Slammed!

The first poetry slam took place in Chicago at the Get Me High Lounge (love the name) in 1984. This is both a happy and an unhappy coincidence. Happy because it was the year I graduated from college. Unhappy because — oh! — how my bookish high school classmates and fellow English majors would have shone!

Since then, poetry slams have become a badge of the proud poetic nerd. Especially now that the Internet affords such a huge audience. (Think of the web as the world's largest coffee house with hundreds of millions snapping their beatnik fingers in appreciation.)

Competitive poetry performance? What better way for women to express themselves!

Here are two of my favorite performance poems. As the mother of a teenage girl, these have a profound message for me. They are variations on a theme, one written by newcomer Savannah Brown, and the other by a veteran slammer, Katie Makkai.

Brown is just seventeen years old and she wrote her epic in response to a video that a sixteen-year-old boy, Nash Grier, posted on Vines. It was called "What Guys Look For In Girls." It wasn't exactly upbeat — or respectful.

The backlash was so great that Grier has removed the offending post and unplugged his YouTube account. (Yay backlash!)

Here is Brown's response:


When I first learned that no one could ever love me more than me
a world of happiness previously unseen was discovered
because somewhere along the line of aging and scrutiny and time
I was taught to despise myself
but I made sure I kept myself beautiful so someone would love me someday
so I could belong to someone someday
because that's the most important thing a little girl could ever want, right?
I was thirteen the first time I was embarrassed about my body
of course it would not be the last
and I remember stuffing my bra in the morning 
with tears stinging my eyes 
hoping, praying to something that I could look beautiful enough today, braces and all, for the ruthless boys
who mercilessly told me I was worthless
because my boobs weren't big enough
and I would go home and put on a sweatshirt with my eyes closed,
deny myself the right to be shown myself,
because I didn't dare want to insinuate beauty 
in regards to something so insulting as my body.
But I mean we all end up with our heads between our knees
because the only place we'll ever truly feel safe
is curled up inside skin we've been taught to hate
by a society that shuns our awful confidence and feeds us our own flaws
and sometimes when I need to meet the me that loves me, I can't find her,
a reminder that the mirror is meant to be a curse so I confine her in my mind 
but when when he or she shouts let me out
we're allowed to listen.
But it's met by a chorus of conceited
egotistical 
narcissist 
but since when was self solicitude a sin?
since when was loving who we are made an offense by morons that don't matter
change this physicality and that one, don't you shatter the illusion you could ever 
be anything beyond paper fine flesh and flashy teeth and fingernails
echoic accusations of not good enough, never good enough
have you ever felt so numb that it hurts
entertain me
whore
you can't surrender to them 
you gotta remember you're the only thing you'll ever truly have
and no I don't mean your body because someday it'll go bad no matter what you do
I mean you
I mean the way your bright eyes go wild when you smile
and how your laughter's so melodic it's a song
I mean the way your creativity's a compass that leads you to what you love
and you don't need any miracle cream to keep your passions smooth, hair free
or diet pills to slim your kindness down
and when you start to drown in these these petty expectations
you better examine the miracle of your existence
because you're worth so much more than your waistline
you're worth the beautiful thoughts you think
and the daring dreams you dream, undone and drunk off alcohol of being
but sometimes we forget that
because we live in a word where the media pulls us from the womb
nurses us
and teaches us our first words
skinny pretty skinny pretty
girls soft quiet pretty
boys manly muscles pretty
but I don't care whether it's your gender, your looks, your weight, your skin, or where your love lies 
none of that matters because standards don't define you
you don't live to meet credentials established by a madman
you're a goddamn treasure whether you wanna believe it or not
and maybe that's what everyone should start looking for.

Twelve years earlier, Katie Makkai expressed similar issues about the word we all use a thousand times a day with our little daughters: "Pretty." (Warning, there is some adult language here — but in my opinion, it's appropriate.)


When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother. 

“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy. 

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me. 

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable. 

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”

The Afghan Women's Writing Project, a collective of women who risk their lives (quite literally) to write poetry, states that:

"To Tell One's Story Is A Human Right."

Right on, ladies. Write on.


If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

For the Love of Chocolate

Last week, my teenage daughter had her annual physical. She was checked out from head to toe (much of the exam took place while I was in the waiting room; this in itself is a fairly new development and another reminder that she's a young adult now). 

The doctor asked about her activities, her grades, and at one point she turned to me and asked if I had any concerns about nutrition.

"Um ..." I stalled. Would she call Social Services if I came clean about the vast amounts of chocolate chip cookie dough ingested in our house?

"She has a sweet tooth," I offered up coyly. In all fairness, though, I quickly added the caveat "She gets it from me."

My daughter is trim, slim, and exceedingly healthy. She is rarely ill (just check her school attendance record). She's extremely strong for her size and, according to her multiple President's Awards for Physical Fitness, one of the fastest runners in town.

I say all this (more like brag about it) out of self-defense. Yes, I admit that I let my daughter have sugar and chocolate sometimes. Okay, often. Okay, every meal. So sue me.

We all have our vices. Most of us have addictions too. I've always figured that — in the grand scheme of things, in the terrifying teenage world of drugs and alcohol — chocolate ain't so bad when it comes to chemical dependencies. 

There are genuine, actual, honest-to-goodness benefits to eating chocolate. Really, check it out. (Remember, if it's on the Internet, it must be true.) According to some reports, chocolate is actually a health food. All right, so maybe these reports are funded by chocolate manufacturers ... still, it does a mom's heart good to know that she is providing her offspring with sound nutrition. For example ...

Women who eat chocolate during pregnancy are happier (well, duh!) and have happier babies. (For the record, my daughter was a very happy baby.)

Regularly eating chocolate inhibits the production of stress hormones. Less stress means you're less likely to eat ... well ... chocolate. So, apparently, it's a win-win.

Small amounts of chocolate decrease the risk of high blood pressure and heart disease. (Okay, how small?)

Something in chocolate called flavanols can help reduce the risk of sunburn. (And, no, you don't have to rub it all over you at the beach. Unless you want to.)

Dark chocolate actually decreases cravings for sweets (sweets like chocolate, I suppose).

Chocolate can suppress coughs as well as codeine. (Uh-oh, I think I feel a cough coming on. Quick, pass the Godiva!)

Dark chocolate helps prevent diabetes (and not having diabetes makes it easier to enjoy things like — you guessed it — chocolate).

Drinking cocoa (liquid chocolate) increases your brain power for two to three hours.

And, the pièce de résistance au chocolat? When we eat chocolate, it contains an amine called phenylethylamine. This releases neurochemicals norepinephrine and dopamine. This, in turn, triggers the release of oxytocin, testosterone and endorphins. (Are you getting all this? There will be a sophomore Honors Chemistry quiz in a minute.)

Essentially — chemically — eating chocolate is the same as falling in love. So, no need to call Social Services; I'm an amazing mother. I ply my daughter with health food and I enable her to feel not just good, but head-over-heels terrific.

What can I say? Better living through chemistry.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

College Visits Part 3: Touring In a Winter Wonderland

This past weekend, we went off for our first ski trip of the season. The drive up to Vermont was long and cold and boring and unpleasant. But, it was a veritable picnic compared with what we woke up to Saturday. Freezing rain. Black ice. In the words of Seinfeld's soup nazi:

"No ski for you!"

The good news is that I would have company all day. The bad news? I would have company all day.

I gave up schussing several years ago. Even in the finest conditions, I find it scary, expensive, scary, cold, scary, uncomfortable, and scary. (Did I mention scary?) So, you might think that ski trips would be dull, right? Wrong! As soon as I wave my husband and teenage daughter off to the mountain, the fun begins. Yoga at the resort's spa (with an extremely handsome instructor), a nice sauna or hot tub, steaming cups of coffee, an afghan (blanket, not canine) and some book I've longed to read but haven't found the time. If I feel like it, I meet the intrepid athletes for lunch at the base lodge restaurant. If I feel like it, I browse some of the boutiques in the village. If I feel like it, I go for a long walk through the woods.

I say, "if I feel like it," because, essentially, I don't have to do anything unless I feel like it. Heaven.

So, not this trip. We toasted bagels and hung out with our friends until late morning, catching up and sharing funny things we found online. (Between the four adults and one teen, we had five smart phones, two ipads and three laptops.) Then we piled into an SUV and headed north for lunch and shopping.

After some "artisanal" pizza (if that's not the most overused word of the century, I don't know what is), we drove into Burlington. With one college-bound teenager in the car and two more back home (our friends have twin boys), we decided to look at University of Vermont.

If you've been paying attention, dear reader, it won't surprise you that our first stop was the UVM Equine Center. My daughter has already toured the enormous UKY and the tiny Otterbein. With nearly 13,000 students, UVM was right in the middle. In fact, if Goldilocks visited the three schools, she might declare it to be "just right."

This particular Mamma Bear was pleased to see how enthusiastic her cub was. I know it's her decision, not mine. I know that Kentucky and Ohio are only a few hours away by plane. But, the prospect of my daughter staying in New England, attending a school I can actually drive to, and maybe even joining us for future ski trips ... well, can you blame me for smiling?

The equine center was gorgeous, and the two work-study students we ran into were informative and welcoming. They suggested we stop by the student center too. I could tell that my daughter was imagining herself there. I tried not to gush too much.

We spent the bulk of the afternoon in downtown Burlington. It's a great little city with shops and pubs, coffee and Ben & Jerry's ice cream. My daughter raided the local Urban Outfitters, our friends looked at ski jackets, and I bought a hippy-chick batik skirt (when in Rome ...). Again, I could tell my daughter was projecting how it would feel to live near this college town. Again, I held my peace.

On Sunday morning, the sun came out. It was too late to ski, so my girlfriend and I ran into the picturesque town of Warren for some quick shopping. We both found great things on sale, and as we were paying, the clerk overheard us talking about the impromptu college visit.

"You never really get over it," she confided. "Mine is ... well, she's 31 now. But I still remember how hard it was. No one really warns you, and you're supposed to keep your chin up. But, you never get over it. Then they come back and they're an adult."

My friend, nodded and I knew she was thinking of her boys waiting back at home. "I know I'll cry every day," she said.

I agreed, and mentioned the end of a wonderful movie, Enough Said. At the airport, as they watch their daughter leave for school, two parents (amicably divorced, but that's a different part of the story) comfort each other: "We made a good person."

I think we've made a good person too. And, somehow I'll survive this parting that's ahead. It occurred to me, as it often does, that having a child is the greatest act of faith. 

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Lyrics, Only Teenage Lyrics

Several times a week, I drive my teenage daughter to and from the stable where we board her horse. At this point, with the permission (and permit) of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, plus several hours of professional instruction under her skinny little belt, she could actually do the driving. 

Except she can't. Because I'll have a heart attack. And then where would we be?

I could write an entire post — multiple posts, really — about the sheer and almost illogical terror I'm experiencing when the fruit of my womb is behind the wheel of my car. And, I'm sure I will. 

But, not now.

Right now, I want to talk about another rite of teenage passage. Song lyrics, those anthems of angst that define today's adolescents just as they did when you and I were sixteen.

You see, on one of our recent car trips, the oldies station (yes, I'm an oldie, I admit it) was playing The Who. I was singing along without much thought, when I realized how silly I (not to mention Roger Daltrey) sounded:

Don't cry
Don't raise your eye
It's only teenage wasteland

I'm nearly 52. (Holy crap.) Daltrey is nearly 70. (HOLY CRAP.) Meanwhile, the only teenager in the picture was quietly texting in her seat, ignoring  her mother, ignoring the ancient rockstar, ignoring all that teen trauma from long, long ago.

I wasn't a huge Who fan (although I did see the Tommy movie a couple, well several, okay about a hundred times). My teen years were all about Elton John:

I'll be a teenage idol, just give me a break
I'm gonna be a teenage  idol, no matter how long it takes
You can't imagine what it means to me
I'm gonna grab myself a place in history
A teenage idol, that's what I'm gonna be


And Meatloaf:

Ain't no doubt about it
Baby got to go out and shout it
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
'Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed

Of course, my daughter and her friends have their own musician gods and their own anthems of angst. Today's pop music includes countless songs about the trials and tribulations (and torture) of being a teen, about first love, about partying. For example, "Up All Night" by One Direction, "Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry, "We Are Young," by Fun.

Or anything at all by Taylor Swift.

My daughter's musical tastes run more toward small, indie groups. She and her BFFs go to a concert every month or so (long nights of fun for them; long nights, period, for the parents). "Their" bands often open for better known acts. On more than one occasion, they've gotten to meet them, take selfies, snag a broken, autographed drumstick. 

Good times.

Every generation has its own soundtrack. And, every decade produces an extensive catalog of teen music. Years from now (years and years and years from now), my daughter will probably find herself driving her own teenager somewhere. A song will come on and — miraculously, musically — the years will peel away. She'll feel sixteen again, like I did a couple of days ago.

And the generation gap will never feel wider.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Affluenza and Other Epidemics

Have you heard the term "affluenza?"

It's a clever mash-up of affluence and influenza, but it isn't exactly new. In 2005, Clive Hamilton and Richard Denniss published Affluenza: When Too Much Is Never Enough. The book explains that people who "aspire to the lifestyles of the rich and famous at the cost of family, friends and personal fulfilment" create for themselves stress, depression and even obesity. Two years later, Oliver James, a British psychologist, published Affluenza: How To Be Successful and Stay Sane. He talks about "selfish captalism" or "placing a high value on money, possessions, appearances (physical and social) and fame." He also sees affluenza as an important factor in the rise of mental illness. 

Last month, affluenza was used as a legal defense in a Texas case involving a drunk teenage driver. 

Young Ethan Couch was caught stealing beer on a store surveillance camera before taking seven friends for a ride in his father's truck. He was speeding with a blood alcohol level of three times the legal limit (and traces of valium in his system too). He killed four pedestrians and injured another eleven.

Open and shut case, right? Wrong.

One word: affluenza.

You see, the young man had money. The young man had clever lawyers. And, the young man, according to those clever lawyers, had never learned right from wrong because he was brought up in such a privileged family and never taught to take responsibility for his actions. Rather than incarcerate this 'poor little rich boy,' he was sentenced to ten years probation and one year in a program for troubled teenagers.

Unbelievable, right? Just wait. It gets more so.

Cited as evidence were incidents from earlier in Couch's life. He started driving, illegally, at thirteen. At fifteen, the police found him with a naked, unconscious girl in his car. Rather than look at these past events as an indictment on his character or behavior (bad seed, anyone?), they were held up as part of the defense. Since he wasn't punished for those earlier transgressions, he shouldn't be this time either.

Does this kid have issues? Maybe. Is that mighty cold comfort to the families of any of his victims? Hell, yes. And if the judge, in all his wisdom, honestly, truly (madly, deeply) believed that Couch wasn't at fault because his parents didn't do their job, shouldn't they be held responsible? As in legally?

The whole story is stunning.

Affluenza is about the Twinkiest of "Twinkie defenses" I've ever heard. It's appalling really. And, it made me wonder where we draw the line. My own teen daughter does know the difference between right and wrong, and I believe (I know) she would never do anything as stupid, as destructive or deadly as this stupid, destructive, deadly boy. But, like most upper middle-class parents, I've tried to make things smooth for her.

I wonder sometimes just how far is too far.

What about those harmless white lies we tell on their behalf? Like when we send a note to a teacher excusing an absence (or the absence of completed homework).

And how about cheating? I know many (many) well-meaning moms who have edited their children's essays well past the point of merely proofreading. Not just schoolwork either, but college application essays.

Or when we drive over the limit with our teen in the car, aren't we showing them that it's ok to speed? And even more important maybe, aren't we telling them that it's ok to break the law?

How about when they see us, y'know, "fudge the numbers" on our income tax? Or drink or get high? What about calling in sick when we're ... well ... not?

We've all heard (and probably said) "Do as I say, not as I do." But, who are we fooling? Not our teens. Do we really expect our children to live by rules we aren't following? Wake up.

Stephen Sondheim wrote brilliant lyrics about this for his show Into The Woods. The song is called "Children Will Listen."

Careful the things you say
Children will listen
Careful the things you do
Children will see and learn
Children may not obey, but children will listen
Children will look to you for which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say "Listen to me"
Children will listen

Any children listening to the judicial system of the state of Texas last month learned an invaluable lesson.

Money walks.


If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

How to Torture Your Teen, Totes Magotes

A word to the wise ... if you want to lose all cred with your teenager, try speaking to them with the latest and greatest adolescent slang. Talk about an eye-roll-apalooza!

If you want to really torture them, continue to do so.

I've been in marketing for ... oh ... "a lot" of years. (Nearly 30 at last count — holy senior citizen, Batman!) One of the most important things I've taught my various copywriters to focus on is speaking the target audience's (the customer's) language. Do this well and they'll buy your product, use your service, follow you anywhere. Do it not-so-well and the jig is up.

In fact, if you try and fail, you are worse off than if you never tried at all. People have built-in bullsh*t meters. They know when you're just an ad agency making a lame attempt to sound like an engineer or a teacher or a housewife.

And, guess who has the finest tuned bullsh*t meters of all? Teens!

That's why I have to assume that the target audience for a brilliant Sprint ad isn't really teenagers; it's their parents. You've probably seen it. James Earl Jones and Malcolm McDowell, two theatrical heavyweights, decked in tuxedos and serious as hell, recite "Lizzy and Kim's" call. 

ANNCR: Sprint honors Lizzy and Kim's call on our new network.

JEJ: Ryan is a total Hottie McHotterson.

MM: Obvi. He's amazeballs. He's like the hottest hottie that ever hottied.

JEJ: He's like a hottie times infinity plus another infinity. And his smile is totes adorbs.

MM: Totes Magotes. It's cray-cray adorbs.

JEJ: Totes Magotes.

ANNCR: In honor of the important things you do, save up to $100 on any new phone when you switch to Sprint.

Okay, there's an ad I wish I'd written. Or directed. Or served coffee at the craft services table between takes. I think the dialogue is hysterical.

My daughter? Not so much.

There isn't a single line, a single phrase, a single hottie, adorbs or totes (much less, magotes) in that script that would ever come out of my daughter's mouth. Or her friends'. Or their friends'.

In Sprint's defense, they didn't actually coin these colloquialisms. "Totes Magotes" (alternately spelled "Totes McGotes") came from the 2009 Paul Rudd movie I Love You, Man. 

Wait a minute ... 2009? That's like totes forever ago! Like forever times infinity plus infinity plus one! Totes! No wonder my daughter has moved on.

In this case, and much to the teens' collective chagrin, the ad and all its vocabulary vagaries have taken on a life of their own. Never was a concept so ripe for memes. Like this one, my personal (totes magotes) fave:

Next time you want to bug your teenager, wait until you're in some public place, preferably populated by other teenage types, and tell them that they're just "adorbs" and you really really love them ... "totes magotes."

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Resolved

Yesterday, as my teenaged daughter, her father and I drove home from our annual New Year's in New York, I halfheartedly brought up the idea of resolutions. 

No one bit.

I myself love resolutions. Making them that is; not necessarily following through. Like all resolution-makers, my heart is always in the right place on December 31st. It's just my head (and stomach) that shift gears later.

For me, resolutions fall into the same category as brand new datebooks (yes, I'm still an analog girl when it comes to my beloved New Yorker magazine desktop planner, an annual Christmas gift from my husband). It's all about the clean slate. The chance for a perfect (well, at least a perfect-er) new year.

I'm not sure when I made my first of these infamous lists, probably fourth grade when I started keeping a diary. At that point, my dreams were pretty ... well ... dreamlike. I wanted to write the (next) great American novel (my best friend Naomi and I had discovered Gone With the Wind by then). I wanted to be an actress. Or a singer. Or a flight attendant.

By junior high, my annual goals were less lofty. In fact, they were less everything. Just plain less. From then on, the first page of all my journals began with a list of resolutions that began with ...

1. Lose weight

Oh sure, sometimes I would shake it up a bit and pretend to be concerned with my health ...

1. Exercise regularly and eat a more healthy diet

But, the subtext was always the same ...

1. Lose weight

Now, in my fabulous (and, let's face it, fatter) 50s, I find it astonishing that my teeny tiny teen self was worried about her weight. What I wouldn't give to fit into those Calvin Klein size 8s! Today, I'm in NYDJ ("Not Your Daughter's Jeans"), and we'll just gloss right over what size they are.

It's not like I haven't tried to stay slim. By the time I was 16, my daughter's age, and long into my college and young adult years, I worked at it. Take it from me, I've tried a multitude of diets and diet aids, such as ...

• TAB (was there ever a more disgusting taste?)
• The plain yogurt diet
• The cucumber diet
• The egg drop soup diet
• The pear diet
• The write everything down in a little notebook diet
• Tiger's Milk protein bars
• Fasting
• Carnation Instant Breakfast
• Dexatrim (over the counter, so it had to be safe, right?)
• Bran muffins
• Salads with day-glow diet French dressing
• A 21-Day Cleanse
• Vegan eating
• Vegetarian eating
• "Pescetarian" eating
• The Zone and Weight Watchers
• No carbs, low carbs, all carbs

The latest craze is IF, Intermittent Fasting. I did this for three days and finally came to my senses with a big, fat "WTF?" that would have made my texting teen proud.

Yesterday, I was hoping for a more enthusiastic response to my resolutions suggestion (in fairness, my daughter was listening to "American Authors," her new FAVORITE BAND EVER, OMG!). But, I am so happy that she isn't obsessing about her weight. She is fit, she is active, and she really enjoys food. Really, really. In this, as in many things these days, I should take a lesson from her.

So, in that spirit, here is my number one resolution for 2014:

1. Have more fun

And number two?

2. Invest in another pair of NYDJs

Happy New Year!


If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.