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…
(processing)…

Yep, 43%.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Dream A Little Dream of Me, Legless


I've had trouble sleeping most Sunday nights. My only explanation lies at the bottom of a bottle, and in the sludge of my dehydrated brain. But I'm not offering answers here - only experiences. I link my inability to find REM to my dreams being crazytown-2000 lately, but the one last night - well, she was a real doozy.

First off, I was dating Andre Agassi. Although, I wore his image on all of my Nike tennis t-shirts in middle school, (yah, ok, some of high school too) I have not thought of my potential lover in some years. Turns out he's a real dick in dreams: he asks me to amputate my perfectly healthy leg, which I do, up to my torso. Surprisingly, I didn't seem to miss the leg, as the prosthetic (not filled with beer) worked splendidly.

Most of the dream I was strolling on cobble stone streets and on white, rocky beaches with a hairy figure, who I perceived to be the tennis great, but never actually saw (or got to kiss) him. I felt his presence, the large lion mane glowing in the sunlight, I'd catch hints of its luster in the corner of my eye.

Of course, Andre felt some satisfaction at my frivolous surgery, and he pushed the envelope of his fantasy over to my other perfectly healthy leg. Without a fight, I agreed to amputate my other leg. Post-surgery, I leaped up from the gurney with no trouble at all, and pranced my amended body down an old street.

It was there that it hit me: I'd just amputated both of my legs, that Agassi was a real sadistic jerk, and I was a weak, stupid and regretful woman. All at once I began counting off the ways life would forever be changed, harder and less rewarding. What had I done? How would I explain this bizarre fetish to my mother? She couldn't possibly understand why Andre needed this, and why I would comply.

Wait! Could this be a dream? That's what I asked my dreaming self - but my dreaming self was all, "Yah, right. Best case scenario is you awake with at least one leg missing."

The stress drew itself out for hours, me and my plastic legs bopping along landscapes with the beasty-haired asshole, who I was starting to loathe for asking me to remove half of my limbs. Consoling myself with "you'll weigh less" didn't seem to help. I desperately wanted to take it all back, reasoning the doctor may have my legs on ice somewhere. Perhaps they could be reattached...

And when I thought my life was officially in the crapper, I woke up! And to my astonished delight and relief, both of my hairy, scabby, pale legs were still attached to my stressed and sweaty body. I shook them to check their vitals; I shot them up into the air; I kicked them in jubilation, like a newborn who's just discovered her feet. I H A V E L E G S and I LOVE THEM.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Best Monday Night Plans Ever


I can't complain. I mean, I shouldn't. Perspective check, esmallass. This is my Monday night: No workout (not that I shouldn't, but I'm just not gonna), to a great dive bar to drink (possibly a cucumber margarita) AND watch Monday Night Football (starring my team, the Indianapolis Colts). From there to Fruitvale, to not only watch a new episode of Gossip Girl but to eat the best GD walnut prawns in all of America whilst drooling over Chuck Bass, trying to find Serena's personality and wishing/not wishing I could be Blair for all of eternity. Friends! My dog! all along the way. The air is crisp (finally), my skin is clear, and I actually earned my paycheck today. Yes, dear friends, this is me... H A P P Y. How'd this happen?

I'm lucky, truly lucky.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Smarty Pants For President


Is anyone else as disturbed by this photo as I am? Jezebel posted it, almost as a throw away, but it informs me so completely of her vast inexperience and unfamiliarity with what she's trying to become a part of. And if she's trying to claim a nonpartisan stance of that "Country First" crap, I'd say that's about the dumbest marketing move for your party this side of the Alaskan/Russian border. Jezebel has a close-up and my office pal verified the photo's authenticity.

Twenty Foods For A Long Life List, Strangley Missing: Whiskey


According to a British scientist, these are "Lifespan Essentials":



* apples
* blackberries
* black tea
* blueberries
* broccoli
* cereal bran
* cherries
* cherry tomatoes
* coffee
* cranberries
* dark chocolates
* green tea
* oranges
* peaches
* plums
* raspberries
* red grapes
* red onions
* spinach
* strawberries

But based on my knowledge of "superfoods", I wonder, where are the nuts?


(That's what she said.)

NaturalNews

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Further Proof of Ricky Gervais' Blatent, Logical Awesomeness & A Laughing Ira Glass Is One of My All Time Fave Sounds

So much goodness in this interview with Ricky Gervais, aka my soul's twin. "He told TV Biz: 'I’d never work out and lose weight if the part called for it. I’d say, ‘that’s not the film for me’...It’s not real life, it’s ludicrous. If you fall for someone because they’ve got a jawline and a chest and they’re brain dead it won’t last! In life, real people fall for nice people all the time and Hollywood denies that a bit. That’s what I brought over from Britain.” Let's hear it for reality! The Sun via Jezebel.

And if that didn't make you a happier, less-annoyed person, please listen to This American Life: 198 How to Win Friends And Influence People. I took away some valuable tips; tell me if you notice my new social prowess. Btw, how are you doing?

Friday, October 3, 2008

My Gut Reactions to Palin Winks And Grandpa Biden


Ok, so we all know the VP debate took place last night. Armed with red wine and salt-n-vinegar chips, and despite some nasty rush hour traffic stress, I settled in for what I anticipated to be a cringetastic, condescendatic, incomplete sentenstatic good time! I was way off, both candidates were well-prepared and almost too kind and respectful of one another. Of course, that doesn't mean I didn't catch all the weirdness or poor debate positions that make an American proud of her leadership. Please, allow me to ramble on.

The first half-hour I had this genuine and surprising happiness moment of "OMG, Obama is gonna win the white house!", 'cos Biden was bringing it. He was articulate, forceful and passionate. He was persuasive. Which is what a good debater is, essentially. Couple this with Palin's answer/characterization of the most devastating economic digression since the Great Depression, "People are asking, Is this good or is this bad?" Are we in some kind of unnatural Michael Jackson universe where all of a sudden GOOD means very, very very BAD? Unless you're someone like me who wants the dollar to fail so we can barter and eat the flesh of the formerly wealthy, I'm doubting "good" is NOT what ANYONE is deeming this fiscal hurricane to be.

Then you've got Palin doing her shtick. She's folksy and down-home. It's like your mom's mashed potatoes are crammed into her face, filling up her high, majestic cheekbones, which are sugared like red candy apples. She's so small-town wholesome, she couldn't ever locate New York or DC on a map even! Her wonky eye keeps winking at me, and she's cheesing through these macabre sentiments. Try smiling and saying "nukular" at the same time - seems fucked up. Now try watching the possible leader of the free world do it.

Then over to Smilin' Joe "I'm Joe Biden" Biden. The third-person references were either subtle attempts at branding or a doctor prescribed memory exercise. His overall accessing of names seemed to come easily when picking on Pakistan's leadership, but scrap heaped when referring to his own running mate. He was like a grandpa who has to sputter through the first syllable of seven grandchildren's names before arriving on Osama. And the McCain love? He must have said "I love John McCain" more than Palin said "energy" or "betcha". We get it - you're both career politicos with military kids and big white faces, bigger whiter hair and scary American whitey white teeth - of course you're buddies. But Americans are inept at separating policies from personas (Hello! Clinton! Blow jobs! Impeachment! Hello!). Politicians are principally seen as one-dimensional. You love John McCain literally translates to middle America as you love John McCain's policies!

Let's talk policy! I picked random topics that stuck out at me for 1) the related talking points OR 2) there obviously being missing-in-action from the proceedings...

1) Gay Marriage I'm disappointed in the democrats not supporting it. Come. On. I'm not even a democrat and I support it. The arguments you can make are simple to understand and effective, i.e. legal equality, which is an essential component for a proper democracy to flourish and the government can't force churches to recognize it, so Jesus might not smite our nation at the passing of legislation, and the term "sanctity of marriage" is a paradox at this point since heteros have pretty much destroyed it's purity through divorce. And of those marriages not ending in divorce, I'd say a certain healthy percentage of them are miserable and corrupt as evidenced by a random romp on Craigslist, a tool by which unhappy spouses find no-strings-attached arse. Don't look at it as legalizing gay marriage, look at it as legalizing gay divorce! Although, the gays would probably do a better job of restoring the sanctity to it. Oh yah, and Palin, you're a fucking liar. If these so-called gay friends of yours were as near and dear to your stone cold heart as you claim, you would want for them everything they are entitled to as American citizens and more so as human beings. See, that's how LOVE looks. LOVE denies your own religious baggage for the good, well-being and happiness of others, you fucking dick.

2) Health Care This is the issue where the tickets diverge the most. As Palin tried to sell, McCain wants the same old crap: throw more money into a system no longer sustainable and is ostensibly cost prohibitive on the whole, and Obama wants to do away with it. If we can socialize Wall Street, we've lost our Reagan-era, "little government", free market scruples, why NOT take on health care? Outside of these policy positions, neither candidate addressed out of control price gouging by pharmaceuticals, greedy and corrupt health insurers whose agents receive bonuses for denying claims and rescinding coverage midterm, or an out of touch FDA whose conflict of interest bedfellowing with doctors and big pharma have allowed them to push food policies detrimental to health and which directly oppose prevention.

3) Energy Policy Apparently, Palin rules at it and Biden AGREES WITH HER. WTF? Has anyone else noticed that the republican party didn't give a shit about energy conservation or notice global warming until about ohhhh, six months ago when they got tired of funding hurricane relief and thought spring was just "too gall darn hot!" Joe, I'm sure you could have pulled something from your repertoire besides, "yes, Sarah, you are awesome and just being next to you reduces my carbon footprint."

4) Proliferation of Pakistan, Iran Maybe I'm old school, but I was always taught the presence of nukes was... not "good" per se (unless, it's Palin's new MJ-good-is-bad cross over), but not worrisome because of a philosophy of Mutually Assured Destruction. In a post-debate cigarette break, I posed this point of view to my constituents. Videographicad suggested that crazy men with nukes means we all die. Ah, crazy. These leaders are crazy. And I think that's how these politicians scare us into unjust wars, they give us an enemy - especially a crazy one with a nukular dick and a Hezbollah ball cap, his hand lubed up and ready to stroke the bright red button. Allow me to suggest, crazy as it may seem, that these leaders - although religiously backward nut jobs - are not crazy enough to detonate a nuclear weapon that could destroy their nation as well or risk a serious, international, ANGRY response. Possible? And furthermore, Palin mentioning sanctions was so ignoramus-1991. Everyone knows that sanctions cause suffering to the citizenry and not the leadership of a nation. And in a corrupt regime, they could give a good FUCK about said citizenry. Of course, American foreign policy has NEVER taken into account the actual peoples of nation-states so I'm not surprised we would be starting now. And finally, the more and more I read about past governments taking us to war to "protect our fine liberty from the shackles of communism", the more and more I realize I can insert terrorism for communism and know the rhetoric is bullshit, and we are all irrational and forgetful of history if we don't see right through the wag-the-dog smoke screen and realize that these efforts are only self-interested, and when I say self-interested I'm speaking of MONEY, HONEY. Who's profited MORE from the war in Iraq than friggin' Dick Cheney himself?!?

So the issues they didn't address: sexism, equal pay for equal work, abortion, to name a few. All subjects Biden could have easily indicted McCain and Palin on. Of course, knowing the religious pit bulls in lipstick watching, he was probably nervous to tread in that territory. As a feminist, I was begging for it. But why not wuss out? Once you're elected, just fill the Supreme Court with puritans and keep ignoring wage discrepancies!

And finally, my biggest complaint of the evening: Biden's unwillingness? forgetfulness? wrongfully coachedness? to keep clobbering in the point until it's the sweet melody of a song: Do we want another four years of GW? He did it a bit, but that is his best argument and he put it at the top of the flow when it should have been the heart of his rebuttal. The Bush administration ABUSED executive privilege and spent us into oblivion, and the McCain ticket will do EXACTLY the same. Shit, B, that's all you had to say!

Ah well, it's a hoot. Some of these same topics have been debated for decades (anyone remember Hilary's health care plan circa 1992?). I'm not expecting much of an American government. Most, i.e. ALL, have been reactionary, resolute failures. There's an inherent problem in governance: egomaniacs tend to do it. An egomaniac can't connect with people, subconsciously s/he sees them only in terms of numbers, problems, and obstacles to his or her own valor. That being said, I'd love for Obama to win. I'm just curious to see if he's right, if he can turn the sinking ship around. Plus, he's black. Perhaps that will redeem this horrible country of ours from at least a few years of our despicable history.

Alright, off to watch The Colbert Report to see if my boyfriend agreed with me on anything.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

I Bet That Viet-Cong Torture House Looks Pretty Good Right Now

I sort of feel sorry for Mc Cain. In my perception, he's taken a lot of bad advice from handlers in the GOP. I'd hope he'd agree: this is not the campaign he set forth to run. The negative ads seem beneath a man who tauts such high moral character. The choice of Palin (obviously made in the train station bathroom of Pooptown, Crazy), really abandoned the VP formula for a vote worthy ticket. Any debate coach could have smelled her lack of persuasive point-making all the way from Russia. She's got the face, the rhetoric and that small-town folksy bullshit nailed, but when challenged by well-versed political pundits, she fembots out, circuitry sizzling and popping everywhere. Plus, this whole financial institution bail-out deal isn't his making, but you sure as heck know the flip-flopping of his bro, GW, between laissez faire and Fed-to-the-rescue douses him in the sunshine of shit-for-brains strategery.

I know I prophesied, on this very site last year, that John McCain would win this election. I think he was poised to. Then times got tough. And I don't mean for that to make him sound passive. Perhaps he didn't conjure these ideas, but he signed off on them all the same. The negative tone of his campaign, the self-righteous twiddle twaddle from AK as his running mate, and this puke storm of an economy (the chunks rising, rising, rising), have all coagulated into a look of fear and shame in his eyes. Frankly, he looks tired, worn, demoralized, embarrassed. If it weren't for a gaggle of elitist, Republican puppeteers propping up his back with a stick, I'd guess he were ready to settle in for a long winter's nap and leave the governing to the fools.

Hell, if the election doesn't kill him with stress, the presidency surely would. Yep, I'm a softy for old dudes, even John McCain. I suspect when I see GW in his coffin, just as I did with Nixon, I'll feel a rush of sorrow, and it isn't because I admire the lives of these men, but because they're just dudes, who lived and died trying to conquer the world and were super bad at it. That's just sad.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

What Became of Andy Millman?


I think my car was stolen. I’m 99 percent sure.

See, parking one’s car in a city like Oakland is a treacherous affair (as this blog has alluded to in the past). For one, there is always some dirty, hidden misstep which leads to a ticket (i.e. obstructed and worn street sweeping signs indicating times for this phantom service involving invisible street sweeping and yielding results which look much TO MUCH like trashy streets). For two, when one has at least 200 given spaces to park in and then one leaves her car for days and days, and that one has a propensity for foggy-brain, one can and HAS lost her car.

That only happened once.

I found it within ten minutes.

This time it feels real-err.

After dragging my nine-year-old fatty pug, Ruby, around the block at least three times, strong-arming her huge, awkward-to-carry doggy car seat and about a thousand other things in her doggy “diaper bag”, she hated me, my thighs were soaked in sweat, I was late for my internship and, still that elusive mother fucker of a car was NOT FOUND.

I had to return to home base to dump this dead weight. My roommate confirmed where I’d parked it Sunday night (this is a big deal). Even so, I set up Ruby with her much-deserved grub; I put on my running shoes and I headed out on a mission.

After checking the pay lot, and eye scanning each and every car on four streets…

Nope. No car.

Called Oakland Popo…

Nope. No tow.

I then proceeded to get loaded watching Extras: Season Two, whilst waiting for an officer to show up for my story.

Nope. No officer.

Today, I’ve decided to remain calm. Foul car-karma is my lot, and for my lot I will bend over and take it up the keester. Best case scenario? Fucking car is gone from my life forever and I can sign up for City Car Share like I’ve always dreamed of. Worst case scenario? A couple meth headed pieces of shite went for a joy ride (in a D O D G E) and ditched it in Daly City minus its rims, Little Brown Brother’s bocce set, Froggie’s inherited guitar amp and my tennis racket; the right rear door is missing, the seats have some smoke damage and the inner air quality is tantamount to Beijing’s, coupled with the aroma of teenage body. Plus, I’d owe about a million dollars in tow fees, impound fees, bribery fees, ticket fees, shampooing fees and a deductible.

Worst-case scenarios be damned... but do I have to remind everyone what happened to my Volkswagen?
_____________________________________________________________________________________


Today’s Recommendations!

Souley Vegan
431 13st
(Between Broadway & Franklin St)
Oakland

I’ve had only their mac & cheese but it was a fantastical phenom. More reviews on Yelp!


Extras: Season 1 – FOR SURE… the jury’s (me) still out on Season 2 (I felt disappointed but I’m gonna give it another go; perhaps it is just THAT layered.) www.rickygervais.com



Hot Water Music, by Charles Bukowski: One story is so powerfully gross, you’ll smell the stench of urine and taste the mix of done red wine and stale chicken soup for days. (And try to buy it here.)

Friday, August 1, 2008

Affluenza: It's The Must-Have Disease Of The Decade

Fucking rich people and their crappy kids.

I've got no energy to really comment; some of us have to work around here.

Just read the article and barf everywhere.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Remember Estelle Getty In Mannequin? Do You Believe That Movie Was Nom'd For An Oscar?


Jezebelian, Slut Machine, posted this amazing clips reel of Estelle Getty rocking her role as mama Sophia on the in-recent-years hyped (thanks to Summer on The OC and TV box sets in general) Golden Girls . Watching the montage, I realized this show was way too provocative for my roughly 12-year-old mind, which explains why I watched it and liked it, but really only GOT that Rose was picked on (which upset me terribly) and Blanche had much sex outside of marriage, which meant Hell and Gross.

I also remembered my dad making disparaging remarks about the cast, and the show's premise, begging us to change the channel (him versus four women), yet not leaving the room or looking away (more addicted to TV than Limbaugh or the Lord). Thus, as a child I subconsciously dismissed the show as less than, based solely on the leads being older, and women. Now, having abandoned my father's politics, I can safely say the progressive show was fucking smart and fucking hilarious. Rest in peace, dear. Jezebel

The Misunderstood Musician: Officially on Hiatus, Please Offer Title Suggestions


Thanks, Gekkica and e, for your interest in the story series. Unfortunately, everything I've posted is AT BEST second draft quality, and after careful consideration (i.e. it occurred to me yesterday) I've decided to discontinue posting portions, opting to post the finished product should the product ever earn the adjective "finished".

The parts posted have already been heavily edited, and now I feel dirty for even self-publishing the mediocre flim flam early drafts. See, people who think they're a "writer" (me) sometimes jump the gun -- longing to be finished, seeking feedback, fearing rejection, hoping for validation, and more problems of ego and id.

But all hope is not lost! As I said, the story is being worked on steadily and will be available in its entirety in a week or so (don't hold me to that).

Nextly, I'm open to all suggestions for a title change. I hate the title. I shat it out in a minute and the alliteration fooled me into happiness, so I went with it, but it's lazy. Sweet B Heart hates it too. And she knows! This girl can title shit like no body's business!

Finally, you all know how I tend to watch something, read something or hear something I like and then camp out on it, obsessing, wikipedia-ing, googling, searching for all things related, talking of this new thing to everyone and anyone over and over and over for months usually, and then finally when I've sucked all the marrow from the bones I move on to beat something else? I recommend a Bukowski documentary from 2003, Born Into This. I've watched it twice. And so the downward spiral into the life and work of the LA Poet Laureate of Skid Row begins... this one could last years (dude wrote a ton of shit).

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

The Misunderstood Musician Part III


(In case you missed it, PART II is HERE and PART I is HERE.)

With all sweetness, friendliness and confidence I address Cheech and Chong, "Hey guys. So I am Trudy, the manager of Semicolons Make Tears..." Their chuckles interrupt my explanation. "Yah, funny, right? So listen, do I see Tom for the passes or do one of you guys have them for me?" The one on the right stands, enters the ticket booth, roots around in a cardboard box and the passes are handed over. Neither smiles nor speaks; it's all business; it seems as if I register as "enemy" on their "The Man" radar. Perhaps I poured on the sappy professionalism too thick with these balls-to-the-wall death core freaks. I underestimated their hidden hardcore-edness.

"By the way, I adore Fantomas' remake of The Godfather - fucking brilliant." This spirals us into a discussion of the album The Director’s Cut. With genuine childhood-like delight, I relay to them the first time I heard them do the Jurassic Park score, and although I am sincere, my aim is really to bring them into my fold - which I successfully do. By the time I walk away, I'm getting knucks all over the place, and then I go in for the kill.

"Awesome! So I have to go take care of some shit. Will you guys just make sure no one is coming in here that shouldn't? Got to get paid, ya know?"

"Totally Trudy, we are your dudes."

"Rad. Later."

I don't look at it as manipulation. Shit. I do love that Fantomas' album, and nothing I said was untrue. I believe you can connect with anyone on something. Hell, once I had a 45-minute conversation with a girl working the merch table about the highs and lows of that shitty reality show "The Hills". She and I still email.

The venue is rarely my problem. The problems usually have to do with the band (or the label)(or other bands). For instance, now I must coax Bruce away from the GTA and into more "indie rockish" clothing.

Standing over a religiously-concentrated Bruce, as he's assumed his usual legs-folded-underneath-him-hunched-over-eyes-making-love-with-the-bouncing-lights-from-the-big-screen-TV position, I begin my efforts. Yelling toward the tiny bathroom, "Hey Lowell, do you have any more kids' pants that Bruce can wear?" Bruce and I try hard not to snicker too loudly. I hit Bruce's shoulder out of bullying-camaraderie. Still in the toilet cave, a cocky Lowell whines, "You can't handle that I'm a fashion risk-taker".

"Whatever, I know a girl sent them to you." Lowell doesn't reply. "Ike told me. He says it's hot and heavy. Which city is this one from?"

Faintly, the figurative cock fallen from his mouth, Lowell embarrassingly offers, "Tokyo."

Bruce and I lose our shit laughing at Lowell's online dating past, present and future. There's always a new one, and she's always sending him shit (lucky bastard). He's strategic about keeping them on a cyber plane. He makes sure he's never speaking to one in a city we may be coming to next. He doesn't actually want to meet a girl in person. The digital romance of words and the occasional gift give him enough "love" to deal with, then physical needs are met via blow jobs from random groupies. It's a balance he's perfected. But let me be clear, he is retardedly serious about these online ladies; there is nothing insincere about his poetic and melancholy emails.

Again, faintly, Lowell replies, "Shut up."

Bruce pauses his game to really enjoy the ribbing, "What'd her ad say? 'Prefer hipster dufus but willing to take a skinny white dude who can fit these pants?" Bruce tries hard not to lose his composure, "So the text 'pants' has a hyperlink and it takes you to an online vintage retailer... and that's when you first fell in love with your tiny boy cords?" The laughter is raucous at this point, tears stream from my eyes, I can't breathe and a bit of pee trickles out.

Lowell, occasionally a self-aware good sport, comes, literally dancing, out of the bathroom. He dances all around us in his tight, blue bottoms, leaping, pausing to take rigid air-guitar poses, head-bangingly tossing his hair all around his smiling face. He does a few more fist pumps for good measure, stops, minorly defeated, he offers, "Ya, I'll change." Back into the tiny bathroom he struts, ready to say goodbye to his tiny Tokyo-love pants.

Bruce returns to killing prostitutes with machine guns. Ike has joined him. I look at my watch. I have to start weaning Bruce off of his distraction (and true passion) and into what he calls his "laughable high school marching band uniform that I despise".

"Dude, it's time."

Ike, the ever vocal proponent of labor, always fighting "management": "Why do you make him wear those dumb clothes?" His ego is drenched in irony as he wears his traditional stage get-up: short green running shorts with white piping, a hairy belly and a beard like a mountain man whose house is most likely made entirely of sticks, glued together by his own feces. I don't know if he's joking or not.

As many times as I have explained the label's parameters on image, no one understands my need to dictate fashion. It's hardly a job I relish. Fuck marketing; fuck image; fuck trends. I hate it more than they do. And it isn't as if their attire is contractually mandated by the label. That expectation safely hovers beneath the surface, made clear in subtle comments. I'm no idiot. I get that a "look" always accompanies music. The ultimate "I could give a shit about my clothing" band was Nirvana. Ironically their "look" spawned a clothing trend finally reaching to the middle-end ranks and racks of JC Penney. Every sub-genre of the underground music scene unintentionally promotes its own style: metal, Goth, punk. Punk fashion was meant to be the ultimate fuck you to fashion, anti-fashion, and now new born babies of second-generation corporate wealth, New Yorker faux-urbanites sport "The Clash" onesies and shit. Music is a lifestyle down to the last detail. Hell, I used to say if I wasn't wearing my beat up, cheap wrist watch, I wasn't representing myself properly. No doubt that awareness of the signals I was sending through material choices was directly influenced, if not caused by my musical interests. Any slightly aware person can't be aloof enough to ignore it. So I maintain an anti-social social consciousness by pushing another social consciousness, a consciousness always teetering on destroying the same music which is solely responsible for birthing that fashion trend. It's as complicated as Federalism, and I have no idea if this band pulls it off. All I know is, they don't feel like sell-outs and the label stays off their (and mine) backs - which, incidentally are clothed in well-worn second-hand t-shirts most of the time.

To Be Continued…

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Part II of The Misunderstood Musician


(In case you missed Part I, see it here - obviously it's changed from FLASH to full on FICTION.)

Semicolons Make Tears has been a band for eight years now. Well, not actually eight. They've all been playing music in different bands for the past eight years; bands called Misery Loves Your Mom, The Feng Shuit , Hot Docta Peppa, My Sweet Little Baby Heart, Puking Up My Low Self-Esteem and Reality Gone Rancid (obviously a Rancid cover band). At this point, I'm not sure which bands were considered talented, or found local notoriety, who was in which band, how long the stint of that particular band name (or band) actually lasted, or if a realized album (be it EP or full length) ever came out under such a title/line-up. And so is the summation of a musician's adolescence: throwing together a grouping of semi-competent performers, coming up with a band name, loathing the band name/line-up/musical genre, changing the band name/line-up/musical genre, brutally offending members/friends/fans by breaking up, repeat.

Semis have been a band, the three of them, with me at the helm, for the past two years. A well-funded independent label picked them up about six months ago, and here we are. The label likes and trusts me, as do the guys, so I get to fill all the roles -- manager, tour manager, cop and confidant. I work hard; musical skill-deficient folks like me have to. Don't get me wrong, the guys take this opportunity seriously and recognize their true luck, father time's blessing, but they also have a fucking ball. Extraordinarily Awesome Day Job: Just another perk of being a rock star.

Sifting through the spilled out media cabinet of DVDs and board games stacked upon my makeshift desk (which is just a Formica table top that folds down from its secured position on the wall), I find my clipboard. This night's show science is on top. So as to not look like a raging idiot, I have researched and written out all pertinent venue information for quick reference. Every detail is included, down to the capacity (should the fire marshal show up). The alcohol policy of the venue and its corresponding state's laws are noted - especially for all-ages shows. I know how many staff security, who owns the venue, who manages the venue, who manages the bar, who is working the door tonight, how many tables we will have for merch... I know how fucking high off the ground the stage is (so as to purposefully warn Ike NOT to do a stage dive or give him the green light to risk it). I know everything, it's part of my job to know.

Plus, I'll be honest, some dicks have a problem dealing with a woman - so I have to be extra on top of it. The sexism is rare and even then rarely overt, and usually only happens in places like Bakersfield or Cleveland. But I have a responsibility to women who want to be a real face in the music business. My shit's together, no one can question my hard-earned position. In fact, any who have dared to try, got the bitch. Of course, the beauty in that? They didn't know the bitch came out.

We've been on tour with the band, The Deep Pockets, and there is always a booked local band to help bring in the purist, local scene-kids. Tonight's local favorite is Da Doo Run Run. My clipboard also offers the venue is Slim's, we are in San Francisco (I always remind the team which city we are in) and the venue's booking manager is Tom Carerra.

I pass by the tiny bathroom where Lowell is trying - without much luck, as the mirror is five feet off the ground and the size of a vertical standing toaster oven - to check out himself in his tiny pants, and to hopefully justify their lustful appearance on stage this night. Immediately recognizing the scream of a cartoon hooker, I predict Bruce is playing his fave video game of all time "Grand Theft Auto". Without surprise, I see that I am correct. The 46-inch about-to-be-bloodied prostitute begging to take a ride never ever makes it.

Outside the bus, Ike is smoking a cigarette and talking on his cell phone. Poor kid, by sheer force of will, superseded convention and avoided carrying a cell phone for years. "A part of the sociopolitical machine I will not indulge" is what he used to say. Rapidly dwindling pay phone locations coupled with death glares from the rest of us in response to the repetitive "Can I use?" finally sunk him deep into the preverbal mainstream landscape. He hated it at first, but now he's always on that fucking phone. It's not clever, and lamely obscure, but I borrow an insulting characterization from the movie Scream 2 and call him "phone head". He often lovingly rolls his eyes at me.

The venue is empty, except for a scattered bevy of employees and band folk. This is how the few hours before a show always look. Although the bodies are few, the collective bustling energy and anticipation could power a whole music festival. Only the promise of live music can bring such electricity. It's one of those undiscussed, unstudied chemistries melding people to sound. I still feel it every time, every venue, no matter how tired or hung over or depressed I am.

No one hassles me at the door, which mildly bothers me. In fact the two metal-head geeks working the entrance, who barely look eighteen and who are too busy discussing the finer points of Mike Patton side projects to even notice I've just walked in, seem oblivious as to what "working the door" entails. I back up.

To Be Continued…

Monday, July 7, 2008

"...But I Can't Look at Your Blank Meathead Stare For One More Second."


Imagine my surprise when I sat down to my computer this Monday morning and saw this disturbing (yet hilarious) email, copied to me (plus a thousand of her co-workers, and upper-level management) and sent to my sister's boss, Dick Face.

CopperCrotch has the biggest balls of anyone I know - which scare and thrill me simultaneously. For anyone who's ever wanted to verbally indict management (using many cuss words) for sucking their labor teet dry, or wanted to call out the blatant and subtle ways misogyny oozes out of every orifice of the head douche in charge, or just wanted to exit in a blaze of glory, paying no mind to future references or thinking of keep bridges in tact, then this resignation email is the one for you.


(Btw, she never addresses him as "Dick Face". I changed his name to protect his identity.)

Subject: I Quit

Dick Face,

I'm sorry to do this via email, but I can't work here anymore. I feel as if I've been taken advantage of, and I can't take it any longer. I know I don't need to explain myself; you are not stupid; you know you would NEVER put up with the shit that I have put up with the last 8 months; nobody would. I left a job where I was making $38,000 per year and I had health benefits, paid vacations and paid sick days. I trusted that you were being honest with me. I was wrong.

For the past few months I have been doing all three first briefings per week, and 2-4 second briefings per week. I usually end up doing the thirds too. Plus, I am the only recruiter inviting people in to the office. I do your job. I should be making $200,000+ per year. Seriously, nobody here even knows what you do. You work six hour days and act like you have no time for anything. It's bullshit. This office used to be an awesome place to work when JD was the USM. He cares about people. He inspires people. Dick Face, you still don't even know how many kids I have. You suck ass as a manager!! You have no idea what it means to develop relationships with people. You are a salesman, always ready to manipulate people to get what you want out of them.

I know that I have been passive and let this happen to me. The thing is I'm not stupid. I'm very smart. I am GOOD at my job. I am extremely under paid and I have to hear from you that you don't have any money to pay me, like you're poor or something. Give me a fucking break, nobody is buying that shit Dick Face. And by the way, it is insulting to me when you offer me the bagel scraps at the end of the day. I'm not a charity case. I don't want bagel scraps Dick Face. I want to get paid when I'm supposed to get paid. I know it's hard for you to believe that a WOMAN can have a mind of her own and see through your slimy ways, but it has happened. I'm sorry I have to go out like this, but I can't look at your blank meathead stare for one more second. You have absolutely no integrity Dick Face. NONE.

CopperCrotch

Thursday, July 3, 2008

The Fights You Fight Today Are The Fights You Fight Til' You Die





So I'm on my second attempt at reading/finishing Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States". I started it more than six months ago, and after about two hundred pages (or years), at least two mill D E A D, and too many gross accounts of explorers' misinterpretations of what Jesus meant when he said "Go into the world and preach the gospel", I had to put the murdered baby lamb of a history lesson down in order to regain my appetite/hope for the present/future/faith in humanity. (Incidentally, only the appetite returned.) Then, lo and behold, I start interning for this documentary project - time coding and archiving footage, writing clip synopsis, blah blah blah - and one of the interviewees for the film is none other than the actual man/historian/pinko Howard Zinn! And the best part? It's not like he's just a contributing talking-head historian, rather, he is actually part of the story being told! He hid the Pentagon Papers for Daniel Ellsberg for a time back in the 60s or 70s - or whenever the whole Vietnam... Watergate... Nixon mess happened. (Obviously, I'm no historian, nor do I fully understand the doc I'm working for.) I'm all, "how cool is it that I'm cutting and pasting the text of Howard Fuckin' Zinn's recently spoken words? I'm part of something special...maybe...!" So anyways, it made me pick up the book again so I could read his first-hand account of that VietWatNix junk, but I started with WWI instead. I don't know why; I suppose I was curious about the Socialist movement (don't tell my dad).

Cut to today, three weeks into the Espionage Act. I'd yet to pick up the book this morning as I had to move my car to a legal space. As soon as I stepped outside onto the sidewalk I smelled summer, and with the long 4th of July weekend beckoning me forth, I left footprints of happiness in the wake of my stroll to where I'd left my vehicle. THE FUCKING GREEN ENVELOPE OF DOOM crammed under my wiper didn't kill my joy at first. I grabbed it, entered my car, took off my headphones and my sunglasses, and searched for the amount this ticket would cost me... $24? No... $35? No... $48?... FUCK YOU GODDAMN MUTHERFUCKERS. No, I think I yelled something closer to YOU FUCKING PIECES OF SHIT. Yes, that was it. (You've seen my parking rants, you know how I roll.)

After re-parking my car, I attempt to calm myself down on my walk to the train. Money worries (especially saving for huge future events like moving and planned unemployment) can weigh very heavy on one's heart and rip out one's peace of mind - thereby making one a complete sourpuss bitch and not fun to be around. I don't want to be that one this long camping-weekend. Ah, the book; I decide to get lost in Zinn's eloquent and poignant prose -- even going to far as to think "now those people, those people had it rough - get some perspective".

But see, all that rhetorical jazz I used to assuage myself? That shit don't work with Zinn. 1) History actually happened. This isn't fiction; these people existed and suffered -- usually unjustly and at the hands of utmost puritanical stupidity and hypocrisy, propelled by white male ego, entitlement, and infinite greed. 2) Uhmmm, it still fucking happens. Only now, today, we lock people up under the guise of protecting the masses from terrorism (instead of communism, or treason) and we do it via oppressive and unconstitutional law called The Patriot Act (instead of The Espionage Act). We throw people in the brig sans due process, only we keep them in Guantanamo Bay, or the back room of an airport or whatever torture chambers the White House has privy to that Geraldo hasn't discovered yet.

The foundation of this nation is bologna-sandwich-firm at best. The government has no apparent interest in its people. Freedom is a slogan, akin to Just Do It or Just Say No. It's an allusion, a masterful marketing gimmick. The popular opinion of this country is to end the war in Iraq, as was it the popular opinion of this country to keep out of WWI. And if you keep your head buried in racks of discount clothing or in a newspaper or in your Big Mac Value Meal or in your fucking meds, the government will leave you alone.

My father, in his elder age (brain now ten years soaked in Limbaughisms and O'Reilly-urine) will tell you he values safety over freedom. He says terrorism is the reason. And when I ask him how that translates to him, or his family, getting carted away by FBI, tossed away in a cell with no explanation of charges, denied constitutional due process of law and waiting waiting waiting while the witch hunt round-up continues? He thinks he's immune; he also thinks some innocent should suffer for the good of many. He says terrorism is such a foe, that some freedom MUST be relinquished. I imagine if my father were around during WWI, he would have said, of the socialists fighting the war and conscription, "Treasonists! Drag them to the streets and shoot them like dogs!" Oh, my daddy.

So history repeats itself essentially. The present-day is only more desirable since it is better lit, less diseased, more connected and arguably more humane. The value system, the hierarchy, the management/labor gap, the propaganda, the injustice and war, that is all exactly the same.

Which brings me back to this doggone brilliant Zinn-afflicted documentary! Grassroots social movements spur progressive policy change, history proves it time and time again. This decade has seen the rise of the newest effectual tool of that movement, the documentary film. Support documentary filmmakers, support documentary films. Even a hopeless realist like me can't deny their far-reaching impacts. Even I believe change is possible, and the only way I believe hearts and minds can be truly moved is by film (and music) (but mostly film). See one today!

Happy Independence Day.

(Oh, btw, the pictures here are of this amazing spider sculpture at Embarcadero & Mission in SF. We have it on loan from some country in Europe through August. If you have the means, I highly recommend a visit! And thanks to commenter, e, for the Fascism image!)

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Spoofing: This Is Just To Say


Some weeks ago, I listened to (repeatedly) an episode of This American Life entitled, "Mistakes Were Made". The final act stuck with me the most, and recently resurfaced in me when I was forced to think about poetry, and to try to write like a poet.

"Act Two. You’re Willing to Sacrifice Our Love.

There’s a famous William Carlos Williams poem called “This is Just to Say". It’s about, among other things, causing a loved one inconvenience and offering a non-apologizing apology. It’s only three lines long, you’ve probably read it...the one about eating the plums in the icebox. Marketplace reporter (and published poet) Sean Cole explains that this is possibly the most spoofed poem around. We asked some of our regular contributors to get into the act. Sarah Vowell, David Rakoff, Starlee Kine, Jonathan Goldstein, Shalom Auslander and Heather O’Neill, all came upwith their own variations of Williams’s classic lines. (6 minutes)"

First, I present the original poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

-- William Carlos Williams


And my spoof:

I ate the whole
burrito.

You most likely heard
me slurp
the cheese.

Drunk tosses
of foil,
and rice,
and beans.

If I woke you up,
and you're angry,
don't fret...

I barely tasted it,
and I'll pay for it
today.

You can hear the original podcast here.