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...

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.
Mine.
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

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!

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.

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%.

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.

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.

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

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?

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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).

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…

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…