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.



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?

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.



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 ( as well; should you find any typos there, please contact


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.

Someone snotty found a typo on our website. Could you please fix it when you have have a chance?

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


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!"


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.

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.

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.

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.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

No regrets.

I just read my drunk blog. I considered deleting it, but there's no fun in that! Besides, it's a great way to laugh at myself. The world is not in on my joke, but that's fine also.

I shall blog later about more pertinent things. Or not.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

I should probably go to sleep . . .

But instead I will treat my one (or two?)readers to a drunk blog.

I have had a raucous and disgusting last few days. That's right. My holiday weekend has been filled with debauchery and misappropriated sensuality and drunkenness. Since Friday I have been drunk, high, and belly-full. Oh yes, I also woke up in a bed which was not mine. A gay man's bed. Use your deductive reasoning . . . and the deduced truth, is THE truth. I'm not sure how it came about.

But I am not proud of this last fact. Normally, it would not bother me. Especially since I have come to realize that women like me are only good for fucking and don't register in those whole emotional departments. It's a good thing for those assholes that I just want to travel the world and could give a shit about being someone's "Special Someone." Except, that it does bother me to have to pretend I don't want certain things. It bothers me because over the weekend I also made a drunken call to Mr. TO1 and told him that I was missing him and thinking about him. My reward? The obvious one: Silence. GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK FUCKING SKULL!!!! HE IS NOT THINKING ABOUT YOU!!!! HE'S NOT GOING TO WAIT TO LOVE SOME INSECURE, FAT, UGLY, NON-WHITE SHIT-GIRL.

It has to sink in. What choice do I have?

What the fuck kind of idiot am I? I am one of those women. He is on the other side of this country laughing at me with whatever hot piece of action is gracing his bed, and I continue to hope for second chances. I wish second chances believed in me.