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.

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.

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.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Is this thing on?

I have been hiding the fact that my father is dead. I have hid this from myself.

I am angry at him.

But then again I am glad he didn't know me. I have proven myself to be a profound disappointment in all supposedly significant venues. Life, love, career--all a failure.

It's convenient that I don't believe in a Heaven or Hell, or the pain would be a prolonged experience.

I'm pretty alone.

I'm pretty lonely.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

I enjoyed waking up next to a male . . .

Granted, he is four years old, picks his nose, and made me watch two hours of dinosaur videos, but he has my heart. He sleeps like a lunatic. I ended up with his knee in my nose at least three times during the night. It was worth it.

My favorite parts of our evening? His informing me that when he was three and "was a little boy" and he didn't know about dinosaurs. While we watched the Walking with Dinosaurs videos there was mention of some type of dune. I repeated the word dune out loud to myself and he proceeded to look at me and say, "Dune is when you are in a cave and someone shuts all of the doors so you can't get out. Then you are duned." I had to think about this. You are doomed. As things calmed down we shared a blanket and watched dinosaurs. I began to fall asleep. I awoke to find him covering me with the blanket and saying, "Tiffany, you are cold and shivering. I'll cover you."

This type of treatment makes up for my inability to locate the more adult variety of male companionship. The kid likes me. I love the kid.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Friday . . . I'm not in love.

"The ashes, given body by the wind, floated away from me down the river."
-From The Boat by Nam Le

I often feel this way about my memories. They are like ashes in an unexpected wind in that they are impossible to hold on to, but taunting and visible. I set my memories aflame with undeserved longing. My propensity is to mourn loves and lives which were never really mine to experience and lose. Unfortunately, for some of us there is only the deep-seated comfort of illusion. Because I have never truly luxuriated in the pure poetry of unconditional love or unwavering friendship, I maintain a selfish devotion to my self-loathing. I have learned to kill my aspiration, and resign myself to a life draped thick with failure, as it seems to be all I will ever know in this life. And my memories? They are like a cactus shoved through my flesh to pierce the withering thing which passes for my heart. They are a blanket of blades I cover myself with, a blanket which never allows me to forget who I can never become, and how I can never love, or be loved.

Sunday, August 10, 2008


This will not be a blog post. This will be a list. I am not really in the mood for deep exposition. Not really.

  • Yesterday I spoke to my youngest sister (I have two. One is 10 years younger than I am, the other is 16 years younger. I am the OLD, OLD one). In the course of our meandering conversation I mentioned to her that I felt old because Prince was turning 50 this year. Her response? "I don't know who that is." Egad! Note to self, do not attempt to relate to a 15 year old. I am beyond that stage.
  • I am trying to drink more water. Again. I go through phases with my water consumption. When I worked for FatHead in San Francisco he saw my desk was covered with bottles of water and said, "New Year's resolution to drink more water or something?" I don't think I hated him at this point. So I probably just said something silly and that was that. Retrospectively, I wish I had said something along the lines of, "Well, I hate this job so much that the only way I can live with the fact that I work for a perverted slime shit like you is to go home and drink a bottle of wine every night! So I need to find a way to stay hydrated." Certainly not me at my wittiest, but I'm curious as to what type of response I would have elicited from FatHead. I don't miss FatHead. Not at all. Another note to self: NEVER WORK FOR ANOTHER FUCKING LAWYER AGAIN!
  • My sleeping patterns will not right themselves. The only benefit to this? I have seen quite a few interesting Olympic competitions. Handball (which did not involve a wall, not sure why I believed that it would), some kind of female weightlifting, water polo, swimming, some sport where the chicks were hunched over tiny-looking hockey sticks and were chasing a ball, (rather than a hockey puck) basketball, indoor and beach volleyball, and football . . . the REAL kind. Now ask me when I've slept! Quite frankly, I am sick of looking at Michael Phelps. But hot swimmers as a general thing . . . yes, please. When the fuck are the divers coming on???
  • I have gotten sucked back into Project Runway. A sure sign that I have reached the abyss.
  • I want to call TO1. I won't. But I want to call him.
  • I have started a new project for myself. I keep a journal of words for which I don't know the meaning. These are customarily words I encounter while reading or watching intelligent film. Last night I began to type out the words and cut and paste their OED definitions into a Word document. With a library card one can obtain free access to the online OED. I live for that kind of shit. I will make my own dictionary. Sort of. This is what happens when you cannot sleep.
  • I am spending too much time on the internet reading discussion threads and not looking for work. It just happened. What have I learned? People are fucked up, racist, homophobic, ignorant, and xenophobic. Oh, and they are also atrocious spellers and woefully devoid any capacity to use correct grammar.
  • I have lost my libido. I went three years without so much as making out with someone. Not even a drunk makeout session. And then I moved to California and (whoa!), I could get laid. I'm not sure what to attribute it to. Perhaps the men there have lower standards, I'm not sure. All I know is that in six months I managed to have more sex than I had had in the entire last three years. TO1 was the only one I wanted more than just sex with; I wanted him. So, of course, I sabotaged it by being . . . me. My heart hurts. A lot. I am not bothered by the prospect of another three sexless years. It's a good thing I masturbate.
I am out of things to type.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

To sleep without sleeping . . .

I woke up at 2am. I'm still up. I don't know if I will sleep any more.

I had dreams about Mr. TO1. We were actors. We starred in bad commercials together. And I was in love with him, but I could always tell he wanted me far away. He didn't need me. But I kept needing him.

In six months I won't think about him as much. I look forward to this possibility, because thinking about him hurts my heart and makes my eyes hurt.

In the words of Ryan Adams, "I ain't even been a good enough to ever keep around."

So it was with past friends, lovers, and even my father. When will I learn?

Maybe in the next life?

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

The Results of Job Interview #1,686,102,687,980,465

Yeah, that's right. I had an interview today. Actually, I had TWO fucking interviews today. Now ask me if anything significant came out of either encounter! Go ahead . . . (in my best Smiths' chorus), 'ASK ME, ASK ME, ASK ME!!!"

A complete and total waste of my fucking time.

One position: An invoice clerk. Glamorous, I know. It is what it sounds like. I would have had the opportunity to sit on my ass for eight hours a day inputting information from a stack of invoices, preparing those invoices for a shipping floor, contacting customers when their orders arrive, and repeating as necessary. I could do this kind of job in my sleep. I probably could have done this kind of job as a toddler. So, I show up for the interview at 10 am, which is significant due to a couple of factors, one of which is the fact that my sleeping patterns have been so fucked up that my moon is the sun and my sun is the moon. Wait, I just realized how New Agey and bizarre that sounded, but you get the point, right? Moving on. I fall asleep at 9 in the morning sometimes, wake up at 2, stay up until 4am, and then just get lost in the whole ordeal.

I went to this interview sleep-deprived and wickedly out of sorts. Perhaps this is the usual result when one suffers from depression induced insomnia. Beats me.

The interview lasts five minutes. He asks me if I can type. Yes. Can you enter information into a database? Check! Feels promising, until I hear, "Well, I'm not going to bullshit you, Tiffany. I interviewed a girl about an hour before you got here, and I'm probably going to give her the job."


There is no way to describe the sensations that coursed through my body upon hearing this. Anger? Resignation? Frustration? I couldn't tell you. Part of me wanted to beg.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE MAN!!!! I'll bet you my typing can make that other bitch grow hair on her tits! 11,500 ksph, 96WPM--ALL BY TOUCH!!! JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING JOB!!!"

I did not do this. Instead, I smiled my best large, fake smile and thanked him for meeting with me.

After writing this I'm not even sure I want to relive the experience of the second interview. It was a "College" of Traditional Chinese Medicine.

I might start considering prostitution. I mean, I saw Hookers On Point and I'm sure I can demand more than the $10.00 a BJ which was apparently the going rate on the program. Besides, we're in the throes of burgeoning recession. Surely that would permit a rate increase . . . right?

There is no silver lining.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

4 August 2008

That means it has officially been two months since my father died. It also means I have been 31 for two months. That's correct. My father died on my day of birth. And I had a complicated, serrated, difficult relationship with my father. I loved him. I loved him dearly, but I also lost him to his weaknesses. I spend a lot of time crying because I can't remember what it was that tore us asunder. How did I lose him? I am realizing that we are very similar. Too similar.

My father was found dead behind a dumpster at a construction site in a shitty Texas town. He was a drunk, a druggie, and destitute. I'm moving down the same path myself. The only difference between the two of us is that I acquired a more extensive vocabulary and wasted four years of my life on a bullshit document. I have even had moments where I have thought it might be worth my time to go after yet another bullshit document. But that passes. I will probably end up in the same position as he did. Dead. Alone. Pathetic. But thank God I won't leave any angry children. Yes, I'm angry. I'm very pissed off at him. He gave up. I'm giving up, but how beautiful it may have been to have had a model of persistence and endurance. I shouldn't say that. I have that in my mother. But even she is too good for me.

I can't wait to leave this life.

Things I miss about TO1...

  • Brain
  • Voice
  • Smile
  • Incessant smoking
  • Cooking
  • Humor
  • Anger
  • Smell
  • Snoring
  • Dancing
  • Opinions
  • Stories
  • Hair . . . to pull.
  • Twilight Zone dolls
  • Dodger
  • Coffee
  • Robes
  • Kisses
  • Care Bear alarm
  • Bloody Marys
  • Mimosas
  • Scottish Accents
  • The Falcon
  • Blue eyes

I just miss you.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

"I ain't got no money . . . I ain't like those other gals you hang around . . ."

I really don't have any money. At all. *sigh*

But I did get a small infusion of cash from a one-day temporary assignment. And because I am a woman who knows her priorities, I used a good portion of it to go out and get fucking wasted! Unfortunately there are nothing but douche bags in the bars here. If you drink enough you can almost forget they exist, but not quite.

I began at the bar so as to watch Sportscenter (yes, I am one of those women), but once the super swarm of douches began I moved to the outdoor patio in the back yard. The disastrous and depressing nature of my reality struck me so hard that I did something I promised I would not: I bummed a cigarette.

T: "Hi, if I promise not to bother you again for as long as you live, do you think I could bum a cigarette from you?"

Nice Man (with a face like 10 year old!): "You can bother me all you want, and sure."

Hands me the cigarette, lights it for me, and I return to my table.

I work on finishing my Barleywine. Not as tasty as I would have liked, but they were out of my favorite IPA. I was so twisted hammered at this point that it hardly made any difference. Oh and what about my bus? Wasn't I supposed to catch the last bus? Fuck it. There's nothing like public transportation and drunkenness. Ask me how many times I rode the TransBay bus back to Oakland from The City wicked wasted? I once rode the TransBay bus home sober after a night out. I'm pretty sure that the driver and I were the only sober people on the bus (but I could have been mistaken as I had boarded many a bus in Oakland upon which I was greeted with the sweet herbal smell of . . . stuff, and there were no other people on the bus except the driver, and the driver was a bit too mirthy and cheerful. At least more cheerful than bus drivers in Oakland usually are, but I digress). Anyway, being sober on a TransBay bus is fun shit. You look around and feel like you're in a Night of the Living Dead movie. Everyone is slack-eyed, slurring their speech, and on the verge of falling asleep. And yes, sometimes vomit happens. Not cool.

So I was at the douche bag bar last night having realized that I missed my direct bus and was probably going to end up riding the owl bus home drunk. Not necessarily a bad thing, except for the fact that it meant I'd still have about 1 mile to walk because the public transportation here sucks hairy donkey balls. It's shit.

Instead, I thought I'd return to the Boy-Man who gave me the cigarette and ask for another. He appeared to be sitting alone and when I'm drunk I like to talk, talk, and talk. But mostly I just wanted another ciggy.

He was a nice boy. He endured my drunken diatribes about men, the suckworthiness of my hometown, the heat, and whatever else it was I may have pretended to have some knowledge about. I don't know. I was too drunk to care.

At the end of the night he offered me a ride home! And then he gave me a lecture about how I needed to realize my life is not nearly as bad as I believed it to be. I wanted to punch him in the nose.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW???? YOU'RE A KID!!!! You're a kid, you've got your whole life ahead of you! You don't know what it's like to live my shit of a life!!!

I suppressed the urge to engage in such an unfair display. Instead, propelled by the power of booze, I told him he was "sweet" and kissed him. Like REALLY kissed him. Ahem. I have no idea what the fuck I was thinking. I didn't even find him attractive. I mean, he was 25 to my 31 and had a face like a 10 year old. And well, I'm not even over Mr. TO1. More about him in another blog. I guess I kissed Boy Man so that Mr. TO1. wouldn't be the last man I had kissed.

I woke up this morning wanting to see Mr. TO1. more than anything. But why waste time thinking about someone who is not thinking about you . . . again. Will I ever learn?