoring my first newscast, and winning my First Mark Twain Award for excellence in news.

It’s wonderful to think that the path away from the biggest abusers in my life began 43 years ago with the people who would forever change how I laughed and cried and looked at life.

Love is marvelous that way.




My Tale Of the City

In honor of Pride I watched the original Tales of the City.

I’d misplaced the memory that Armistead Maupin was a huge fan of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. There are several Mary Hartman references & few clips in scenes where the TV is on in Tales of The City.

Favorite reference: “The orgy room will be empty when Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman is on.”

I was in San Francisco with my family in June of 1976, when Tales of The City is set, and when Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman was a real-life break-out hit. I was just 12, but I loved the city from the moment I laid eyes on it.

As an adult I lived some of my best years in the City, a love affair started in the summer of ’76, when the show was on summer hiatus. My parents piled 7 of us into 2 cars to go to spend a week visiting San Francisco, Gold Country & Lake Tahoe, and every buffet in between.

My family and I were walking along near The Cannery on a sunny Sunday morning the week before the Gay Freedom Day Parade (the precursor to Pridefest). We moved thorough the push and crush of locals and tourists, looking at the vendor’s wares on the sidewalks and tables.

Out of nowhere my father looked at my 4 brothers with mock seriousness and said VERY loudly, “1 in every 3 men in San Francisco is gay. I know *I’m* straight. So, ‘fess up: Which one of YOU is GAY?”

I looked around me at the gay men who were pointedly ignoring my father.

Those were the sort of ‘jokes’ that bigoted people considered the *height* of sophisticated humor in the mid-70s. I was horrified, even then.

Suddenly an arm shot out from the crowd and grasped mine. “Heather?!” a man said, and I looked up and smiled. “HEATHER!!”


The next thing I knew a pen was shoved into my hands, and a piece of paper was procured for me to sign. The enthusiastic man fawned over me, saying, “Look everybody, it’s HEA-THER!” mimicking how the character Mary annoyingly drew out the name.

By the time I was done there were half a dozen other people wanting an autograph.

As I signed autographs and talked with exuberant fans the crowd kept growing.

My mother saw a great opportunity for some free publicity & told me to keep signing. But then, this is the woman who made me personally answer every single piece of fan mail (and weirdo mail, too) with a handwritten note for the entire 455-episode run of Mary Hartman and Forever Fernwood.

The sight of dozens of people crowding around me to get an autograph must have been quite the frisson of exhilaration for her, and fed her need for living vicariously through me.

For me the frisson was fear: I was claustrophobic with the crowd towering over me & pressing in.

I soldiered on, knowing what was expected of me, while simultaneously feeling my brothers’ justified anger at having to wait for this impromptu autograph, Polaroid and ego session to end.

My hand was getting tired & the crowd was amping up past boisterous, but my mother insisted every last fan would get an autograph. It would be rude not to, she said. But that didn’t stop the stink eye I was getting from my terrifically bored (rightfully so) brothers.

I couldn’t see where the crowd ended, and people were pushing now.

It was getting warm in the crush of people.

I could hear people calling out, “It’s HEATHER – from Mary Hartman!!”

I was handling the crowd until someone pulled a few strands of hair out of my scalp that became caught in my braid. They pulled harder on my hair to free it.

“Ow!!” I yelled.

Then I felt the pinch on my arm.

I stopped signing, and the crowd pressed in even further.

“Mom? They’re hurting me!” I couldn’t hear what my mother answered because the crowd had gradually separated me from my family.

I felt a bloom of fear begin.

There was the pull and pain of more hair being yanked from my braids.

Someone tugged on my sleeve, while someone else pushed me from behind.

I could only see shoving fans who were caught up in the untethered excitement.

It felt as if the crowd was suspending me in the air.

Once it looked like they weren’t going to get an autograph the shoving began in earnest.

I started to panic.

They meant well, but crowd dynamics are unpredictable. I tried appealing to the people around me, to no avail. Their eyes were glazed and they were shouting.

Suddenly my brothers were shoving through the crowd and around me, one pulling me away.

The crowd protested, and moved with us.

People were still shoving pens and napkins into my hands and face as we tried to disengage. I remember a minute or two of pure chaos.

What the hell was going on? These people were acting like I was a rock star handing out $100 bills & free cocaine.

We took refuge in a packed ice cream shop on Beach Street. My family propelled me in the door, hair disheveled & dazed. The crowd tried to push in behind us.

The manager of the shop came forward to demand an explanation, but stopped short and squealed, “HEA-THER!!!”

Sizing up the situation quickly he forced the door closed with his shoulder, and spun the deadbolt, locking the door. The quiet was like someone snapping off a radio.

There were disappointed looks on the faces outside the window, and positively stunned looks on the faces inside the shop.

He whisked us through the store, saying, “Leave through the back. Do it NOW before people figure out what’s going on, and go around to the alley.”

As he led us behind the counter, and through the back of the shop he said, “I can’t BELIEVE Heather Hartman is in *my* store!

“Hea-ther!!” he repeated in a sing-song voice. “Oh, honey… Do you have ANY idea how huge Mary Hartman is here?”

We were in San Francisco at the height of the ‘Brothers’ story arc on Mary Hartman: A loving, devoted gay couple try to pass as brothers with the help of one of their supportive mothers, so they can stay employed & unmolested by society. Not only that, these non-stereotypical gay men are on a super popular show that’s broadcast 5 nights a week and we see the men KISS ON SCREEN!

We happened to roll into town WHILE this television phenomenon was unfolding, the weekend *before* the Gay Freedom celebration.

I couldn’t possibly grasp how MUCH positive gay characters in a hit series would mean to the nascent LGBTQIA community.

It was decades before I gained the perspective that time gives you.

The chaos outside was a reaction to what it meant to *finally* be SEEN and HEARD and not in a Paul Lynde or Charles Nelson Riley campy way, or as the butt of a cruel joke. But, as human beings with hopes and fears and needs.

All of this progress was happening only 7 years after the Stonewall Riots.

You’re damned straight it was a mob scene.

As the manager pulled on the retractable key-chain attached to his belt and found the key to unlock the heavy door steel door, he continued, “You wouldn’t DARE miss an episode Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. It’s like half the town stops for it every night.”

“They have it on in bars,” he continued, “and people have Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman parties and we sit around and smoke w– cigarettes and drink cheap wine out of coffee cups and take a drink every time Mary sips her coffee… Oh, my… It’s like a RELIGION, darlin’,” he gushed.

The sunlight was blinding when he opened the back door, and the coast was clear.

“Now, get you gone before they figure out you went out the back,” he said squeezing my shoulder.

As my family filed quietly out the back door the manager fumbled in his pocket for a pen, and looked down at me with a sheepish grin.

“Do you… Could… Would you please sign an autograph? Honey, I will drink free for a month on this story!!”


Happy Pride 2019, and Equality for all!!



**This story was originally a series of tweets posted on June 30, 2019.

Hair of the Dog

BARK!! BARK!! BARK!! BARK!! BARK!! I hear the dogs behind the door.

We have come to meet the 2 doggos we’ll be walking while my husband’s co-worker is on vacation. I can hear the friendly ‘Arf! Arf Arf! Arf!’ of her black lab, but along with it I hear the sound of her hound dog. His distinctive, ‘Arrroooo!!’ speaks to my stomach, and the fear begins. I look uneasily at my husband, and mutter, “He’s aggressive.” Just then the door opens, and the cacophony of large, barking dogs drowns out my voice. The two dogs are being held by their collars, their front legs pinwheeling into space.

We slip into the apartment, and in less than 30 seconds I can feel that the hound dog has fixated on me. His ‘Arrroooooo!!’ is now punctuated with snarls. I hear him snapping, and I KNOW that the moment his person lets go of his collar he will make a straight-line dash for me and bite.

Shaking my head I say, “I can’t,” and slip back out the door. I have been in the apartment for less than a minute. Back in the car I begin to shake, feeling the way you do *right* after avoiding a terrible accident by mere inches. He was a biter for sure.

Later, my husband’s co-worker calls to let him off the hook, saying she’ll make other arrangements for the dogs, and that she didn’t trust the hound with the strange way he acted. She apologized for wasting our time, and was just puzzled about the dog’s behavior.

I knew what was up: For 50 years I have been the person that aggressive dogs make a bee-line for. I’m the woman who normally friendly dogs turn upon. “Oh my god!! He’s never done that before!!” is genuinely something I’ve heard dozens of times in my life.

Ever thus it was – or at least for the last 50 years.


Aero Jet 1

My first job, 1967


I was just 3-years-old the first time my mom successfully pimped me out to show business. The year was 1967, and I did an unremarkable advertisement for AeroJet-General, which ran in a magazine of no particular import. It shows a pre-school aged little girl earnestly comparing sweaters in a full length mirror, and the copy encouraged companies to let the defense industry automate their business. The ad is a delicious mix of military industrial complex arrogance, consumerism, and systemic sexism, topped with a generous helping of patriarchal infantilization that suggests women just can’t help themselves from shopping, and being vain – no matter how young they are.

I’d gotten the job because my mom had dragged me along on every one of my brother’s interviews for print jobs and commercials. To be fair, she couldn’t leave me with my eldest brother, who was only 11 — because he was already busy being responsible for his 7 and 9-year-old brothers. But, make no mistake she was dual-tasking, and parading me around to the photographers and casting people.  So it was really quite a shock – I mean a shock – when I was eventually cast for a print job just after I’d been potty trained. At that point my narcissistic mother could count 3 of her 6 children as ‘working in the business.’

Over the next few years I did all sorts of modeling jobs for calendars and catalogues as well as newspaper advertising and inserts. Most of my work was repeat work booked directly through the photographers, which was an absolute no-no in a union town like Hollywood. It was the beginning of my mother and father lying to the unions (SAG & AFTRA), and to the IRS, about the work my brothers and I did, so that they could keep our earnings off of all of their records. My mother was as ethical as she was reasonable.

By the time I started kindergarten I’d been in more than 2 dozen calendars. These were calendars that insurance salesmen and realtors handed out as a ‘thank you’ to their customers, and they illustrated a bucolic all-American family life that never was.

When you worked on a calendar shoot you might be in 1 month’s picture, you might be in all 12, or anywhere in between. Each set-up corresponded to a specific month. You might find yourself sitting in front of an ice-cold turkey for the Thanksgiving picture first thing in the morning (when everyone’s hair would be the best), holding sparklers for the 4th of July shot before lunch, and sweltering in the afternoon as you’re bundled up for pretend winter. It was always a long, often tedious day that involved rushing to wardrobe changes, being hyper-vigilant not to mess up your hair, having your makeup retouched, and being told to hold an uncomfortable pose for half an hour or so.

It wasn’t the pinnacle of glamour, but I vividly recall those early shoots, and understanding that the camera was pointed at us, and that all of the hustle and bustle on the set was to capture something we were representing. Even at such a tender age I grasped the abstract notion that every person there had a job that faced towards the set, and we were there to make things look happy and fun.

That’s how I found myself on the shoot with the dog who wanted to rip my face off.



Aloha Dog 2


I don’t always have trouble with dogs. Hell, I don’t *usually* have trouble with dogs, and I’ve had several in my life. When I was a toddler we had a Samoyed named Frostie who allowed me to ride on his back. Sir Lancelot the loyal mutt was around in elementary school. Brandy the St. Bernard was 150 pounds of slobbery love during my time on Mary Hartman and through high school. Spike the wonder dog was my companion in my first marriage, and he actually protected me once from an attacking pack of feral dogs. But, the longest company of a dog I was lucky enough to have was the 11 years Buster spent with us.

We adopted Buster from our local shelter in 2001 when he was 2, after he was rescued from an abusive home. Buster was an adorkable black lab mix who – if he had opposable thumbs – would have shoved beans up his nose, and eaten paste. He adored strawberries, bananas and pumpkin, and hated the rain. The mailman was his mortal enemy. He had a propensity for counter surfing, and at different times he pirated a 2 lb raw pork roast, a cheese and nut ball, a pound of butter, a large bowl of squash soup, and the day after we brought him home he ate my son’s sheet cake for his 14th birthday. Let’s not even talk about the parakeet he snacked on.

Buster loved to be groomed, and wear bandanas and things around his neck (like the above rainbow lei), but would NOT put up with fripperies like like antlers or bunny ears. He was an absolute love sponge who adored me, and thought the sun rose and set on my husband. But he was dog aggressive. Crazy dog aggressive. In Buster’s mind those other dogs were going to take my family away!!! and they needed to be treated like the threat they were. BARK!! BARK!! BARK!! SNARL!!

You would tell this 75 lb dog straining at the leash to knock it off, and he would look up with liquid eyes full of hurt, “Gosh, mom. Why are you yelling? I’m only protecting you!” his eyes would accuse. The mutton head.

Although I’ve had many dogs in my life, it’s always interesting meeting a new canine, and seeing their reaction. Some love me up right away, and we have a mutually beneficial relationship where I scratch them endlessly, and they shed on me. Currently, my son’s dog, Nikolai, does this the most.

But other dogs… They hate me right away, and that’s that.

Take, for instance, Duke, my friend Norma’s dog. Duke hated me from the moment he laid eyes on me, and he nursed that grudge until the day he died. It was something like 7 years I dealt with him, and every damned time I would go to my friend’s house he would ceaselessly bark at me, and attack my shoes. Thankfully, Duke weighed about 20 lbs, and only posed a threat to my shoelaces, which he would strike at when I moved my feet. Eventually Norma and I would dissolve into gales of laughter at his rage, which probably made poor Duke even angrier. He never did this to anyone else.

But, not every dog is an aging chihuahua mix with a thing for shoelaces. Dozens of times I have been charged in parks by off-leash dogs ‘who wouldn’t hurt a fly’. I have had to kick dogs like I’m an NFL punter, and tell people if their dog gets close enough I will use my cane like a bat. Nothing tops the fake indignation of an owner who is all huffy when you threaten to defend yourself against their unleashed, charging dog.

Twice I have had different neighbor’s dogs nip my hand out of nowhere: One laid my finger open and required a tetanus shot, the other grazed 2 knuckles. Another of my husband’s coworkers came up to our ranch to scout for game, and on arrival her German Shepard damn near came out of their truck window after me. They leashed and muzzled their dog, which turned out to be a good thing when he broke free and attacked me. He hit my calf three times, and my thigh 4 times before the coworker’s husband dragged the dog off of me. They were *beyond* mortified, spent their time alone at the top of the meadow with the dog on a lead, and they haven’t come back to camp at the ranch in 2 years.

You get the picture: Something about me makes dogs itch.

Sometimes they want me to scratch that itch, and sometimes they want bite that itch hard. It’s really a crap-shoot how any given dog will respond to me – which was perfectly illustrated the other day when the black lab was wagging his tail, and the hound was in attack mode. Their behavior isn’t so unusual when you understand that it’s rooted 50 years in the past.


Dog Bite


The above photo was taken in early 1968 when I was 4 years old. The black and white 4×5 Polaroid is a test picture is from yet another calendar shoot. It shows a suburban living room with a fireplace, and a little girl holding a glass while she kneels in front of an enormous Rough Collie that looks exactly like Lassie.

While it’s not as bad as it used to be, looking at this picture still makes me physically uncomfortable. My heart rate raises, my jaw clenches, and my palms start lightly sweating. It is physically difficult to write this part of the story. Intellectually I know I’m safe, but the part of my brain that allows me to recall certain things in excruciating detail doesn’t give me a break on the bad memories.

I found this picture when I cleaned out my mother’s house after she died. It was inside of a box of press clippings, catalogues and various ads of mine that she had collected, and then saved for nearly 25 years. I opened the box, and was fishing through a treasure trove of magazines and Sunday paper inserts when I saw it. I was immediately transported back to that day decades ago.

The shoot started like so many others: The night before my mother set my hair with the large, pink plastic rollers whose grabby teeth poked at my scalp, and made it hard to sleep. Early the next morning she put my hair into a dozen long sausage curls that were gathered tightly on the top of my head with a flat bow, and doused with enough Aqua Net to make Tammy Faye Baker proud.

When we got to the location the stylist had an outfit ready of a simple yellow dress, black Mary Janes and white lacy ankle socks. Normally photographers required the models to use their own clothes for these off-the-books shoots. So, the outfit was as unusual for them to have as the as the young makeup artist who put foundation, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, blush and lipstick on me. This all felt very grown up and special.

While I was fussed over and primped, I saw a dog come on the set. I didn’t get a good look at it because I had to keep my face forward, and eyes up. When I was finally freed from the makeup artist’s chair, I was  paraded in front of the photographer and passed muster.

From behind his tripod and while looking in to the camera, the photographer instructed me to go kneel in front of a big, beautiful dog that was doubtless from some branch of the family tree of the real Lassie. I was in love. He was so beautiful, and had been groomed for hours, his gorgeous long hair looking like a stuffed animal.

‘This must be my lucky day,’ I thought, ‘I get to play with the doggie while they take my picture, AND I have a party dress and makeup on!!’

As I walked up to to the Rough Collie and chirped, “Hi, Doggie!!” the dog’s handler told me curtly, “Don’t pet him. He’s not a petting dog, he’s a working dog.”

I kneeled down near the dog as they framed and lit the shot. when they were ready to do the test shot the animal handler left, and someone handed me a glass. The photographer told me to hold the glass out and the dog would drink from it.

I did as instructed, leaning forward with a smile on my face, and the glass in front of me. As I did so the dog began to growl quietly in the back of his throat. I stopped up short,and looked around to see if anyone else had heard it, but apparently no-one else had. Because all I could see were expectant faces of grown-up, and a scowl from the photographer.

I put the smile back on my face and leaned in again. The dog began growling quietly again, this time making eye contact and glaring at me. I was less than a foot away from a growling dog, and really beginning to be scared when, without warning, the photographer snapped the test picture. The sound and the bright flash set the dog off and he exploded in a fury, barking viciously in my face, and biting my arm.

I remember shouting and general confusion for a moment. The handler dragged the dog back, and I was scooped up and away from the snapping cur and plopped down on a chair behind the camera. I began to tear up.

Suddenly my Stage Monster was beside me, growling in my ear the way the dog had been just moments before.

“Don’t you even think of crying,” she said snarled through clenched teeth. “I swear to God,” she hissed, eyes narrowing, “I will give you something to cry about if you don’t Stop. Right. Now!”

Ah… there it is. The good old stand-by of abusive parents everywhere.

Thankfully the bite didn’t need stitches, and could be bandaged up. The dog had bitten my left arm, which was fortuitous for the shoot: it was the arm away from the camera. As I listened to the adults talk about how I could leave my left arm at my side and not get the bandage in the picture at all, it dawned on me: They meant for me to finish the shoot.

Afraid, I choked back the tears and my mother spoke quietly into my ear, buzzing like an angry wasp. It was made very clear to me that I would do it or there would be hell to pay.  No whining, no crying, no complaining – put on your apple pie smile and get out on that set NOW.  Despite being terrified that Psycho Lassie might bite me at any moment, the thought of defying my Stage Monster was even scarier.

In short order they patched up my makeup, fixed my hair, and hustled me back onto the set. After all, how could they be expected to waste *all* that money they’d spent setting up the shot? I’m sure they justified it by telling themselves it wasn’t their fault the animal performer they booked was unpredictably violent due to being abused all its life. How were they to have known it would bite the model? They weren’t doing anything illegal, after all. These people all talked themselves out of owning any responsibility for my abuse, put their conscience on hold, and delivered for the client.

So, they forced me back on to the set, where the handler kept the dog on a short leash, just out of the shot. I did what they told me to do, smiling and trembling and holding out the glass while that tortured creature growled and occasionally snapped at the air, getting beaten by his trainer if he did so. I knew that if I didn’t sit inches away from that unpredictable cur I would get beaten that way later by my Stage Monster. I was shaking when the session ended, fortunate enough to finish the shoot without getting bitten again.

What a sad meeting of two souls being used and abused without thought by so many people.




Nikolai – Grand-Dog Extraordinaire



Ever since that afternoon half a century ago I’m the one an aggressive dog will go after, and I’m the person the ‘she never barks at anybody!’ dog will bark at. They all sense something visceral about my fear and pounce on it.

For the longest time I didn’t know why dogs zeroed in on me that way. Then my mom died in 2005, and I cleaned out her house and found the box full of clippings and ads and photos. As I was going through the box I came across the old black and white Polaroid and froze in fear. The test photo with the beautiful Rough Collie made my heart race. I remembered that shoot. I remembered the dog, and the bite, and the chaos because the picture had been taken moments before I was bitten. If you look at the photo that dog is staring me in the eye, his ears are in a fearful, aggressive pose, and he wants nothing to do with either me or the glass. The flash bulb went off, and the dog reacted the moment after this picture was captured.

My parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided the best course of action was to pretend like the dog attack never happened, and never spoke of it again. They dealt with so many unpleasant things in life by disappearing them down the old memory hole, and they demanded fealty from the family through silence.

Finding that there was a reason for dogs zeroing in on me didn’t stop it from happening, but I quit feeling obliged to force myself to be around people’s animals who are clearly aggressive towards me just because they insist that Champion never bites — and whoa… I am SO sorry Champion bit you, I can’t believe he did that! Bad Champion!

It’s a healthy to know your boundaries, while at the same time embracing that all dogs are not like Champion or Psycho Lassie. Some are awesome, and the get the zoomies and need belly rubs, like Nikolai, while others are love sponges that stick beans up their nose, like Buster.

The good news is that animal performers have legal protections now that prohibit their egregious mistreatment on set. It’s no longer legal to abuse animals or use pain to force them to perform or do dangerous stunts.

The bad news is that what my mom did to me that day 50 years ago is still legal.

The hard truth is that it’s 2019, and we offer the animals in show business more protections than the children with whom they perform.

We have ethical coffee, clothing and chocolate. It’s long past time for our society to work towards ethical entertainment that protects child performers from Stage Monsters, greedy production companies, and predators drawn to the business. We owe it to the children whose talents we enjoy to treat them at least as well as dogs. Don’t we?


Who Is A Good Dog



The Making of Brett Kavanaugh

Call it the smirk heard ’round the world.

Images of a young, white man smugly invading the space of a chanting First Nation’s Elder, while trying to goad him into a physical altercation as his friends and guardians egged him on was infuriating to anyone with a modicum of  decency or empathy.

It was that much worse, then, to know that Nathan Phillips – Vietnam Vet and Omaha tribal Elder – had received this treatment after interceding with a blessing to keep the peace between the Trump-supporting teens and a group of black protesters who were hurling insults at one another by the Lincoln Memorial.

Videos show an aggressive white teen – who would be called a thug were he black and sporting a hoodie – get closer and closer to Phillips, glaring at him and daring him to engage in any way. Soon his fellow students are mocking Phillips’ ceremonial chant, some of them dancing – all of them laughing.

Phillips was treated to the indignity of having his faith and culture cruelly mocked for his efforts to keep the peace between Trumpers and black protesters. It’s truly mind boggling.

The prep school student and his friends had just come from the ‘March For Life’ along the National Mall in Washington, D.C., as part of a sanctioned school field trip from Covington Catholic High School in Park Hills, Kentucky. It is unknown if the tax exempt school or diocese provided the MAGA hats that so many of the students were sporting, or if the students bought them as souvenirs of their trip. Regardless of their origin, students of CCH were wearing the caps with the tacit approval of staff and chaperones, who were also happy enough to listen to their charges shout ‘Build that wall!!’ and mock at length a ceremonial Native American chant.

These wankers had just come from a march purportedly celebrating the dignity of human life, and here they were mocking the value of someone else’s religious beliefs.

How these young men came to be cruelty taunting a revered Omaha tribal Elder might best approached by first accepting that this incident did not happen in a vacuum.

Covington Catholic High School has a reputation for racism, homophobia and misogyny, and the school – which is located on Dixie Highway – has an antebellum Colonel for a mascot. Because of course it does.

The school’s mission statement is shockingly sexist, referring to women and girls as not just an afterthought but by that Incel buzzword: Female.


ky hy eb females


Twitter is chock full complaints about the Bro Culture at the school.

Former CCH student Mac Duckworth details in this twitter thread how he was mercilessly bullied after he came out in 8th grade. He details years of online abuse, in person tormenting, other students refusing to respect personal space and boundaries, and the glee CCH students took in physically threatening him.

CCH students feigned surprise in 2017 when social media called them out for wearing blackface for Halloween, and posting pictures themselves smiling and laughing.

Then there is the scandal of Jake Walter, who was found guilty in his senior year of raping young woman just weeks before his 18th birthday, in 2018. The 7-foot, 300 lb basketball star-player received probation, and registered as a juvenile sex offender for a few weeks, until he became an adult. Seven months later Walter, the son of a former Cincinnati Bengal, was arrested for rape the second time in a year, this time with 2 counts of sodomy. According to court records both women he victimized were hospitalized after he choked and raped them, and laughed as he dismissed their pleas for him to stop.

These incidents all have one thing in common: CCH students sadistically finding humor in other’s pain.

Because cruelty is the point, you see.


indelible in the hippocampus


Recall, if you will, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s Senate testimony during Brett Kavanaugh’s SCOTUS confirmation hearing. Dr. Ford spoke clearly about Kavanaugh and his friend attempting to rape her when they were all in high school, and she was a few years younger than them. Ford spoke with great authority about the incident and what she would remember ever after: “Indelible in the hippocampus was the laughter.”

Cruelty was the point then, too.

You can draw a direct line from the coddled, white, religious prep school students who tried to intimidate a Veteran tribal Elder with smug sneers and viscous laughter all the way to Brett Kavanaugh demanding we not look at how he acted at that age because BOYS WILL BE BOYS!!!

This is the STENCH of moneyed white male privilege.

I see *so much* of Kavanaugh in these entitled, toxic young men from Kentucky.

Kavanaugh was nurtured and encouraged in an exclusionary Catholic school that encourages every one of these men to indulge in ‘Smartest Boy In The Room Syndrome’, where they know they’re better than everyone else by dint of religion, education, genetic, and sexual superiority.

When their self-imagined primacy isn’t enough to keep the insecurity wolves at bay they preen through life with the back-pocket knowledge that Daddy’s money and connections will always save them if their genetic superiority won’t.

It’s not such a surprise that a parochial school trip to advocate for women to lose their self-agency (with nary a vagina betwixt them) should end with the absolute disrespect of our First Nations’ people and their spiritual beliefs.

Don’t forget these insufferable Kavanaughs-in-training KNEW they were being filmed, and still thought this was a good idea to scream ‘BUILD THE WALL’ at an Omaha Elder, proving they’re only motivated by White Supremacy, and not any fear of terrorist illegal immigrants.

Now imagine what they’re capable of doing when they think no-one is watching.


then and now

Abusers and Rust Never Sleep

Those of us who’ve escaped the orbit of a Malignant Narcissist are fully aware of how Trump & Company are bludgeoning America into submission with relentless lies, sadistic behavior, and a toxic cult of personality.

Those who’ve been in an abusive relationship are all too familiar with watching helplessly as our abuser breaks everything we hold dear for the fun of it, and then lies to our face about what our eyes can see.

“Are you going to believe ME or your lying eyes?!” they scream.

If you’ve never been trapped by a Malignant Narcissist you’re likely in very real shock at finding a person utterly lacking in compassion or empathy is controlling your life, and means you and your loved ones very real harm – and NOTHING you say tempers their behavior.

The continual gaslighting about Trump’s crimes against the US and humanity, and the threats to our financial security and personal safety become a steady feedback loop of anxiety.

The sustained emotional assault of the last few years actually causes physical and mental harm.

Understand this ceaseless fire-hose of bald-faced lies and indignities is designed to overwhelm and humiliate, and ultimately to make us all passive by cutting so deep into our soul that we beg for the pain to stop, even though we know there’s no mercy in Trump’s shriveled soul.

Those of who’ve dealt with a Malignant Narcissist before owe it to those who haven’t to take their arm, and assure them as we walk through the darkness they are not alone, nor are they crazy.

Trump’s insanity is REAL, and what’s happening to us is not healthy or normal.

To wit, I offer these 10 Truths About Abusers – and they apply *especially* Trump and his cult:

1. You aren’t human – you’re expendable chattel without rights or dignity

2. Your opinion, wants and needs are punishable offenses

3. You’re expected to follow rules and display manners that Abusers deny exist

4. They will NEVER acknowledge facts that don’t feed their bias

5. They will never, ever, EVER admit they are wrong

6. They will steal from you while insisting you’re a duplicitous thief

7. They lie so confidently you’ll question your sanity

8. They enjoy your pain even MORE when you tell them how much it hurts

9. They won’t stop until they control you completely and capriciously

10. Anything they can’t control completely they will tirelessly try to destroy

Repeat these 10 truths until they’re so ingrained they can’t be shouted down by abusive people.

Trump & his cult will suck every ounce of resistance out of you if they can. Just being around them becomes a fight to keep your sanity from being swallowed by inexhaustible evil.

Far too many people in the US don’t want to admit how *bad* things really are here now.

Ignoring the reality of Trump’s naked grab for dictatorial power (and the GOP & McConnell *encouraging* him) is not foolish – it’s dangerous.

Abusers are like rust: they never sleep.

Some folks pretend it’s easier to ignore the reality of creeping Fascism and Authoritarianism in our collective Home. They pretend bad news is negotiable.

But you can’t wish away the Dictator lounging insolently in the parlor any more than you can reason with termites.

Understand no matter what we do – compliance or fight – there is NO DEPTH which Trump and Co won’t plum: No savagery will be left undone, no barbarity missed, and no opportunity to inflict sadistic inhumanity will be overlooked.

Rest assured: Ignoring their cruelty won’t save you from it.

We must all accept that none of us will come out the other side of this fight the same. Nor is it our fault that Trump and his cult are evil.

These facts exist together and separately, and all we can do is try to mitigate the damage.

Embrace the reality that Trump and his cult will continue to screw with our heads and our very lives until we are compliant and submit to our country becoming a theocratic Dictatorship – or until we’ve had enough of their abuse of person and power, and fight back in earnest.

Prepare for even more extreme threats when Trump’s continual gaslighting finally fails, and a solid majority of Americans accept that we’re all being abused and we push back.

BUT, the more power Trump loses & the closer the walls get the more dangerous he will become.

Abusers lie when it’s easier to tell the truth, and manufacture toxic drama to keep control of the narrative and keep their victims off balance. I shudder to think what Trump will threaten the American people with if he faces indictments from Mueller’s Russian investigation.

No matter what abuse Trump threatens us with we must hold firm against his fury, and we *must* counter his lies. Failing to push back on lies and threats only encourages Trump’s abuse of power.

Understand that placating an abuser has never worked in the history of EVER.

I have absolutely no clue how the Russian investigation will shake out. None. At this point McConnell sees no reason to make Trump follow the law, and that’s terrifying.

So, for the time being, we’re at Trump’s mercy, and there’s precious little of that. (See rules #1-10)

I don’t know if Trump will be perp-walked from the Oval Office, serve 2 years, 2 terms, or declare himself President-For-Life.

I *DO* know that Trump is an abuser, and he’ll never, ever, EVER admit that he has ANYTHING to apologize for. Ever.

Abusers and Rust never sleep.

In Flanders Fields

100 years ago today my great-grandfather Joseph Ford was on the Western Front when Armistice was declared in World War I. At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, fighting was finally suspended in man’s most inhumane act toward man.

Joseph Ford’s service, and that of all Allied soldiers, was solemnly honoured at ceremonies across France this weekend, which were timed to coincide with the Centenary of Armistice. The somber memorials to the declaration of truce in the most savage act of butchery in history (at that point) were attended by the most powerful, influential leaders of the world – which is to say that Donald Trump either skipped the proceedings he specifically traveled to France to take part in, or showed up so insultingly late he missed the convocations.

Instead of honouring the fallen and wounded American soldiers of the Great War at a Saturday ceremony planned months in advance, Trump decided at the last minute to stay in his hotel room like a sulky tween. The President of the United States spent the day Rage Tweeting, ordering room service and watching television – ostensibly because it was *raining*.

Trump chose not to pay his respects to the American soldiers interred at the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery in Belleau, and his propaganda people offered up the excuse that he didn’t want to be driven 50 miles to spend an hour under an umbrella in a cashmere overcoat. He followed up that stunning display of disrespect with snubbing the entire U.S. Marine Corps by not even acknowledging their 242nd birthday, and their tireless commitment to keeping America safe.

I do not yet know if there is any truth to the rumors that Trump met with Putin in secret when he was supposed to be honoring fallen American soldiers from WWI. But I DO know that the very best spin you can put on this ugly brush-off of our Armed Forces is that Trump just couldn’t be bothered to pretend he gave a damn about the sacrifices made by the troops he commands.

As a dual citizen, I have never been so PROUD to be a Canadian as I am today – and so ASHAMED of how Donald Trump has disrespected America and our soldiers who gave the last full measure of devotion for their country.


Trump Smiles At Vlad

Get yourself a lover who looks at you the way Trump looks at Putin on Veterans Day


Beyond the raging vanity about his hair not getting wet, and the seeming inability to operate an umbrella, the entire world knows Trump lives in a bubble of hubris and only cares for the adoration of the ever-smaller crowds at his vanity-driven rallies. The international community is fully aware that Trump is so insecure he becomes enraged at the lack of deference from world leaders who are more capable, powerful, self assured and respected than him. But even they were astounded that Trump blew off the Centenary Memorial of The War To End All Wars, and after spending the entire day holed up in his hotel room he showed up 2 hours late for a State Dinner. His follow-up act was to refuse to meet with other world leaders for breakfast on Armistice Day itself, and then to arrive after 11 am for the 11-11-11 Armistice Commemoration.

Trump did all of these things without an ounce of self-awareness, ignoring that the world was stopping to remember – and say out loud – that a malignant ego serving only itself destroys international relations, causes untold suffering, and sparks needless global conflagrations.



Boer War Pulling Gun

British Royal Artillery troops hauling a gun up a railway line during the Second Boer War, 1899


My Great-Grandfather Joseph Ford was born in County Cork, Ireland, in the mid-1870s. His mother died when he was a small child. When his father remarried a few years later his new stepmother immediately shipped young Joe off to a military boarding school. During those years at ‘school’ he was likely little more than a servant to the upper-class Irish second-sons who would not inherit, but whose families could afford to buy them a commission in the British Army. Joe’s first assignment was to be a drummer boy for the officers-in-training.

Joseph’s education came to an end when he was about 15 (circa 1890), when his father signed him to a commission with the British Army – legally binding Joe to the Royal Artillery for the next 12 years.

My great-grandfather served his time in the British Army honorably, and spent the last 4 years of his commission in South Africa fighting in the Second Boer War, from 1889-1902. When the war ended Joe returned to Ireland, and married my great-grandmother Lillian. In 1908 Joe accepted his Volunteer Bounty Act land grant in Canada for serving in the Boer Wars, and moved his growing family to Ontario.

My grandmother Honora Bridgette was the youngest of Joseph and Lillian Ford’s 7 children. She was born in a large white farmhouse in Sarnia, Ontario, in early 1914 – just months before the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, and the start of World War I.

Joseph Ford didn’t need to answer Brittan’s call for soldiers for the Great War – the white farmhouse was proof enough of his bravery, and his service to Crown and Country. But he felt it his duty to protect Europe against German aggression and their declaration of war, and so he answered the call and served his King and countrymen, yet again.


Vimy Ridge 1

Canadian forces at The Battle of Vimy Ridge, 1917


Joe left his family and his adopted homeland to go to war once more, and for nearly five years he faced the greatest of all inhumanities – The War To End All Wars.

My great-grandfather left parts of himself and his soul on the battlefields of Flanders, Somme, Passchendaele and Vimy so that those who came after him would know freedom and peace.

Canadian brigade-surgeon Major John McCrae immortalized the sacrifice of my great-grandfather’s fallen brothers-in-arms with his immortal poem In Flanders Fields. Devastated by the death of a close friend and fellow Canadian Army Officer during the Second Battle of Ypres, McCrae’s heartbreaking verses forever cemented the red poppy as the international symbol of Remembrance.


Flanders fields 2

Flanders Field, Waregem, Belgium


In 1919 Joseph Ford was lucky enough to return to his wife and adoring family in the big white farmhouse in Sarnia. But he did not come back a whole man. A hale-and-well-met-fellow of many friends, Joe was jovial by day but would forever suffer the night terrors of PTSD – what was then called Shell Shock. Joe’s lungs and eyes were scarred, and he was partially paralyzed from the chemical weapons that were the hallmark of WWI.

As a member of the Canadian Forces he was exposed to Chlorine gas in 1915, phosgene in 1916, and in 1917 they were hit dozens of times with mustard gas during the 5-month-long Third Battle of Ypres. His left arm was permanently shriveled and atrophied, and he limped in pain. For the rest of his life Joe’s body was weak, and he was never able to take a full breath.

My great-grandfather sacrificed for the good of the world. He gave of himself when he could have rightfully said, “Let someone else do the heavy lifting this time. I did my part for the war.” Instead, he left all that he’d worked for and held dear, and quite literally fought for the things he believed in.


Vimy Ridge 3 German Machine Gun Nest Taken By Canadian Forces

Canadian Forces in German Machine Gun Nest They Have Taken On Vimy Ridge, 1917


The only thing Donald Trump fights for is the right to abuse and threaten the Press, consolidate Nationalist power, and keep his comb-over-weave from getting wet in the rain. That’s because he doesn’t value anything my great-grandfather fought for – and 16 million people died for – in WWI. Trump can’t stop himself from showing how much contempt he has for Equality, Fairness and Peace, any more than he can hide his naked aggression, thirst for power, and craven need to always be the center of attention.

I would be devastated that Trump chose not to honor the Veterans of WWI, as well as the service of my son, my father, 2 of my brothers, my father-in-law, and my uncle – if he were anything but the Pretender President, who is PROUD of being incapable of feeling empathy.

Frankly, I’m overjoyed my great-grandfather was Canadian, so that his sacrifice will NEVER be sullied by Donald Trump’s ugly soul, deliberate cruelty and malignant desire to start another war.

I will be forever grateful that my Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, humbly honored how much of himself Joseph Ford left in the trenches of France and the Fields of Flanders.

My great-grandfather was subject to unimaginable deprivations in the muddy trenches of the Western Front, and he suffered half-a-decade of unthinkable depredations for the cause of Liberty and Freedom. Joseph Ford spent the rest of his life replaying the horrors of war in his dreams, his body wrecked and wracked by pain, so that Justice could survive during a few decades of grudging truce.

May his sacrifice – and the sacrifice of all who served – never be forgotten.


In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

–John McCrae 1915


Flanders Fiels 1





Doesn’t Play Well With Others

I was recently messaging with a friend about the fool’s errand of saying, ‘I want to keep everyone happy’.

It has NEVER been possible in the best of times to make everyone happy. These days? Pffft. 40% of the country identifies with Nazis and White Nationalists (but I repeat myself), and another good 20% just can’t be arsed to get involved with the suffering of others. These ‘Keep Everyone Happy’ folks spend great quantities of energy NOT THINKING about kidnapped brown children in cages, or that their friend’s sexuality is being legislated out of existence, or that the Press isn’t just being threatened anymore – they’re being murdered and jailed.

The most disappointing thing about Trump is not his poor behavior, but the poor behavior of our family and friends. Their Nazism or lack of will to stand up to it has translated to ruptured relationships and hurt feelings. In the last few years I’ve parted company with a good number of people I had been very close with for a long time – some of them I’d known since childhood. But, I draw the line at Fascism and Nazis.

Not one person with a moral compass is immune from this culling.

Sometimes you cull people who have become openly, virulently White Nationalists. Take my neighbor, for instance, who believes Muslims should be registered and Syrians should be put in concentration camps. Or my husband’s college friend who believes Human Rights are no longer universal because not everyone is a human being.

Sometimes people who can’t bother giving up an inch of their White Privilege, and just want you to STOP TALKING about things that make them sad or uncomfortable cull you. They ghost you because you’re Debbie Downer with all your talk about children in cages and The Geneva Convention and the UN Convention on Genocide. Can’t you just go back to posting hilarious and disgusting vintage ads featuring Spam or mayonnaise?

No. No, I can’t pretend that Trump isn’t gaslighting us every time he opens his mouth. Nor am I going to be silent about Trump delivering on the promise of state sponsored murder and the torture of children. I refuse to ignore his abusive threats to the Press that the violence will continue until the coverage improves. I will not keep my opinions to myself about this Fascist almost-Dictator who promises to violate the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and 14th Amendments, and to end abortion, civil rights, voting rights, marriage equality and the EPA.

“Not gonna happen,” to quote George Bush the Senior.


Spam & Peaches



This culling of our friends and family list didn’t start on January 21, 2017. It began loooong before that, and congealed when Trump declared his candidacy, in June of 2015. Too many people have still not figured out that the radicalization of the American Alt-White movement began decades ago with the Southern Strategy, and solidified in earnest in 2010 when Mitch McConnell vowed to make Obama a one-term president by opposing ANYTHING he supported, and by silently allowing birth certificate rumors to flourish unchecked.

McConnell and Lift-Bro Ryan should have taken every opportunity to stamp out the pernicious racist rumor that Barack Obama was born in Kenya, his birth certificate was fake, and therefore he was an illegitimate president. But they, and every other member of the GOP leadership, hadn’t even the barest scrap of integrity to say, “So what? Even if Obama was born in Kenya he can still be POTUS because he’s AMERICAN citizen, being that his mother was born in Kansas. It’s in The Constitution.”

This well known fact went unspoken by the GOP, and the Alt-White pretended it didn’t exist by continually shrieking about the birf certificate!!

But, it was never about Kenya or Kansas for these folks. A black man was elected President and gave them health care against their will, and the Alt-White lost it’s collective fucking mind.

When a WOMAN had the temerity to try to use 45 years of advocacy for the disenfranchised and hard work within her own party to run for President, the Alt-White lost its collective fucking mind again. This time they were joined by a motley assortment of Brogressives who were simply FURIOUS they couldn’t have their pony, so Fuck It!! I’ll have viper, instead, and we might as well burn this bitch down, while we’re at it.

These things were all quite clear in the fall of 2016. Trump had been gaslighting and saying terrible things unabated for 16 months. Instead of people taking him seriously they were amused by him.

The more I raised my voice about how THIS IS NOT NORMAL!! The more I was either avoided or assured I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

He’s NOT going to win, and even if – by some fluke – he did, he’s not going to be able to do the things he promised. There are laws.”

Unfortunately NOBODY paid attention to what I kept harping about: If Trump wins the election the Executive, Legislative and Judicial branches would all be held by one party. There was a SCOTUS seat at stake, and thus the ENTIRE make-up of the court for the next 20 years was hanging in the balance. Not only that, McConnell had blocked nearly 1,000 of Obama’s rightful picks to open judgeship positions at all levels of the federal circuit and appeals courts.

Couldn’t ANYONE see the consequences of the GOP having unfettered control of EVERYTHING?!

I felt like Cassandra whose warnings went unheeded: The balance of power would shift too far if Trump was elected. Trump is an Abuser, and you believe an Abuser when they promise to hurt you.


But Her Emails Handmaids Tale



It was at that time (September of 2016) that I finally broke up with my creepy psychiatrist, and I’ve been carrying some unresolved and seriously unnecessary baggage about it ever since.

I say ‘break up’ because you have to put an immense amount of trust in someone to be able to tell them your hopes and fears. He violated my trust, though, and it became an abusive relationship in August of 2016, when he ‘jokingly’ threatened to sell my records to the paparazzi.

Yes. My psychiatrist actually threatened to sell my records to the paparazzi to make a quick buck – and then called it a joke.

I knew what he did was wrong at the time. But I ignored the fucked up dynamic of the middle-aged white male abusing his power because he was a Doctor.

It took me writing about him and what he did to me to see that he was trying to mold me and ‘fix’ me through intimidation, not help me navigate an increasingly hostile world. He abused his power by threatening to expose my deepest fears and secrets (for profit) to strangers who would ridicule me, and have undeserved access to my inner-most thoughts – and then called it a joke.

He had an idea of what I should be, and he expected me to kowtow to his notions and respond positively to the flex of his power, and capitulate to his emotional blackmail.

While it makes me feel like I need a Silkwood Shower just to write about what Dr. Blackmail did to me, it has to be given a voice. I realize I’m lucky I didn’t have a massive backslide.

The truth is that I grew up amongst a pack of abusive, rabid wolves, and it’s hard not to subconsciously pick abusive, rabid wolves with whom to associate. Even doctors.

I initially saw Dr. Blackmail in late 2014 to have medical supervision in getting off of short-term PTSD drugs another Psychiatrist had forgotten to stop, and I’d been on 18 months longer than recommended. (Whoops! Sorry about that. We good?) He was one of the only doctors who was taking patients at the time, and I jumped at the chance of getting off of the meds. It only occurs to me as I write this that every other patient I saw in Dr. Blackmail’s office was female, or with a man – presumably doing some kind of couple’s therapy. You do the math.

I got off the unnecessary PTSD drugs in just a few months, and things were SO much better. My anxiety attacks decreased by 90%, as did the visual vertigo, and the crippling panic attacks when I wanted to leave the house. My head was clearer, and my thoughts were, too. I began writing again, and resumed work on my memoirs. I even started this blog. This will be my 84th entry, and I have 11 drafts I’m still tinkering with, and I have more than 10,000 reads.


This about That First Post

First ever blog post, Nov 28, 2014


I continued seeing Dr. Blackmail because it was increasingly difficult to deal with my Mystery Illness. I needed emotional support to navigate the crushing disappointment of seeing dozens of doctors over several years, none of whom were able to diagnose the disease nor halt it symptoms. I was also grappling with the new reality that I couldn’t work, and I felt utterly useless to the world.

Dr. Blackmail REALLY WANTED to treat my appropriate grief and sadness with anti-depressants. I mean REALLY. WANTED.

No matter how many times I explained to him that I wanted nothing further to do with psych meds at that point – and ultimately *I* was the one making decisions about my health care – he would bring it up at EVERY damned appointment.

Finally I snapped at him, “Stop it. Stop asking me to take medication to change the way I think. I *LIKE* me. What you’re asking me to do is take happy pills to conform. Do you think I’m a danger to myself or others? No? Do you think I am incapable of caring for myself? No? THEN WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO CHANGE ME?!!”

His answer was always, “‘I think you’d do better if you were on something to stabilize your mood.”

Stabilize my mood.

Stabilize. My. Mood.




Not to keep me safe. Not to keep others safe. Not because I was bi-polar, and in some kind of manic-depressive episode. Not because I was incapable of ascertaining reality, was hallucinating, or was hearing voices. But, because he thought it would be a great idea and best practices if I would kindly stop making such a fuss and please melt into society a bit more, and not be SO MUCH like me.

He claimed to be worried about my losing friends when I disconnected (willingly and unwillingly) from the users and abusers in my life, those uncomfortable with my illness, those who were revealing their dormant White Supremacy, and those unwilling to make a choice about the rising Nationalism. To Dr. Blackmail the most important thing wasn’t moral boundaries, but how many ‘friends’ I had.

Dr. Blackmail planted a bullshit seed that is at the heart of a continuing problem: I think I am a social misfit for having a highly developed sense of morality – and acting on it.

Sometimes when I block someone or (even bigger) let go of a hurtful person I’ve been close to in real life, I hear that asshole’s nagging voice about how when disappointing people leave my life it’s bad and entirely on my shoulders, and can be treated with medication.

That fucker made me question myself until today. No more. Today I let go of what I started when I walked away.

The proverbial Straw That Broke The Camel’s Back that caused me to leave his practice happened one day in September of 2016, probably a month after Dr. Blackmail threatened to sell my medical records. I was trying to explain how I felt like Cassandra, and this terrible thing was coming with Trump’s election. His response was to laugh at me good and hard and say through his gales, “Claudia, stop! Don’t be ridiculous. Trump’s NOT going to win!!”

Super professional behavior, no?

I blew my top, yelled at him for about 15 minutes and left, never to return. I’m certain my file is a shit show, and I regret not turning him into the state for his egregious behavior.


I think about Dr. Blackmail occasionally, and the thoughts that keep bubbling up are:

1) Why did you keep trying to medicate me if my only problem is ‘Doesn’t play well with others’?

2) WHY is it imperative everyone like me?

3) Who fucking threatens their patient’s privacy as a ‘joke’?

The inescapable truth was that more I pointed out the rising misogyny and institutionalized sexism that’s impossible to escape in America, the more I was told BY MY PSYCHIATRIST that I needed try to fit in harder. Complaining about online bullying and abuse by men led to being told I needed to stop arguing so much. When I became incensed about people who had been using me for years I was made to feel guilty for abandoning ‘my friends’.

The answer to my increasing distress at society treating me as inconsequential wasn’t to work on my fears through mindfulness and meditation – but, rather, to medicate me into compliance like a Stepford Wife.

We’re stuck in the 50s, and I was getting the modern-day treatment for Hysteria. This year’s pills aren’t Thorazine, but the aim is the same:


Sexist Thorazine


Medicate the FUCK out of the Little Lady and she won’t complain when she realizes society is stacked against her!!

“Holy shit, John. I just realized I wasted the best years of my life wiping noses and asses, and having your slippers ready when you walked in the door. Of course, I was useful during WWII when I worked in the factories and literally made and brought home the bacon. But THAT went down the memory hole, and I’m supposed to pretend self-agency wasn’t wonderful… What do I do NOW?!!”

“Open wide, Martha – you’ll never remember a thing.”


Keeping everyone happy is the least of my worries these days, because I’m really okay with the label ‘Doesn’t Play Well With Others’ when it comes to Nazis taking away my rights, and the rights of those I love.

Keeping everyone happy means you have to have the moral center of a marshmallow that gives whenever pushed. The ‘push’ right now is Fascism that’s quickly devolving into a Dictatorship. Being polite about our rapid descent into a White Nationalist totalitarian state means you agree with it, plain and simple.

There is no neutral position regarding Nazis – no one gets to play Switzerland.

I may have lost friends and loved ones to the rise of Fascism, and the lack of will to fight it. But good friends and loved ones who have stood the test of time are ever so dear to me, and make life lighter.

I’ve joined forces with some incredible new friends: Wonderful people who share the same ideals, and we value all lives – not just Blue or White. Together we all keep each other sane, and reassure each other that the gaslighting is happening, and NO, this isn’t normal.

You know what? Not a one of us Plays Well – and our voices will be heard while we have each other’s backs.


Dan Rather Decency