Sticky Situations
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Sticky Situations
Daily Life concerns, confusions & calamities
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OUR TRUE LOVE WAYS | Sticky Situations |

What’s Love Got To Do With It?


Try as we might there’s no avoiding it…in and at the center of every conversation, concern, effort, adventure, desire or intention stands one, ineffable, often-elusive, ever-glittering temptress: love.


Certainly we oh-so-often attempt to over-power love. Certainly we insist that wrestling it to the ground to smash its damp face in the dust, shall allow us dominance. Certainly we easily forget its many-armed capacities and proceed as if it has but one or another way of being expressed.


But no matter what our illusions, distractions and tight-gripped methods, we over and over find ourselves trembling before love’s temple – weak-kneed, bloodied, bowed and realizing our eternal powerlessness in the face of its potent brilliance.

So how shall we proceed? What in the world can we do to upright ourselves -- to stand brightly before this gleaming Diety??


I’m speaking in spectacular terms here because really, underneath all the garbage talk about pumping, humping, getting, having, wanting, finding, clinging and fleeing one overwhelming thing remains – everyone – and I mean everyone – needs to discover their relationship to Love.


You see there’s no moment in your life that this dynamic doesn’t infuse. Do you love your job? Do you love your friends? Do you love your partner? Do you have a partner to love? Do you love your gender? Do you engender love? Do you love sex? Is there love in your sex? Do you love creatively? Do you love creativity? Do you feel worthy of love? Do you love your ideas? Do you love your path? Do you love your life? Do you love yourself? Do you love Life itself?


And then there’s all the: if not, how not? If not, why not? If not, when?


This magazine will explore the million arms of love -- everything from addiction to food to the patterns seen in the stars to the patterns seen in our daily news. We will investigate our relationship to these experiences and events. And with each investigation you will be asked to ask: Where am I in this picture and how does this speak to me of love?


We are beginning a new adventure in a time where old narrow constructs shall be found sorely wanting. We have the opportunity to discover ourselves in innovative, thrilling ways.


Walk with me as we tread not so lightly through the forest of our days and nights to realize fresh visions.



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Food for Thought

Food for Thought | Sticky Situations |


Yes, yes, I’m sure you have seen this title a zillion times, but have you ever really “thought” about it? No, I’m not trying to be clever (well, perhaps a little), just urging you to look a little deeper into these three words. How much of our thought process is taken up by food? I don’t have the survey on hand, but for arguments sake, lets just go with heaps. Heaps of our waking moments are filled with food-related thoughts but do we give these thoughts the time and energy they deserve?


Oh dear, I see your eyes glazing over already, your finger ready to flip the page, BUT WAIT!!!


I understand. Health, food, energy, well-being, etc, are such huge subjects with such a monumental amount of information to sort through, theories and practices, that one can quickly become lost or disenchanted with it all. I follow the rule of S’s, well just one S really: Simplify. There is an L in there also: Listen. Listen to yourself. We know what’s good and bad for us on a basic level without even thinking about it, it’s built in. Our bodies know what they like and don’t like, we just need to listen to ourselves. The perfect analogy is that age-old question. Would you like fries or salad?? Now the mind goes straight into turmoil, as it knows the salad is the better option, but it wants the fries because they taste awesome and will provide a quick fix of pleasure. After lunch however, the fries option will be regretted as you begin to feel like a quick nap as that heavy sedated feeling you knew was coming sets in. You then may get annoyed at yourself for giving in to your desires again and it’s a lose-lose. Terrible, I know, and we are faced with this conundrum many times in any given week.


Solution? Forget about your mind, listen to your body! Your body doesn’t want the fries, it rarely does. It prefers the salad for its alkalinity to help balance the acid you are ingesting with your sandwich or what not. Therefore, after lunch, your body is happier and so is your mind as it pats you on the back for making the informed choice, win-win.


Simple right? That was the easy part, I didn’t mention anything about the entrée that goes with your salad. Is the ham nitrate free? Is the butter organic? Was the turkey happy before it was butchered? Do you have gluten-free bread? Are the tomatoes local? Is Angus beef any better for you or is it just the latest buzzword?? The list goes on and on until you are so confused and hungry you order the burger and the fries!

Your personal quest for better health does not need to be so stressful. Eating should be fun and enjoyable and that’s what I am all about. All this talk of nutrition has taken the playfulness out of food and it needs to be brought back. Use what you have on hand, use what you already know. Apples are food, Twinkies are not. 7-grain fresh-baked bread is food, Wonder Bread is not. Manchego is food, Velveeta is not. Eat, shop and cook because its fun and makes you feel alive and in control, not because you think you should. Manchego on a fresh slice of bread with a little olive oil and sea salt, followed by an apple. Yum, yum and yum, lets go for a run! Add the other three together? Gross!! I know this is extremely obvious but my point is, eat because its exciting and something to look forward to! Besides sleep and watching TV, it’s the thing we spend most of our life doing so it should be exciting! So lets not over think our food. Take it slowly, one piece at a time. Listen to your body and do it because it feels awesome.

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DARK KNIGHT | Sticky Situations |

By Adele Uddo


There’s a fine and excruciating line between dreams and nightmares.

When I was 12 years old, I went to New York City for the first time. My Uncle Joe and his bride-to-be were deeply in love, and the whole Uddo family was coming from New Orleans to celebrate a joyful affair.


For weeks, I awaited anxiously the day when I would put down the compost bucket, board the plane solo, and arrive in the big city to reunite with my dad.

The trip was everything I dreamed of: the girl from the commune suddenly a Princess at the fancy Helmsley Palace hotel, on the arm of her Prince, staring up at the big buildings that seemed to touch the sky.


The day before the wedding, Dad bought me a red Ralph Lauren dress and patent leather shoes - surely a more appropriate choice than the tattered thrift-store-special Gunne Sax I packed, that doubled on occasion as a nightgown.


The night before the wedding, a group of us ate at Patsy’s Italian restaurant, a family favorite, and saw Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat on Broadway. Afterwards, we hopped into a horse and buggy, singing The Sound of Music over galloping horses, while Dad and Joe walked back to the hotel.


We arrived at The Palace still singing and excitedly anticipating the next day. Then Joe, along with his two daughters, his younger brother Mark, and his new wife, all left for Joe’s house in Jersey.


The next thing I remember in the middle of the night was a pounding on the hotel room door and my dad, usually a heavy sleeper, jumping abruptly to answer and then slamming the door behind him.


Silence enveloped the room, except for the thumping of my heartbeat. Aunt Melanie soon appeared and ushered me into her room, where I slept through the night.

Upon waking, I found her sitting on the edge of my bed. She told me that Joe and Mark’s newlywed wife took Joe’s Corvette out for a late night spin and never made it home. They were found hours later in the car, wrapped around a telephone poll. Mark’s wife was behind the wheel and had been killed on impact. Joe died later that night at the hospital.


Melanie soon excused herself to throw up in the bathroom, while I paced the hallway to avoid doing the same.


The only thing that calmed me was the thought of my dad soon returning with open arms to assure us all. I could hear him saying, “You know, sometimes horrible things happen in life…but we got to pull ourselves together and go see Dream Girls.”


Of course my twelve-year-old interpretation of such a tragedy was naïve at best.

When the door was flung open, he stood there, red and wet, with an expression I had not seen. He stumbled toward me, tackled me to the floor and wept.


Hours before this horrendous heartbreak, we were touring monuments, flying high above the city in a helicopter…and now I felt the heavy weight of my father’s body, crushing and crashing as it landed.


I was at once initiated into the underworld of adult suffering, a world with which I would become evermore intimate with in the years to follow.


We came to New York for a wedding, and left for two funerals.


Following the accident, Dad hit a brick wall of depression. Soon after, his best friend died in a motorcycle accident and another friend drowned in a bathtub.


Night after night, I stayed up late with Dad as he played sad songs and talked in between:


“I saw his brains come out of his nose Deli…. Uncle Joe was more of a dad to me than Honey.”


“Ya’ know, Honey used play this game with Joe and me when we wa’ kids. He’d stand us next to each other, and poke us with needles in the butt, and he’d say the first one to say “Ouch”, didn’t love him. Befora’ Honey even touched Joe, Joe would scream, “OUCH”!”


Taking a deep drag of his cigarette and another sip of scotch, he said, “But when he got to me, I would grind my teeth and take that needle in all the way.”


Then, looking deeply into my eyes he said, “Last night I almost took a right hand turn off the Causeway bridge, but I didn’t…because of you.”


Another slow drag.


“Ya’ gonna’ miss me when I’m gone,” he said.


“Dad, please don’t say that. If you died, I would die,” I said through tears.


“Stop that,” he said softly. “You rememba’ to look at my example of what not to do.”


Trying to muster new hope, I said, “Dad, think about Fountainhead!”


Despite my efforts, Dad soon turned to harder drugs and began ‘poking’ himself with needles. While he got his fix, I tried fixing the situation. I became his personal cheerleader, for if I could make him happy, even for a moment, maybe I’d get a glimpse of the soul I once knew…


My once robust father began to look skinny and meek. He started covering his arms, where he once rolled his sleeves above big biceps.


When I confronted him about the blood on his shirts, he told me he “cut” himself. I didn’t believe him…but I didn’t believe he’d lie to me with such sincerity. Though I knew my father had a tendency to lie, I tried ignoring the alarms sounding within me. Maybe he did cut himself...maybe I was seeing things.


I became better at distracting myself. By the time I reached my early twenties and travelled to Asia as an under-sized model, I hoped to forget about him and his problems, as I hid midst the crowded, sterile streets of Tokyo.


One night, between trips to Asia, I went with some friends to a Seal concert in Berkeley. It was the first time I drank a martini (Dad’s favorite drink). At the end of the night, we went to a bar, where I sneaked outside to make a phone call.


“Dad! I just saw the most amazing concert and I thought of you the whole time. It was at the Greek Theater, you would LOVE this place! The sky was so clear, you could see all the stars and Seal was awesome Dad! I really wished you were there. Remember that time we saw Prince in Dallas and I jumped up and down the whole time and you and Joanne couldn’t believe it? We should go to some concerts this summer! We have so much to look forward to…”


Taking a breath, I slowed down…


“I know I’ve been on your case a lot, and Frankie too, but...”


My voice cracked open as I sank to the ground with the phone still in hand.


“If you died, I would die.”


If he had tried to speak then, I could hear nothing but heaving and howling echoes. Eventually I heard him say something about rehab, and that this time he would go.

I froze, listened, barely breathed…


“You promise? You really promise? Oh God Dad, that would mean the world! You really mean it? Dad, on my life do you promise?”


Then, with a big exhale, I said, “I’ll call you in the morning. Thank you Dad. Thank you so much! I love you too.”


The next day he turned 45. Two days later, he was found in his bed. The autopsy revealed “an acute mixed drug intoxication”.


Ever since I was a little girl, my biggest fear was losing him. But somehow, I didn’t believe it would really happen - even when I saw the track marks on his ankles, watched him hallucinate, and heard his promises over and over. The last thing he said to me on the phone was, “I’m going to be ok.” I believed him. I didn’t want to believe he’d ever leave.


All my life I had believed in him, and suddenly there was nothing left but grief and a recognition that I didn’t know how to believe in myself.


I felt as though I had lost the love of my life, and was suddenly out of a job. Where would I put my energy if not into him?


My wise Grandmother once said to me, “The only person you can save is ya’self.”

Sometimes I still can’t believe he’s gone. Sometimes I still hear a small voice asking, “What about Fountainhead?”


Other times the voice asks, “Does he still feel pain? Can he still see me?”


Maybe a better question is, did he ever see me?


The high-speed roller coaster ride left many scars in its wake and didn’t stop with his death.


The love I once felt turned to rage and resentment. What lies, what waste, what a selfish asshole!


My father, the “junkie”, is only part of the picture that makes a whole man. His mystery and dimensionality can’t be summed up, cleaned up or even understood - but He can be forgiven. He did the best he could with the hands he was dealt.


Despite his limitations, there will always be a little girl who sees him larger than life.


Despite the scars left, I will always be wild with love for the man who was my father, grateful until my end for the magic he brought.


He was right: indeed I would miss him. Thankfully, I was wrong: I didn’t die with him. I’m still alive, waking up everyday to the truth of what I tried to instill in him: Life is a gift and peace is possible.


He’s not the only soul who has lost touch with the sun and made a bitter descent into the dark night. I have joined him there many times.


Though my path is different from his, I will continue the brutal work required to heal a broken legacy, so that I may LIVE that which I asked and pleaded of him.


“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen. “
Elizabeth Kubler Ross

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FOOD FOR THOUGHT | Sticky Situations |

My first recipe that I would like to call Column Snack is simple, fun, tasty and pretty much outlines my philosophy on food. Snacking is one of my favorite parts in the joys of eating.


When it comes to snacks, slash light meals or what have you, I'm a stickler for technique. I used to watch my Dad come home from work, grab a beer, and raid the fridge in search of the best snack. He would make monstrous concoctions of pickled and spicy things that my young palate had no taste for. It wasn't the ingredients I remember, it was the care and time he took making sure all the flavours were just right. Thinking back now, it was probably the beginning of my passion for savory snacks.


I suppose a sandwich isn’t technically a snack but I think that all depends on what you consider a sandwich to be. 50 slices of turkey between two pieces of bread screams afternoon nap to me, not lunch! Here is my “snackwich”:


Column Snack

Two pieces of fresh seedy bread

Quarter of a ripe avocado, sliced

2 slices of Prosciutto

3 thin slices of Manchego cheese

3 slices of tomato, lightly salted with sea salt flakes

2 olives, slicedArugula

Sprinkle of fresh oregano

Extra virgin olive oil

Squeeze of lemon

Black pepper

Red chili flakes


I like to lightly toast my bread, especially if it’s seedy or heavy for some added crunch, and to bring the flavour out of the seeds. Once you have done this, layer the ingredients in the order I have specified above, making sure to season your tomatoes with sea salt and oil (the meat and the olives already add salt to this snackwich, so go light on the salt). The olive oil, however, you can be generous with as there is no butter.

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UNDER THE INFLUENCE | Sticky Situations |

For the Love of Addiction
By Dr. Nicki J. Monti


Loaves & Fishes by David Whyte

This is not
The age of information.
This is not
The age of information.

Forget the news
And the radio
And the blurred screen.
This is the time
Of loaves and fishes.

People are hungry,
And one good word is bread
For a thousand.


Amy Winehouse, like so many musicians before her, dead at 27. Many trips in and out of rehab preceded her dying. Michael Jackson. And now Whitney Houston.


Not long ago another creative, bright, vivacious young musician I know chose to jump back into the deep end of the pills/booze pool after forty days of sobriety. In doing so she left her children, creative partner and friends behind. Getting stoned became her only want. She woke up drowning in emergency room fog, unable to recall how she got there.


Today addiction is pandemic. Sexing, sexting, eating, drinking, drugging, gambling, internet trolling, shopping and more. You name it, we crave it!


Why do some tumble and fall while with others sobriety sticks? Why?Because we're starving. Truly starving. Hungry to fill the empty hole inside. Famished for something that will quell the self-doubting or self-hatred. Ravenous for the special experience that will allow us to reconnect with our lost Soul. Some do it through drugs & booze, others through food or money or purchasing or sex or love.

Indeed, being human isn't easy. Living life on life's terms challenges every fiber. The road is seldom smooth, but then, where did we ever get the idea it's supposed to be easy? But we've come to expect easy. Ride in the car, push the button for air, push the button for communication, wait for nothing since immediacy is modern, move fast, live hard, get it all.


One problem is we've lost contact with true ancient myths --the kind that teach us of struggles overcome, new roads carved, heroes journeys pursued and battles won. We live now in the land of if when. Our imaginations seem to shrink in the wake of today's ordinary exigencies.


But we do want to reclaim our connection to fundamental wishes and dreams. Perhaps that accounts for the upsurge of competition talent shows. A sweet version of the lion's den. Prove your prowess the hard way. Get instant success. Old ways meet new perspectives.


Meanwhile the Soul remains anxious.


As long as we reach for outside soothing we will continue to feel lost.
This, as they say, is an inside job!


Remember old prayers. Seek stories, poetry, music and art that both reveal and guide. See yourself in the mirror of these art forms. Find a religion that supports a reconnection with your own still inner voice - the voice that sings your unique Soul song. BE in the world.


We are waiting to meet you.

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