Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Gossip Girl Season 3 Episode 1 - Here's All The Shit I Have

Where was Lilly? (Just because she ended up on your cell, Rufus, it doesn't count I DON'T BUY IT). I mean thank god she wasn't there because she sucks around Rufus. But on her own, I don't mind her pretentious face and slicked back pony tail. WHERE WAS LILLY? Even the 80s Lilly would have been something of interest, if not totally annoying.
Nate is dating a Buckley - of the conservative William F Buckley's I'm assuming. (He was the one that wrote Republican propaganda bedtime stories, right?) I'm sure Nate's family is so raging socialist, driving Porsche's and what not. Are we really to believe they differ so politically that there would be bad blood like the Kennedy's and the Schwarzenegger's? Oh that right, money just marries money no matter their intense, deep-hearted political leanings. I see you Govenator and cheek bones!
So Nate ditched Vanessa, and judging by her new hair extensions I'm not surprised. She's still just as Dan-obsessed as ever -- stunned to see his newly pampered ass get into a limo. She's crushing on Dan's long lost brother who is gay and seeking a trust fund (my guess).
So Dan's a total sell-out and has nothing going on but saving Serena. He fails miserably at this as usual (even bringing in Blair enforcements doesn't work - unless they meant for Serena to ride off the polo field via stolen horse to bang in the woods). That D bag whats-his-face (who coerced naive Nate into the shady poker game Season one) is back to love Serena unconditionally- since apparently they've run out of scarfed-artist-love-monsters.
And Serena's biggest contribution to the episode is her boobs. Seriously, all I noticed in each of her scenes is her boobs. She's got this Paris Hilton story line that doesn't even equal a perfume line or a ghost-written book. She's wha wha wha looking for her father who could give a shit about the third season.
Jenny's now a fag hag and lipstick model; Eric's the fag.
Blair and Chuck have been married for 30 years which has resulted in them having to make up sex games only a summer into their relationship. If it weren't for Blair's awesome dress in the last few scenes, I would have gone to film school so I could sneak onto the sound stage and spike her Tab with Drano.
Oh, and the show tried to pull off the "oh my god, they're not together anymore cos Chuck can't commit cos of his lady lust" and they try to land the story line a la 90210 when Kelly's flying back from NY and she's joining the Mile High Club with Colin - which incidentally led to the best season ever where she became a coke fiend.
Chuck looks wicked hot but the consensus in the living room is his eyebrows are too coiffed. I thought them perfectly coiffed.
I was bored, but the scenes for episode 2 where they have to acclimate to a college life look mildly interesting and if they can't beat Saved By The Bell, The College Years in entertainment value, then I'd put the kibosh on Season 4.

Friday, June 5, 2009

What Happens On the Way to Work

Herded onto the commuter train car this morning, I found my place to stand, adjusted my music, looked down and realized a burn victim sat in front of me. At least seventy percent of his face looked damaged by fire. One eye missing completely, the other appeared only sort of functional. I only took occasional liberties to gaze at him; I'm not rude. His hands looked young, healthy. His hair, moppy with curls, was dark brown and youthful. I imagined him pretty hot before the accident. I figured he must have suicidally low self-esteem with a face like that. He probably didn't have much luck with the ladies. I internally chastised myself for ever complaining about my ugly leg psoriasis. If I threw myself at him, he'd be elated, right? He'd let me ravage him, no questions asked. Who knows how long its been since he touched a woman, I assumed. Then I saw it. He had a wedding ring on his left hand. Mostly-blind-burn guy is married. And not that I want to get married, but a date of some sort with a fella I fancied would be a nice change-up.
There is no good place for breakfast near my office. Most places microwave their eggs which is sick. I figured I could just have cereal, but I didn't want cereal. I just told Nichole I was considering veganism, but all of a sudden I wanted eggs and cheddar cheese. Either corporate or microwave or both are my only options really. The burrito place uses a skillet but then I'd have to walk by my office to get there. I hate to confuse our receptionist. Boudin's is the choice I make (corporate, but just to San Francisco). While I'm waiting for my egg, cheddar and avocado on sourdough, I take a quick staff inventory: all Latino. The white people keep filing in, ordering and waiting. I feel weird. How did this happen? And it's obvious, but no one acknowledges it. Temporary satisfaction with the world: the egg was sent through an oven.
I pass a Subway, McDonald's - both staffed entirely by Latino men and women. Starbucks is the only chain which has a diverse staff, including white, black, gay. Hell, I am not even sure if a Latino person works there. Why is Starbucks different? I think I've stumbled onto some sort of phenomenon. But I consider I'm the last person to notice it and I'm not the person to figure out what it means or make an attempt to change it. I just feel weird being a part of the equation.
There are ten voice mails waiting for me, but one is a hang up. I love the hang ups.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

I'm On Vacation! Day 6 FINAL DAY - Upstate NY & The Catskills

French Press/Nutty Nuggets/Finish packing Frog/He's moving to Portland, ya know/Moving/Cleaning/Hungover/Can't shit/To Anna & Brendan's to return mattress/Omalord, goats/Ged the cat is the coolest cat ever/Dump/Dump-guy re: Beam "I drink that stuff religiously"/Unexpected trip down memory lane via shitty Clark recording/On to Heaven/I make my first pizza/Enjoy Rupa the dog/Fur like Max/John, the neighbor kid, gives us ride to Albany airport/Nice, nice kid/Security woes/Short goodbyes/Him to his gate/Me to mine/Unexpected puddle jumper to Cleveland/Entire row for sleeping to SF/I think of crashing/Again and again/We don't/I make last BART/I drink with Blalock & Nathan at Stork Club for last call/See my Ruby again/Drink shitty Tequila and use the old standby, Michael Scott, to fall asleep/Back to Oakland life for now

I'm On Vacation! Day 5- Upstate NY & The Catskills

Sleep in/French Press/Nutty Nuggets/Write/Listen to Frog's set list/Inspired/Take photos/To Heaven again/Taylor gifts to me cutie cutie Salt & Pepper shakers/Research ride to airport/No success/Make hummus!/Dinner party at Seema's, Charlie's, Rishi's/Frog's babysitting gig/Other fams come: Laurie with Charlie & Ava, Anna & Brendon with Aemon/Grill out/Fresh cheese/Lot's of red wine/More Ommegang beer/Hummus is a hit/Kids love the Frog Man/I love these full-timers/Back to the cabin/Finish the night with Beam and Ace Ventura Pet Detective

I'm On Vacation! Day 4 - Upstate NY & The Catskills

Mountain morning air/Relax on the cabin's deck/No unnatural noise/French press/Nutty Nuggets/Frog thinks better than Grape Nuts/I think just a bit different/Organic grapes/Markedly different from pesticide-infused/Apple cider vinegar Oregano Oil cocktail in my belly/Head to Heaven/Homemade Fruit & Nut bars for the road/Travel to Cooperstown for the Ommegang Brewery tour and tasting/Join a group of dudes/Miss the important part/Catch the bottling portion/The more boring of the portions/Tasting/Yumbo/Overhear recommendation for Cooley's/Use GPS and dumb luck to find Cooley's/Cooley's is a bar/Not a cool bar/Just a bar/Redeeming quality: Ommegang beer on tap/Dinner menu is useless for a veg/Frog points out Deep Fried Macaroni Wedges on the menu/I agree I've never had such a thing and yes, we should order them/The server had no qualms in recommending them/Turns out they're shaped like Chicken McMurder Nuggets/Breaded Kraft Mac & Cheese/Frog asked the nature of these treats/Cysco/I thought "Cisco" as in, they've been flown in from San Francisco/This revelation didn't come out until some time later/Frog explained Cysco is a frozen food provider/Good laugh at my naivete/Flown in from SF? Mmm, will get some fresh when I go back home!/No./Andes Hotel for real dinner/Real Republican/Sit at the bar/Enjoy only veg option: Portabello Mushroom sandwich/Share fries/I drink a Bud Light/All of a sudden: Calories Count/Back to the cabin/Read portions of Harry Chapin's autobiography/Beam/Go thru Frog's wardrobe/Abbey Ale/In bed by 3

I'm On Vacation! Day 3 - Upstate NY & The Catskills

Day 3: Upstate NY/The Catskills
7 am bus from the Port Authority/As dingy as imagined/Bus/Sleep/Four hours/Josh pick-up/To his and his wife, Taylor’s, restaurant Heaven/Norman Rockwell picturesque at every head turn/Outside and Inside/Meet Bea & Walker/Froggie’s lesbo surrogate mothers/They are cooking/They greet me heartily/Leisurely brunch of egg burrito and all the coffee I could handle/Scone/Sweet Potato home fries/Guacamole of the Gods/Meet & Greet/Many good peoples in Heaven/Time moves slow there
Grocery store trip/Drive for miles/The Price Chopper/Logo looks like: Meat cleaver takes out American flag/Tahini costs $6/A forgotten price chop/Enough food to make it/Back to Heaven/Failed Frisbee/Met the five dogs across the street/Don’t ask me to recant their names
Windy mountain road to Frog’s cabin/Up in a mountain/Green/Green/Green/Quaint/Simple cabin/Fresh air surrounds/Goat cheese quesadillas for dinner/Big hit/If I do say so/Ommegang’s Three Philosophers/That’s Belgium beer brewed an hour away/Delish/Also, Budweiser/Half a spliff/Froggie fills the cabin with his beautiful songs/I sit in awe of my friend and how far he’s come

I'm On Vacation! Day 2 - NYC & Brooklyn

Day 2: NYC & Brooklyn
Oversleep/Miss my Boltbus/Book another/Don’t cry about it/Good mood ruin/Breakfast at the Zephyr CafĂ©/Hilton’s shitty breakfast joint/Nasty downtown DC eat options/Corporate suck-offs/Don’t cry about it/Good mood ruin/Bus!/Wifi!/Outlet!/Write!/Write!/Chat!
NYC/Cozy/Breezy/Noise-ridden/Mostly honking/Cab to Froggie/Josh’s East Village apartment/Guitar/Journey a few blocks/I’ve heard stories about this burger/Kate’s Joint/Highly recommended Boneless Buffalo Burger/Veg/Greens/Vegan gravy/Vegan cheddar/Soaked shared fries/PBR tall boy/1/2
Not-scary subway to Brooklyn/Meet bandmates/Oh yah, feet update: Killing/Walk/Williamsburg/More Frank & Estelle Costanza than Hipster/To my delight and to the destruction of stereotypes everywhere/Hidden loft space/Unfriendly resident/Sound check/Me to resident: “You need any help setting up?”/”No.”/Catch up on blog reads/Walk/BBQ/Found the hipsters hanging with the NYFD/Israeli transplant takes a close-talker liking to me & Froggie/Tecate/Beam/Tecate/Beam/Walk/Showtime
The bands were quite likable, fun, worth watching, much showmanship abounded, happy energy from the stage. Me, though, I felt alienated, alone, lonely. I sipped my free Red Stripe and sank lower and lower. Maybe that’s why I loved the music so much, cos everything else was corrupt and black for me. Thank you, Love or Perish. Thank you, Violent Bullshit. Thank you, Children, for which Froggie’s drumming completely filled my hole. His hair tossed my mood. The awkward chugged down the minutes that followed. A handful seemed interested to talk to me, the majority ignored me like the help. Either they’re flawed or it’s me. Always hard not to think it’s me. Didn’t help to look like a butch lesbian in jeans and a T con Chucks. The girls were tiny and cute in short dresses and skirts. Same old daily conversation with myself. I wish I was an animal. I’m always bored when I notice I don’t add up. Bored cataloguing the hidden qualities I know I have. This is what causes me to text folks whose test I’ve passed long, long ago. Froggie finally says his goodbyes and we hightail it back to NYC. It was nice dissecting the evening with him, like old times. I felt restored, valuable, listened to, counted. Then I slept for two hours.

I'm On Vacation! Day 1, part 2 - DC

Day 1, Part 2 – DC
To break up the monotony of my prose, the following is written in lyrical form. You’ll get the gist.
Lucked out with early check-in/Bed like a cloud/Uh oh! Mini bar/Price scan/No, no, no and not $5 for Jack/Bathrobe (can buy for 60)/Resist the urge to put it on immediately/Feet hurt so bad…must go on
TV/Write/Must go on/Hungry
“Brunch!” says guide book/Du Pont Circle/Only 12 blocks away/And I did it/Without headphones on/Clumsily figured out restaurant is in rear of bookstore/Sure, I’ll sit outside/Third degree burn to my neck/Eggs benedict/Iced coffee/Corn bread/Fresh pineapple and cantalope and watermelon/Colts notebook/Pen/No headphones
“White House!” says guide book/Not that far now/ Yes, a protest/More teenagers/I’ve become one/Would rather be the other/Photos of the Pres. Digs/Nice enough/Protesters chanting “President Obama, President Obama”/20/Small men/Small women/Blown up images/Brown children behind barbed wire/Bloodied baby/Recorder on/Open speakers/My open heart/The world suffers, a few voices strain to let us know/Thanks for the photo op/The inexperience of your real pain/I’ll tell my friends/All of this running through my head/Action vs passivity/Where do I fall?/Her English washed in thick Sri Lanken/”Do you know what we are doing here?”/My breathe released the dam of my heavy heart/Near embarrassing sobs/”No, not really. I’m just moved by your will.”/Awe for action/A twenty minute briefing/Military regime/Ethnic cleansing/Concentration camps/Mother torn from father torn from children/No United Nation/No CNN/No NGO’s/ No Obama/Please Obama, think of Sri Lanka/Sorry to bother you, Mr. Obama/Yes we can/Must be moving along/Keep hope close/Your voice will make a difference/It has to
Treasury Department
No time now for Holocaust Museum/Back to Hotel/Research Sri Lanka/Don’t forget
Down pour
Ford’s Theater/Too many teens clog the entrance/Cross the street/Home where Lincoln died/Three rooms/His short bed
Liquor/Down pour/Feet
Met Arli and twelve or so lesbians at Toledo Bar in Adams/Morgan/PBR/Beam/Grilled cheese/Fries/Ketchup/PBR/Beam/PBR/Beam/Trans party/Time to be movin’ on!/She thinks I should live here/Perhaps she’s right/Political/Historical/Muggy as a juicy fart
Final act/The Lincoln Memorial at night/$26 cab fare to pull it off/May have been more majestic with less teenage clutter, minus the blockade I had to manueaver around and had I been more sober

Saturday, May 30, 2009

I'm On Vacation! Day 1, part 1 - DC

May 29, 2009

I took the red eye out of SFO, restless sleep for maybe two hours, landed 3:30 in the morning my time. Yep, ready to exhaust myself with history, cement and teenagers. I had the Super Shuttle drop me off at The Lincoln Memorial. Where else would I go first? My shuttle cohorts point it out in the distance. That's not it, it's so HUGE! Oh, it is? Well, ok! But it's so HUGE! Hoofing it, drawing ever closer, I ended up getting cock-blocked by Terry. Terry was a lovely lesbian who confirmed that this HUGE structure was indeed Lincoln. Of course, you can only see the columns from the side, as my Pres is seated deep inside. Rather than, oh, I don't know, let me visit the memorial, Terry kept flirting with me. She was a nice gal, very helpful with suggestions for sight-seeing. But the anticipation of seeing my man, who was like ten yards away was too much to handle while simultaneously making it clear: I'm no lesbo. Ok, byeee Terryyyy!
Honestly, I was startled by the limitless fashion and stink of the million or so teenagers clogging the steps, but I chose to ignore them and crept up the stairs, unable to prepare my eyes for what I would see.
Three steps from the top, his face peeks through the columns. Its a welcoming, sweet face that beckons you to come closer. And I did. And there he was. Again, let me be clear. HE IS HUGE. His hands pour over the construct of his seat. His feet, Shaqish. The Greek architecture, white, the marble flooring, the massive columns and high, HIGH ceiling promotes a calm and a reverence. It felt like hallowed ground. I took him in from each angle and then realised there was more. To the left, past more columns, carved deep into the wall was the Emancipation Proclamation. Immediately, I recalled memoriizing the first part for extra credit in seventh grade. I stood there and really read the words, really tried to understand their meaning, especially for that time period, what it meant for Americans to hear those words from their President, and I felt sad. The Civil War, slavery - so much death, inhumanity, struggle, so sad.
I turned around and took in the view from the top step. All of it was there: the reflecting pool, the monument, the Capitol building. I felt like Forrest Gump. It was awesome.
I had planned on just staying there, but now that I was in DC, all I wanted was to see and experience everything I could in my one day.
I pulled out my map to effectively navigate the Mall, and headed left for the Vietnam Memorial. A hundred teenagers stood next to the Statue of Three Soldiers, but I bravely investigated anyways. I circled the statue, in awe of the detail, and the way the artist captured the tired and worn spirit of the men. Where was this GD wall?? Then it hit me, it was right in front of me. I didn't realise it because it was so big and so long. I was stunned, and immediately horrified. This many man died for oil, tin and rubber. The tears came almost instantly and could hardly be contained. This giant gash in the earth was erected by the same men that greedily forced a nation's sons to fight for resources and power. I walked by it, stopping only once to feel it. I tried to read at least one name in each section. My pace confused me. I felt like I was moving faster than I wanted to. I passed a grandma and her four grandsons. She had them pose next to the wall for a picture. I looked into their faces to see if they would smile. They didn't. They seemed to understand the solemnity of this moment. I imagine the grandma explained. I moved along, composing myself on my walk.
Coming upon the World War II memorial, the first noticible element - HUGE. Sorry, it just is. It is more expansive than huge. It was finished in 2004 I believe. Each state is represented by a column, and at either end there are atrium sort of structures which are labled "Atlantic" and "Pacific". High inside the atrium are eagle scuptures, their claws curled around a banner. It was very cool to be under. There are fountains and small pewter carvings along the walls which picture troop life, life in America and Americans support of the troops. My grandpa and grandma were both in the navy, and I thought of my grandpa on his ship and my grandma stationed right there in DC. I then thought of my grandma and how I promised to get her pictures of Union Station and how I wasn't going to and I kinda suck like that. Carved in a bench standing next to the structure were these words concerning "the Good War", "Americans Came to Liberate Not to Conquer to Restore Freedom and to End Tyranny." Bullshit. Everything is infused with propaganda -both to justify war and to brainwash you for the next one. It was maddening to think of such things in the presencse of such a structure. I'll leave it at that or I'll just get preachy.
Everyone said, "The FDR Memorial is freakin' tits! Go see it." So I did. I walked the long walk around the basin to get there. For kicks, and to liven up this entry, I decided to type word for word what I recorded on my hand held after enjoying the memorial. Here it is..

I'm at the FDR Memorial. It is amazing as people have said. It just goes on forever. There are so many elements to it. I'm at the end here. Inscribed on the wall

Freedom of speech
Freedom of worship
Freedom from want
Freedom from fear

Like that will ever be realized.

There is a lot of elements of water, and building, and anti poverty here...that's pretty cool.
And he likes his dog. And my feet hurt.
More later.

Oh, and I'm surrounded by teenagers.

I followed the basin around to the Jefferson Memorial. It looks sort of like the Lincoln Memorial but its Jefferson and he's standing up. The columns and stairs are there. Also, each side is open to air, whereas Lincoln is enclosed on three sides. So there ya go. I was pretty miserable by this guy, with my feet and my back in strife. Plus, I kept meshing in with teenagers, confusing them and their teachers. There wasn't the same feeling of reverence because 1) the teens were blathering away and 2) I just kept thinking about Jefferson being a slave owner.

If you've made it to the end of this post, you have quite an attention span. Thanks for reading. Part 2 to be forthcoming. I just can't blog anymore today.

How Megan McCain Became the Most Sane Voice of the GOP

I'm in DC; let's talk politics, the straight dope.

Hey you, media savvy, yapping pie holes of the Republican party! You sound like idiots, so stop talking already. The idiots of the Democrat clique usually sound just as stupid. But, fortunately, for them, they need not make real comment about policy or current events when they only need wait for Republican comedy and then chew on it enough to fill 24 hours on MSNBC. (By the way, have you ever watched that morning show Morning Joe? Your immediate reaction should be, "Elly, why don't you have a political commentary show?" Because my immediate reaction was ELLY - WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A POLITICAL COMMENTARY SHOW? These brainless heads are boring, pointless, uncomfortably unfunny--although constantly laughing at each other; what are they laughing at?-- And the Starbucks cups? Does Starbucks pay for product placement or are all of them just shopping at neighboring Starbucks moments before they go on a national news broadcast? And lo and behold! They happen to get a represent variety of items one can enjoy at a local Bucks!). No wonder the general public shares in this brand of water downed politics void of critical thought.
The recent whining from Rush, Newt, Tom Tancredo (aka Colorado's Congressional dildo) regarding Obama's Supreme Court nominee, Judge Sonia Sotomayor, a RACIST causes me to guffaw in disbelief at Disney's promotion of public dismemberment and the worship of my flat, chiseled stomach. COME ON. Let's infuse some perspective into this mess: the poor, beleaguered WHITE MAN is being discriminated against by the all powerful LATINA WOMAN. Has anyone else noticed how the number of Latina women in power has been so pervasive in...I dunno...NONE... OF ALL THESE...ALL YEARS? God forbid we allow the upward mobility of another race or gender.
This is totally reminiscent of the GOP screaming "sexism!" amidst the Sarah Palin hoopla.
But oh no no - not bigotry nor destroying of equality exist when Fundy Republicans deny gay folks the right to marry. That's only preservation of heterosexuals' own right to fail at marriage.
You know, it's funny. I don't think the GOP was even aware of words like Racism or Sexism until they heard a liberal, pinko, nut job scream it in protest, in editorial or in court. Now they make a weak attempt to apply these loaded terms to their own political failures - as if others are to blame for their non-thinking platform.
And while I'm thinking about it, let's address the bitching over her being an "activist" judge. What's wrong with a judge interpreting the Constitution in a way which promotes the delineation of thoughtful justice? Promotion of the under dog? Reward to those who engage in Civil Disobedience when the government acts in immoral and unjust ways? Shouldn't we idealize the spirit of the law more so than the letter of the law?
It's bullshit to run a court like a Catholic mass. Why is government afraid of independent thinkers? Perhaps because their foundation is muddied and weak with years of lies and propaganda. The real substance of the government as a helper to the people is an allusion. More specifically, its protection of democracy is an allusion.
Howard Zinn makes this great argument for doling out real justice: A group of Vietnam protesters are arrested for breaking into a government office and destroying draft records. Consequentially, they are brought to trial. The judge, listen, THE JUDGE allows the defense to present arguments which explain the immorality and illegality of the War. The government lied to the citizenry, etc. The War is proven to be unjust by political activists and philosophers - more so, via the government's own documentation from the Pentagon Papers. Although the men and women on trial perpetrated the crimes of breaking and entering and arson, the jury is asked to analyze the higher moral mandate. The jury acquitted the offenders; a member even threw a party in their honor. If the judge had been more conventional and stuck to the strict interpretation of the literal laws broken, he or she wouldn't have allowed the defense to get to the heart of the matter. In fact, this was usually the case. During Vietnam, thousands were jailed for acts of Civil Disobedience.
In the end though, priests who wanted to stop the needless death and burning of children were tried in a court of law, yet the GI's who committed violent, despicable acts against women, children and the elderly in the Mai Lai 4 massacre are allowed to go free and are even given permanent political kush jobs. Where is there justice?
Heck ya, I want an activist judge. And really, so does the GOP. They just want one who activists their beliefs.
Check out Megan McCain on The Colbert Report. The point of view of a single, young Republican woman who is open and progessive with regard to social issues is exactly what the GOP needs to begin a new. Old white dudes had their, I don't know, THOUSANDS OF YEARS REIGN AND CONTINUALLY FAILED. TOO BAD FOR YOU. UR DOIN' IT WRONG.

So I am in DC! More of that to come...

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Shallowest of Concerns, Yet Every One is Concerned

What do you think of every day?
Your job?
Your dog?
Your habits?
What do you think of every day of your damn life?

I think about fat.
My fat.
The way my soft belly rolls pour over my belt
The way my hips rest atop my jeans
The way my arm flesh oozes out of a tank top
Not understanding how it came to me
Understanding how it came to me

I never talk about it
Except in constant conversations with myself
Unable to ignore my reflection in a building’s window
The acceptable studied reflection in my office bathroom
The required sizing up which happens before
Leaving the house for a failed date
Or a meeting with a friend

Hide it.
Accept it.
Loathe it.
Ignore it.
Hide it.
Work on it.
Hate it.

Sometimes I forget about it
But only when I’m drunk
Or in the dark
Or eating
Or lost in a film full of the skinniest mother fuckers
In the world

It’s become my oldest friend
And oldest foe
The comparisons to strangers are the worst
It could be worse
It could be so much better,
Is she fatter than me?

My ex-husband used to say
He admired me for not caring
But I’ve always cared
So much more than he ever knew
And now you know it too

When fat is your fourth grade identity
When you have it to blame on failed relationships
When you have to dress it
And wash it
And rub it down with lotions
When you spread your legs for waxing
Or for dick
When you’re constantly reminded of how ugly
And awful
And tragic
Fat is
You want it as far away from you as possible
And unless you can pay for a suction procedure
Or a surgery that kills a vital organ
You only want time to run
And the will-power to turn down cake
And French fries
And beer
And hope that at the end of the week
You may have made a difference
But you never do
So you begin again
With the fat
And the inability to make it go away

Sunday, March 29, 2009

I'm Too Old To Be This Old

Forget your age lately? It's a strange brain exercise. Assuming you can recall the year of your birth, simple math helps. Two days ago I forgot I was 33. Hopped on the elliptical trainer at the gym; pressed FAT BURN; entered my weight; AGE? I punched in 3 3, but then I chuckled cos that's impossible; I'm 32, right? I have to be; No. No. I'm 33. What?

Evidently, I had a great birthday. It was only some two months ago but I'd forgotten. Reading through a journal today, I came across this entry. It corroborated my math and reminded me that turning 33 was fucking awesome for at least a whole minute.

I left work and started to cross 2nd Street at Market. A huge, embarrassing, irresponsibly built and used SUV - operated by the usual tiny, middle-aged, white woman- tried to run me over. I was noticed and then illogically ignored. I stopped squarely in front of her stupid truck, planted my feet in the concrete, looked her in her dead eyes and clearly, slowly, DRAMATICALLY pursed my lips to form the perfect, silent, yet guttural pronouncement of A S S H O L E.

Immediately after, I considered I was too hard on her... then I remembered the SUV part and knew she probably deserved it.

I dole out social justice. Happy Birthday!

Friday, January 23, 2009

Fire Sale: Mythical Flower Now Hot Commodity

Natalie Dylan thinks she's a feminist, when really, she's just a capitalist.

My Beloved, Burning Oakland

On Jan 1, 2009, Oscar Grant III was shot and killed by a BART police officer. Judging by all available video captured on phones by bystanders, the shooting was unwarranted. BART, The City of Oakland or Alameda County all had a week to respond and they did nothing.

Nate and I weren't aware of this until we went to seek out donuts on Jan 7, 2009.

We'd been working at Mama Buzz (a downtown Oakland coffee shop) all evening. I had heard ramblings from a biking hipster about a text he'd received from a friend, and was annoyed by the deafening helicopters circling the neighborhood. Apparently, a riot had broken out in protest of the shooting. Of course, we still didn't put any of it together until the donut part.

Ironically, I never let Nate talk me into donuts - a point he mentioned in the car. But in a moment of weakness, having just come off a sugar-fueled Christmas vacate, I didn't fight him. So we headed downtown.

Turning from Telegraph onto 17th, the scene was beginning to become clear. Cop cars blocked off Broadway, parked in front of the closed donut shop. We lamented the early closing, wondering where to purchase fried fat. Proceeding on though, the thoughts of food diminished - especially when we saw a gaggle of more police cars coupled with a group of running rioters ON MY STREET.

A surge of what-the-fuck? enraptured us, and we turned down Jackson. Approaching the end, there were thirty officers dressed in riot gear, holding their clubs and in self-promoting stances forcing us to turn onto a side street. Nate rolled down his window, "What's going on? She lives right there." Rudely, we were only addressed with knowing, put-off looks and commanded to keep on driving.

We passed a burnt out car and knew shit was serious.

And this was the most serious shit we'd ever encountered. Having both grown up in boring Indiana, we didn't see much civil action in the name of social justice. I had been on a protest arc living out here - having attended a Iraq War traffic stopper in downtown San Francisco, marching with my gay brothers and sisters indicting the blatant inequality of the recently passed Proposition 8 and interning for an anti-Vietnam documentary. We wanted to see what this was all about and document the experience via photo and audio.

Parking a couple blocks away, we hustled up to the blocked intersection, passing more riot-geared, stone-faced police - confident history was happening around us and we would see and feel it close-up and minus the glass of a television screen or computer monitor.

The intersection at Jackson and 14th was almost completely shut down. Riot gear, police motorcycles, long-neckers and kids on bikes swirled in my eye line. A couple vegan chicks were ogling the damaged McDonald's. At least four sections of window were smashed. I addressed the one in the skirt, "What is this all about?" She revealed the details of the shooting but was more enthralled with the beat-up fast food icon, "Did you see the McDonald's? It's so cool! I'm a vegan so it makes me happy."

"Yah, I'm a vegetarian so I understand."

She figuratively high-fived me with a smile.

We quickly rushed to my apartment to pee, split a beer and grabbed pertinent gear. By the time we returned, the whole mass of police and civilians were running down 14th toward downtown. There were mumblings that Mayor Dellums, camped out at City Hall, would be addressing the angry crowd.

Nearly every car parked on the street had busted out glass. A Indian family, replete with small children, stood bewildered at their destroyed auto. I asked them if they lived in the neighborhood. Nope. They'd been visiting friends. Welcome to Oakland?

By the time we reached Broadway, the crowd was strong and incensed. They chanted at the police, "Go Home!" The feeling was violent, but my adrenaline for experience drowned out the fear I should have been feeling. We pressed on to City Hall, anxiously awaiting the Mayor's address. Nate snapped photos with my who-knew-it-was-shitty camera, while I whined that my audio recorder needed batteries. Nate, without his fancy camera, and me without my only fancy piece of electronic equipment caused us pain and some light-hearted ribbing of each other. Everywhere people were filming both stills and video, some stood on high pillars yelling at cops, Nate and I mostly turned in circles trying to take in the sight we were witnessing. Each time we moved, we ended up within the police barricade. Having recently been reading People's History of the United States, I knew we were at risk of arrest or smoke inhalation or worse, just by virtue of being there. Nate, even more concerned than me, admitted later he felt like he had to watch out for me -- you know, me being a weak lady and all.

Finally, the Mayor stood before the crowd. Enveloped by reporters, his assistant held a mega-phone which hadn't seen action since the Ford administration. He would have projected further with a rolled up newspaper. It didn't help that the helicopters hovering above drowned him out. Only ten people deep, I could only hear maybe five percent of his message. There was something about respect and something else about a promise that the City of Oakland would investigate the murder. Then he left; people: not placated, sprinted off, intending to wreak more havoc on private property.

We didn't immediately follow, unsure about what the hell we may be getting ourselves into. But once we heard the booming breaking of glass, we knew we'd have to trail behind, only to see what we'd never seen before. Were we interested, or we were we our parents? I knew this was my one chance to approach a cop and shout, "Fuck the police!" My one chance, and I blew it.

Nate and I argued about what we'd witnessed, what was happening around us. We spoke of the diversity of the crowd. He blamed the white kids, their faces covered by handkerchiefs - like Wild West outlaws, circling their bikes and taking charge of the crowd- for incensing the violence and the indiscriminate property damage. I wanted to discuss the bigger picture though. When a government fails its people, when there is no social justice, when racism is pervasive and plays out in police brutality, when the voice of the right is silenced because the bureaucracy of the powerful is too loud -- what are folks to do to get noticed? Well, as Nate put it: Surround City Hall, break out its windows and burn the fucker down.

Since that night, the BART police officer has been arrested and is facing murder charges. Whould this have happened without the destructive riots? I'd like to think so, but I doubt it.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Movie Pre(view)diction: Yes Man

I’ve been on blog hiatus since I’ve had absolutely no inspiration to write about anything. It’s a sad state of affairs for someone who wants to be a “writer”. So I was walking to Whole Foods at lunch and I spied, on the side of a bus, a big blue poster for that new Jim Carey product, Yes Man.

I’ve not seen it, but I thought I would review it anyway.

I can guarantee it’s terrible. Without really knowing the premise, I’m guessing it runs along the lines of, “THE GODDAMN PEN IS BLUE”, but not near as funny. And, incidently, that would be a better title if you could only get away with using the word Goddamn on the side of a bus.

And I don’t know why Zooey Deschanel gets indie artist cred at all when she chooses sell-out scripts like this one. Sure, she knows which indie rock credited dude to record with and she knows which indie rock credited dude to marry, but just because she can sing and has a low “I’m so above it all” voice and big, big eyes, doesn’t mean she has any taste. And now I’m starting to question Ben Gibbard’s taste. Because really, could you marry an actress that starred in sell-out unfunny, manipulative, broad-humored marketing vehicles like Yes Man and still drone about The Man on stage every night?

Which really goes to show: Just because your music kicks ass and demonstrates your depth of being and awareness, it doesn’t mean you know shit about movies.

Let’s check out Rotten Tomatoes…

Yep, 43%.