“I was seventeen. Only child, not a lot of friends. But I had a plan. I was going to become an actress, get a role on All My Children, meet my husband on set-- and when that was all over, I’d host a talk show. Kelly Ripa did it; I could do it too. Back then it seemed like every woman on television had gotten their start as beauty queen. So my senior year I decided to enter my school’s Homecoming Queen competition. It was organized like a Ms. America pageant. But this was a rough high school, only one other girl signed up, so I had a good shot. My whole family got behind me. My mom was a seamstress. We noticed that in most pageants we watched, the winner wore a white dress. So she sewed me a white dress that I picked out of Seventeen Magazine. First came the interview portion, and that’s when the trouble started. The judges asked me about the Anita Hill testimony; I wasn’t ready for that. I was ready for world peace. They were supposed to ask me about my goals, so I could say world peace. But that didn’t happen. The talent portion was later that night at the homecoming dance. The whole school was there. I chose a Sheena Easton song; poor choice. Not the right crowd for that. The other girl chose ‘I Feel Good’ by Stephanie Mills, and she had the whole crowd singing along. That’s when I knew it was over. But then, a miracle. The guidance counselor quieted everyone down, and announced the winner: it was me. Me! It was my Kelly Kapowski moment. Everyone was cheering, the other girl congratulated me. But it only lasted five seconds, because the guidance counselor said: ‘Wait a second, I’m sorry. Joanna is the runner-up.’ It was the worst moment of my life. In fact, the only thing that got me through COVID was knowing that it could not possibly, possibly be worse than that moment. And here’s a twist for you. Remember that guidance counselor? Several years later I ended up acting alongside his son in a play at Queens College. In one scene I pulled a gun on him, and the director was like: ‘We need more anger. Think about something that makes you angry.’ I was like: ‘Well, that’s easy. His father ruined my senior year. And quite possibly, my entire life.”
“People see it as a fake sport. Whenever you tell someone you play Ultimate, it’s like: oh, is that where you throw a frisbee in a basket? Or is that the one where you throw it to a dog? Whenever I’m talking to someone about it, I just hope they’ll ask me enough questions so that I can talk about UNC Ultimate. That was probably the most special experience I'm ever going to have in my whole life. I was on the team for five years, then I came back and coached. My freshman year we were really, really bad. But at the moment UNC Chapel Hill is triple back-to-back-to-back national champions. And I got to be part of that trajectory. But even though the team kept getting better and better, I kinda stayed at the same level. I never became the elite player that I wanted to be. I have a lot of ‘stick-to-it-ive-ness.’ I’m capable of working really, really hard. And part of me always believed that would be enough, which is the part that burned me out. Because after working so hard, for so long, I reached a plateau. It was physical stuff. I'm just not quick enough. When I play defense I can’t keep up with the fastest offensive handlers. They're going to score, and that's a problem. I ended up getting cut from the elite women’s club team I was on. I switched over to mixed, but ended up tearing my ACL a couple years ago. It’s been my life for ten years, but now I’m at a place where I don't know if I'm ever going to play again. I just don’t know if my body can handle it. I don't want to have another, like massive orthopedic surgery. And frisbee takes up so much bandwidth; there’s so many other things I want to explore. The list is infinitely long. I’m asking myself: could I be happy playing on a mid-level team where the commitment wouldn't be quite as high? Or will I only feel satisfied if I'm exceptional? That’s an unhealthy connection I have in my head, I think. That love is something you need to earn. And being exceptional will make me worthy of having connections with people. It would be great to become a version of myself where I no longer feel that way. And maybe we'll get there someday. We’re working on it. In the meantime, at least I got to talk about UNC Ultimate.”
“It’s a love/hate relationship. Hate is too strong a word. But she just can’t accept that I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a lot more mature than most fourteen-year-olds; I already have a job and everything. But she’ll shut me down just to get at me. And there’s nothing I can do because she’s my Mom. She’s always on top of me: be careful with this, be careful with that. Won’t let me go to my friend’s houses if they’re a little further than our neighborhood. And we’re both stubborn, so if I try to argue it goes back and forth. She doesn't want to see her kid be right. She gives me no choice but to be loud and extreme just to get my point across. But look, I get it. She’s got this Google folder on her phone with like 1400 photos of me when I was younger. It goes all the way back to my first day of school. The other day I went into the kitchen to get a drink, and I caught her scrolling through the pictures, and she's crying. I was like damn. So look-- I get it. I’m still mad, but I get it.”
“Walked around the corner, there she was. And zing went the string of my heart. Zing! I said: ‘I gotta catch up with that girl,’ and I never did let her slip. There was a big song on the radio back then, about gettin’ married. Everybody was singing it, something about: ‘When we get married, we gonna have a celebration.’ You keep hearing it every day, and you wanna try it too. Never thought it would last this long. It’s been a good ride though. Everybody has a little bump here and there. We had our arguments, and I ain’t never did win one. Ain’t no man ever gonna win when it comes down to arguing with your wife. You could be married for a hundred years, she’s gonna have the last word. So no need to get your mouth all rolled up. Don’t stand there arguing and cursing. Just listen, laugh, and let it go. Kiss her on the cheek and say: ‘you the winner.’ After that, everything will be beautiful.”
“Occasionally I’ll have a beer after work and break out the sketchbook. But I had wanted to be this great painter. I wanted to do these grand things: big, huge oil paintings. But those days of painting all the time were such a roller coaster. There were these periods of extreme depression, followed by manic states of trying to put myself out there. I couldn’t do it anymore. I mainly felt sorry for my dad. I know it was rough for him. My mom hadn’t wanted me to go to art school. She wanted me to do something more practical, but my dad said: ‘No. This is what he wants to do, and I want to support his dream.’ And then I abandoned it. That was the first time I had to deal with real failure. A lot of times when you’re an artist, it’s your job, it’s your lifestyle, it’s your entire fucking identity. It wasn’t like I failed to do a thing. It was like: I failed to be something, you know? It was a failure to live up to what I thought was my destiny. But then on the other side of that, there was this figuring out that there was nothing wrong with me the entire time. I didn’t need to be something else to have meaningful friendships, or a good relationship. I didn’t need to be something else to be loved and cared about. After work tonight I’m going to meet up with a person who’s in love with me, and I can’t wait. And that person met me long after I gave up on being a full-time artist. They met me when I wasn’t even a chef yet. I was a piss-poor, part-time line cook. But even then, they decided I was worth it. So you know, there’s something there. There’s something there that’s enough.”
“We’ve been dealing with invisibility. We started realizing we’re kind of fading. So many of our friends say that: that they’re becoming invisible. Everybody needs a welcome from somebody else so that they can feel useful. It’s a real source of energy. And when you realize you’re not getting that as much, what happens is you get scared. And you also say: maybe we could do something a little different. So at some point we came up with the idea of the cute older couple. We were hoping to find some younger friends. We’ve always been attracted to younger people. You know, young people struggle. So we like to support them and wish them well and give them a lot of approval. And young people need cute old couples. They love cute old couples. So we decided to play it up a little bit. That’s what it is: ‘play.’ It’s really play. Have you ever seen two dogs greet each other? One dog will drop down, and bam, suddenly they’re playing. I think that’s what we’re doing. We’re inviting a play response.”
“My first end-of-life patient was a 97-year-old man. He had a much younger girlfriend; she was seventy-four. But they loved each other so much. Back when their spouses were still alive, the four of them had been great friends. They would double date together. And when their spouses passed away, the two of them became a thing. Every day she would come over for lunch. I’d always cook a little meal for them. I’d prepare the table; I’d lay out my little candles and my little flowers. As soon as she arrived I’d put on music and dim the lights, then I’d leave the room and go wait in the bedroom. They would cuddle and snuggle. And the beauty of it was, even though he couldn’t control his fluids at that point, she never minded the smell. Her love for him was so great that they would still kiss and all that good stuff. When the doctors said that it was time for him to go to hospice, he said he didn’t want to go. He told them that he wanted to come back home and die with me. I was with him in the end. My patients never die alone. Never, ever. One week after his passing I was hired by his girlfriend’s family. She had terminal Alzheimer’s, and I ended up staying with her for seven years. I fell in love with her. We were family, just family. She used to be a tap dancer. We’d sing together. And if she didn’t feel like singing, I’d sing. Even near the end, she always knew when something was wrong with me. When I wasn’t being the Gabby that she knew, she would always know. When the doctors said it was time for her to go to hospice, her children said: ‘We want her to die with Gabby.’ In the final days she wouldn’t eat, she’d lock her jaw. But she would always eat for me. One night I could see the fright in her eyes, and I knew it was time. My patients never die alone. Never, ever. So I climbed under the covers with her. And she passed away in my arms.”
“Just the other day a video popped up on Facebook. It was only five years ago. We were in the park. I was pushing her on the bike, letting go. We used to have so much fun together. We’d always get ice cream. She’s a strawberry girl. I’m a vanilla guy. Chipwich, actually. I’m a Chipwich guy. She’d give me a hug afterward, tell me I was the best dad ever. We were such good friends. But now it feels like we’re so far apart. She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Even when she’s upset, she’ll ignore me and go to her room. It’s like: C’mon. I was fifteen too. I know what it’s like. But she’ll come back, I know that. They always come back. But it does feels like you’re getting your heart ripped out a little bit. But look, I get it. She’s figuring out life. You have to back off. You have to give them space. Cause if you charge after them and get all aggressive about it, you might push them away forever. But they always come back, right? One day she’s gonna realize that I’m not the enemy and I’m really her dad, her friend. I still get a flicker of it, every once in awhile. We had a really surreal moment last year. Her birthday is March 17th. She’s a St. Paddy’s Day birthday. We always take her to a Spanish restaurant on Long Island, but this time we did something special. Her uncle used to be a bodyguard for Taylor Swift, and we still know some people at the company. So they got us tickets to her concert. Fifth row seats. I mean, don’t get me wrong. We paid for them, but fifth row center. She was crying. I got a big hug. A big kiss. A ‘Thank you, Dad.’ It wasn’t ‘You’re the best dad ever.’ But it was a really big: ‘Thank you, Dad.’”
“I’m taking a break from school until I figure things out. I guess I have rebel traits. There were just so many things that felt out of my control, and it bothered me. You have to wake up at this time. You have to go do this. You have to go do that. It’s like I didn’t have any originality. There was a certain point when I realized that everything, this whole routine that I had, had been given to me by other people. And the weird thing is, whenever you try to remove yourself from that equation, and stop doing what other people want, you kind of get ostracized and outcast. That’s kinda what happened to me. I have a great family, but it’s full of strong personalities. I had so many people telling me: do this, do that. They said it was a ‘respect’ thing. You know: ‘I’m the adult, so you should respect me.’ But I never understood that. Because at what age do I get this thing called respect? Nobody in my family could ever answer that question. Is it when I have a kid? Is that it? Or is it when I'm paying a certain amount of bills? At what point do I step up on the pedestal?”
“The question everybody wants to know is: why don’t the aliens contact us if they're really here? The answer is simple: because it would melt your psyche to contact beings from another dimension. Whether it's ghosts or spirits or deceased relatives or past lives or future lives or aliens or Bigfoot or fairies, all of it will melt your psyche. Because you’ve been programmed by The Empire to believe those things don’t exist. Unless of course you’re an indigenous person raised on traditional shamanic ceremonies. I learned all this by talking to other humans on other earths in other universes, so I'm trying to not blow your mind right now. When you’re talking about other dimensions you have to use a lot of metaphors, so just imagine earth as North Korea. You’ve probably seen enough documentaries to know what's going on in North Korea. The North Korean people are completely mind locked and brainwashed, and they have a completely inaccurate understanding of the rest of the planet. Well, that’s the same thing that’s happening here. Earth is the North Korea of the multiverse.”
“I’m turning forty in August. Three kids, full time job. All my kids are under the age of seven. The amount of mental energy it takes, you know, juggling all of them and the constant questions about nothing. I mean, mom is busy, please, just give me a second. My husband tells me that it’s just the season we’re in. We’ll get back to it. But I just want it to slow down so I can pause and breathe. Everything just changes so fast, you know? When you’re a little kid, and you turn into a teenager, it’s like: ‘Oh, I’m changing now.’ But you’ve been coached. You’re prepared for it. Then you go from teenager to college. That’s a big change. Then from college into your twenties, still changing. But at some point you kinda feel like I’m an adult, and I’m done. But you just keep going. It’s like oh shit, no, no, I’m going to keep changing. And these aren’t like the earlier changes. These aren’t the ones you get to plan for. Well some of them are, like: ‘We’re moving to a new place.’ Or ‘I’m going to get a new job.’ Those you can be ready for. But as you get older shit starts getting thrown at you that you're not planning for. Dodgeballs. And you’ve just got to pivot. And all of the sudden you realize, that moment in time, right before the dodgeball, that was the last time you saw the old you. And you didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
“You’re a slut and a whore for the algorithm. I couldn’t do it anymore. You can never feed it enough. You start out making art, and hoping that the door will open. You’re looking for that viral moment so it opens up the door and you can do the thing full time. But you start to compromise just to get the door to open: guessing what it wants, debasing yourself, alienating yourself. Until you’re not even in service to your art anymore. You’re in service to the algorithm. Deep down every artist just wants to be seen. Everyone does. And that’s how it controls you. The algorithm makes you behave in a certain way, create in a certain way, in exchange for being seen. And if something can change what you do, it can change who you are. And I didn’t sign up for that. I didn’t sign up to become a content creator. Art was supposed to be a way for me to be in search of, in service to, in community with. It was my ministry. Art was supposed to be my ministry.”
“Stop signs? I don’t care about any of that shit. Don’t have a license. Don’t have a license plate on my bike. I’m an outlaw through and through. I take it very seriously. The way I look at it, there’s a law of government and a law of man. And I follow the law of man. Right and wrong, that’s it. And the government don’t do right. I’m not trying to make myself a martyr. They already won. Darkness won. I’m just taking care of me and my own and doing what I can to keep their claws out of my back. I’ve got a half mile dirt drive that goes way back up in the woods, and that’s not far enough. They tried to pin me with some multimillion-dollar drug ring, and this is what I told them. In the courtroom, while my lawyer is elbowing me in the ribs to shut up. I said: ‘Listen man. You're fucking with a bunch of hillbillies trying to get high. All we do is fucking work on cars and bikes and snowmobiles and four wheelers and then go riding, and afterward we try to get naked with our old ladies. I’m just giving people that I care about something that they’re going to get elsewhere, that I can get them for a way lesser price and make sure the shit ain’t fucked with. What’s the problem with that?”
“They told me they loved me constantly, chronically, every day. They gave me a good home. They cared for me. They did all the basics, and above all that: they worked hard to put me in a great school district. But no matter how much they provide, your parents can’t give a shit for you. I made every bad choice a high schooler could make: tv, video games, pornography. All the stuff that you use to not think about stuff. It’s immediately gratifying, maybe the first 50 or 100 times. But after the 200th time, that stuff becomes who you are. I guess the whole time I was just hoping that someone would come along and tell me exactly what to do with my life, or else it would just come to me. Maybe that happens for some people. But for the other ninety percent of us, we have to make the conscious decision to just go. At first I told my dad I was joining The Marines. He’s an attorney. It certainly wasn’t what he would have chosen for me. But he said: ‘If this is what you want to do, you’re going to visit every branch. You’re going to make an educated decision.’ On the day I signed with the Coast Guard, I remember telling him: ‘I just want to be a good man.’ That’s as far as I’d gotten. That’s the only thing that I knew for sure. I didn’t know where the path was going to lead, but I was just tired of not trying. I figured it was better to just start walking and see what the hell happens. Because I know what happens if I don’t do anything.”
“It’s been a tough morning for me. I used to be a children’s librarian. But this morning I had to call publishers and tell them not to send me any more books. I just can’t read them anymore, not like I used to. And that was hard. It felt like I was cutting off a lifeline. It’s disappointing, the sense of not being in control of my own life anymore. Everything depends on my medical schedule, and the chemotherapy, and what my limits are. The doctor has told me to expect a couple more years, but my caretaker says she’s seen a lot of sick people. And she thinks I could be one of the ones who can beat it. For most of my life happiness was automatic. I might have had the only career where you get told ‘I love you’ three or four times a week. Maybe it happens with teachers too, but so many little kids said those words to me over the years. And I miss that. I was damned lucky to have that experience. Happiness isn’t automatic anymore, these days I have to work a little bit more for it. In addition to all the pain and the fear and having to pee all the time, I choose to do a lot of things that will make me aware of the beauty and loveliness of life. It's not magic. I don’t stop thinking about the scary stuff, I just find moments to push them aside with the ridiculous. There’s so much in life that’s ridiculous. Every Saturday morning I watch Popeye on Turner Classic Movies. It’s so ridiculous. Olive Oil is so obnoxious. And you know, she has all these men after her. It’s just really funny. And Popeye is so full of himself and somehow manages to come out of everything, eat his spinach, and win. Then there’s my laughing yoga classes, which I can’t do in person anymore. But I do them online. There’s this thing we do where people will get in lines of three or four, and we’ll pretend to have a boat race. Everyone rows as hard as they can. Someone chooses a winner, and if you lose you get to create a big scene and make an ass of yourself. It’s ridiculous. And then there’s you. You’re ridiculous. You’re stopping random people, presumably to entertain yourself. You’re sitting in the middle of the street. I mean, think about it. It’s pretty dumb.”