. . . to you.
Despite myself, I miss you. But I'm happy to be rid of you. Emotional contradiction of the highest order. Why am I happy to be rid of you? Because I'm a drunk and you were a nag. Not a good mix. And, well, because I love to think of how happy you are.
Happy Birthday, M.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
I don't give a sh*t about the holidays.
I really don't.
I have been told that family and love keep one from being overly pessimistic about such things. Family would have to mean having my own kids and love would mean the romantic variety. Neither one is on my radar. *shrug*
Even so, I want everyone (anyone?) who reads this to have a fantastic time with family, friends, booze, or whatever else it is that rocks your world. Don't go it alone. It's no good alone.
I shall leave you with this wisdom from the mouth of my favorite babe:
"I wish I was a talking animal that drank yucky water, lived in a forest, and ate frogs."
I could go with that.
Also . . .
"Tiffany, you don't wear makeup? If you don't wear makeup you can't be pretty."
I always knew there was something I was doing wrong. Well, there are many things I have been doing wrong. This is just one of many.
Holidays. Who needs them? Happiness? I wish it for all of you.
I have been told that family and love keep one from being overly pessimistic about such things. Family would have to mean having my own kids and love would mean the romantic variety. Neither one is on my radar. *shrug*
Even so, I want everyone (anyone?) who reads this to have a fantastic time with family, friends, booze, or whatever else it is that rocks your world. Don't go it alone. It's no good alone.
I shall leave you with this wisdom from the mouth of my favorite babe:
"I wish I was a talking animal that drank yucky water, lived in a forest, and ate frogs."
I could go with that.
Also . . .
"Tiffany, you don't wear makeup? If you don't wear makeup you can't be pretty."
I always knew there was something I was doing wrong. Well, there are many things I have been doing wrong. This is just one of many.
Holidays. Who needs them? Happiness? I wish it for all of you.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Incredible.
I watched tiny bits of Soon to be Bye Bye President Bush's interview with Charles Gibson. I have never been able to listen to Bush in large doses. It's just too painful. The reason I tuned in? Gibson asked Bush if he had any regrets. Bush responded that he regretted that the intelligence he used to take our country to war had not been "good intelligence." And that lot of people had staked their intelligence on this intelligence. Anyone who knows anything about the run-up to the Iraq war knows that this administration knew damn well that the intelligence it had was fabricated, or not fabricated, not investigated and tested to the extent that would justify its being used as the foundation for an invasion and occupation. This administration willfully and purposefully waved that fabricated evidence under a banner of legitimacy which government proclamations are often given.
Right before this statement about the intelligence leading to the Iraq war, Bush insisted to Mr. Gibson that he has always been correct in resisting any effort to withdraw our troops from Iraq. I almost choked on my tea after hearing this. Even now, this man can look us in the eye and insist that he has been correct to send people off to die, kill innocent civilians, and suppress fundamental liberties in the name of "security and safety." And even though he knew there were no WMD, there was no imminent threat, and there was no connection between Iraq and the 9/11 attacks, he insists that it's always been correct to fight this war when it should never have been started to begin with.
Unbelievable.
There was also a priceless moment when he was asked how he thought the American people would remember him. His answer: "I don't know." Gibson then posed the question to Laura Bush. Her answer: "I think they'll remember him because he kept them safe."
What, exactly, was he keeping us safe from? Oh right! We're safe from threatening, deadly weapons which never existed! But we're not safe from the peering eye of our government, nor are we exactly afforded our rights of due process if for some reason we should end up on a government watch list of some sort. Safe? My ass!
This president often likes to say that "history will judge." You're right, it will. And I don't think you're going to like what it has to say about you.
Right before this statement about the intelligence leading to the Iraq war, Bush insisted to Mr. Gibson that he has always been correct in resisting any effort to withdraw our troops from Iraq. I almost choked on my tea after hearing this. Even now, this man can look us in the eye and insist that he has been correct to send people off to die, kill innocent civilians, and suppress fundamental liberties in the name of "security and safety." And even though he knew there were no WMD, there was no imminent threat, and there was no connection between Iraq and the 9/11 attacks, he insists that it's always been correct to fight this war when it should never have been started to begin with.
Unbelievable.
There was also a priceless moment when he was asked how he thought the American people would remember him. His answer: "I don't know." Gibson then posed the question to Laura Bush. Her answer: "I think they'll remember him because he kept them safe."
What, exactly, was he keeping us safe from? Oh right! We're safe from threatening, deadly weapons which never existed! But we're not safe from the peering eye of our government, nor are we exactly afforded our rights of due process if for some reason we should end up on a government watch list of some sort. Safe? My ass!
This president often likes to say that "history will judge." You're right, it will. And I don't think you're going to like what it has to say about you.
Is it January 20th yet?
I am sick. My head is a gigantic booger balloon. My ears feel like they are filled with cotton, my sinuses are filled to the brim with mucus, and I feel like ass. So of course that means I had to do something important today. I had a job interview. An interview for a job I'd actually really, really like. It's working as an Executive Assistant (sounds boring, but wait!) for a local non-profit which provides a variety of social and community service to minority and immigrant children. Check out their site!
Tiffany really wants to work here!
The woman who "interviewed" me was really quite inspiring. She exuded so much passion and while I didn't really say much (it was more of a conversation than interview), I could definitely see myself working there. My interviewer asked me two questions. What are your aspirations and can you speak Spanish? I have been asked the former of these two questions before. It's one of my least favorite interview questions in the history of interview questions. I also really hate, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Shit if I know! Oh and, "Why do you think you'd be good at this job?" I always answer as honestly as I can, but it doesn't always benefit me to do as much. I've interviewed for jobs I knew I would have been phenomenal for, but for reasons which are sometimes not explained to me, have not been given the jobs. I have even contacted the interviewing parties to inquire as to what, in particular, excluded me from consideration. I have yet to receive a useful answer. Something other than, "We just found someone more suited to our needs." Blah!
I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much. I am supposed to receive a call tomorrow or Thursday inviting me for a follow-up, or telling me to go screw myself. I am almost positive I'll get a second interview. I'd have to meet with the two directors I'd be supporting. I wish I could say I was nervous. I'm not. I'll just walk in like I own the place, give them what I've got, and let the chips fall where they may. What choice do I have?
Oh, I also have two meetings with two state reps at the Capitol for volunteer work. And Thursday I meet with the volunteer coordinator at the LBJ Presidential Library.
Trying to keep me busy folks.
I am now going to go lock myself up the bathroom and hope that the steam from the hot shower can loosen some of this crud in my nose.
Lastly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JENNA!!!!! I love you.
Tiffany really wants to work here!
The woman who "interviewed" me was really quite inspiring. She exuded so much passion and while I didn't really say much (it was more of a conversation than interview), I could definitely see myself working there. My interviewer asked me two questions. What are your aspirations and can you speak Spanish? I have been asked the former of these two questions before. It's one of my least favorite interview questions in the history of interview questions. I also really hate, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Shit if I know! Oh and, "Why do you think you'd be good at this job?" I always answer as honestly as I can, but it doesn't always benefit me to do as much. I've interviewed for jobs I knew I would have been phenomenal for, but for reasons which are sometimes not explained to me, have not been given the jobs. I have even contacted the interviewing parties to inquire as to what, in particular, excluded me from consideration. I have yet to receive a useful answer. Something other than, "We just found someone more suited to our needs." Blah!
I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much. I am supposed to receive a call tomorrow or Thursday inviting me for a follow-up, or telling me to go screw myself. I am almost positive I'll get a second interview. I'd have to meet with the two directors I'd be supporting. I wish I could say I was nervous. I'm not. I'll just walk in like I own the place, give them what I've got, and let the chips fall where they may. What choice do I have?
Oh, I also have two meetings with two state reps at the Capitol for volunteer work. And Thursday I meet with the volunteer coordinator at the LBJ Presidential Library.
Trying to keep me busy folks.
I am now going to go lock myself up the bathroom and hope that the steam from the hot shower can loosen some of this crud in my nose.
Lastly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JENNA!!!!! I love you.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Epiphanic.
My youngest sister is about to go to a mall type shopping center with her friends. She is more girl than I ever was. She wears makeup, cares about her hair, and will probably end up getting married when she gets older. In other words, she will be normal.
I don't know what compelled me to ask her the following question:
"So are you and your friends going to stop into the Borders? Look at some books?"
Silence.
"I'm kidding. I know that's not the cool thing kids do. Only dipshits like your older sister did things like that as a teenager."
It's true. I never had any friends when I was her age. I had books. Books were my companions. Funny how some things don't ever seem to change.
What the hell is wrong with me? I have no business trying to tell my sister (in code no less) that I think she doesn't read enough. So what? I read plenty and look at what it's gotten me. I'm 31, alone, living with my mother due to unemployment, and replete with my loserdom.
I'm a terrible sister.
I'm going to lock myself up in the room, drink the rest of my beer, and watch some Twilight Zone episodes.
Terrible.
I don't know what compelled me to ask her the following question:
"So are you and your friends going to stop into the Borders? Look at some books?"
Silence.
"I'm kidding. I know that's not the cool thing kids do. Only dipshits like your older sister did things like that as a teenager."
It's true. I never had any friends when I was her age. I had books. Books were my companions. Funny how some things don't ever seem to change.
What the hell is wrong with me? I have no business trying to tell my sister (in code no less) that I think she doesn't read enough. So what? I read plenty and look at what it's gotten me. I'm 31, alone, living with my mother due to unemployment, and replete with my loserdom.
I'm a terrible sister.
I'm going to lock myself up in the room, drink the rest of my beer, and watch some Twilight Zone episodes.
Terrible.
Consumers.
If I hear one more damn news story about freaks out in droves to shop for "deals" I'm going to pull all of my nappy hair out.
If there's one thing that being broke and unemployed has taught me it's that I really have no need for half of the things I claim to need. Of course, I am speaking with reference to my own consumerist inclinations. I like to buy shit, oh yes I do! I miss my iPod (lost it in California last month!), slobber over MacBooks (I will never have the cash for one), and have fantasies about winning the lotto and going on a book shopping spree! People have been waiting outside of stores since 10 pm Thursday night. Are you mad? Watching all of these news clips of people crowding into Wal-Marts and outlet malls like cattle is enough to make me want to lock myself into a personal commitment to slice my purchasing power in the event that I am ever fortunate enough to become gainfully employed again. It's a bit disturbing to think that the country's economic straits are so dependent upon our eagerness to shell out money for things we probably don't need. But such is the nature of the beast. We have long since succumbed to the logic that as markets shrink, industry must create the illusion of demand. The economy thrives if we buy.
I find that we U.S. citizens are such an economically perplexing bunch.
Anyway, even if I did have money (or a job) you would not find my ass out at any stores at 5 in the morning looking for a deal on the newest Butt-finger Me Elmo.
If there's one thing that being broke and unemployed has taught me it's that I really have no need for half of the things I claim to need. Of course, I am speaking with reference to my own consumerist inclinations. I like to buy shit, oh yes I do! I miss my iPod (lost it in California last month!), slobber over MacBooks (I will never have the cash for one), and have fantasies about winning the lotto and going on a book shopping spree! People have been waiting outside of stores since 10 pm Thursday night. Are you mad? Watching all of these news clips of people crowding into Wal-Marts and outlet malls like cattle is enough to make me want to lock myself into a personal commitment to slice my purchasing power in the event that I am ever fortunate enough to become gainfully employed again. It's a bit disturbing to think that the country's economic straits are so dependent upon our eagerness to shell out money for things we probably don't need. But such is the nature of the beast. We have long since succumbed to the logic that as markets shrink, industry must create the illusion of demand. The economy thrives if we buy.
I find that we U.S. citizens are such an economically perplexing bunch.
Anyway, even if I did have money (or a job) you would not find my ass out at any stores at 5 in the morning looking for a deal on the newest Butt-finger Me Elmo.
Reasons to Love Her . . .
My youngest sister turned 15 earlier this week. It killed me to not have the cash to get her something. I'm hoping I can make that up to her. Eventually.
I wrote her a small note telling her I loved her madly and hoped that she would forgive me for being such a consummate loser. Well, it wasn't really phrased so depressingly, but I did plead for understanding.
Anyway, Happy Birthday to my baby! Fifteen! Damn.
Also, this was funny:
Nancy (my baby sister): "Are you okay sister?"
Me (struggling with Aunt Flow): "Ugh. Not really. I'm having horrible cramps."
Nancy: "Ooooh, do you need some medicine?"
Me: "I already took some medicine. I think I just need to have my uterus removed."
Nancy, with puzzled expression: "If you have your uterus removed does that mean you won't be able to pee any more?"
Me, suppressing wild laughter: "No, not quite."
Ah, it's great having siblings.
I wrote her a small note telling her I loved her madly and hoped that she would forgive me for being such a consummate loser. Well, it wasn't really phrased so depressingly, but I did plead for understanding.
Anyway, Happy Birthday to my baby! Fifteen! Damn.
Also, this was funny:
Nancy (my baby sister): "Are you okay sister?"
Me (struggling with Aunt Flow): "Ugh. Not really. I'm having horrible cramps."
Nancy: "Ooooh, do you need some medicine?"
Me: "I already took some medicine. I think I just need to have my uterus removed."
Nancy, with puzzled expression: "If you have your uterus removed does that mean you won't be able to pee any more?"
Me, suppressing wild laughter: "No, not quite."
Ah, it's great having siblings.
Food Comas
My holiday? My mother made a shitload of good food. I ate and then I slept. I slept a lot. I am still unemployed! (Booo!) However, I have inquired into volunteer opportunities with two local museums (The Harry Ransom Humanities Center & The LBJ Presidential Library), two state representatives, and the local food bank. All of them responded that they would love to talk to me about making free use of my talents. Yes, it's not a paying gig, but I'm almost (almost!) past caring. I just need something to do. I need to feel a tiny bit useful again. Oh, I did also get a call about a job interview. But I'm very doubtful as to my chances. It's an Executive Assistant position for a local non-profit. In other words, it's the kind of job I would cut off my left titty to get. That means that more than likely it will go to someone else. *sigh* I'll probably attend the interview anyway. Again, it will be something to do.
I know this is late, but as they say, better late than never, right?
I have had a shitty time with life of late. Of late being the last three years. Even so, whether I can ever really believe it or not, I am thankful for some things. I really am. Such as? Well, I shall tell you.
In no particular order, I am thankful for:
*My beautiful, thoughtful, accepting mother.
*My beautiful, thoughtful, accepting sisters.
*My little red-headed buddy.
*My favorite California girl and ballerina.
*Electronic friendships.
*Having had a father who gave me a love for good soul music, a decent singing voice, and rhythm.
*My books.
*The Netflix watch instantly option. It's like my boyfriend or something.
*Coffee
*The Public Library
*Having lived to see the election of my country's first black president.
*Once having known (I'm not typing out their names, just their initials) SEMH, TPO, AAG, and MRT. Sometimes I miss them, whether I want to or not, I'll always care about them, but mostly I'm just thankful they are happy in their lives and selves.
*A fine IPA.
*The View from Dolores Park
*A robust California Cab
*My sexy brain. (Sometimes I'd trade it in an instant for a sexy ass or a great set of tits.)
*Stargazing
*Hugs from my mother, sisters, and the redhead.
*Kisses from the mom, sisters, and the redhead.
*Marathon viewings of The Godfather movies (With regard to my movie tastes and sports proclivities, I'm almost a dude. It's weird.)
*Cute cats.
*Cute dogs.
*Cute guys.
*Cute kids.
*And I know I already mentioned them, but they deserve to be mentioned twice . . . my Mamita y mis hermanitas. I'm nothing without my ladies.
I hope you are all having a hella bomb ass holiday!
Titties!!!
I know this is late, but as they say, better late than never, right?
I have had a shitty time with life of late. Of late being the last three years. Even so, whether I can ever really believe it or not, I am thankful for some things. I really am. Such as? Well, I shall tell you.
In no particular order, I am thankful for:
*My beautiful, thoughtful, accepting mother.
*My beautiful, thoughtful, accepting sisters.
*My little red-headed buddy.
*My favorite California girl and ballerina.
*Electronic friendships.
*Having had a father who gave me a love for good soul music, a decent singing voice, and rhythm.
*My books.
*The Netflix watch instantly option. It's like my boyfriend or something.
*Coffee
*The Public Library
*Having lived to see the election of my country's first black president.
*Once having known (I'm not typing out their names, just their initials) SEMH, TPO, AAG, and MRT. Sometimes I miss them, whether I want to or not, I'll always care about them, but mostly I'm just thankful they are happy in their lives and selves.
*A fine IPA.
*The View from Dolores Park
*A robust California Cab
*My sexy brain. (Sometimes I'd trade it in an instant for a sexy ass or a great set of tits.)
*Stargazing
*Hugs from my mother, sisters, and the redhead.
*Kisses from the mom, sisters, and the redhead.
*Marathon viewings of The Godfather movies (With regard to my movie tastes and sports proclivities, I'm almost a dude. It's weird.)
*Cute cats.
*Cute dogs.
*Cute guys.
*Cute kids.
*And I know I already mentioned them, but they deserve to be mentioned twice . . . my Mamita y mis hermanitas. I'm nothing without my ladies.
I hope you are all having a hella bomb ass holiday!
Titties!!!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
I did leave the house . . . for a second.
Last Thursday I attended a free discussion sponsored by the Journalism school of my alma mater. Michele Norris, of NPR fame, was the sponsored guest. The subject of the talk was the election and whether or not the media "got it right." I enjoyed it very much. What I did not enjoy was the fact that during the Q & A someone decided start off the evening with a question asking for a good microphone recommendation. And from there the questions went from dumb to pointless to meandering. At one point Ms. Norris even said, "I don't think I understand your question." Yes, that's Texas for you. There's not much of an intellectual verve here.
I was a bit nervous when it was my turn to ask my question. I don't recall its exact wording, but I do remember that I was curious as to Ms. Norris's opinion as to whether or not the media has any responsibility in aiding the general population become more discriminating media consumers. In other words, what responsibility might the media take in creating more mindful consumers during an age when our range of choices has become so broad given that it seems we are less informed than ever before? I won't go into the answer I was given. The only point of this post was to mention that three people complimented my question (which was nice) and that two people (including Michele Norris) asked me if I was from Berkeley, California. They only asked because I rock my Berkeley hoodie all about town. I'm not wearing any fucking ugly ass burnt orange. Besides, Berkeley is a much better school than my alma mater. I probably should have lied and said, "Yes, I am from Berkeley." But I didn't. I merely sighed and said, "No, but I lived in the Bay Area and miss it like mad."
Anyway, Michele Norris thought I was Californian and that made my week.
I was a bit nervous when it was my turn to ask my question. I don't recall its exact wording, but I do remember that I was curious as to Ms. Norris's opinion as to whether or not the media has any responsibility in aiding the general population become more discriminating media consumers. In other words, what responsibility might the media take in creating more mindful consumers during an age when our range of choices has become so broad given that it seems we are less informed than ever before? I won't go into the answer I was given. The only point of this post was to mention that three people complimented my question (which was nice) and that two people (including Michele Norris) asked me if I was from Berkeley, California. They only asked because I rock my Berkeley hoodie all about town. I'm not wearing any fucking ugly ass burnt orange. Besides, Berkeley is a much better school than my alma mater. I probably should have lied and said, "Yes, I am from Berkeley." But I didn't. I merely sighed and said, "No, but I lived in the Bay Area and miss it like mad."
Anyway, Michele Norris thought I was Californian and that made my week.
Is it 2009 yet?
I'm not sure why I should care. The last three years have been the absolute worst years of my life. I can't imagine any reason for it to get better. Heartbreak, death, incarceration, and perpetual failure have been the taint of my existence. No surprise there. How many days is three years? I don't think I want to know.
I had a short stint at construction work last week. It was due to a friend's generosity. Her brother-in-law was working on rebuilding her garage and because she knows I am pathetic and in need of some kind of cash, she asked him if he had any use for me. He agreed. Mostly because he's a nice guy. I didn't really do anything remarkable. I spackled and caulked. Oh and I did a little painting with a weenie-roller. It was two days' worth of work. It was perfectly mindless but wonderfully distracting. My body has never been so sore. Standing on ladders for hours at a time, who knew it could be so damn hard? I gave the money I made to my mother. She needs it more than I do. Besides, if I had kept the money I'd probably just drink it away. Well, there's no probably to it, I know I would drink it away. It's what I do.
I ran a search through my e-mail account and learned that I have sent over 300 resumes out in the last two weeks. Resumes for any and all kinds of work. You name it, I've sent it. I have a resume for all season. And then I tweak as appropriate. I have even gone so far as to eliminate any reference to my education. I am no longer a college graduate. Not that it matters. The fact that people advertise for jobs which a rhesus monkey could perform and then go so far as to ask that the monkey-human in question have a college degree, is mind blowing. It doesn't take a person with a college education to file your fucking papers, type your memos, or use a copy machine. But then again, I've met quite a few people with college educations who lack the sense of a slug.
In the meantime I amuse myself by finding web sites similar to this. I am thinking of putting one together myself.
I actually have $20.00 that I did not give to my mother. Tomorrow morning I may walk to the store and purchase a bottle of shitty wine and tampons. Then I'll come home, ride a cotton rocket, and drink myself to sleep. (It's almost 5AM and I haven't slept all night, so I'm probably going to be hitting the sack at around 12 or 1pm.) I wish it were possible to sleep through the rest of this fucking year. Hating life is just that much more easy to do during the holidays. Fuck Thanksgiving and Fuck Xmas! That's right. Bah-motherfucking-humbug. And I won't be changing my mind any time soon.
I had a short stint at construction work last week. It was due to a friend's generosity. Her brother-in-law was working on rebuilding her garage and because she knows I am pathetic and in need of some kind of cash, she asked him if he had any use for me. He agreed. Mostly because he's a nice guy. I didn't really do anything remarkable. I spackled and caulked. Oh and I did a little painting with a weenie-roller. It was two days' worth of work. It was perfectly mindless but wonderfully distracting. My body has never been so sore. Standing on ladders for hours at a time, who knew it could be so damn hard? I gave the money I made to my mother. She needs it more than I do. Besides, if I had kept the money I'd probably just drink it away. Well, there's no probably to it, I know I would drink it away. It's what I do.
I ran a search through my e-mail account and learned that I have sent over 300 resumes out in the last two weeks. Resumes for any and all kinds of work. You name it, I've sent it. I have a resume for all season. And then I tweak as appropriate. I have even gone so far as to eliminate any reference to my education. I am no longer a college graduate. Not that it matters. The fact that people advertise for jobs which a rhesus monkey could perform and then go so far as to ask that the monkey-human in question have a college degree, is mind blowing. It doesn't take a person with a college education to file your fucking papers, type your memos, or use a copy machine. But then again, I've met quite a few people with college educations who lack the sense of a slug.
In the meantime I amuse myself by finding web sites similar to this. I am thinking of putting one together myself.
I actually have $20.00 that I did not give to my mother. Tomorrow morning I may walk to the store and purchase a bottle of shitty wine and tampons. Then I'll come home, ride a cotton rocket, and drink myself to sleep. (It's almost 5AM and I haven't slept all night, so I'm probably going to be hitting the sack at around 12 or 1pm.) I wish it were possible to sleep through the rest of this fucking year. Hating life is just that much more easy to do during the holidays. Fuck Thanksgiving and Fuck Xmas! That's right. Bah-motherfucking-humbug. And I won't be changing my mind any time soon.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
The days are all the same . . .
The weather has been somewhat tolerable. I've enjoyed the sky. It reminds me of Oakland. Of course, this was usually after the gray morning clouds and fog cleared. I have said before that if the weather stayed like this all of the time I probably wouldn't mind living here, but that's not true. I can't stand Austin, Texas. There are no opportunities to speak of, and on top of that, I'm SICK of its supposed reputation as a musician's mecca. Yes, if you like bad alt-rock country shit that all sounds the same. It's depressing. The "musicians" of Austin have actually banded together to urge local government to put together a live music task force whose mission it is to heighten opportunities and living conditions for the city's "musicians." What the fuck? Here's the thing, if your music is worth a shit, you don't need any damn government task force to help you become a success. The wondrous thing about making music that does not suck is that it works its own kind of Field of Dreams magic . . . if you play it, they will come. But no, this town, in all of its infinite wisdom, and with a slew of misplaced priorities decides to create a commission, waste money which could potentially find its way in more useful coffers. The homeless situation here easily rivals, if not surpasses, that of San Francisco. No shit.
Since we are on the arts (sort of) I shall continue in that vein. I have an interview with a downtown theatre. They are in need of temporary evening sales associates. I was asked if I had "arts sales experience." I do not. But I can be charming. You may not believe it, but it's true. I tried to emphasize this and it snagged me a meeting. So, we shall see.
Saturday's excuse for a newspaper had a small note in the editorial page about the fact that Texas ranks 49th for arts funding. That was not the point of the mention. The point was to gloat about the fact that the state ranked 50th is California. Oh yes, Texans have a huge inferiority complex when it comes to California, myself being excepted seeing as how I've lived in California and hold it to be far superior to the flat, endless, scorching mess that is The Lone Star State. Texans fear the recent increase of California transplants. For the life of me I cannot imagine why the hell someone would leave California for this shit tank, but everybody has their story to tell. However, caveat emptor, because you get what you pay for. There is a reason it's cheaper in Texas. There are quite a few people who come here from the West, but it's usually families. Homes are expensive in California. Young, entrepreneurial types do not find their way here. Why should they? California has a larger GDP than Texas, a more diverse cultural and topographical landscape, and seven (as opposed to Texas's one) top-flight public universities. Unfortunately, both states suffer from some undetected electoral malady which permits the election of nimrods (George W. Bush) and egocentrics (Guvnor Ah-nuhld) as governor. Both states seem okay with permitting a platform to the insipid. Even so, in my opinion the Californication of Texas is a myth propagated by the bizarre, lunatic fringe which keeps this state "red." Besides, most of the "outsiders" in Austin come from Houston, Dallas, or shitty little Texas towns. The Houston and Dallas influx is because the people there find their cities unbearable (sprawling, humid cities), and the shitty little Texas town folk think of Austin as "big city" and realize it really does suck less than B.F.E., Texas. Both sets of individuals usually arrive in Austin to attend the University here. Meh. It's just easier to blame "Yankees" and "Californians." Ridiculous.
As for the arts funding, well I couldn't understand the point of gloating over this. Whooptee fucking doo! That's shitty for both states. It's not necessarily something to brag about that the two biggest states in the union are at the bottom when it comes to the cultivation of beauty, expression, and talent. It's a sad testament to the heightened anti-intellectualism of our age. But rather than recognize that, the pinheads who pass for journalists here decided to use the statistics as ember for an incendiary cultural riot. It's disgusting. Ultimately, I'm a citizen of the country as a whole. The great thing about being a U.S. citizen is that I can rant and rave about the suckworthiness of any state I live in. Isn't democracy great kids?
This blog was a rambling mess! My apologies.
My weekend was uneventful. I went to the library (which I love), and spent my weekend watching dinosaur videos with the following young man (whom I love even more than the library, so that's A LOT of love).
He's pretty good-looking, don't you think?
Ciao.
Since we are on the arts (sort of) I shall continue in that vein. I have an interview with a downtown theatre. They are in need of temporary evening sales associates. I was asked if I had "arts sales experience." I do not. But I can be charming. You may not believe it, but it's true. I tried to emphasize this and it snagged me a meeting. So, we shall see.
Saturday's excuse for a newspaper had a small note in the editorial page about the fact that Texas ranks 49th for arts funding. That was not the point of the mention. The point was to gloat about the fact that the state ranked 50th is California. Oh yes, Texans have a huge inferiority complex when it comes to California, myself being excepted seeing as how I've lived in California and hold it to be far superior to the flat, endless, scorching mess that is The Lone Star State. Texans fear the recent increase of California transplants. For the life of me I cannot imagine why the hell someone would leave California for this shit tank, but everybody has their story to tell. However, caveat emptor, because you get what you pay for. There is a reason it's cheaper in Texas. There are quite a few people who come here from the West, but it's usually families. Homes are expensive in California. Young, entrepreneurial types do not find their way here. Why should they? California has a larger GDP than Texas, a more diverse cultural and topographical landscape, and seven (as opposed to Texas's one) top-flight public universities. Unfortunately, both states suffer from some undetected electoral malady which permits the election of nimrods (George W. Bush) and egocentrics (Guvnor Ah-nuhld) as governor. Both states seem okay with permitting a platform to the insipid. Even so, in my opinion the Californication of Texas is a myth propagated by the bizarre, lunatic fringe which keeps this state "red." Besides, most of the "outsiders" in Austin come from Houston, Dallas, or shitty little Texas towns. The Houston and Dallas influx is because the people there find their cities unbearable (sprawling, humid cities), and the shitty little Texas town folk think of Austin as "big city" and realize it really does suck less than B.F.E., Texas. Both sets of individuals usually arrive in Austin to attend the University here. Meh. It's just easier to blame "Yankees" and "Californians." Ridiculous.
As for the arts funding, well I couldn't understand the point of gloating over this. Whooptee fucking doo! That's shitty for both states. It's not necessarily something to brag about that the two biggest states in the union are at the bottom when it comes to the cultivation of beauty, expression, and talent. It's a sad testament to the heightened anti-intellectualism of our age. But rather than recognize that, the pinheads who pass for journalists here decided to use the statistics as ember for an incendiary cultural riot. It's disgusting. Ultimately, I'm a citizen of the country as a whole. The great thing about being a U.S. citizen is that I can rant and rave about the suckworthiness of any state I live in. Isn't democracy great kids?
This blog was a rambling mess! My apologies.
My weekend was uneventful. I went to the library (which I love), and spent my weekend watching dinosaur videos with the following young man (whom I love even more than the library, so that's A LOT of love).
He's pretty good-looking, don't you think?
Ciao.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I've seen the sun rise for a whole week now . . .
Locked up in my room, suffering from insomnia, and unwilling to see any bright side, I don't sleep like any normal person. This always happens when I am unemployed. It's a curse. It's not a good thing to have too much time to think about all of the things you are not, and that's all I do.
I stayed up organizing my books. Touching them, flipping through them, and resurrecting them gives me a small measure of comfort. Though I have moved (there was Mexico, and of course, California), my books are constant companions I can't convince myself to abandon. I've disposed of belongings and lost what I believed were indispensable material products (my iPod being the most recent thing), but I must have my books. Even though I frequent the library, my personal library is the only thing I own. I hide behind my voracious reading habits. I am intelligent, but not very smart. I am intelligent, but not a success. I am intelligent, but not worth employing in even the most menial of capacities. I have sent applications for dishwashiing positions, housekeeping, and for busing tables. Austin, Texas is a joke and I am sick of pretending to laugh.
I also found seven of my old journals. Moleskins. I have lost my heart for journaling. Blogs haven't taken the place of my journals, I just realized that far too much of what I wrote in my journals was repetitive and pointless. I used to say that I wanted to leave a legacy for people to read about me after I'm gone, but I've concluded that the world has better things about which to be curious.
I'll cut this short for fear of diving into my usual negative depths. These types of things don't go away. How could they? I have to live with who I am, and that's not much.
I stayed up organizing my books. Touching them, flipping through them, and resurrecting them gives me a small measure of comfort. Though I have moved (there was Mexico, and of course, California), my books are constant companions I can't convince myself to abandon. I've disposed of belongings and lost what I believed were indispensable material products (my iPod being the most recent thing), but I must have my books. Even though I frequent the library, my personal library is the only thing I own. I hide behind my voracious reading habits. I am intelligent, but not very smart. I am intelligent, but not a success. I am intelligent, but not worth employing in even the most menial of capacities. I have sent applications for dishwashiing positions, housekeeping, and for busing tables. Austin, Texas is a joke and I am sick of pretending to laugh.
I also found seven of my old journals. Moleskins. I have lost my heart for journaling. Blogs haven't taken the place of my journals, I just realized that far too much of what I wrote in my journals was repetitive and pointless. I used to say that I wanted to leave a legacy for people to read about me after I'm gone, but I've concluded that the world has better things about which to be curious.
I'll cut this short for fear of diving into my usual negative depths. These types of things don't go away. How could they? I have to live with who I am, and that's not much.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I can't think of a clever title . . . sorry.
I am watching 60 Minutes. The host is having a conversation with the “brain trust” of President-elect Obama's presidential campaign. It's hard for me not to notice that they are all white people. Amusing considering that a few minutes before I was watching a C-Span panel of Newsweek reporters and the one African American reporter made a similar observation about the Obama campaign. Yes, I watch C-Span. It's a dirty little secret; tell no one.
I experienced a tiny second of indignation, but then realized something: Presidential politics have always been a game for white people. The players and the participants have always been white people. Why should Obama's campaign have been any different? Who better understands the machinations and nuances of presidential campaigns than those who have always been the primary players? Be that as it may, I hope that once President-elect Obama becomes President Obama he will indeed make a worthwhile effort to introduce qualified minority candidates into the upper echelon of our nation's government. I am not talking about a sprinkling of cronies throughout the Executive Branch (I think we've seen enough of that over the last eight years), but a cabinet which can continue to inspire citizens. President-elect Obama's election has elicited so many statements from African Americans interviewed, statements of hope. I recall several who have been interviewed saying things such as, “Now I can tell my son/daughter that you can be anything, including president.” It's nice to be able to say, but why should we not have a young minority child whose parents say to him or her, “You can be anything you want, including president, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Secretary of State, or UN Ambassador to whatever country is most in need of a brave advocate.” It's still so very early and the beginning of President Obama's forthcoming historic presidency is over seventy days away. I have placed the countdown in my cell phone! We shall see what happens.
Accompanying all of the news about President-elect Obama there have been numerous stories about the supposed downfall of the Republican party and what it needs to do to rejuvenate itself and regain its lost stature. It's ridiculous. Do we really need echoes of Palin 2012 to mar our nation's (the world's!) newfound sense that the once sinking ship of democracy may possibly sail again? I'm not a Republican. That goes without saying. However, that doesn't mean I wouldn't bring myself to vote for a Republican (Lincoln and TR come to mind). I'm issues-oriented. Speak to me about your stance on the concerns I feel are essential to our nation's identity and vitality. If you can speak to me from the abstract and point me to specifics and convince me that your plan will bring broad opportunities, I will listen to you. I don't care if you like donkeys or elephants or trees. To be quite frank, I'd love to see a diversification of parties in this country. I find it remarkable that a country which purports to value competition is so frightened by the prospect of political competition. A genuine, vibrant, and robust democracy is best served by a true marketplace of ideas, and ladies and germs, good ideas can come from outside of traditional parties. But most of us know that.
If Republicans are serious about remaining relevant they will indeed be required to take a long, hard look at their positions and what kind of political entity they want to be for people in the coming decades. I don't often agree with the pundits, but I must say that I find myself agreeing with their contention that on some level the election of President-elect Obama is a resounding repudiation of the divisive, below-the-belt politics which were the specialty of the Atwater-Rove-Bush conservatives. (Quick useless plug. Frontline will be airing what looks to be a fantastic episode about Lee Atwater and the world he wrought. Check it out on Tuesday! Frontline is my favorite PBS show. Any potential love interest would be required to snuggle up with wine and Frontline. Now you know one of the many reasons why I am single.) With exceptions, citizens are tired of irrelevant conversations. We want candidates who will respect our intelligence and engage us on a more sophisticated level. If the Republican party is more concerned about selecting candidates on the basis of their ability to field dress a moose and spout off a “Golly Gee” here and there, they are losing sight of what quite a few of us expect from our leaders.
When I go to the polls, I don't want to elect someone who's an Everyman/Everywoman. I want someone whose name will rightly grace my country's history books. I want someone who believed they could lead on the basis of their ideas and because their expectations for our nation were high. I want to cast my vote for someone who recognizes that the democratic experiment cannot be perfected in any lifetime, but that the experiment is an ongoing journey which will require the engagement of its citizens. And while we as citizens may disagree about our priorities, disperse into opposing camps after disagreement, and often deny our responsibilities after we agree to disagree, we are still in it together. I believe that. I do. E Pluribus Unum. Out of many, one. So, I guess unless Republicans can find a way to avoid initiating acidic discourse and recognize public service as a noble plight, they will continue to lose ground. Unless Republicans (or any public servant) can acknowledge the hypocrisy of their ways, they will not be asked to do what Bill Clinton called “the people's work.” To my way of thinking, calling for 'Limited Government' whilst doling out BILLIONS to Wall Street is in no way emblematic of limited government. Gretchen Morgenson of The New York Times put it best. We have witnessed a government eager to “socialize losses and privatize gains” and that is not in the interest of the whole. And don't get me started on the auto industry. Maybe, just maybe, if the Big Three had not been putting all of their damn money into inefficient fuel whores, they would not be facing insolvency. Gas prices may be down, but the problem of energy independence and climate change has not gone away. Any aid to the auto industry needs to come with a quid pro quo which leads to US built hybrids and a move away from SUVs. (I would like to see a diminished car culture, but I'm realistic.)
I am reacquainting myself with my inner-politico. I have always been fascinated by questions of policy and considering the tenor of our times of late, I can't really help but write about it and wonder what it will mean for us. It's either write about this or that other . . . stuff that plagues me. And I'm sure my two devoted readers don't won't to hear about me.
I experienced a tiny second of indignation, but then realized something: Presidential politics have always been a game for white people. The players and the participants have always been white people. Why should Obama's campaign have been any different? Who better understands the machinations and nuances of presidential campaigns than those who have always been the primary players? Be that as it may, I hope that once President-elect Obama becomes President Obama he will indeed make a worthwhile effort to introduce qualified minority candidates into the upper echelon of our nation's government. I am not talking about a sprinkling of cronies throughout the Executive Branch (I think we've seen enough of that over the last eight years), but a cabinet which can continue to inspire citizens. President-elect Obama's election has elicited so many statements from African Americans interviewed, statements of hope. I recall several who have been interviewed saying things such as, “Now I can tell my son/daughter that you can be anything, including president.” It's nice to be able to say, but why should we not have a young minority child whose parents say to him or her, “You can be anything you want, including president, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Secretary of State, or UN Ambassador to whatever country is most in need of a brave advocate.” It's still so very early and the beginning of President Obama's forthcoming historic presidency is over seventy days away. I have placed the countdown in my cell phone! We shall see what happens.
Accompanying all of the news about President-elect Obama there have been numerous stories about the supposed downfall of the Republican party and what it needs to do to rejuvenate itself and regain its lost stature. It's ridiculous. Do we really need echoes of Palin 2012 to mar our nation's (the world's!) newfound sense that the once sinking ship of democracy may possibly sail again? I'm not a Republican. That goes without saying. However, that doesn't mean I wouldn't bring myself to vote for a Republican (Lincoln and TR come to mind). I'm issues-oriented. Speak to me about your stance on the concerns I feel are essential to our nation's identity and vitality. If you can speak to me from the abstract and point me to specifics and convince me that your plan will bring broad opportunities, I will listen to you. I don't care if you like donkeys or elephants or trees. To be quite frank, I'd love to see a diversification of parties in this country. I find it remarkable that a country which purports to value competition is so frightened by the prospect of political competition. A genuine, vibrant, and robust democracy is best served by a true marketplace of ideas, and ladies and germs, good ideas can come from outside of traditional parties. But most of us know that.
If Republicans are serious about remaining relevant they will indeed be required to take a long, hard look at their positions and what kind of political entity they want to be for people in the coming decades. I don't often agree with the pundits, but I must say that I find myself agreeing with their contention that on some level the election of President-elect Obama is a resounding repudiation of the divisive, below-the-belt politics which were the specialty of the Atwater-Rove-Bush conservatives. (Quick useless plug. Frontline will be airing what looks to be a fantastic episode about Lee Atwater and the world he wrought. Check it out on Tuesday! Frontline is my favorite PBS show. Any potential love interest would be required to snuggle up with wine and Frontline. Now you know one of the many reasons why I am single.) With exceptions, citizens are tired of irrelevant conversations. We want candidates who will respect our intelligence and engage us on a more sophisticated level. If the Republican party is more concerned about selecting candidates on the basis of their ability to field dress a moose and spout off a “Golly Gee” here and there, they are losing sight of what quite a few of us expect from our leaders.
When I go to the polls, I don't want to elect someone who's an Everyman/Everywoman. I want someone whose name will rightly grace my country's history books. I want someone who believed they could lead on the basis of their ideas and because their expectations for our nation were high. I want to cast my vote for someone who recognizes that the democratic experiment cannot be perfected in any lifetime, but that the experiment is an ongoing journey which will require the engagement of its citizens. And while we as citizens may disagree about our priorities, disperse into opposing camps after disagreement, and often deny our responsibilities after we agree to disagree, we are still in it together. I believe that. I do. E Pluribus Unum. Out of many, one. So, I guess unless Republicans can find a way to avoid initiating acidic discourse and recognize public service as a noble plight, they will continue to lose ground. Unless Republicans (or any public servant) can acknowledge the hypocrisy of their ways, they will not be asked to do what Bill Clinton called “the people's work.” To my way of thinking, calling for 'Limited Government' whilst doling out BILLIONS to Wall Street is in no way emblematic of limited government. Gretchen Morgenson of The New York Times put it best. We have witnessed a government eager to “socialize losses and privatize gains” and that is not in the interest of the whole. And don't get me started on the auto industry. Maybe, just maybe, if the Big Three had not been putting all of their damn money into inefficient fuel whores, they would not be facing insolvency. Gas prices may be down, but the problem of energy independence and climate change has not gone away. Any aid to the auto industry needs to come with a quid pro quo which leads to US built hybrids and a move away from SUVs. (I would like to see a diminished car culture, but I'm realistic.)
I am reacquainting myself with my inner-politico. I have always been fascinated by questions of policy and considering the tenor of our times of late, I can't really help but write about it and wonder what it will mean for us. It's either write about this or that other . . . stuff that plagues me. And I'm sure my two devoted readers don't won't to hear about me.
Friday, November 7, 2008
"Luxuriating in our Racial Deliciousness."
Cory Booker, mayor of Newark, is the originator of the phrase in my blog title. He used it on the night we elected our first black president. The CNN pundits giggled after he turned the phrase and Stephen Colbert mocked it; I reached for a pen and jotted it down. Mayor Booker used the term in response to the now very over-asked question as to whether or not the United States now lives in a "post-racial" society. If only it were that simple. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have wandered into tense territory over discussions of race. I've had such discussions with friends and strangers alike. They never seem to end well. Even so, I continue to have these discussions because I believe in the importance of intellectually and socially engaging those who may potentially benefit from exposure to a varying perspective with regard to the subject of race. I guess that sounds a bit haughty. I'll admit, I don't know very much about quite a bit. But I like to think I have the occasional useful insight to offer, and as a mixed race woman, discussions of race, equality, and access are of special importance to me. Here is what I have to say about our a "post-racial" world: It cannot exist. But I do not mean that in any negative way. Let me explain.
I would politely define racism as an ill-advised ideology rooted in illogical fear. As far as I am concerned the same could be said for homophobia. Undeniably, the election of President-elect Barack Obama signals an important shift and makes an important statement. Outside of the statements and signals made with respect to tolerance, there are the statements and signals made with respect to a nation's exasperation with the politics of fear; a politics which has sought to erode our civil liberties, make war through the manipulation of our national heartache, and recklessly belittle our stature to the rest of the world. On Tuesday, November 4, 2008 the electorate said enough is enough. Even so, this does not mean that the appropriate ascendancy of an intelligent, charismatic, and inspiring black candidate to the presidency has eliminated localized, irrational discriminatory behavior. Racism will always exist on some level. Who could ever believe otherwise? For example, here in Austin, my hometown, a member of my alma mater's football team was removed from the roster for posting a text message on his Facebook account which essentially read that it was time for "all the hunters to gather up, we have a n*gger in the white house." The football player was sure to include his love for Jesus on his now deleted Facebook page. Keep in mind that this is a young man plays on a majority African American football team. This was always something which irked me about my so-called diverse alma mater. African Americans were a rarity in our classes, but were always conveniently in surplus for our football field. Hypocrisy knows no bounds.
The opportunity for conversations surrounding issues of equality is at hand. If, as a nation, we can feel inspired to elect an unlikely candidate to our highest political office, surely we can draw from that pool of inspiration to bravely converse about the sticky points which have made this election so momentous. What sticky points? Let's talk about people of color in the context of incarceration rates, the death penalty, access to higher education, executive offices in the corporate world, or home ownership, among other things. Quite a few commentators have implied that blame for the sub-prime mortgage debacle could arguably lie at the feet of minority citizens; this is said while completely ignoring the fact that white, Ivy-league educated executives were largely responsible for the construction of the complex, deceptive financial instruments which have led to so many of our current economic problems.
My belief is that there is a continued need for diversification on many institutional levels. This persistent truth points to anything but a "post-racial" society. But we can change. I can type that and actually believe it. Tuesday night has instilled me with a bit of hope. A bit. The passing of anti-gay measures in four states (including my also-home state of California) leaves me disheartened. I read Thursday's New York Times editorial and agreed with the general argument that the most recent backward steps are a temporary barrier. Make no mistake, until gays and lesbians are given the unfettered right to marry or start families, we are denying U.S. citizens their rights under the 14th Amendment and continuing to fall short of our egalitarian ideals. Bigots can say what they want, but the time will come when true equality exists throughout this country. One day (perhaps after I am long gone), I hope the presidency will be occupied by an openly gay president. Perhaps, in its own symbolic way Tuesday's victory will get us closer to that day. I have too many beautiful gay and lesbian friends who deserve the right to commit themselves to a long-term partner and it would be an honor to have an opportunity to work on their behalf for their freedom struggle.
In closing, I am still basking in the afterglow. I have my copy of Wednesday's New York Times tacked to my wall. It reminds me that for all of my cynicism, we are indeed living in a different world. I like it very much. I had a person actually ask me, "Where were you when you found out?" And we went from there. I won't be having children (let's not go there right now), but I know that I will remember this week for the rest of my life and will be telling someone's children about the feeling of renewal and exhilaration which poured over our country. President-elect Obama is going to make mistakes (offending Nancy Reagan will be the least of his worries, and calling himself a mutt bothers me not in the least . . . I, too, am a mutt!), but I have a deeper faith in his ability to use his intellect to avoid the more damaging mistakes which could threaten to further rip apart the democratic fabric of this country I love. Yes, that's right. I really do love my country. Always have, always will, but it's just so much easier to love it now more than ever.
I would politely define racism as an ill-advised ideology rooted in illogical fear. As far as I am concerned the same could be said for homophobia. Undeniably, the election of President-elect Barack Obama signals an important shift and makes an important statement. Outside of the statements and signals made with respect to tolerance, there are the statements and signals made with respect to a nation's exasperation with the politics of fear; a politics which has sought to erode our civil liberties, make war through the manipulation of our national heartache, and recklessly belittle our stature to the rest of the world. On Tuesday, November 4, 2008 the electorate said enough is enough. Even so, this does not mean that the appropriate ascendancy of an intelligent, charismatic, and inspiring black candidate to the presidency has eliminated localized, irrational discriminatory behavior. Racism will always exist on some level. Who could ever believe otherwise? For example, here in Austin, my hometown, a member of my alma mater's football team was removed from the roster for posting a text message on his Facebook account which essentially read that it was time for "all the hunters to gather up, we have a n*gger in the white house." The football player was sure to include his love for Jesus on his now deleted Facebook page. Keep in mind that this is a young man plays on a majority African American football team. This was always something which irked me about my so-called diverse alma mater. African Americans were a rarity in our classes, but were always conveniently in surplus for our football field. Hypocrisy knows no bounds.
The opportunity for conversations surrounding issues of equality is at hand. If, as a nation, we can feel inspired to elect an unlikely candidate to our highest political office, surely we can draw from that pool of inspiration to bravely converse about the sticky points which have made this election so momentous. What sticky points? Let's talk about people of color in the context of incarceration rates, the death penalty, access to higher education, executive offices in the corporate world, or home ownership, among other things. Quite a few commentators have implied that blame for the sub-prime mortgage debacle could arguably lie at the feet of minority citizens; this is said while completely ignoring the fact that white, Ivy-league educated executives were largely responsible for the construction of the complex, deceptive financial instruments which have led to so many of our current economic problems.
My belief is that there is a continued need for diversification on many institutional levels. This persistent truth points to anything but a "post-racial" society. But we can change. I can type that and actually believe it. Tuesday night has instilled me with a bit of hope. A bit. The passing of anti-gay measures in four states (including my also-home state of California) leaves me disheartened. I read Thursday's New York Times editorial and agreed with the general argument that the most recent backward steps are a temporary barrier. Make no mistake, until gays and lesbians are given the unfettered right to marry or start families, we are denying U.S. citizens their rights under the 14th Amendment and continuing to fall short of our egalitarian ideals. Bigots can say what they want, but the time will come when true equality exists throughout this country. One day (perhaps after I am long gone), I hope the presidency will be occupied by an openly gay president. Perhaps, in its own symbolic way Tuesday's victory will get us closer to that day. I have too many beautiful gay and lesbian friends who deserve the right to commit themselves to a long-term partner and it would be an honor to have an opportunity to work on their behalf for their freedom struggle.
In closing, I am still basking in the afterglow. I have my copy of Wednesday's New York Times tacked to my wall. It reminds me that for all of my cynicism, we are indeed living in a different world. I like it very much. I had a person actually ask me, "Where were you when you found out?" And we went from there. I won't be having children (let's not go there right now), but I know that I will remember this week for the rest of my life and will be telling someone's children about the feeling of renewal and exhilaration which poured over our country. President-elect Obama is going to make mistakes (offending Nancy Reagan will be the least of his worries, and calling himself a mutt bothers me not in the least . . . I, too, am a mutt!), but I have a deeper faith in his ability to use his intellect to avoid the more damaging mistakes which could threaten to further rip apart the democratic fabric of this country I love. Yes, that's right. I really do love my country. Always have, always will, but it's just so much easier to love it now more than ever.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Obamanos.
I'm still around. Not exactly for lack of trying not to be, but we won't talk about that. Instead, let's talk about history. Yes, history.
I was in the kitchen at about 10 pm last night, around the time that Barack Obama became our nation's 44th president. I came home at 9:30. After I walked into the apartment my youngest sister, Nancy, greeted me and said, "Sister, Obama has 200 points." I didn't correct her and tell her that he didn't have points so much as votes. It didn't matter. I was impressed with her interest. I went to the kitchen to make tea when I heard my sister yell out, "Sister, Obama has 290 points now!" My response was immediate, "No way. Are you kidding me?" I put the kettle down and raced to the TV. And there it was. I sat down, covered my eyes, and began to cry. The first thing that came to my mind? I wish my father, my black father, had lived to see this.
I have been obsessively watching videos on YouTube and newspaper web sites, videos of rejoicing, hopeful, embracing crowds. I smile as I glance at the photographs of tearful celebration, these photos do something good to my heart. I need that right now. Very much. It is definitely a time for dancing in the streets. No one is expecting President-elect Barack Obama to change the world overnight. At least, I hope not. People with even a modicum of common sense can concede that the damage done by eight years of George W. Bush cannot be undone overnight. And any who would have you believe that the last eight years have done no damage, well, I can't really help those people. Perhaps they have lived on another planet since the year 2000.
As I watched President-elect Obama's rally on television, I made a mental comparison to Senator McCain's and realized that we do indeed now have a candidate whose eloquence, intelligence, and judgment can unite people from disparate and distant camps. To my mind, that's the true calling of a 21st century president. Of course, it's not the only calling. But that goes without saying. That celebrating Chicago crowd was full of Blacks, Whites, Asians, Arabs, Gays, Straights--you name it, we were all there. President-elect Obama, please do not let us down. I beg of you. Inspire us, instill hope, but be honest with us, and we will follow you. We are ready to be genuinely and honestly led. I believe that.
I sent Jenna a celebratory text which said very simply, "WE HAVE A BLACK PRESIDENT!!!" Her response? "YES WE CAN!"
I guess we can, can't we?
I don't believe in a Heaven or Hell, but if I'm wrong, Daddy, I hope you're watching.
I was in the kitchen at about 10 pm last night, around the time that Barack Obama became our nation's 44th president. I came home at 9:30. After I walked into the apartment my youngest sister, Nancy, greeted me and said, "Sister, Obama has 200 points." I didn't correct her and tell her that he didn't have points so much as votes. It didn't matter. I was impressed with her interest. I went to the kitchen to make tea when I heard my sister yell out, "Sister, Obama has 290 points now!" My response was immediate, "No way. Are you kidding me?" I put the kettle down and raced to the TV. And there it was. I sat down, covered my eyes, and began to cry. The first thing that came to my mind? I wish my father, my black father, had lived to see this.
I have been obsessively watching videos on YouTube and newspaper web sites, videos of rejoicing, hopeful, embracing crowds. I smile as I glance at the photographs of tearful celebration, these photos do something good to my heart. I need that right now. Very much. It is definitely a time for dancing in the streets. No one is expecting President-elect Barack Obama to change the world overnight. At least, I hope not. People with even a modicum of common sense can concede that the damage done by eight years of George W. Bush cannot be undone overnight. And any who would have you believe that the last eight years have done no damage, well, I can't really help those people. Perhaps they have lived on another planet since the year 2000.
As I watched President-elect Obama's rally on television, I made a mental comparison to Senator McCain's and realized that we do indeed now have a candidate whose eloquence, intelligence, and judgment can unite people from disparate and distant camps. To my mind, that's the true calling of a 21st century president. Of course, it's not the only calling. But that goes without saying. That celebrating Chicago crowd was full of Blacks, Whites, Asians, Arabs, Gays, Straights--you name it, we were all there. President-elect Obama, please do not let us down. I beg of you. Inspire us, instill hope, but be honest with us, and we will follow you. We are ready to be genuinely and honestly led. I believe that.
I sent Jenna a celebratory text which said very simply, "WE HAVE A BLACK PRESIDENT!!!" Her response? "YES WE CAN!"
I guess we can, can't we?
I don't believe in a Heaven or Hell, but if I'm wrong, Daddy, I hope you're watching.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Experimentation.
I just put YouTube to the test. I looked for a track I used to dance to as a teenager who used to sneak into dance clubs in Austin, Texas. Back when she thought this place had something to teach her. I danced my ass off in those days. I loved to show what I could do on a dance floor. I was not the pretty girl you wanted to take home with you, I was not the cute girl with the smile that stopped you on your way out the door. I was just this pudgy girl who loved music and loved to dance. I used to dance all night, without drugs, without alcohol, and people would come up to me and say, "Wow! You're a great dancer!" This was no reference to my technical prowess (I own none), this was, "You're having fun, aren't you?"
I can't remember the last time I had that kind of fun.
I really can't. Pure, unadulterated, uninhibited fun, courtesy of the drug of Life. I used to be able to do that, but now I'm just numb inside.
I found a song from that many years ago (16!) and realized, that yes, I am old. I used to be a baby, but now . . . I'm old. And that cannot be changed.
Also . . . I really need to stop reading shit about My Ex-Best Friend Who Sent Me To Jail. That's how I refer to her. I can't bring myself to utter her name. It's like a sharp metallic penny on my tongue, the taste of her name poisons. Even so, I miss her. Even after all of this stupid time, I miss her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Of course, I miss Andrew sometimes, too. I can't let go of bad things. Why is this so?
She picked my favorite color, and one of my favorite pairings with my favorite color , for her wedding. I know she didn't do it intentionally. I'm sure I hardly register as a cerebral fart on her radar (which is as it usually is with anyone I let matter to my life), but even so, I was bothered by this fact. WHAT IF SOME DUMB SHIT WANTED TO MARRY ME???? I can't even use my own fucking favorite colors any more! But that won't be a problem. What idiot would marry me? Maybe I'll pull a Ross and Rachel and get drunk with a guy friend or an ex-lover who will dumbly, drunkenly wed me! Oh wait, my ex-lovers don't talk to me.
Where's the wine?
I can't remember the last time I had that kind of fun.
I really can't. Pure, unadulterated, uninhibited fun, courtesy of the drug of Life. I used to be able to do that, but now I'm just numb inside.
I found a song from that many years ago (16!) and realized, that yes, I am old. I used to be a baby, but now . . . I'm old. And that cannot be changed.
Also . . . I really need to stop reading shit about My Ex-Best Friend Who Sent Me To Jail. That's how I refer to her. I can't bring myself to utter her name. It's like a sharp metallic penny on my tongue, the taste of her name poisons. Even so, I miss her. Even after all of this stupid time, I miss her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Of course, I miss Andrew sometimes, too. I can't let go of bad things. Why is this so?
She picked my favorite color, and one of my favorite pairings with my favorite color , for her wedding. I know she didn't do it intentionally. I'm sure I hardly register as a cerebral fart on her radar (which is as it usually is with anyone I let matter to my life), but even so, I was bothered by this fact. WHAT IF SOME DUMB SHIT WANTED TO MARRY ME???? I can't even use my own fucking favorite colors any more! But that won't be a problem. What idiot would marry me? Maybe I'll pull a Ross and Rachel and get drunk with a guy friend or an ex-lover who will dumbly, drunkenly wed me! Oh wait, my ex-lovers don't talk to me.
Where's the wine?
The View from Dolores Park . . .
Okay. Yes. I want to be back in the Bay Area.
I am back in hell (Texas). Austin has nothing for me. I can't feel myself here. But here's the thing, even without Jenna (my best friend) I can feel something pulling me back to California. Will it happen? I don't know. I am also very honestly considering a move to Pittsburgh. Explanations will come in time. The only thing I really need is for wherever I end up to not be Austin, Texas. I've just been here too fucking long. It's great for Texas, but not great for me.
I sat in Dolores Park and peered over at the San Francisco skyline, Oakland (my true Bay Area home) in the distance, and asked myself, "Why are you not here, Tiffany? This is where you want to be, isn't it? Even if you didn't know Jenna, Lincoln, and her family, isn't there just something electric about this part of the country. It's teeming with possibility. There's a palpable intellectual current running through this whole region. On top of that, there are MIXED PEOPLE!!! Like you!"
I can't get stuck here. I just can't. Texas holds nothing for me. I can't live in somewhere that pretends to be a player when there is nothing holding me back from really trying to be in places where life is happening.
I didn't tell Jenna I was thinking of moving back to California. She had drunken moments when she said to me, "You should just come back. Fuck Texas, man. Just stay. What have you got to go back for?"
I wanted to, but realized that I need, well, money, before I can go back to California. But I am going to try. I have no lover, no children, no pets, no nothing. What the fuck am I waiting for? The plan is simple enough--get a job, and then get the fuck out of here. Whose life is it after all?
I am back in hell (Texas). Austin has nothing for me. I can't feel myself here. But here's the thing, even without Jenna (my best friend) I can feel something pulling me back to California. Will it happen? I don't know. I am also very honestly considering a move to Pittsburgh. Explanations will come in time. The only thing I really need is for wherever I end up to not be Austin, Texas. I've just been here too fucking long. It's great for Texas, but not great for me.
I sat in Dolores Park and peered over at the San Francisco skyline, Oakland (my true Bay Area home) in the distance, and asked myself, "Why are you not here, Tiffany? This is where you want to be, isn't it? Even if you didn't know Jenna, Lincoln, and her family, isn't there just something electric about this part of the country. It's teeming with possibility. There's a palpable intellectual current running through this whole region. On top of that, there are MIXED PEOPLE!!! Like you!"
I can't get stuck here. I just can't. Texas holds nothing for me. I can't live in somewhere that pretends to be a player when there is nothing holding me back from really trying to be in places where life is happening.
I didn't tell Jenna I was thinking of moving back to California. She had drunken moments when she said to me, "You should just come back. Fuck Texas, man. Just stay. What have you got to go back for?"
I wanted to, but realized that I need, well, money, before I can go back to California. But I am going to try. I have no lover, no children, no pets, no nothing. What the fuck am I waiting for? The plan is simple enough--get a job, and then get the fuck out of here. Whose life is it after all?
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Yay Area.
Ah, where to begin, really?
The opportunity to come back to my second home is something that I am glad I did. I am truly, truly glad. The weather? Outstanding as usual. The sights? I almost forgot how damn beautiful the Bay Area is, if you can believe it. The sounds? I smile a little when I hear BART in the night air. The friend? Jenna was absolutely amazing Saturday. She danced Juliet in her director's Romeo and Juliet, and even though she claims that she could give a shit about reviews, all of the reviews written about my friend were gushing. As is appropriate! I would provide links, but am going to take a quick shower so that I might go for a walk around Lake Merritt. The day is just too damn good to waste.
The bad? I no longer have a job. My job was a joke. I lost it two days before I came out for my trip. I was fine wasting the time to save money and try and move back out of Austin, but only if there was work to do. And well, there was never any damn work to do. I begged. I am not kidding, I really did literally BEG to be given things to do. I was sent home twice after having only worked for an hour. What is that? I can't live on that kind of money and certainly can't make plans to move anywhere on that type of an income. So finally, the owner of the company sadly confided that he just didn't think he needed me on staff.
I am back at square one. Even so, I have decided that when I go back home I will probably just volunteer and do something worthwhile with my time until I either a)win the lottery, or b) find a job I actually can put my head and heart into, but either way, my life has to be lived doesn't it?
I am trying to forget about what awaits me back in Texas, if only because I realize that it's nothing to speak of. I have a few more days here in the Bay Area (will be here a week in all), and all I can say is that it's amazing how good it feels to be back. Lincoln, Jenna's handsome younger brother, and my dear friend, upon seeing me, hugged me tightly and said, "Welcome home, Tiff." It almost made me cry.
I think I'm going to walk over to Peet's and have a cup of Joe to take around the Lake with me.
Tomorrow I'm going into the City, and I'm going to sit at Dolores Park . . . and pretend that I didn't have to leave. I think I'll ride the J for a bit and just let myself roll along.
For the most part, I feel good. I feel very, very good.
The opportunity to come back to my second home is something that I am glad I did. I am truly, truly glad. The weather? Outstanding as usual. The sights? I almost forgot how damn beautiful the Bay Area is, if you can believe it. The sounds? I smile a little when I hear BART in the night air. The friend? Jenna was absolutely amazing Saturday. She danced Juliet in her director's Romeo and Juliet, and even though she claims that she could give a shit about reviews, all of the reviews written about my friend were gushing. As is appropriate! I would provide links, but am going to take a quick shower so that I might go for a walk around Lake Merritt. The day is just too damn good to waste.
The bad? I no longer have a job. My job was a joke. I lost it two days before I came out for my trip. I was fine wasting the time to save money and try and move back out of Austin, but only if there was work to do. And well, there was never any damn work to do. I begged. I am not kidding, I really did literally BEG to be given things to do. I was sent home twice after having only worked for an hour. What is that? I can't live on that kind of money and certainly can't make plans to move anywhere on that type of an income. So finally, the owner of the company sadly confided that he just didn't think he needed me on staff.
I am back at square one. Even so, I have decided that when I go back home I will probably just volunteer and do something worthwhile with my time until I either a)win the lottery, or b) find a job I actually can put my head and heart into, but either way, my life has to be lived doesn't it?
I am trying to forget about what awaits me back in Texas, if only because I realize that it's nothing to speak of. I have a few more days here in the Bay Area (will be here a week in all), and all I can say is that it's amazing how good it feels to be back. Lincoln, Jenna's handsome younger brother, and my dear friend, upon seeing me, hugged me tightly and said, "Welcome home, Tiff." It almost made me cry.
I think I'm going to walk over to Peet's and have a cup of Joe to take around the Lake with me.
Tomorrow I'm going into the City, and I'm going to sit at Dolores Park . . . and pretend that I didn't have to leave. I think I'll ride the J for a bit and just let myself roll along.
For the most part, I feel good. I feel very, very good.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
More politics.
For the most part the people at my current place of employment continue to treat me like I’m an alien from another planet. Or maybe a pod person. It varies from day to day. There are a few exceptions. One of them is a woman whose husband occupies a figurehead position and used that light influence to secure her a position as the company’s designated filer. She loves her job, absolutely loves it. I’ve had jobs like hers before and they suck hairy donkey balls, but she’s possessive of what I refer to as the WBB (Worker Bee Brain). My mother has a WBB, lots of my friends have WBBs, and countless members of my extended family have WBBs. Alas, I have never quite managed to acquire a WBB and have long sought to be employed for the some type of intellectual or creative enterprise. Silly me! It’s never happened. It won’t ever happen. Pfft!
This woman is a sweetheart. We converse about quite a few things. The subject matter ranges from cockroaches to politics to the goings-on of her children. She wants little from life but to be secure in her person, attend her church, and be with her family. I respect her for ability to just . . . well, live. Today she asked me what I had done last night. My answer? Drank beer, ate a sandwich, and watched the Presidential debate in my pajamas. (Yes, I do practically drink every night. Problem with that?) The woman looked at me and said, “You know, I haven’t watched any of the debates and I don’t really read the paper, but I’m really undecided. There is something I don’t like about Obama, though.” I asked her what it was she didn’t like. From anyone else, anyone I hadn’t had an opportunity to engage in conversation, the following answer would have sent me into paroxysms of fear and left me incredulous. “Well,” she said. “it really bothers me that he won’t put his hand over his heart when they say the pledge . . . or sing the national anthem. You know? I mean, that’s a big part of America.”
I was about to walk to the library and only had fifty minutes to get there and back. But I stopped for a second and thought to myself. I had one of two options. Option one: I could have smiled politely and said something similar to the following:
“Well, I totally understand.” (even though I don’t understand, especially when this allegation has been proven false), and walk away. Option two: Respectfully, share my position. I opted the for the latter and said something along the following lines.
“Well, I can see how that would be a valid objection, and you have to use whatever criteria you feel matter most when you decide to vote. I think the most important thing is just that you vote—period. Even if you only write yourself in, just vote! But I would say this, as much as I understand the need for people to examine symbolic action taken or not taken by a candidate, the idea of America is stronger than any symbol. At least it is for me. I’m a patriot. Very much so, but I don’t believe whether or not someone places their hand over their heart for the Pledge or Anthem is a valid measure of one’s patriotism, if only because quite a few of those same people who would judge those things don’t even know the words to the national anthem, how many justices are on the Supreme Court, or which parts of the Constitution affords them what rights. I think those things, much more than whether or not someone wears a flag pin or shits red, white, and blue, are a more important part of America . . . for now. We’re a work in progress. Democracy is an experiment. The USA is an experiment.
“Neither of these candidates is perfect. But if one of them will wrest us away from the politics of fear then I’m for it. If we’re talking about what’s American and un-American, how American is it that under the present administration’s guise it’s been perfectly possible that these books I’m taking back to the library could potentially put me on a terrorist watch list? Is that what America is supposed to be? You should vote for whoever you believe will do the best job, but be sure the logic behind your decision isn’t just something you’ve been told to believe. Just like what I’m telling you, it’s not necessarily something you should believe, just consider. Does that make sense?”
She looked at me and said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”
I kind of felt like an asshole after saying all of this. This is a woman with five children, she’s been married twice, and she is probably happier in her skin than I will ever be in mine. She loves her life. Who am I to pretend to tell her how to precondition her electoral participation? Well, I’m no one really, but I don’t know that my idea of America would be worth talking about if I hadn’t at least tried to point out to her that the pettiness which has so negatively impacted the process is a larger danger to the idea of America than the lack of any lapel pin or an uncovered heart.
I hope I didn’t come off like a snot-nosed, idealistic shit.
As a final note . . . I'm listening to Fresh Air as I type this and am hearing about anonymously composed fliers being circulated in primarily African American neighborhoods in Philadelphia in which the recipients are told that they should not vote. Why should they not vote? Because of the undercover police officers at the polling stations who will be present to arrest people with unpaid traffic citations, warrants, and the like.
That's right. That's the level we've been reduced to. And they call it the City of Brotherly love. If this is what happens there, imagine what types of things are going to be possible in the South.
Do not let this happen. Shame on any of you who would dare to engage in these types of tactics. For what? Are you really so afraid of those who are different from you?
Hearing this just now makes me furious. It pisses me off so much that I could cry.
The next segment is about potential voter intimidation tactics in crucial swing states. If you haven't listened to this, I suggest you go to the NPR web site and listen. Talk about this with your friends.
The last time I cried because of politics was the year 2000. I don't think I need to say too much as to why. All I will say is that the whole thing left me coated in disbelief and killed a very significant part of my idealism. I couldn't believe the system could be so fucked up. Don't allow ignorance and fear to steal another election. Let the process override all prejudice.
Here is hoping.
This woman is a sweetheart. We converse about quite a few things. The subject matter ranges from cockroaches to politics to the goings-on of her children. She wants little from life but to be secure in her person, attend her church, and be with her family. I respect her for ability to just . . . well, live. Today she asked me what I had done last night. My answer? Drank beer, ate a sandwich, and watched the Presidential debate in my pajamas. (Yes, I do practically drink every night. Problem with that?) The woman looked at me and said, “You know, I haven’t watched any of the debates and I don’t really read the paper, but I’m really undecided. There is something I don’t like about Obama, though.” I asked her what it was she didn’t like. From anyone else, anyone I hadn’t had an opportunity to engage in conversation, the following answer would have sent me into paroxysms of fear and left me incredulous. “Well,” she said. “it really bothers me that he won’t put his hand over his heart when they say the pledge . . . or sing the national anthem. You know? I mean, that’s a big part of America.”
I was about to walk to the library and only had fifty minutes to get there and back. But I stopped for a second and thought to myself. I had one of two options. Option one: I could have smiled politely and said something similar to the following:
“Well, I totally understand.” (even though I don’t understand, especially when this allegation has been proven false), and walk away. Option two: Respectfully, share my position. I opted the for the latter and said something along the following lines.
“Well, I can see how that would be a valid objection, and you have to use whatever criteria you feel matter most when you decide to vote. I think the most important thing is just that you vote—period. Even if you only write yourself in, just vote! But I would say this, as much as I understand the need for people to examine symbolic action taken or not taken by a candidate, the idea of America is stronger than any symbol. At least it is for me. I’m a patriot. Very much so, but I don’t believe whether or not someone places their hand over their heart for the Pledge or Anthem is a valid measure of one’s patriotism, if only because quite a few of those same people who would judge those things don’t even know the words to the national anthem, how many justices are on the Supreme Court, or which parts of the Constitution affords them what rights. I think those things, much more than whether or not someone wears a flag pin or shits red, white, and blue, are a more important part of America . . . for now. We’re a work in progress. Democracy is an experiment. The USA is an experiment.
“Neither of these candidates is perfect. But if one of them will wrest us away from the politics of fear then I’m for it. If we’re talking about what’s American and un-American, how American is it that under the present administration’s guise it’s been perfectly possible that these books I’m taking back to the library could potentially put me on a terrorist watch list? Is that what America is supposed to be? You should vote for whoever you believe will do the best job, but be sure the logic behind your decision isn’t just something you’ve been told to believe. Just like what I’m telling you, it’s not necessarily something you should believe, just consider. Does that make sense?”
She looked at me and said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”
I kind of felt like an asshole after saying all of this. This is a woman with five children, she’s been married twice, and she is probably happier in her skin than I will ever be in mine. She loves her life. Who am I to pretend to tell her how to precondition her electoral participation? Well, I’m no one really, but I don’t know that my idea of America would be worth talking about if I hadn’t at least tried to point out to her that the pettiness which has so negatively impacted the process is a larger danger to the idea of America than the lack of any lapel pin or an uncovered heart.
I hope I didn’t come off like a snot-nosed, idealistic shit.
As a final note . . . I'm listening to Fresh Air as I type this and am hearing about anonymously composed fliers being circulated in primarily African American neighborhoods in Philadelphia in which the recipients are told that they should not vote. Why should they not vote? Because of the undercover police officers at the polling stations who will be present to arrest people with unpaid traffic citations, warrants, and the like.
That's right. That's the level we've been reduced to. And they call it the City of Brotherly love. If this is what happens there, imagine what types of things are going to be possible in the South.
Do not let this happen. Shame on any of you who would dare to engage in these types of tactics. For what? Are you really so afraid of those who are different from you?
Hearing this just now makes me furious. It pisses me off so much that I could cry.
The next segment is about potential voter intimidation tactics in crucial swing states. If you haven't listened to this, I suggest you go to the NPR web site and listen. Talk about this with your friends.
The last time I cried because of politics was the year 2000. I don't think I need to say too much as to why. All I will say is that the whole thing left me coated in disbelief and killed a very significant part of my idealism. I couldn't believe the system could be so fucked up. Don't allow ignorance and fear to steal another election. Let the process override all prejudice.
Here is hoping.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
It's not TV, it's YOUR F*CKING FUTURE!!!!
Lest I forget to address the issue, I hope many (or any?) of you reading this blog will watch the debate tonight. I sat for a brief moment and realized just how damn close the election is, and was a little frightened. By close I mean close in terms of the proximity of Election Day and the razor thin margin which separates the winner from the loser.
If you watch the news or read a decent newspaper you don’t need to do too much reading or watching to see that the candidates are pulling back no punches and have decided to not just hit below the belt, but essentially kick one another in the balls. I can’t stand to hear so many distortions, half-truths, and outright irrelevant comments, especially when so many of them will actually find a willing audience which in turn will exercise its right to vote having been filled to the brim with crap-knowledge. What is even more infuriating to me are the people who will watch the debate and use random measures to declare a victor. Obama must be articulate, but not too articulate. McCain can be angry, but not too angry. Don’t use big words or you’ll be labeled an elitist! This one is my favorite. I can’t get enough of how voters are supposedly now ardently anti-intellectual and willing to embrace ignorance. Well, don’t be one of those people. Snobs, unite!
Watch. Listen. Learn. And when the time comes, vote.
If you watch the news or read a decent newspaper you don’t need to do too much reading or watching to see that the candidates are pulling back no punches and have decided to not just hit below the belt, but essentially kick one another in the balls. I can’t stand to hear so many distortions, half-truths, and outright irrelevant comments, especially when so many of them will actually find a willing audience which in turn will exercise its right to vote having been filled to the brim with crap-knowledge. What is even more infuriating to me are the people who will watch the debate and use random measures to declare a victor. Obama must be articulate, but not too articulate. McCain can be angry, but not too angry. Don’t use big words or you’ll be labeled an elitist! This one is my favorite. I can’t get enough of how voters are supposedly now ardently anti-intellectual and willing to embrace ignorance. Well, don’t be one of those people. Snobs, unite!
Watch. Listen. Learn. And when the time comes, vote.
I put my hand up on ya hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip!
It’s Tuesday, right? I am having a hard time getting motivated to do anything this week. I am going to blame it on Aunt Flow. Squeamish—and I might add, silly—males who stumble upon this blog may not want to read further. As I get older I am finding myself more and more frustrated by my menstrual cycle. For some ridiculous reason I always assumed that getting older would mean having more control over the consequences of my monthly spewing. I mistakenly believed that I would eventually have it all “figured out” and never need to guess about the secret things my body was telling me. Unfortunately, I have not stopped guessing since that fateful morning in the bathroom almost 20 years ago. Ultimately, being on the rag is making me feel grosser than gross, more gross than usual; because let no one lie to you, being on your period is nasty shit. I just reread the sentence before this one and am thoroughly amused with myself. I hardly ever amuse myself.
Of course I may also feel like uber-poop because I essentially spent the whole weekend wasted. I still am not up for seeing any of my friends. It’s not easy to explain. Hating this place as much as I do, and wanting to be everywhere and anywhere else each day do not make me a great conversationalist. Plus, I save more money, read more, and can watch crappy TV by myself (or sports) if I don’t see people. Even so, I like people and feel the need to sprinkle my life with them from time to time. So last Friday my friend Amber texted me and quite literally asked me if I wanted to come over and “kick it.” Amber and I haven’t known one another very long, but I dig her style. She smokes hard (not cigarettes), drinks hard (anything that’s wet), and talks hard (I get along especially well with people whose mouths are potty like mine). And on top of that, she’s also extremely intelligent and fun to talk to, so it’s an honor to call her my friend. And, as appears to be the case with most of my friends, within the first two days she said something to me about my lack of self-confidence. The following is a brief paraphrase of the conversation. Please do bear in mind that we’d been drinking lots, lots, lots, lots (tequila shots, vodka, beer, and wine were all present) and smoking *ahem* stuff, and now we were playing Scrabble (or maybe it was Yahtzee, either way I lost.) Amber proceeded to make a comment about her crazy-looking face, or something to that effect. I guffawed. Amber is GORGEOUS! I mean, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-moking HOT! She is EXACTLY the kind of mixed-girl I wish had been! Perfect skin, great figure, and the right height! I hate her . . . but in a loving way. So, as soon as she made light of her beauty I proceeded with the following: (Please keep in mind that this is a blog re-enactment.)
“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re fucking gorgeous! A sick hottie!”
Amber proceeded to lay down a Triple Word Score and said, “Why is it alright for you to say shit like that but you never let people tell you the same thing?”
Insert universal cricket sound effect here.
After giving myself a few minutes to dust off some brain cells I answered, “It’s not the same.” Which it is not. “I may be ‘cute’ and have had a singular occasion to maybe be ‘pretty’ but I have never been ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful.’” It’s true. I am not even an unconventionally attractive woman. I just look like a fucked up muppet!
Amber rolled her eyes at me. I do not like when people roll their eyes at me. It makes me feel foolish.
“It’s exactly the fucking same.”
More crickets, please.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“It’s kind of hard not to, you’re always saying something shitty about yourself so it brings itself up. I oughta make you take a tequila shot every time you say some fucked up shit about yourself.”
Thank goodness this did not happen. If I die as a result of my boozing I’d prefer it not happen in a friend’s living room. And, tequila shots in such a volume are sure to present an interesting set of circumstances. I hardly take tequila shots, so my having taken one was feat enough.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Amber asked.
I have had more of these types of fucking conversations than I care to recall. What’s so wrong with me? What’s WRONG with me?
Ah, the 25 gazillion dollar question. Oh, where to begin . . . what isn’t fucking wrong with me! Here's what's wrong with me . . . here's what I should have said: “Look, the truth is, I’m never going to like who I am. I’m not going to learn to love myself and be all new-agey and shit about who I am. I don’t like who I am. I never have. I never will. I know this. I don’t like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I smell, the way I laugh, or the way I have to justify my dislike for myself to the people in my life. Why is it such a hard thing for people to just let me. People try and scare me and tell me shit like, ‘Well, you’ll never love anyone else if you don’t learn to love yourself!’ BULLSHIT! I love people with complete body, mind, heart, and soul, and you know what it has gotten me? Jack shit. But do you know how many fucked up, obnoxious people in this world get everything they want by pissing on people’s hearts? Do you know how many of them are married, have life partners, blah, blah, blah! I’m sure they may love themselves, but they’re assholes. Just because someone doesn’t like themselves, doesn’t mean they’re not a good person, or they can’t be a good friend.”
Uncomfortable silence.
“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, I’ll marry you then.”
I laughed.
A sweet, friendly way to basically say . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR NEGATIVITY!!!! I got it. I'll just never be able to really get it.
It’s true. I don’t want to be married. I don’t give a shit if I don’t ever get married. For some reason this is impossible for people to believe. I have actually met people who insist on saying shit like, “Oh you just haven’t found the right one yet,” or “Someone’s going to change your mind.” What part of “I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO GET MARRIED!” is impossible to understand? Don’t get me wrong, I do get a little sad when I realize I’m probably going to end up a buffet for the maggots without ever having experienced a real kind of loving, but so be it! We are not all put here to be someone’s parent or spouse. I know it in my heart that I’m not the marrying type. I would be the world’s shittiest wife. Without question! I can’t cook, I hate cleaning, and I am crap in bed. Well, this last part’s not true, I’m actually AMAZING in the sack. I give great head, too! But great head is nothing a newfangled machine won’t soon be able to duplicate, if not perfect. So soon I won’t even have that! Um, that was a tangent, sorry. Does this mean I am anti-marriage? Absolutely not. I think marriage is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please read how I’ve written marriage and allow me to confirm that when I write marriage I mean marriage between two consenting adults (even those with the same genitalia). Yes, marriage is a fine thing, it’s just not for me. (*Edit* I do think that all of the readily accessible sex introduced as a possible marriage residual makes marriage enticing, but as much as I like sex, I don't like marriage enough to get married for sex.)
242/220. 224 days until I leave this place for good, 220 days until I leave this job for good. I can hardly wait.
A little over two weeks until I’m in San Francisco and Oakland and my heart gets giddy with the thought of it.
Oh, and TO1’s response to my text was simple enough. Dodger died. And he thanked me for rooting for his team. I want to see him so badly.
Work sucks.
Of course I may also feel like uber-poop because I essentially spent the whole weekend wasted. I still am not up for seeing any of my friends. It’s not easy to explain. Hating this place as much as I do, and wanting to be everywhere and anywhere else each day do not make me a great conversationalist. Plus, I save more money, read more, and can watch crappy TV by myself (or sports) if I don’t see people. Even so, I like people and feel the need to sprinkle my life with them from time to time. So last Friday my friend Amber texted me and quite literally asked me if I wanted to come over and “kick it.” Amber and I haven’t known one another very long, but I dig her style. She smokes hard (not cigarettes), drinks hard (anything that’s wet), and talks hard (I get along especially well with people whose mouths are potty like mine). And on top of that, she’s also extremely intelligent and fun to talk to, so it’s an honor to call her my friend. And, as appears to be the case with most of my friends, within the first two days she said something to me about my lack of self-confidence. The following is a brief paraphrase of the conversation. Please do bear in mind that we’d been drinking lots, lots, lots, lots (tequila shots, vodka, beer, and wine were all present) and smoking *ahem* stuff, and now we were playing Scrabble (or maybe it was Yahtzee, either way I lost.) Amber proceeded to make a comment about her crazy-looking face, or something to that effect. I guffawed. Amber is GORGEOUS! I mean, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-moking HOT! She is EXACTLY the kind of mixed-girl I wish had been! Perfect skin, great figure, and the right height! I hate her . . . but in a loving way. So, as soon as she made light of her beauty I proceeded with the following: (Please keep in mind that this is a blog re-enactment.)
“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re fucking gorgeous! A sick hottie!”
Amber proceeded to lay down a Triple Word Score and said, “Why is it alright for you to say shit like that but you never let people tell you the same thing?”
Insert universal cricket sound effect here.
After giving myself a few minutes to dust off some brain cells I answered, “It’s not the same.” Which it is not. “I may be ‘cute’ and have had a singular occasion to maybe be ‘pretty’ but I have never been ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful.’” It’s true. I am not even an unconventionally attractive woman. I just look like a fucked up muppet!
Amber rolled her eyes at me. I do not like when people roll their eyes at me. It makes me feel foolish.
“It’s exactly the fucking same.”
More crickets, please.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“It’s kind of hard not to, you’re always saying something shitty about yourself so it brings itself up. I oughta make you take a tequila shot every time you say some fucked up shit about yourself.”
Thank goodness this did not happen. If I die as a result of my boozing I’d prefer it not happen in a friend’s living room. And, tequila shots in such a volume are sure to present an interesting set of circumstances. I hardly take tequila shots, so my having taken one was feat enough.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Amber asked.
I have had more of these types of fucking conversations than I care to recall. What’s so wrong with me? What’s WRONG with me?
Ah, the 25 gazillion dollar question. Oh, where to begin . . . what isn’t fucking wrong with me! Here's what's wrong with me . . . here's what I should have said: “Look, the truth is, I’m never going to like who I am. I’m not going to learn to love myself and be all new-agey and shit about who I am. I don’t like who I am. I never have. I never will. I know this. I don’t like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I smell, the way I laugh, or the way I have to justify my dislike for myself to the people in my life. Why is it such a hard thing for people to just let me. People try and scare me and tell me shit like, ‘Well, you’ll never love anyone else if you don’t learn to love yourself!’ BULLSHIT! I love people with complete body, mind, heart, and soul, and you know what it has gotten me? Jack shit. But do you know how many fucked up, obnoxious people in this world get everything they want by pissing on people’s hearts? Do you know how many of them are married, have life partners, blah, blah, blah! I’m sure they may love themselves, but they’re assholes. Just because someone doesn’t like themselves, doesn’t mean they’re not a good person, or they can’t be a good friend.”
Uncomfortable silence.
“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, I’ll marry you then.”
I laughed.
A sweet, friendly way to basically say . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR NEGATIVITY!!!! I got it. I'll just never be able to really get it.
It’s true. I don’t want to be married. I don’t give a shit if I don’t ever get married. For some reason this is impossible for people to believe. I have actually met people who insist on saying shit like, “Oh you just haven’t found the right one yet,” or “Someone’s going to change your mind.” What part of “I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO GET MARRIED!” is impossible to understand? Don’t get me wrong, I do get a little sad when I realize I’m probably going to end up a buffet for the maggots without ever having experienced a real kind of loving, but so be it! We are not all put here to be someone’s parent or spouse. I know it in my heart that I’m not the marrying type. I would be the world’s shittiest wife. Without question! I can’t cook, I hate cleaning, and I am crap in bed. Well, this last part’s not true, I’m actually AMAZING in the sack. I give great head, too! But great head is nothing a newfangled machine won’t soon be able to duplicate, if not perfect. So soon I won’t even have that! Um, that was a tangent, sorry. Does this mean I am anti-marriage? Absolutely not. I think marriage is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please read how I’ve written marriage and allow me to confirm that when I write marriage I mean marriage between two consenting adults (even those with the same genitalia). Yes, marriage is a fine thing, it’s just not for me. (*Edit* I do think that all of the readily accessible sex introduced as a possible marriage residual makes marriage enticing, but as much as I like sex, I don't like marriage enough to get married for sex.)
242/220. 224 days until I leave this place for good, 220 days until I leave this job for good. I can hardly wait.
A little over two weeks until I’m in San Francisco and Oakland and my heart gets giddy with the thought of it.
Oh, and TO1’s response to my text was simple enough. Dodger died. And he thanked me for rooting for his team. I want to see him so badly.
Work sucks.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
A Blog for an e-friend . . .
So that she knows I'm not dead. Yes, that would be you Alissa (not Alyssa). See, I'm not dead yet.
As I type this, I am getting high. And that is no joke.
I've been on a blog break. This is that obvious information for my two devoted readers. But just because I have been absent does not mean that I have not been thinking. I am always thinking. One of my former professors with whom I developed a friendship used to tell me that I had a "busy brain" that could never be satisfied by mundane entrapment and that it would be up to me to make sure I didn't waste my "beautiful, busy brain."
We don't talk anymore. Mostly because I stopped feeling worthy of her friendship.
I won't continue with the me-beating on this post. I have many more posts between now and age 35.
So, what has life given me, to give to you? Proceed.
Work
I have begun a countdown. In 248 days I will leave this town again. But this time I hope for good. I don't yet know where I am going, I just know that where I am is not where I want to be. It's not where I'm supposed to be. This is something I feel deeply and irreversibly. In two weeks before the 248th day I will have quit my current job. What to say about this current job? Being underemployed and under-compensated (again) have been easier to endure this time around. It's easy because I know I am leaving.
Remember, I work for a company that makes t-shirts. They make t-shirts and embroider things. That's what they do. Even so, these people behave as though the heavens themselves will spiral into the Earth's core if something goes "wrong." Would you like an example? I ran out of work to do. I ran out of work because everything they give me is nothing. But I accept the tasks to pass the time. That is it. I thought I'd found something to do. A stack of work orders needed replenishing and I needed something to do. So, I thought I might try and restock these work orders. And what happens? One of the salespeople who probably wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire walked by me and said, "No, no, you are NOT supposed to be touching those. Nobody touches those but ME! I've been here six years and someone always touches this and messes it up. There's a sign RIGHT THERE!" Remember, I am wearing some really fucked up broken glasses, and well the sign is the size of a postage stamp.
Ummm . . . right. So I attempted to explain. "Oh, I'm sorry I just didn't want to be idle."
I later learned that this all-important task was off-limits to me because there are numbers that must be put into spreadsheets to ensure that the work orders are received in time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SPREADSHEETS!!!!!!!!!
Okay. Fine. So just say that. She probably could say it if she ever said more than two words to me. She came in afterward and wanted me to know she wasn't "gettin' on me" but that the work order process was her "kick."
If they only knew. If they only knew I was counting the days.
Where To go?
The only thing that keeps me waking up is knowing that eventually I'll be gone again. If it were any other time I'd be even more depressed than my usual depressive self and wondering if I should go with pills or try the steak knife. Instead, I am considering the following (pardon me, I know I am being repetitive):
*Southeast Asia for a month and then with the leftover savings a move on to a mundane life in (Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Cleveland, Bozeman, or some other similar sized story with cheap rent).
*Skip Southeast Asia for now and moving to a possibly more exciting life in (Chicago, Brooklyn, San Francisco, Boston, or some other similar city with not-so cheap rent). Just so you know, San Francisco is at the TOP of this list. I wouldn't just live in the Bay Area this time, I'd take on The City.
*Southeast Asia for a more than just a month with a return to a place I don't like so that I can make more money yet again to leave (yet again).
These are my options. I wake up with them on my mind.
Who To Love?
Last night, sober, I sent TO1 a text message. I am watching his favorite baseball team when I do it. He had a blue Beta called Dodger. The poor fish had been alive for over four years. A beta.
The first night after TO1 and I were together he introduced me to Dodger. I looked into the murky bowl and said, "You should change his water!" When I came back over later that night the water had been changed.
The text read: "Tell Dodger's "Dad" that someone he once knew in the span of a life flash said, 'Go Dodgers.'"
I fly back to California on the 24th. I want to see him. But I know he doesn't want to see me. If life were like the movies I could walk up to his doorstep, hug him, say I'm sorry, and at least get a friend. Where I'd lost a lover, I would have found a way to salvage a friend.
Whoa!!!!
Today I learned that the local, overpriced organic store across the street from my job is now allowing mix and match 6packs. This new policy has been the only thing I have been genuinely excited about in a long, long time. Seriously.
So I excitedly bought myself a mix-match of IPAs from Oregon, California, and Colorado, and took the long-ass bus ride home (remember I live in a crap town with crap public transportation) to watch the Veep debates. My honest assessment? Palin held her own. I was hoping to watch her get reamed, absolutely positively humiliated even; but no, she is a quick study. And that, more than I care to admit, frightens me. It really, really frightens me.
If you have friends who are not registered to vote, encourage them to register. I hope you won't tell them who to vote for, but at least ask that they get their asses out to choose. Oh, but do your part to inform them. Please, for the love of any type of justice, don't let them fly blind.
Alright. That's me right now. More later I guess.
Alissa (not Alyssa) . . . I'm so glad to have your blogs to read again. I'm going to design a type of paper for resumes and it's going to be called CCE . . . for Cock and Balls Elegance.
Goodnight Blogosphere, I'm going to smoke more weed and sleep.
As I type this, I am getting high. And that is no joke.
I've been on a blog break. This is that obvious information for my two devoted readers. But just because I have been absent does not mean that I have not been thinking. I am always thinking. One of my former professors with whom I developed a friendship used to tell me that I had a "busy brain" that could never be satisfied by mundane entrapment and that it would be up to me to make sure I didn't waste my "beautiful, busy brain."
We don't talk anymore. Mostly because I stopped feeling worthy of her friendship.
I won't continue with the me-beating on this post. I have many more posts between now and age 35.
So, what has life given me, to give to you? Proceed.
Work
I have begun a countdown. In 248 days I will leave this town again. But this time I hope for good. I don't yet know where I am going, I just know that where I am is not where I want to be. It's not where I'm supposed to be. This is something I feel deeply and irreversibly. In two weeks before the 248th day I will have quit my current job. What to say about this current job? Being underemployed and under-compensated (again) have been easier to endure this time around. It's easy because I know I am leaving.
Remember, I work for a company that makes t-shirts. They make t-shirts and embroider things. That's what they do. Even so, these people behave as though the heavens themselves will spiral into the Earth's core if something goes "wrong." Would you like an example? I ran out of work to do. I ran out of work because everything they give me is nothing. But I accept the tasks to pass the time. That is it. I thought I'd found something to do. A stack of work orders needed replenishing and I needed something to do. So, I thought I might try and restock these work orders. And what happens? One of the salespeople who probably wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire walked by me and said, "No, no, you are NOT supposed to be touching those. Nobody touches those but ME! I've been here six years and someone always touches this and messes it up. There's a sign RIGHT THERE!" Remember, I am wearing some really fucked up broken glasses, and well the sign is the size of a postage stamp.
Ummm . . . right. So I attempted to explain. "Oh, I'm sorry I just didn't want to be idle."
I later learned that this all-important task was off-limits to me because there are numbers that must be put into spreadsheets to ensure that the work orders are received in time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SPREADSHEETS!!!!!!!!!
Okay. Fine. So just say that. She probably could say it if she ever said more than two words to me. She came in afterward and wanted me to know she wasn't "gettin' on me" but that the work order process was her "kick."
If they only knew. If they only knew I was counting the days.
Where To go?
The only thing that keeps me waking up is knowing that eventually I'll be gone again. If it were any other time I'd be even more depressed than my usual depressive self and wondering if I should go with pills or try the steak knife. Instead, I am considering the following (pardon me, I know I am being repetitive):
*Southeast Asia for a month and then with the leftover savings a move on to a mundane life in (Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Cleveland, Bozeman, or some other similar sized story with cheap rent).
*Skip Southeast Asia for now and moving to a possibly more exciting life in (Chicago, Brooklyn, San Francisco, Boston, or some other similar city with not-so cheap rent). Just so you know, San Francisco is at the TOP of this list. I wouldn't just live in the Bay Area this time, I'd take on The City.
*Southeast Asia for a more than just a month with a return to a place I don't like so that I can make more money yet again to leave (yet again).
These are my options. I wake up with them on my mind.
Who To Love?
Last night, sober, I sent TO1 a text message. I am watching his favorite baseball team when I do it. He had a blue Beta called Dodger. The poor fish had been alive for over four years. A beta.
The first night after TO1 and I were together he introduced me to Dodger. I looked into the murky bowl and said, "You should change his water!" When I came back over later that night the water had been changed.
The text read: "Tell Dodger's "Dad" that someone he once knew in the span of a life flash said, 'Go Dodgers.'"
I fly back to California on the 24th. I want to see him. But I know he doesn't want to see me. If life were like the movies I could walk up to his doorstep, hug him, say I'm sorry, and at least get a friend. Where I'd lost a lover, I would have found a way to salvage a friend.
Whoa!!!!
Today I learned that the local, overpriced organic store across the street from my job is now allowing mix and match 6packs. This new policy has been the only thing I have been genuinely excited about in a long, long time. Seriously.
So I excitedly bought myself a mix-match of IPAs from Oregon, California, and Colorado, and took the long-ass bus ride home (remember I live in a crap town with crap public transportation) to watch the Veep debates. My honest assessment? Palin held her own. I was hoping to watch her get reamed, absolutely positively humiliated even; but no, she is a quick study. And that, more than I care to admit, frightens me. It really, really frightens me.
If you have friends who are not registered to vote, encourage them to register. I hope you won't tell them who to vote for, but at least ask that they get their asses out to choose. Oh, but do your part to inform them. Please, for the love of any type of justice, don't let them fly blind.
Alright. That's me right now. More later I guess.
Alissa (not Alyssa) . . . I'm so glad to have your blogs to read again. I'm going to design a type of paper for resumes and it's going to be called CCE . . . for Cock and Balls Elegance.
Goodnight Blogosphere, I'm going to smoke more weed and sleep.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Dear You . . .
I want you to know how happy I am for you. Your life makes me smile. I really do hope you'll come to my funeral one day. I'm pretty sure I'll die before you. If the booze don't kill me, well, I will. It would be nice if you and your family, Your family, come. Tell them I was a little crazy, but don't tell them how crazy. Congratulations on living life. Congratulations on your fairy tale. You deserve it.
Love,
Me.
Love,
Me.
Monday, September 15, 2008
If it were like this all of the time . . .
I might be able to tolerate this place. But it's not. Usually it's hotter than a witch's tit, you sweat your balls off, and my hair (which is already pretty damn big) becomes something to rival Chaka Khan and Diana Ross. It's not cool.
Today's temperatures have been divine. The lows were in the mid to upper 50s and we won't be breaking into the dreaded 90s. If I close my eyes really, really, really tight I can imagine myself back in Oakland. The only thing missing is the Bay Bridge, Canadian Geese that poop all around Lake Merritt, and BART roaring its way into The City. Well, I'd need a lot more than that, but you get the point.
I am still home sick for the Bay Area. One of my three homes. I have Oaxaca, Oakland, and unfortunately, Austin.
The work day is flying by. It's great! I am counting the days until my trip back to California to see Jenna in all of her glory, and to see where my heart stands in terms of staying in this sh*thole, traveling, or giving California another go.
It really is all up in the air.
I can't make up my mind about shit.
I am still enjoying my reclusive spell. I continue to have no desire to see any of my old friends. Go figure.
I hope that Alyssa made it to Pittsburgh safe and sound.
I am going to walk around the corner to the park during my lunch hour and read outside. It's going to be highlight of my day! Pathetic, aren't I?
Today's temperatures have been divine. The lows were in the mid to upper 50s and we won't be breaking into the dreaded 90s. If I close my eyes really, really, really tight I can imagine myself back in Oakland. The only thing missing is the Bay Bridge, Canadian Geese that poop all around Lake Merritt, and BART roaring its way into The City. Well, I'd need a lot more than that, but you get the point.
I am still home sick for the Bay Area. One of my three homes. I have Oaxaca, Oakland, and unfortunately, Austin.
The work day is flying by. It's great! I am counting the days until my trip back to California to see Jenna in all of her glory, and to see where my heart stands in terms of staying in this sh*thole, traveling, or giving California another go.
It really is all up in the air.
I can't make up my mind about shit.
I am still enjoying my reclusive spell. I continue to have no desire to see any of my old friends. Go figure.
I hope that Alyssa made it to Pittsburgh safe and sound.
I am going to walk around the corner to the park during my lunch hour and read outside. It's going to be highlight of my day! Pathetic, aren't I?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The Little Things . . .
Sometimes I go to strange web sites. I can't explain why. I just do. I have a habit of going to University web sites, searching the department sites, and looking for interesting books or articles on the syllabi. I've found many interesting books this way. I ended up on Baylor University's site. Not because I think Baylor is a place one should seek useful education, but because I was high and curious. I visited their University Honors web site and found the following:
Independeing Reading List Selections
This was the link for their "Honors" College. Independent Reading List Selections . . . perhaps? It matters but little! I know, I know! But propelled by the power of Mary Jane and IPA thought it my duty to inform them of their misstep. So I sent the following:
"To Whom It May Concern:
For reasons unbeknown to myself I have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with University web sites, department pages, and faculty profiles. I enjoy reading the course syllabi of Universities in search of what I hope will be intellectually taxing reading material or ideas. I gave your site a go, but must say I was more disappointed than I wished to be and found the following link on your "University Scholars" site.
Independeing Reading List Selections
Independeing? Have I missed something?
Undoubtedly a clerical misstep. Nevertheless, the importance of thorough editing can never be underestimated; especially when it comes to recruiting an exceptional student population. Presentation, presentation, presentation.
Regards,
T."
Why did I send it? BECAUSE I WAS STONED AND NEEDED SOMETHING TO DO! Otherwise, I don't give a shit.
So guess what I received from the Associate Dean of the Honors College?
"Dear Ms. Conner,
Thank you for your kind note informing me of the typographical error. We shall be swift about updating that page. Please do let me know if you find any other errors. It's nice to know that there's another set of eyes out there reading over our material and finding typos, which are sometime hard to catch on the computer screen. Feel free to check out the Classics page (http://www.baylor.edu/classics) as well; should you find any typos there, please contact John_Thorburn@baylor.edu.
Gratefully,
Alden Smith"
And guess WHAT ELSE I received from the Associate Dean of the Honors College? A copy of an e-mail he sent to someone else in the department. Read. Enjoy.
"Doris,
Someone snotty found a typo on our website. Could you please fix it when you have have a chance?
thanks,
Alden
Alden Smith
Associate Dean, Honors College
254 710 3744"
Aaaaaaah Alden! Me? I'm someone "snotty?" Snooty, perhaps? You're the fucking Dean of an Honors College! If a high, underemployed, Blaxicana girl can come across as "snotty" to you because you don't hire people who know how to type or spell . . . you have bigger problems. Much, much bigger problems.
Note to parents: DON'T SEND YOUR CHILDREN TO BAYLOR UNIVERSITY!!!!! Or to Alden Smith's "Honors College." I've out-snottied them.
Independeing Reading List Selections
This was the link for their "Honors" College. Independent Reading List Selections . . . perhaps? It matters but little! I know, I know! But propelled by the power of Mary Jane and IPA thought it my duty to inform them of their misstep. So I sent the following:
"To Whom It May Concern:
For reasons unbeknown to myself I have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with University web sites, department pages, and faculty profiles. I enjoy reading the course syllabi of Universities in search of what I hope will be intellectually taxing reading material or ideas. I gave your site a go, but must say I was more disappointed than I wished to be and found the following link on your "University Scholars" site.
Independeing Reading List Selections
Independeing? Have I missed something?
Undoubtedly a clerical misstep. Nevertheless, the importance of thorough editing can never be underestimated; especially when it comes to recruiting an exceptional student population. Presentation, presentation, presentation.
Regards,
T."
Why did I send it? BECAUSE I WAS STONED AND NEEDED SOMETHING TO DO! Otherwise, I don't give a shit.
So guess what I received from the Associate Dean of the Honors College?
"Dear Ms. Conner,
Thank you for your kind note informing me of the typographical error. We shall be swift about updating that page. Please do let me know if you find any other errors. It's nice to know that there's another set of eyes out there reading over our material and finding typos, which are sometime hard to catch on the computer screen. Feel free to check out the Classics page (http://www.baylor.edu/classics) as well; should you find any typos there, please contact John_Thorburn@baylor.edu.
Gratefully,
Alden Smith"
And guess WHAT ELSE I received from the Associate Dean of the Honors College? A copy of an e-mail he sent to someone else in the department. Read. Enjoy.
"Doris,
Someone snotty found a typo on our website. Could you please fix it when you have have a chance?
thanks,
Alden
Alden Smith
Associate Dean, Honors College
254 710 3744"
Aaaaaaah Alden! Me? I'm someone "snotty?" Snooty, perhaps? You're the fucking Dean of an Honors College! If a high, underemployed, Blaxicana girl can come across as "snotty" to you because you don't hire people who know how to type or spell . . . you have bigger problems. Much, much bigger problems.
Note to parents: DON'T SEND YOUR CHILDREN TO BAYLOR UNIVERSITY!!!!! Or to Alden Smith's "Honors College." I've out-snottied them.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Hermit.
This week went by quickly. For that I am so very grateful. Highlights, well, I wish I actually had some to share. Instead, there is the following:
A storm is coming. I'm very excited. There is talk of 50 MPH winds. I intend to sit on the balcony and let my hair blow. Saturday is expected to be stormy and windy. Perfect sit-your-ass-indoors weather. Because I am a woman with strange interests, I have decided that this weekend was made for certain things: Beer, wine, American Football, reading and Netflix streaming. I have purchased two six packs (Sierra Nevada and Lagunitas IPA, if you care), one moderately priced 2003 Vintage California Cab, and the latest American Scholar. And I wonder why I am single, or manage to scare away men like you know who.
I actually don't mind drinking alone. And when I drink enough to make me pass out, I actually don't mind waking up alone. It all makes sense in my brain.
Even though I am making an effort to save money by not going out and doing all of my drinking at home alone, I did stop by the bar next to my job earlier this week. I met some interesting people. When we were relatively sober we began our conversation discussing politics, books, and cities. With time and beer our conversation topics went from the types of drugs we'd each done, how to smoke weed without papers, a bong, or a can, and whether the name for the whole thing Richard Gere supposedly did with the gerbils (hamsters) is called felching. It's not. What is it called when you stick a rodent up your butthole? So, you can see it was a pretty interesting night.
I think my coworkers are finally learning to accept me. Whatever that means. And as if I really gave a shit to begin with. Perhaps I gave a shit on some level, after all, who wants to be disliked? One of my coworkers came into my work space and asked me how to spell legit. I looked up at her and asked, "As in legitimate?" With a straight face she looked at me and said, "As in too legit to quit." This was complete with MC Hammer mannerism. I was not sure what was expected of me. I smiled and offered the spelling. This is from the same person who is always sure to share two pieces of information with me. One, the job I have is the least stressful and easiest of all in the company, so I should take some solace in that! If only they knew. I just want the paychecks baby! Paychecks are what will once again guarantee that I will be on the jet to (???). Two, in the same breath that I am told how easy my job is, this individual then tells me that everyone is "baffled" by how "good" I am because you only have to tell me things once and I "get them." I am mastering the art of the plastered, plastic smile. Her final thoughts for me, "Nobody's been this good at this job since me!"
*yawn*
I know she means well. Even so, it was our purchasing clerk who gave me the kindest compliment. His name is Bob. I had asked Bob for some insight into why everyone was so damned frazzled and unhappy. He shrugged and said, "That's just the damn screen printing business." I wanted to probe, but realized that Bob was too nice for me to over-intellectualize. Bob then looked at me and said, "If you ask me, you're too smart for this job. You need to be doing something else." I thanked him. Maybe one day.
A storm is coming. I'm very excited. There is talk of 50 MPH winds. I intend to sit on the balcony and let my hair blow. Saturday is expected to be stormy and windy. Perfect sit-your-ass-indoors weather. Because I am a woman with strange interests, I have decided that this weekend was made for certain things: Beer, wine, American Football, reading and Netflix streaming. I have purchased two six packs (Sierra Nevada and Lagunitas IPA, if you care), one moderately priced 2003 Vintage California Cab, and the latest American Scholar. And I wonder why I am single, or manage to scare away men like you know who.
I actually don't mind drinking alone. And when I drink enough to make me pass out, I actually don't mind waking up alone. It all makes sense in my brain.
Even though I am making an effort to save money by not going out and doing all of my drinking at home alone, I did stop by the bar next to my job earlier this week. I met some interesting people. When we were relatively sober we began our conversation discussing politics, books, and cities. With time and beer our conversation topics went from the types of drugs we'd each done, how to smoke weed without papers, a bong, or a can, and whether the name for the whole thing Richard Gere supposedly did with the gerbils (hamsters) is called felching. It's not. What is it called when you stick a rodent up your butthole? So, you can see it was a pretty interesting night.
I think my coworkers are finally learning to accept me. Whatever that means. And as if I really gave a shit to begin with. Perhaps I gave a shit on some level, after all, who wants to be disliked? One of my coworkers came into my work space and asked me how to spell legit. I looked up at her and asked, "As in legitimate?" With a straight face she looked at me and said, "As in too legit to quit." This was complete with MC Hammer mannerism. I was not sure what was expected of me. I smiled and offered the spelling. This is from the same person who is always sure to share two pieces of information with me. One, the job I have is the least stressful and easiest of all in the company, so I should take some solace in that! If only they knew. I just want the paychecks baby! Paychecks are what will once again guarantee that I will be on the jet to (???). Two, in the same breath that I am told how easy my job is, this individual then tells me that everyone is "baffled" by how "good" I am because you only have to tell me things once and I "get them." I am mastering the art of the plastered, plastic smile. Her final thoughts for me, "Nobody's been this good at this job since me!"
*yawn*
I know she means well. Even so, it was our purchasing clerk who gave me the kindest compliment. His name is Bob. I had asked Bob for some insight into why everyone was so damned frazzled and unhappy. He shrugged and said, "That's just the damn screen printing business." I wanted to probe, but realized that Bob was too nice for me to over-intellectualize. Bob then looked at me and said, "If you ask me, you're too smart for this job. You need to be doing something else." I thanked him. Maybe one day.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
F to the Y to the I, Yo.
I just re-read my drunk blog posts. I'm sorry if I sound like a militant Black Panther in some of them. I'm not sure what is up with me. I actually adore white people! I really do!
I'll end this brief blog with a quote from my friend Clifton (who is white!)
"In the end, everybody is people, too!"
Yeah we is.
I'll end this brief blog with a quote from my friend Clifton (who is white!)
"In the end, everybody is people, too!"
Yeah we is.
A serious morning.
I have resisted the urge to write about Sarah Palin, mostly because it’s a waste of my precious brain cells. However, any of you who know me in the slightest (even if you only read my ridiculous blogs), know that more often than not I end up doing things I should not do. (See drunk blogging and drunk dialing and drunk sex for examples.) So pursuant to my own grand tradition, I will proceed to do that which I should not.
What to say about Sarah Palin? I fear this woman. I fear her because her vapidity and superficial public appeal is so beguiling to an ignorant, simplistic electorate that I am almost positive that a McCain presidency is coming our way in January. Is this what I want? Of course not. By all accounts I am a woman of progressive leanings and foolish idealistic sentiment. But I am also growing older and more cynical and more realistic. The reality is that the political game is played without any degree of consideration that a sophisticated, informed population has any hand in selecting presidents. These days, the lunatics, or what James Carville (not one of my favorite people) called The Great Unwashed are the arbiters of our great decisions. The Unwashed come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, by the way. And quite a few of The Great Unwashed are wild about Sarah Palin.
My beefs with Ms. Palin are not too far removed from those most frequently articulated. I believe her to be inexperienced to a fault; she is too conservative for my liking; and she has been noticeably eager to claim the mantle for causes I doubt she has any genuine allegiance to (i.e. feminism). All of that being said, what I dislike even more are the ridiculous things I hear said about her by the hypocritical supporters who will more than likely turn out en masse to inflict the death knell to the Obama/Biden camp in November. ‘She’s one of us!’ Who? ‘She’s a real person.’ I don’t know any one like her. And I like to think I have a nice little rainbow coalition of friends. ‘She shows the real power of a woman.’ How? Because she is remarkably fertile? BFD! I don’t care about her superior child bearing power. I don’t care that her daughter was knocked up at 17. Hell, I believe I can probably point to at least five relatives in my family who became pregnant before their 17th birthdays. Before, 17, not at, 17. Think about that. Judge not, lest ye be judged . . . or something like that.
No, that’s not what bothers me about Palin. What bothers me is the regressive climate her candidacy has introduced into discussions of cultural, social, and even class issues. I couldn’t bring myself to watch her speech, but I was unfortunate enough to catch Palin attacking Obama’s pedigree and accuse him of behaving as an anointed messiah while completely ignoring his successes. And don’t get me started on how ludicrous it is for Palin (and McCain) to insist upon maligning Obama for (gasp!) being an intelligent, articulate, educated candidate. It would appear that in this newly reborn climate of anti-intellectual, populist politics, being editor of the Harvard Law Review cannot compare to one’s ability to bear children.
An NPR report yesterday cited a statistic stating that by a 2-1 margin U.S. citizens “look down” upon working mothers. This was mentioned with reference to the fact that a few female McCain/Palin supporters questioned her decision to accept an office like the Vice Presidency when she should be “tending to her children.” Are you kidding me? I’m not even a McCain/Palin supporter, and I don’t have (and don’t ever expect to have) children, but these types of statements do something to make my blood boil. They indicate so much about the limited views we still hold in this nation. We deny so much about the realities of so many. Let’s believe for a second that it’s true that a woman should not work, but should watch after her spawn like a good little breeder. What of the woman who has no choice in this matter? Women like my mother. Myself, and my two sisters were raised by a single mother who had no choice but to work. My mother had to work, so her children could live. Yes, I knew my father, but my father was pretty much a part-time parent throughout my childhood. My mother did not have a wealthy executive husband to treat her to a nice house in the hills or in a flat, boring cul de sac, while she stayed home to take her children to “play dates.” The reality is many mothers work. They work because they have no choice. They work because we don’t live in a country which has the capacity to break outside of bullshit conceptions of what families look like.
My mother raised three daughters by herself. I should rephrase that, she was our mother and father, but I know she needed people like my great grandmothers and grandmother and the occasional aunt. In other words, a very NON-traditional family. And that's how it is sometimes. I wonder if the Palin-mad conservatives can relate to these types of family values? As for myself and my sisters, for the most part, we’re a decent set of chicas. We could be a lot worse, I guess, but I won’t use this blog to talk about my shit-suckworthiness, there will always be time for that.
This election is bringing out the best and the worst in so many. I don’t pray because I don’t believe in any G/god/s, but I hold on to hope, ever so slightly, I hold on, I hope we’re a better nation than I often detect us to be.
What to say about Sarah Palin? I fear this woman. I fear her because her vapidity and superficial public appeal is so beguiling to an ignorant, simplistic electorate that I am almost positive that a McCain presidency is coming our way in January. Is this what I want? Of course not. By all accounts I am a woman of progressive leanings and foolish idealistic sentiment. But I am also growing older and more cynical and more realistic. The reality is that the political game is played without any degree of consideration that a sophisticated, informed population has any hand in selecting presidents. These days, the lunatics, or what James Carville (not one of my favorite people) called The Great Unwashed are the arbiters of our great decisions. The Unwashed come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, by the way. And quite a few of The Great Unwashed are wild about Sarah Palin.
My beefs with Ms. Palin are not too far removed from those most frequently articulated. I believe her to be inexperienced to a fault; she is too conservative for my liking; and she has been noticeably eager to claim the mantle for causes I doubt she has any genuine allegiance to (i.e. feminism). All of that being said, what I dislike even more are the ridiculous things I hear said about her by the hypocritical supporters who will more than likely turn out en masse to inflict the death knell to the Obama/Biden camp in November. ‘She’s one of us!’ Who? ‘She’s a real person.’ I don’t know any one like her. And I like to think I have a nice little rainbow coalition of friends. ‘She shows the real power of a woman.’ How? Because she is remarkably fertile? BFD! I don’t care about her superior child bearing power. I don’t care that her daughter was knocked up at 17. Hell, I believe I can probably point to at least five relatives in my family who became pregnant before their 17th birthdays. Before, 17, not at, 17. Think about that. Judge not, lest ye be judged . . . or something like that.
No, that’s not what bothers me about Palin. What bothers me is the regressive climate her candidacy has introduced into discussions of cultural, social, and even class issues. I couldn’t bring myself to watch her speech, but I was unfortunate enough to catch Palin attacking Obama’s pedigree and accuse him of behaving as an anointed messiah while completely ignoring his successes. And don’t get me started on how ludicrous it is for Palin (and McCain) to insist upon maligning Obama for (gasp!) being an intelligent, articulate, educated candidate. It would appear that in this newly reborn climate of anti-intellectual, populist politics, being editor of the Harvard Law Review cannot compare to one’s ability to bear children.
An NPR report yesterday cited a statistic stating that by a 2-1 margin U.S. citizens “look down” upon working mothers. This was mentioned with reference to the fact that a few female McCain/Palin supporters questioned her decision to accept an office like the Vice Presidency when she should be “tending to her children.” Are you kidding me? I’m not even a McCain/Palin supporter, and I don’t have (and don’t ever expect to have) children, but these types of statements do something to make my blood boil. They indicate so much about the limited views we still hold in this nation. We deny so much about the realities of so many. Let’s believe for a second that it’s true that a woman should not work, but should watch after her spawn like a good little breeder. What of the woman who has no choice in this matter? Women like my mother. Myself, and my two sisters were raised by a single mother who had no choice but to work. My mother had to work, so her children could live. Yes, I knew my father, but my father was pretty much a part-time parent throughout my childhood. My mother did not have a wealthy executive husband to treat her to a nice house in the hills or in a flat, boring cul de sac, while she stayed home to take her children to “play dates.” The reality is many mothers work. They work because they have no choice. They work because we don’t live in a country which has the capacity to break outside of bullshit conceptions of what families look like.
My mother raised three daughters by herself. I should rephrase that, she was our mother and father, but I know she needed people like my great grandmothers and grandmother and the occasional aunt. In other words, a very NON-traditional family. And that's how it is sometimes. I wonder if the Palin-mad conservatives can relate to these types of family values? As for myself and my sisters, for the most part, we’re a decent set of chicas. We could be a lot worse, I guess, but I won’t use this blog to talk about my shit-suckworthiness, there will always be time for that.
This election is bringing out the best and the worst in so many. I don’t pray because I don’t believe in any G/god/s, but I hold on to hope, ever so slightly, I hold on, I hope we’re a better nation than I often detect us to be.
Monday, September 8, 2008
In the vein of Jerry Springer . . . A Final Thought . . .
I'm about to sleep. Before sleep comes there is bad TV. TruTv, to be exact. Do you remember when it was CourtTV? There's some bizarre show on where they have all of these egotistical sheriff's deputies arresting drunken Spring Breakers in a California hot spot. Quite a few of them were not from California. But the sheriff's deputies were stopping people and in many instances found next to no reason for arresting them. One of the drunken students had the GALL to ask if he could remove his life jacket while the boat was docked. The deputy's response? "YOU KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!"
It gave me horrid flashbacks to the night I'd spent in jail. It's funny, Jenna is the only person who has ever laughed when I've mentioned the fact that I've been to jail. I believe it was probably because it came out very nonchalant. "Oh, that's like when I was sent to jail . . ." Or something like that. It did nothing for my street cred. Not that a New York Times reading, Harper's subscribing, literary and social criticism-loving journal reader like me would be able to garner much street cred. Besides, I've come to realize that the person who sent me there is a bitch, and faked friendship for the sake of filling her lack of minority friendships. I went to jail for a faker who wanted to fill some quotas. Pathetic. I think I did a pretty good job when it comes to replacements. Ex-Best Friend X versus Jenna . . . totally a better trade-off. Jenna's a kick ass ballet dancer whose traveled Europe and lets me hate myself at will! Well, not really, she hates that I hate myself, but she ACCEPTS me. For that, I love her til the end of my time.
As for that other . . . person. I've learned to flick her off like a gooey booger. Finally. It took some time, but I'm glad I was able to get it done. If I had the chance I'd probably send her middle-class ass to jail, see if she could get through it without freaking the fuck out. Let's have someone make fun of her race and her hair--but oh wait, that is the benefit of middle-class-whitedom . . . someone is always, ALWAYS there to bail your ass out. Just like someone will bail these bizarre shits from this TV show out.
Anyway, my point about this was that I realize that most sheriff's deputies are the guys who used to get stuffed into lockers or have their assholes creamed with Icy Hot. And now, with badges, they think they're total bad asses. Power trips.
TO1 called the cops on me. It's a long story. The cops never came though. I think he faked calling to cops to scare me, because, well I behaved erratically. And was blind drunk. Blind drunk and in love are never a good combination with me. If you want to know what I did, ask me, I'll tell you about it. Makes for a funny story, except for the fact that I scared away a really, really fantastic man. I was ready to go to jail again. I just wanted him to listen to me. Just one last fucking time. But no, I never get that last chance to speak my mind. I wanted him to listen to me, understand that an insecure, depressed heart doesn't feel trust. I can trust your snoring in my ear, your hairy thigh against my stomach, and your sleeping face; but I could not trust that the waking you would seek me out with any genuine sincerity. I mean, look at me. I lost you to myself. I convinced myself to do stupid things in the name of what I thought were my heart's demands. I know better now. But I just wish I didn't miss his face.
Even though I've finally managed to feel some anger for the unfair treatment I've endured by people I thought were there for me, and even though I will probably never learn to be there for myself, I know that being physically imprisoned means nothing when you've managed to encase your heart in a stronger cage. Self-loathing is a very, very strong cage. And it's easy to hate yourself when you put your faith in people whose only goal is to stomp on what little goodness is left of you.
I will go to sleep now. And this time I'm going to make myself dream of unicorns. I'm tired of dreams that make me hurt.
It gave me horrid flashbacks to the night I'd spent in jail. It's funny, Jenna is the only person who has ever laughed when I've mentioned the fact that I've been to jail. I believe it was probably because it came out very nonchalant. "Oh, that's like when I was sent to jail . . ." Or something like that. It did nothing for my street cred. Not that a New York Times reading, Harper's subscribing, literary and social criticism-loving journal reader like me would be able to garner much street cred. Besides, I've come to realize that the person who sent me there is a bitch, and faked friendship for the sake of filling her lack of minority friendships. I went to jail for a faker who wanted to fill some quotas. Pathetic. I think I did a pretty good job when it comes to replacements. Ex-Best Friend X versus Jenna . . . totally a better trade-off. Jenna's a kick ass ballet dancer whose traveled Europe and lets me hate myself at will! Well, not really, she hates that I hate myself, but she ACCEPTS me. For that, I love her til the end of my time.
As for that other . . . person. I've learned to flick her off like a gooey booger. Finally. It took some time, but I'm glad I was able to get it done. If I had the chance I'd probably send her middle-class ass to jail, see if she could get through it without freaking the fuck out. Let's have someone make fun of her race and her hair--but oh wait, that is the benefit of middle-class-whitedom . . . someone is always, ALWAYS there to bail your ass out. Just like someone will bail these bizarre shits from this TV show out.
Anyway, my point about this was that I realize that most sheriff's deputies are the guys who used to get stuffed into lockers or have their assholes creamed with Icy Hot. And now, with badges, they think they're total bad asses. Power trips.
TO1 called the cops on me. It's a long story. The cops never came though. I think he faked calling to cops to scare me, because, well I behaved erratically. And was blind drunk. Blind drunk and in love are never a good combination with me. If you want to know what I did, ask me, I'll tell you about it. Makes for a funny story, except for the fact that I scared away a really, really fantastic man. I was ready to go to jail again. I just wanted him to listen to me. Just one last fucking time. But no, I never get that last chance to speak my mind. I wanted him to listen to me, understand that an insecure, depressed heart doesn't feel trust. I can trust your snoring in my ear, your hairy thigh against my stomach, and your sleeping face; but I could not trust that the waking you would seek me out with any genuine sincerity. I mean, look at me. I lost you to myself. I convinced myself to do stupid things in the name of what I thought were my heart's demands. I know better now. But I just wish I didn't miss his face.
Even though I've finally managed to feel some anger for the unfair treatment I've endured by people I thought were there for me, and even though I will probably never learn to be there for myself, I know that being physically imprisoned means nothing when you've managed to encase your heart in a stronger cage. Self-loathing is a very, very strong cage. And it's easy to hate yourself when you put your faith in people whose only goal is to stomp on what little goodness is left of you.
I will go to sleep now. And this time I'm going to make myself dream of unicorns. I'm tired of dreams that make me hurt.
Tonight, I . . .
drank an entire 6pk of Lagunitas IPA by myself as I watched Monday Night Football out of the corner of my eyeball. I put the TV on mute and let the shit happen. One of my supported teams was victorious, while the other got their proverbial shit pushed in. My original plan was to go to a bar and have a pint or two. Then I realized what a colossal waste of time and money that would be and decided that drunk at home alone would be much more fun and less risky. That's right, risky. I can't keep doing dumb things.
I have been seriously considering the prospect of saving until next spring and moving back to the Bay Area. I'm not quite sure why. I really do keep having dreams about The Bay. Strange dreams. The funny thing is, if I did try again, I don't want to alert anyone I know. I want to be completely anonymous. Much the way I have tried to be here in my home town. It's worked well so far. The only difference is that back in the Bay I'd actually have buses and trains to take to things. Here, I'm pretty much stuck in one place the whole time. All of that aside, I really do just miss it. I miss wearing a jacket, I miss the Bay breeze, I miss . . . . lots of it.
I may change my mind about it all. I am going back in October to surprise my friend on her opening night Oakland Ballet performance. I'm going to try and gauge how I feel. Since I've come back here I've had nothing but a very strong urge to just work, work, work and save to get out of here as fast as I can. So let's see what it will feel like to be back in the Bay Area after four months. Will I feel a pull? If I don't, I guess that puts Southeast Asia back on the table.
I'm going to finish my last beer, mock this Cialis commercial, and sleep.
I have been seriously considering the prospect of saving until next spring and moving back to the Bay Area. I'm not quite sure why. I really do keep having dreams about The Bay. Strange dreams. The funny thing is, if I did try again, I don't want to alert anyone I know. I want to be completely anonymous. Much the way I have tried to be here in my home town. It's worked well so far. The only difference is that back in the Bay I'd actually have buses and trains to take to things. Here, I'm pretty much stuck in one place the whole time. All of that aside, I really do just miss it. I miss wearing a jacket, I miss the Bay breeze, I miss . . . . lots of it.
I may change my mind about it all. I am going back in October to surprise my friend on her opening night Oakland Ballet performance. I'm going to try and gauge how I feel. Since I've come back here I've had nothing but a very strong urge to just work, work, work and save to get out of here as fast as I can. So let's see what it will feel like to be back in the Bay Area after four months. Will I feel a pull? If I don't, I guess that puts Southeast Asia back on the table.
I'm going to finish my last beer, mock this Cialis commercial, and sleep.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I think someone needs to pop Jim Lehrer upside the head . . .
With the end of Barack Obama's acceptance speech you have Jim Lehrer noting there were no balloons falling onto the stage. Yes, that was the most important thing of note for him. It's a good thing that Lehrer saved himself and then went on to say, "But I don't know where the balloons would come down from anyway." The speech was given in an open air stadium, so you're right Jim, there's no place from which said balloons might fall.
Oh pundits.
So it's official. The United States dared to write a new story which breaks the longstanding mold of presidential politics and has nominated the first non-white male for president. Not an African-American, but an African and American. I've found it interesting that people always overlook that distinction. I guess because in the long run it hardly makes much difference. Black is black, even when it most clearly is not. I myself like to think of Obama as one for the Halfbreed Club, of which I am a proud member. Miscegenation Nation, baby!
What to say?
I don't possess the same fresh, idealistic buzz that once pervaded my mind at the presence of such great achievements. I recognize that what I witnessed tonight was significant, but I am not inspired. When I was much younger I was a political junkie. I was an absolute fool for policy discussions and believed very passionately in the concept of committed service to one's community at the grassroots level. I thought change was a force to be reckoned with, but that's a bygone time. Now change is a word that one's advising team runs through focus groups for polling data. I am a cynic. I don't trust politicians, policy wonks, and pundits. I have yet to feel impacted by any of their machinations. This is true, even though I readily profess that I am one of the most abstract, hyper-intellectual, over-analytical individuals you will ever encounter. (I overcompensate for my physical deficiencies and lack of self-confidence with my intelligence. Sue me. I like to think that if brains were beauty I would have been a supermodel.)
Once upon a time I would have sold my left tit and right vaginal lip for an opportunity to be the next Big Political Pundit on (insert your Sunday Morning Talk Show here). Now, I don't trust the Image Makers. I don't care if they come with "D" or "R" after their names. While Obama's speech was certainly more passionately and fluidly delivered than most given by our current President, the level of discourse continues to plummet and voters remain content with soap box generalities peppered with their favorite campaign catchphrases about all that needs to be done "for the children." The theatre of American politics continues to degrade our ability to respect civil, honest, intellectual engagement with issues. We dumb ourselves down for fear of facing the fact that so much of it is pointless. But we live in a different time from the Age of Lincoln, or so I tell myself. Politicians don't quote literature or offer up statistical proof--that's just too heady! Even so, I wonder if there ever really was a time when a politician could just break out of a PR constructed shell and speak truth to power in words which would frighten the electorate and establishment alike, but still compel them to take heed, self-examine, and act.
Please don't mistake my cynicism for apathy as I have every intention of voting. I always vote. But it doesn't mean I believe. My willingness to offer my unswerving faith to a fallible human with the occasional dash of eloquence is undercut by the truth of my every day existence. I keep hearing all of these speeches about "America's Promise" and the vitality of the "American Dream" and none of it resonates with me. They fall hard and ring hollow. American Dream? America's Promise? Don't give me that. I've worked hard, have been saddled with an albatross of debt to be the first in my family to attend University, but I've seen moments where my tenacity and inquisitiveness stood for nothing against someone whose Daddy had a friend in X office to make a call so that Jr. or Jane could get that prime job. Opportunity is not always about effort. More often than not it's about proximity to power and access. No politician will ever tell you that, but they know it. Deep down, they know it to be the truth.
On less serious notes, it amused the shit out of me to hear the sistahs in the crowd during Obama's speech yelling things like, "That's RIGHT!" and "YEAH! YEAH!" Nice. But whose fucking idea was it to play a COUNTRY song after Obama's speech? And why did Obama not actually SAY Dr. King's name. He invoked Dr. King's memory, but didn't have the courage to say his name. Why? Perhaps that is my cynicism rearing its ugly head again.
I promise that future blogs will not be so political. I attribute this change in tone to the fact that my hour long bus rides to work have left me plenty of time for reading and rumination, so politics has worked its way into my head. But sometimes I think about sex. Maybe I'll blog about that more. Would you like to know fabulous sex is with yours truly?
Ok. I'll stop.
Oh pundits.
So it's official. The United States dared to write a new story which breaks the longstanding mold of presidential politics and has nominated the first non-white male for president. Not an African-American, but an African and American. I've found it interesting that people always overlook that distinction. I guess because in the long run it hardly makes much difference. Black is black, even when it most clearly is not. I myself like to think of Obama as one for the Halfbreed Club, of which I am a proud member. Miscegenation Nation, baby!
What to say?
I don't possess the same fresh, idealistic buzz that once pervaded my mind at the presence of such great achievements. I recognize that what I witnessed tonight was significant, but I am not inspired. When I was much younger I was a political junkie. I was an absolute fool for policy discussions and believed very passionately in the concept of committed service to one's community at the grassroots level. I thought change was a force to be reckoned with, but that's a bygone time. Now change is a word that one's advising team runs through focus groups for polling data. I am a cynic. I don't trust politicians, policy wonks, and pundits. I have yet to feel impacted by any of their machinations. This is true, even though I readily profess that I am one of the most abstract, hyper-intellectual, over-analytical individuals you will ever encounter. (I overcompensate for my physical deficiencies and lack of self-confidence with my intelligence. Sue me. I like to think that if brains were beauty I would have been a supermodel.)
Once upon a time I would have sold my left tit and right vaginal lip for an opportunity to be the next Big Political Pundit on (insert your Sunday Morning Talk Show here). Now, I don't trust the Image Makers. I don't care if they come with "D" or "R" after their names. While Obama's speech was certainly more passionately and fluidly delivered than most given by our current President, the level of discourse continues to plummet and voters remain content with soap box generalities peppered with their favorite campaign catchphrases about all that needs to be done "for the children." The theatre of American politics continues to degrade our ability to respect civil, honest, intellectual engagement with issues. We dumb ourselves down for fear of facing the fact that so much of it is pointless. But we live in a different time from the Age of Lincoln, or so I tell myself. Politicians don't quote literature or offer up statistical proof--that's just too heady! Even so, I wonder if there ever really was a time when a politician could just break out of a PR constructed shell and speak truth to power in words which would frighten the electorate and establishment alike, but still compel them to take heed, self-examine, and act.
Please don't mistake my cynicism for apathy as I have every intention of voting. I always vote. But it doesn't mean I believe. My willingness to offer my unswerving faith to a fallible human with the occasional dash of eloquence is undercut by the truth of my every day existence. I keep hearing all of these speeches about "America's Promise" and the vitality of the "American Dream" and none of it resonates with me. They fall hard and ring hollow. American Dream? America's Promise? Don't give me that. I've worked hard, have been saddled with an albatross of debt to be the first in my family to attend University, but I've seen moments where my tenacity and inquisitiveness stood for nothing against someone whose Daddy had a friend in X office to make a call so that Jr. or Jane could get that prime job. Opportunity is not always about effort. More often than not it's about proximity to power and access. No politician will ever tell you that, but they know it. Deep down, they know it to be the truth.
On less serious notes, it amused the shit out of me to hear the sistahs in the crowd during Obama's speech yelling things like, "That's RIGHT!" and "YEAH! YEAH!" Nice. But whose fucking idea was it to play a COUNTRY song after Obama's speech? And why did Obama not actually SAY Dr. King's name. He invoked Dr. King's memory, but didn't have the courage to say his name. Why? Perhaps that is my cynicism rearing its ugly head again.
I promise that future blogs will not be so political. I attribute this change in tone to the fact that my hour long bus rides to work have left me plenty of time for reading and rumination, so politics has worked its way into my head. But sometimes I think about sex. Maybe I'll blog about that more. Would you like to know fabulous sex is with yours truly?
Ok. I'll stop.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Not about me.
Joe Biden? Really?
I'll admit that I have never been caught up in Obama-rama. I think he's just like every other politician. I'm too old for idealism and have long since ceased to believe that people in positions of power care what happens to me or my ilk. Ivy League educations, corporate credentials, and wads of Benjamins are the only things that seem to matter these days, all of which are inaccessible to me. I've had many an individual say things to me like, "But don't you think it's significant for us to have a chance to choose such an eloquent, intelligent leader?" No. I don't. I think it's sad that we've become so used to mediocre leaders with lackluster curiosity and intelligence so that when a candidate is actually not an idiot like our current Commander in Chief, the world sees it as an exceptional opportunity. I would hope that citizens would always seek to install leaders with the presence of mind to function as compassionate, intelligent citizens of the world. We should aspire to elect leaders who can respect the sanctity of high national office, but simultaneously perform as our effective and pragmatic global participant and representative.
It feels as though Obama proved himself to be just another politician in choosing Joseph Biden as his running mate. Did I want him to pick Hilary? Nope. I just think there was an opportunity to really shake things up, really transform the tenor of elections in this country, present this nation with a platform and ticket primed to lead our country in new direction with fresh vision and new ideas. Joseph Biden doesn't represent any of those things. He's been a senator for more than 30 years and is the quintessential Washington insider. Selecting Biden was a concession to the most pronounced claim made by Republicans: Obama lacks experience. And because politics, like any game, involves strategic presentation, Obama is hoping to have suppressed that whole "experience" question by bringing in a long-time Washington Senator. It only seems to have drawn more attention to the issue. Apparently, it was one of great concern for him and his campaign. So much so that they have drained their campaign of any genuine vibrancy.
I went to The New York Times web site to read the reactions of readers regarding Obama's choice and read some painfully idiotic commentary. One would think that a reader of The New York Times would be someone with a smidgen of intelligence and capacity for logical commentary. One reader actually wrote that he believed that Obama-Biden were sure to be a ticket for the terrorists as "See how close it is to Osama bin Laden?!?" Yes. These people vote. They don't have much time for thinking, but they do vote.
I'll admit that I have never been caught up in Obama-rama. I think he's just like every other politician. I'm too old for idealism and have long since ceased to believe that people in positions of power care what happens to me or my ilk. Ivy League educations, corporate credentials, and wads of Benjamins are the only things that seem to matter these days, all of which are inaccessible to me. I've had many an individual say things to me like, "But don't you think it's significant for us to have a chance to choose such an eloquent, intelligent leader?" No. I don't. I think it's sad that we've become so used to mediocre leaders with lackluster curiosity and intelligence so that when a candidate is actually not an idiot like our current Commander in Chief, the world sees it as an exceptional opportunity. I would hope that citizens would always seek to install leaders with the presence of mind to function as compassionate, intelligent citizens of the world. We should aspire to elect leaders who can respect the sanctity of high national office, but simultaneously perform as our effective and pragmatic global participant and representative.
It feels as though Obama proved himself to be just another politician in choosing Joseph Biden as his running mate. Did I want him to pick Hilary? Nope. I just think there was an opportunity to really shake things up, really transform the tenor of elections in this country, present this nation with a platform and ticket primed to lead our country in new direction with fresh vision and new ideas. Joseph Biden doesn't represent any of those things. He's been a senator for more than 30 years and is the quintessential Washington insider. Selecting Biden was a concession to the most pronounced claim made by Republicans: Obama lacks experience. And because politics, like any game, involves strategic presentation, Obama is hoping to have suppressed that whole "experience" question by bringing in a long-time Washington Senator. It only seems to have drawn more attention to the issue. Apparently, it was one of great concern for him and his campaign. So much so that they have drained their campaign of any genuine vibrancy.
I went to The New York Times web site to read the reactions of readers regarding Obama's choice and read some painfully idiotic commentary. One would think that a reader of The New York Times would be someone with a smidgen of intelligence and capacity for logical commentary. One reader actually wrote that he believed that Obama-Biden were sure to be a ticket for the terrorists as "See how close it is to Osama bin Laden?!?" Yes. These people vote. They don't have much time for thinking, but they do vote.
About me.
I wish I could say that it's nice to be working again, and really mean it. This job is like every other job—a pointless diversion. But I really want money. I really need money. I could share how much money is in my bank account, but the patheticness of such a revelation is too much for me to bear. I'll continue to show up to work. The people I work with are bizarre. They take their jobs too seriously. People, we're not doctors! We offer screen printing service to companies! It's not life or fucking death! Calm thee down! Whatever. I ain't sweatin' those hos! Sadly, I've already been told by one of my co-workers that I may not want to “try too hard” as some people perceive such efforts to be grandstanding. Ridiculous.
My goal is to save and live like a miser. I have no desire to go out more than I have to, or spend any time outside of home if it's not necessary. Once I start getting paid my only goal will be to find a nice six-pack or bottle of Cabernet and make my way home every night for a bubble bath or movie.
I made the mistake of attending a free Yelp event on Friday night, thinking that doing so I might meet some nice people and find a proverbial silver lining in the fact that I am, once again, in a city that I hate. This is my home town, but it is still a city I have learned is not much of a city. The free booze at the event was nice. I got to dance drunk. Other than that, I felt like I was in high school again. And I hated high school. What's more, some drunk jack ass came up to me, courtesy of one of the alcohol sponsors, to talk to me about the wonderful free rum (rum I didn't drink), and how great it is that it's made here in our own home! Whoopdee-fucking-doo! I looked him straight in the eye and said, “So what?” He was drunk, drunker than me. “What do you mean, 'So what?' Everything from here is the shit, man! We're the shit!” I shook my head. “Have you ever lived anywhere but this shitty little wannabe city?” “Why would I want to, it's the shit!” And that is one of many reasons why I can't wait to leave this provincial little hole again.
I keep having dreams about San Francisco and Oakland. Really. I have had dreams where I am alone, walking along the Bay; dreams where I am sitting in a BART train with no special destination; dreams where I am at TO1's house having dinner and drinks; dreams where I am at the Paramount theatre in Oakland watching Jenna, my best friend, dance again . . . I miss California. But I'm 100% positive that I won't end up back in California for anything other than visits. I want more of the world. I need to see more, I need to experience more, and then, we'll see where I stand.
Otherwise, I just am.
My goal is to save and live like a miser. I have no desire to go out more than I have to, or spend any time outside of home if it's not necessary. Once I start getting paid my only goal will be to find a nice six-pack or bottle of Cabernet and make my way home every night for a bubble bath or movie.
I made the mistake of attending a free Yelp event on Friday night, thinking that doing so I might meet some nice people and find a proverbial silver lining in the fact that I am, once again, in a city that I hate. This is my home town, but it is still a city I have learned is not much of a city. The free booze at the event was nice. I got to dance drunk. Other than that, I felt like I was in high school again. And I hated high school. What's more, some drunk jack ass came up to me, courtesy of one of the alcohol sponsors, to talk to me about the wonderful free rum (rum I didn't drink), and how great it is that it's made here in our own home! Whoopdee-fucking-doo! I looked him straight in the eye and said, “So what?” He was drunk, drunker than me. “What do you mean, 'So what?' Everything from here is the shit, man! We're the shit!” I shook my head. “Have you ever lived anywhere but this shitty little wannabe city?” “Why would I want to, it's the shit!” And that is one of many reasons why I can't wait to leave this provincial little hole again.
I keep having dreams about San Francisco and Oakland. Really. I have had dreams where I am alone, walking along the Bay; dreams where I am sitting in a BART train with no special destination; dreams where I am at TO1's house having dinner and drinks; dreams where I am at the Paramount theatre in Oakland watching Jenna, my best friend, dance again . . . I miss California. But I'm 100% positive that I won't end up back in California for anything other than visits. I want more of the world. I need to see more, I need to experience more, and then, we'll see where I stand.
Otherwise, I just am.
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