BAY OF PIGS!

I am not referring to the Cuban invasion, Fidel Castro take over, “Bay of Pigs”,  I am quite honestly referring to today’s men, who without hesitation see no harm in trying to get into your proverbial pants: whether they are married, in a relationship or sleeping themselves thru the city. This comes on the heels of a recent publication in the Wall Street Journal “Where Have The Men Gone” - Kay S. Hymowitz, Not only is the article spot on, it's a f-ing scary. So with that and having been indecently propositioned by a married man myself, I have to ask, why? Where are the good ones? I mean the really good ones? And why do the ones that seem good turn out to be just complete scum. Do married/ taken men, think we are “three ways from Sunday Stupid”? So my burning question leads me to this; why get married before 30? Why get married at all? I’m not cynical,  no. Not cynical. I just don’t get it. Today’s marriages are based on what exactly? Why can’t I have the same sort of commitment without a piece of paper and, an absurdly overpriced “keeping up with the Joneses” wedding? You can have love without marriage, and marriage without love, so why are they seemingly viewed as mutually exclusive? We don’t marry to merge empires anymore so what’s the need? Why can’t partnerships super cede marriage?  They say death and taxes right. Not marriage and death and taxes. Another valid point arises: all of my friends reside in a tax bracket as a single person that being married does them no tax credit justice. I ask my accountant every year, “where is my University educated, over 30, financially responsible, debt free, not married, no kids,” tax credit? Why does one-third of what I work like a dog for go to people like Octo-Mom? This world has bred a society to not think, not try and therefore a society that thrives on looting the system and my pocket book. That’s really a whole other blog entirely, solely dedicated to citing Ayn Rand.
I know being married is often seen as a basic foundation for having a family but I personally feel, that having a family is more of a commitment than a marriage, (hesitate to cite Brangelina but you know they make you go hmmmm). I honestly feel our generation of 30 somethings is fielding a social revolution where not being married is the norm. Ask me 16 years ago what I thought about marriage, as I was sitting in AP English, practicing my married signature with my high school boyfriends last name (and even then with heavy hesitation because it didn’t sound right) I would say, I thought I would get married. I’m sure a large part and parcel of my thoughts on marriage stem from my parents “high school sweetheart” marriage that disintegrated, simply because nobody knows who they are at 18. My father said to me, “12 years with your mom, I thought I knew her, but we changed and grew as people and, in the end you never really know anyone.” That statement scared the living shit out me and is probably why I remember it verbatim. Jilted again at 30 to hear a family member has been married to man of cheating mystery for the past 20 years. Again, why? Cruel and unnecessary. He “seemed” like the nicest guy on earth, committed to his family, to her; turns out he is a total dirt bag. I hope that each one of my loved ones and friends in marriage are blissfully happy, they deserve to be. I must say though, my 76 year old grandmother has successfully had a boyfriend for the last 20 years, they travel, they have a life together he is part of our family and it works. That is impressive. For now, I will continue to walk on my dream and stick like super glue to my idea of being married to myself. It’s only when you are whole in yourself that you are able to see outside your selfish being and field the idea of sharing your world with someone else. Anything else is not a dream but a nightmare. Why not draft a new regime, striving not to be married but perhaps happy and whole.

Subjugate your passion?

I dare say - no fucking thanks. My friends - I dare you - live your passion. Corporate america is falling by the way side. Free thinkers and do-ers - they DO THINGS. Whatever they may be and they do them well - and so demand payment for your mind!

This I dedicate to all my friends, former coaches and TEACHERS (Lierly+Vandiver +Dugan) and lovers of knowledge who are at present fighting for the price tag the "government" wants to put on their brains. "To the mattresses I say". - The Godfather

John Galt.

While packing up boxes and going through old high school photos - it dawned on me that my John Galt died on May 6th, 2005.

In high school Matt and I were inseparable. I couldn't even figure out a way to sneak him on the girls bus for Cross Country meets, trust me I tried. We talked on the phone until we passed out - well into college. He faked failing in spanish our junior year as a reason to have me as a tutor. Our "honors AP english" class was nothing short of a Ms. Williams' least favorite group of students - it was split with athletics and she despised all of us, especially me. A bunch of bratty, honors students she saw everyday for 45 minutes and then left and went to their sport of choice. "The Jocks" she called us. We didn't mind. There was more drama in that room every single day than any reality show could ever dream of writing about.

Matthew was a phenomenal writer. Truly the best. He and I fought mostly over the usage of idea vs. ideal(s) and the occasional comma placement but not much else. We had a mutual love of nature, music, photography, sports, movies and laughter. We were never bored. EVER. The only reason I know anything at all about baseball is due to Matt's incessant following of the Kansas City Royals whom he loved dearly. When I came home from NYC with Yankees cap in '97 we became sheer enemies for more reason than one. He was the first boy I ever told that I loved and I did - wholeheartedly and still do. I see him everyday in some way - smart ass grin and all. Life on this earth, in this way is short. Embrace it and those you love - hang on for dear life.

They call me BEAR

For a long time I have struggled with the idea of telling a story: my story, then perhaps the story of my previous generations. The only problem I encounter is that I do not particularly know all the gory details in the stories of my previous generations. And the struggles I’ve known can only pale in comparison to those of my ancestors.

One part of my 9 bloodlines intrigues me the most; my Native American ancestry - that of the Yuchi people. The Yuchi were forcibly removed from their homelands near what is Ft. Benning Georgia today. They were packed up and forced on foot to re-locate to the place I now call home, OKLAHOMA (land of the Redman). In many ways I can relate, however; not on such a grand scale. So for now, all I can do is tell my story.

My father always says that I run away. I argue that point for many reasons. In my past and in my present, the only way to move on is to run from the bad memories, bad energies and bad people. So damn me, if the only way I can survive is to run. Running for me at a young age was the closest thing to intense therapy I’ve ever come to know. It allowed me to think, to be alone and to be inspired to become something more. Something great. I began to run when I was ten. At first I ran because I was a competitor, but then because I was good and then because it was a need to calm my mind and tame my heart. In the hardest of times for me, it became my only solace. And still is. 

When my stepfather had beaten my mother within an inch of her life and we moved first into a battered women’s shelter and then into a ghetto like apartment in Oklahoma City I began to understand that life was different. At the time I could not understand my mother’s family’s lack of interest in our welfare, it perplexed me to no end.

Forced and required to care for my twin half brothers at night after a full day of the 6^th grade, was less than child like. It was fucking scary. Finding my mothers hidden drugs, being at home alone, no phone, living on food stamps, not knowing when and if my mother would return home - I began to dream of another life. (Being alone was something I was not foreign to). I would fall asleep at night to three movies on loop, so it would block out the noise of sirens and car doors. I dreamed of a life, I knew was possible, even if it would cause me pain. Pain in knowing I would have to leave behind my brothers, leave them to a life and circumstance and of much difference. I could get out, I could have a chance at a childhood, at a life, to dance and run and be free from all the stress and the scary – I could be safe – I could get to be a kid. I could have a chance to dream and to become whoever I wanted to become. These ideas of childhood and dreams were told to me by my Grandma Long: my fathers mother, she encouraged me to dream, she wanted me to be free from stress and things no child should see or experience or have to deal with. In every way she saved my life.

To make a long story short (no pun intended), I had myself “removed from the home” by the department of human services at the age of 11. I was escorted via cop car to the juvenile detention center in Oklahoma City where I would spend a night in “juvenile” detention and the only time I would ever sit in a cop car. Terrifying as it all sounds, and believe me it was, I knew there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The night I spent in “juvenile” lockup was a night I will never forget. I was granted one phone call, which I made to my Grandma Long. They said, ‘do you know who you want to call’, I couldn’t dial 918-224-5669 fast enough, with purpose. After being inspected, I was allowed to take my things to the room I would be staying in for the night. As I unpacked my bag knowing I would only be staying a night, I knew that this night would be engrained in my forever. I lay awake, the beams of light from the parking lights outside creating tiny shadows of the venetian blinds on the wall.  I did not sleep that night, in anticipation for the court hearing that would occur the next day. My grandmother had driven down the night before and stayed with her Aunt Ted in Nichol’s Hills. My Grandmother Aida, along with my mother and brothers were also at the courthouse too. I cried the whole time, knowing I was going to be free of it, but that my poor brothers would never be. They could not come with me, nor could I expect my grandmother Long to take them, they were not her grandchildren. I was heart broken. Overtime, I had to severe ties with them, not out of want but out of need to draw a line between my mother and myself. It would be something they would not understand until they were older, only then could I share with them the story they were too young to remember. And then they understood why I had shut my mother out all those years ago.

My grandparents, Milford “Buddy” Lewis Long & Barbara Ann Long took me home. The only place I would ever call home and still do. When we arrived my grandmother immediately picked up the phone and called my dad; she uttered a sentence I will never forget,  ‘we got the bear’.

Music to my ears, a place that would be the only semblance to what a real household with two loving people living in harmony could be; that it was possible, and here it was. And I was in it and it was all mine! I felt like Kevin in ‘Home Alone”!

They raised me just like of their own, same rules, same morals, same values. I soaked it all in. It was for me, just live heaven but better. I had been previously deemed a “ward of the state” and eventually, they would be granted temporary custody of me then only to be passed along to my father, three years later at the age of 13 (he had been working in Washington State). I got on the courtroom stand at the age of 13 and in front of Judge April Sellers White, proclaimed that I wished to live with my dad. My mother got caught lying on the stand - She had not been attending AA meetings; she had falsified where those meeting were held, and our attorney called her bluff. All my mother did was scream and yell after the hearing, running after my father, grandmother and I. I was relieved. Finally free from her and her manipulative ways, her lies and her altered reality.  I looked at my brothers in sheer torture. They thought I didn’t love them, if only they had known how much. It would be years before those boys would get to know me -

That period in my life changed who I would become, in a good way. I would come to believe that should anyone judge me, that pity I would not take it. I let it flow off my back like the beads of water off the back of a duck. I wanted to be something more, something greater than a child that leaned on the bad as an excuse to do no good. My grandmother told me I could be whoever I wanted to become, and because she became the first person I could truly trust, I believed her – and I felt her love above all else. She had become my mother in every single sense of the word and art, providing me the kind of love a child should feel, something I had never felt from my own mother. Grandma Long, taught me that I was no better than anyone else, to be friends with everyone and never be rude or judgmental.

And because I had a secret of my own that at that time in my life could throw me into the throngs of an outcast childhood, I befriended as many people as I could. I went from a D student to the honor roll in nine weeks, quit biting my nails and excelled in dance, basketball and of course running. It was like I became a different kid all together, I morphed, shape shifted. Nature vs. Nuture. I was terrified that anyone would find out my story, that my mother was an alcohol addict and abused drugs, and didn’t care for her kids. It was all because she was too proud to admit she was wrong and would never ask for help.

I was a kid who would otherwise be a social pariah, who had spent the night in juvenile detention. To think about it now is mid blowing. After attending seven different schools in five years, it seemed as though I had found a home and some long lasting friends, many of which whom I am still friends with today. People always wondered why I lived with my grandparents; it was a story I guarded with my life, until the age of 21 when I finally shared my story with my best friend and a few college roommates. It took me a long time to come to terms with what had happened to me and how I had managed to run from it, learn from it, block it out and move on. It took me a long time to realize that I should be proud of what I had become, considering the alternatives, and so finally I was free from the pain and anger and guilt. It gave me strength, knowing that whatever happened to me in life, I could overcome.  That things could never be as bad as they were, that from here on out only good could exist. I would make sure of it. I walked at graduation for my bachelor’s degree in Psychology in of May of 2001, and after retaking a math class I hated, for a better grade, I received my diploma is December of 2001. The first college graduate in my immediate family, on both sides, it too was a feat of epic proportions. The attendance of my grandmother and grandfather Long was the most memorable and the most short, but the support they had shown me over the years never ended – and even though they are no longer here on this earth, I know they are with me EVERY single day.

Now looking back, I can be nothing but amazed, 5 generations later, I have become the person that I have. It amazes me to see my fellow natives and what they have made of themselves, us having come from such a diverse and challenging back grounds.

This is the story I which to tell, along with those of the other Yuchi people, Seminole and Osage. True stories, written and only told in person. The true accounts of our people, their struggles, their resilience, and brilliance and perseverance. The story of the Yuchi people from the 4^th generation, great great grand daughter of Ekilaine Long, Chief of the Yuchi, Harry Lewis Long -Medicine Man, Milford “Buddy” Lewis Long “ – Euchee Mission student, Army Veteran, 40 years of service at American Airlines - a white man’s assimilation success story AND my father, Donald Edward Long – man of industry, man of emotion.

The last long remains, at least within in our family, I am Andrea “Bear” Lynette Long – Loud Warrior, of the Wolf Clan.

For having less than 400 "friends" and less than 100 followers on twitter, I'd say breaking 8K hits is kind of un real, at least for me...I know where my readers are -- Alaska to Afganistan and back. I love math. #nerd.

Phone calls from Dad

Emerge from the dark - step into the sun - soak in the light - drown your soul in its rays - rays of yellow gold glitter, of hope - rays of blood red and of love -

"It is not the end - but only the beginning. Walking away from a life you know, a life you have made - so that you can walk into another one - a new one - is the bravest thing anyone can ever do. Be Brave Bear, Be Brave"

Life starts changing when…..

you realize what you have been working your entire adult life for….is achieved. And then you become bored and unable to take anymore shit, from anyone.

Especially when you realize that your "job" prohibits you from having "normal" relationships  - then that "normal" relationship turns into relation - shit ….

I've wiped the slate clean. Many, many, many things are changing - first this: 312.771.7047.



 Stay tuned. . . . .

Holy What the Fuck Batman!?!!!???

It's a hot summer night in the land of Chicago. Underground bound Ols and I walk around the hood to see the pretty lights. Beats, drinks and then..whoa? Who is this Thor looking dude, I want to put my hands in his hair and do bad things to this thing. Twenty five minutes into a nice conversation, All American Hero introduces me to his quiet, meek girlfriend. cool. no worries. 'It would be poor form for me to get your number in front of your girlfriend, see you around.' him: 'I can Facebook you right now' - cool I say. Then he turns and introduces me to his brother, who is sitting down in zombie land. I think to myself, these kids are WEIRD!

Fast Forward - Four months. December 14th., the Ice Queen and I step out with our little crew, terrible table service, terrible Samantha Ronson on the deck, quizzical looks at Scott, people everywhere wanting to talk to Hamida. WTF. "Oh yea, she says, my reality show airs in a few weeks." Wait. WHAAAATTTTT. 100 days of Summer, on BravoTV. Sweet. I'm thinking this is too badass, then she says, 'I don't have a PR agent yet?', I kindly reply, 'you do now'.

On the way back from the ladies room, I run into…THOR. Me: 'If you didn't have a girlfriend, I'd drag you out of here by your tie right now.' (I keep walking). He grabs me and says, 'we broke up'. DAMNNNN. After party at the pad, Buckley immediately drops a heater when I get home. Here I am, party hosting, Gucci dress, cleaning up liquid poop. PJM steps right up, starts helping. (head nods all around). Full court press. He wants to make out. I say, 'this is nice but I have guests, stick around if you want, but I am not having sex with you'. 30 days later, he tells me I've infiltrated too many of his "circles", all of which he has invited me into (Friends Holiday Party, Friends Family Holiday Party, Brothers Birthday, HOME FOR XMAS!, Suit Supply Holiday Party, Dinner with the other brother. I've INFILTRATED YOUR CIRCLES?! HUH. Seriously are you joking. (Jedi Mind Fuck).

I have to say, he acted like a mature dude, then that smile that lights up a room - pulls a bitch move and starts acting like an actual 25 year old. Lesson learned. Long moves along.

Freedom @ 21

Most people in general probably think I am a tad bit short of crazy. And in my own world, I am and I’m okay with that. When I step out onto the streets my playlist of life blares loud and it always dictates the cadence in my step. I would venture to say that the last 11 months have been nothing short of grueling, personally and professionally. Chaos is nothing I haven’t dealt with before; in fact I know it all too well. My job and my personal life sometimes require me to work in hyper drive, and eventually if I am not careful, I crash. Crash and burn. From the ashes I arise, at times stronger and more determined than before.

For a decade this year, I have been involved in some capacity, mostly in Native American gaming. Having made my debut installing Class II machines, running wire under raised floors under such places as Choctaw Casino (I was the only one who could fit), or doing server data retrieval, and trouble shooting random messes of other slot related tasks. To many of you this may sound interesting to me; the only interesting thing about it was the fact that I was female. I was lucky enough to meet a lot of very cool people, and as I grew within the industry, I’ve watched many of my colleagues do the same; it has been such a fun ride to see what waves everyone has ended up on and where they will continue to travel.

But this year, more so than two years ago, I am going to send my writing into a new stratosphere.  Sometimes it just flows out of me, it seems that only in some arenas does it present it self so clearly and intently, and I have become increasingly aware that I have a voice, not only to my friends but; to myself. People may not always agree with what I have to say, and that is definitely their decision, BUT my opinion is certainly mine to express.

It has been said that the “people who listen to the voices inside their soul, when listened to so purely, they become crazy, they become legends.” – Legends of the Fall

I am not saying that I will become a legend, the idea certainly sounds cool. I always thought it was a pretty interesting topic, being as most people who admit to the voice in their soul are often coined “crazy” or out of their “head”. And so I say that maybe everyone is little crazy in his or her own world. By way of example; like when mathematical equations can only be solved by the Will Hunting’s of the world, legal briefs about bankruptcy only to be written by a legal genius (P.E. Barr), someone who decides to develop something that will change the world an aspects of chemical compounds to be used for consumption (JDC). I will say that complex words only used at times by non-intellectuals to sound more “smart” do not interest me much but true work and ideals certainly do. When I was in college a very dear friend sent me a postcard from Oxford, she used a couple of words, that I will admit I had to look up in the dictionary, I didn’t mind it, because she was/is a genius (Emily Journeay Cromwell), she didn’t match her socks or care of such mundane tasks like cleaning her room. Her mind was full of life. And so these ideals make perfect sense to them, and that is the only thing that matters. You can talk in big words, and be a genius, and it may not make sense to me. But it may make sense to you and I cannot and will not judge anyone for that.

I have mostly gotten off topic, as usual, however, my point will be forthcoming soon. As I continue to write, you will see aspects of me that otherwise you would not know, don’t judge. Read. If you don’t like it, don’t ever read it again. But don’t send me texts or emails and tell me my blog is disgusting and yuck (that’s why there is a fucking content warning); well guess what there are 6K people out there who don’t think that way at all. Don’t worry, I brush it off. My writing coach, Coach Cleaver I call him, says we all have a voice inside ourselves; it then becomes our choice to listen or push it to the back of our minds and as a writer you can only write what you know well, the rest is a crapshoot. I think he’s fucking right, I know a lot, I am no genius, but I have experienced a lot and have learned from all of it - good and bad.  In those situations I had to be crazy. Those situations have made me who I am. In a world where we are all free to express how we feel, through whatever medium; I am certainly happy that I have the freedom to say what I want in this century, and not to be judged by it.

Jawbreakers

The Roman philosopher Cicero believed that in order to have a true friendship with someone, one must have complete honesty, truth, and trust. He also thought that friends would do things for each other without expectation of repayment. If a friend is about to do something wrong, one should not compromise one's morals and let the friend commit the action--one should explain what is wrong about the action, and help one's friend understand what is right. Cicero believed that ignorance is the cause of evil.

Basically Cicero was a pimp. But think about it; isn't it truly amazing how important friendships are in life?!? I feel absolutely sorry for anyone without good-great fucking ghetto fabulous friends, like mine. It's even more amazing where your friends will take you, if you trust them. They push you to the edge and yank you back just as you are about to fall. Real friends, not the bubble gum, in your life for a moment, kind of friends, but the jawbreaker, last forever kind of friends. The ones who you can call and ask to come over with booze & cigarettes because you are upset. The kind of friends, who can tell by the tone of your voice or a look on your face that something is not right, the same friends who are okay with you saying "I don't want to talk about it anymore" or, "I need a time out". The kind of friends who call you out on your shit and notice when you are in your "head". 

The kind of friends who pick you up from the airport with roadie mimosas (and edibles). The kind of friends who loan you their ski polls when your slow ass snowboarding self gets stuck without an ounce of momentum. The kind of friends who get that you are a sucker for a man in converse. The kind of friends who aren't afraid to tell you that you look good, or you look bad, or that you are miserable. The kind of friends who are never fake happy for you and never hesitate to tell you, you deserve better. 

The kind of friend that cherishes your friendship so much that when you do argue - you know that even if it takes time, you'll talk about it, work it out move on and still be friends. The drama free kind of friends. 

I am thankful to each and every one of my hard as a rock friendships. Those friendships transcend time zone, area code and gender; these lovely ladies and gentlemen inspire me to be better person and make being weird me, so much easier.


But it's 2013 and "friendships" have changed as we have gotten older and now in the age of Facebook, where people have to "accept" your friendship (where stalking, posting, poking and tagging are all acceptable definitions of "friendship"), maybe it's made us look at them even more, I mean shouldn't we?.  

I'm the kind of girl that believes in the laws of attraction. I'm the girl in life that likes to keep the good- the good in anything. I'm the girl that stops in the middle of a bustling crosswalk to pick up a penny. I'm the girl that spots a quarter in the foot area of a city cab, and doesn't hesitate to get her hand dirty to grab that twenty-five cents (no chip mani). I'm the girl that will fight you for 14 cents on the ground outside Cocktail. I'm the girl that will walk up to a random stranger and tell them they look nice, because they do, and everyone deserves to hear genuine compliments, key word GENUINE. 

I'm the girl that keeps old notes from college friends, even if I am not particularly close with that friend anymore; because when it was good, it was fucking phenomenal (Staci H. Stover, I still have a box of handmade cards and notes XO). 

I'm girl that feels that you only get back what you put out in life, in love - into the world. You put out good, you get good. With the right energy life brings us encounters with good people, great people in fact. They are bursts of sunshine into our life that you did not know existed.They see you for the good that resides in you and bring positive to your world. I think all too often, we take advantage of those people in our life. They can be gone in a moments time. Some of them you are not sure you will ever get back and some you never do.  I'm the pot calling the kettle black here but, sometimes in life we are too cynical to see the good and too idiotic to see the bad. I will be the first to admit I am great at posing artificial friendships, infinitely not as good at forging real friendships sometimes because, that requires me to open up. I will also admit that over the last three years, that part of me has vastly changed. I think the thing that bothers me most as of late; are people who create a false sense of intimacy in order to gain entry, those are the most sad, lost souls of all, and the most deceitful. I try to see the good in everyone, but sometimes if there is bad, you just have to let it go.  I would venture to say that over half of my friends don't have a clue how near and dear they are to me or how much they matter. In their own way, each has been by my side during difficult times and not even known that they made all the difference and that being with them in that moment made me all the better. But the best friends in life won't let you cheat, lie or steal. Cheat yourself, lie to yourself or steal from yourself (or go home with a skank). 

Here's to my jawbreakers, you are my rays of sun and signs of love