G.T. 20/20: Doom Meeting

The year that nullified holidays, birthdays, franchises, and hypocrites. What’s with the screaming banshees? 2020 has been a pretty good year – it all depends on how you look at it.

Public schools were the first to close, and despite the fact that very few children actually died from the Coronavirus alone, they still haven’t reopened. The initial giddiness of a snow-day-like-closure became a depressive dread of torturous Zoom meetings. And what was once the concern for the safety and health of our children is now a political standoff with children’s education as the casualty. After all this time off, there is no going back. These teachers are going to find that out the hard way when and if they decide to show up for their paycheck like the taxpayers do. Enough with their Doom meetings. At this point, I don’t care if they ever go back to work again, we got our own thing going.

Like sleeping until 6:44 am. Having time to eat a healthy breakfast and leave a healthy lunch in the fridge for the homeschooling teens. They haven’t learned a damn thing since March, so in turn, my teens have taken to reading the news. The real news, not the media. Remote lessons, if anything, exposed the content for what it is: malleable disinformation.

For a while, there were restless nights and the feeling of uncertainty. Then it occurred to me to view 2020 as 20/20 (perfect vision) and suddenly it was hey, good things have happened this year. All this negativity, hatred, and lies made us focus on the miracles we’ve been overlooking. To Hell with the squeaky wheels. If they fall off the wagon, so what? We’re not getting anywhere with them anyway.

Good. Thing. 2020


Fed Up with Plandemic: How About Never?

So, are we going back to school or not?

Originally September 10 became September 21 and now it’s….October first. These teachers are never. going. back. to work. It may be our tax dollars still paying these remote baby-sitters, but they’re the ones being played…really. That’s kind of why I don’t care anymore.

I dropped out of high school because teachers didn’t give a shit about teaching back then – and they sure as hell don’t give a shit now – that’s public education 101. Remember when they spouted out all that bull about striving to go to college? ┬áNow you simply pass a test because a less-than-Swine-flu kept you home.

I don’t know about you, but the next time I have to get surgery, I’m going to ask the anesthegiolist and the surgeon if they graduated med school in 2020.

My advice: invest in a small distillery.




Fed Up w/Plandemic: Sunny D-prived

Vitamin D prevents death from COVID 19, but – you’ll never hear that. Despite studies saying that sunlight kills the virus since February, local city leaders incarcerated its citizens, and we started dying. Could it be that hiding in our homes caused us to become even more vitamin D difficient than usual, therefore making the most at risk more vulnerable? Possibly. But it lacks that scientific flair and it’s more convenient to spread fear than to trust what a mother would do.

The fear, at the time, was hospitals overflowing with ICU patients – but when they discovered the rooms were practically empty, they still kept the quarantine. Why? Because the absolute obedience across the country was like crack for these local officials. Every power-hungry governor became a fucking Napoleon.

Thanks to all these cowering idiots still playing the my-stomach-hurts-so-can-I-stay-home-from-school card, the New York City mayor (Big Bird), wants to enforce a $50 fine to anyone not wearing a mask on the subway.

Since half the city is unemployed, that sounds like a fantastic idea – make ’em pay a penalty with their unemployment check. Besides, NYC is down to only about six shootings a day, so, we can’t let these maskless marauders get away with spreading droplets. They’re not even getting shampooed, for Chrissakes!

Being sheep is not the new normal. Wearing a mask is not a sign of respect, it’s a sign of slavery. You want science? Read your horoscope. You don’t need to quarantine, you don’t need to sanitize every surface that you touch, or drench yourself in sanitizer – have a shot of Tito’s while sitting in the sun, instead.

The virus is real, the danger is not. Get back to life already.


Fed Up with Plandemic: ‘member?

Remember September 11?

Oh yeah, I remember.

Hey, remember metal detectors?

Yeah. Yeah! I remember those – at airports. An’ government buildings.

And high schools!

Yeah – now, we got temperature check thermometers.

And tracking lists. To ride an elevator to an empty office or have lunch inside a restaurant.

Remember restaurants? And movie theaters? They had air conditioning. Now we have to do it outside – while it’s hot. And watch out for Antifa terrorists.

They ain’t terrorists – terrorists are terrorists.

Like Russians.

Ooh diplomats. Disney and, and, and, the Taliban – hey, remember ISIS?

No – wait. The. Walking. Dead….

Yeah, I remember. They’re not as scary as crack dealers, remember them? Or mobsters – they’re the worst.

Yeah, the ones by the airport, especially. They was big, loud, and greasy.

But they wore suits, and showered. Not like now, with the hairy arm-pits and stinkin’ like shit on fire and I can’t tell if they be chicks or dicks!

Remember when you could tell the difference?

Yeah, remember when people cared?

Remember when war was war but you knew what you were fighting for?

….yeah, I remember that.


Fed Up with Plandemic: Eat Inside – Don’t Get Shot

As of September 30th, New Yorkers can dine in.

All you have to do is submit the color of your bowel movements for the next twelve-hundred hours.

The mayor and the governor (a.k.a. Dumb and Dumber) won’t ask whether dinner was followed by sexy-time, after all, it could never be as deviant as their preferences. Nipple piercing aside.

It’s amazing how the Tweedles managed to totally destroy New York. Businesses are closing. Good people are moving out. Children are disintegrating mentally and spiritually. Criminals are in control of the quality of life and it’s beginning to really, really suck.

Still, all the dictator and the bozo care about is the virus. Maybe because more people have died from it than people who actually like these assholes.

The sad thing is, I have friends who think Big Bird and Pepperoni Nipples are doing a good job. Even think one of them should run for office! Maybe if my friends lived sandwiched between two homeless shelters like me, they’d change their tune. But as it is, the city that never sleeps is overdosing on Benzos and turning into a wasteland that even Snake Plissken would reconsider entering – no, to see the light, it’ll take more than that.

A collapsed Broadway? Stupid children? Vampiric Quarantiners? Coin Vending Machines?!

The virus is real, the danger is not. Take off your masks, get back to work, and read a good book for a change.


Where Ever We Go, Amigo

In my last post about my “Odd Couple,” Cheryl of Geek Girl commented that although my boys are opposites, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s right. No matter how unlike each other they are, they are best friends. Like my sister and I – like my mother and her brother. In my heart, I hope Zuki and Samu will always forgive each other no matter how idiotic the stunt is. Hey, if my mother and I forgave our younger siblings for up and dying, then really – what could be so bad other than denying the survivor the chance to have the last word.

Word. There, I said it.

Likewise, I constantly teach my boys to respect their friends. As a second generation American, I haven’t much family here – but friends – are my backbone. From experience I know that friends are the only people not obligated to respect you back. But if you earn their trust, you can bet you’ll never feel alone.

On the day off from school, we visited good friends who defected to Westchester. Okay, they just moved – but we never got over it. The older boys have known each other since they were babies and the younger siblings were just mere ideas. We still connect, the parents the kids and the gab in between – that’s a rarity and I cherish it.

All that said, my boys crossed the line during our last get together. They outcast the little sister (who’s the same age as Samu) by claiming their group for boys only. Things eventually got smoothed over, but I let them have it when we got home.

“Never, ever, ever cast out a friend or make him or her feel left out. Would you like it if someone did that to you?”

They hung their heads in shame. Samu said, “That would hurt my feelings.”


I told them if I ever caught them excluding their friends again, I’d make them sing the theme song for “Beaches” (a.k.a. The Wind Beneath My Wings). First of all, they’re afraid of Bette Midler and I understand, she looks like a drag queen. Second, the cheesy keyboard part is just too dated for them. They’d rather move like Jagger.

While I hope their own musical preferences improve, it’s not as pertinent as their keeping their word about respecting friends.

May they always be this happy together.


Brothers, The Odd Couple

Some years ago, I trudged through “The Shack.” The writing was…”meh,” and the whole time, I pictured the main character – a father who lost his little daughter to a serial killer – as “Larry The Cable Guy” simply because his name was “Mack.” So that made it hard to take the book seriously. Still, I came away with something: that parents can’t have favorites – not even God.

Neither of my boys have had the slyness to ask me which of them is my favorite. I find that amazing because I remember constantly asking my mother whether I was her favorite and she would just ignore the question altogether, which is an answer on its own. The boys have, however, each accused me of loving the other more when I served what seemed like an uneven portion of ice cream or uncharacteristically paid a compliment to one for not screwing something up.

Truth is, if they were similar, I probably would compare them. How could you not? Fuji apples taste better than Gala apples but they don’t compare to Texas watermelon because it’s a known fact that apples go better with wine while watermelon is strictly for vodka. And I’m Sorry, oranges just don’t do it for me – even in Screwdrivers.

So after Samu and Zuki’s “Open House,” where parents get to meet the teacher and see the classroom, listen to the curriculum and look into their desk – this is what I discovered: I gave birth to the Odd Couple.

Felix Unger

Neat, huh? Almost, O.C.D-ish. Definitely not something I’d expect from a First Grader or either of my sons for that matter. But it is Samu’s desk. And just to make sure it was him and not the teacher, I checked out his classmates desks. They were slightly worse – than Zuki’s, which looked like this:

Oscar Madison

Can these two knuckleheads grow up together, without driving each other crazy?


Education Pays

New York spends over $17,000 a year for a child to attend public school. Seventeen. Thousand. For one child.

On one hand, I look at Zuki and think, $68,000 dollars – for him to look at the clock and say,”It’s fifteen thirty.” Or “I runned in the cafeteria and falled down, so I didn’t ate anything.”

Which proves all the money in the world isn’t going to make somebody make sense.

And then there’s the other guy. Samu, who’s been working on his penmanship all summer long. Now that school has inspired him to achieve his goals, he’s putting his education to good use. “I need to make my Christmas list.”

Reserving the Vampyre Kastle

Armed with the Lego catalog he’s been studying every morning after breakfast, he wrote his list – neatly. Not only that, he estimated how much all the items would cost.

“Does Santa Claus have a lot of money?” He asked.

Well, nobody’s ever demanded that he show his tax returns, so I guess we’ll never know. Samu didn’t like that answer. He also didn’t buy that Santa runs a shop with elves making the toys because then it wouldn’t be “real Lego’s” but a generic copy. According to Samu, Santa collects money and orders everything. That’s why his list needed to get to there early. But just in case, Samu added a Metrocard to the list – should he have to pick it up himself.

Now that’s $17,000 worth of learning.



Welcome to the first post of “Namzola Goodness.” Trust me, I know what I think I’m doing.

This is my third blog spot and I’m truly excited that you’re visiting because I have nothing to give away – except phobias. For New Yorkers, each phobia is a merit badge of a traumatic experience that was narrowly escaped. Personally, my phobias are New Jersey, cops and Catholic school students. For this post, I’m giving away three general phobias: the exhibitionist homeless person with violent tendencies; Central Park squirrels and Hot Pretzels from hot dog stands.

All you need to do is climb a high mountain top and scream “Maaaaaize!” Just make sure someone takes footage of it. And don’t die in the process – either of you. The first person to YouTube this buffoonery will receive all three phobias…somehow. And I’ll replace the poor footage of this jingle that started it all, with yours – as long as you include the jingle.

Credit goes to Swan, whose band Almighty Love Noise, dubbed me as “Namzola, corn goodness” during my tenure as rhythm guitarist. Other than pushing me to my musical limits, recruiting my most prized guitar and oh yeah, introducing me to my husband, all I came away with was another nickname that stuck.

Hopefully, you like corn.