alyssa_sf

Friday, September 15, 2006


My hard drive is bigger than yours

It looks like I've got some time here. If you've ever attempted to transfer the majority of the neglected files stored on your computer to an external hard drive, you'd understand. It looks like, in fact, copying will take 52 hours… no, 4 minutes…no, 27 hours...(clearly the computer has no real idea or is purposefully messing with my mind)… to complete.

What to do while I wait on this thing? So, how 'bout them Raiders? How 'bout this weather we're having? Haven't seen clear to partially cloudy skies in the afternoon like this since, oh…yesterday. And that sunshine! Haven't seen free radicals with that kind of UV strength since, oh…even longer (those little rascals, them--thanks global warming!).

How much longer? Too long.

Time, then, for reflections. What did I learn today? I learned that, for whatever mind-blowing reason, the homeless of San Francisco have become exceptionally polite. The first homeless man who asked me for change at Bart this morning (and whom I denied, horrible me) said, "thanks, have a good day." That's gracious. The second homeless man I encountered when leaving my office this evening (while carrying a bag of trash in my hand), approached me and said, "please, let me get that for you." Gracious, I tell you, pure manners. The third homeless man I met outside Peet's while getting coffee on the way home was dancing/flailing violently (and semi-shirtlessly) while simultaneously muttering incomprehensible Turret's style jive to whoever would listen. As I approached, he actually moved to the side of the sidewalk to allow me to pass by. Imagine that--on the streets, on the crank, in the middle of an authentic early 90s-influenced spaz dance session—and still, a gentleman! The chivalry, incredible. Let that be an example for all of us.

Is it done yet? No, damn.

So I also learned that (while I've heard whispers to that effect before) more is, truly, not always better. My god, Trader Joe's, why fill the salad container all the way to the top and then stick a plastic fork right on top so it looks like it's all ready to eat? As soon as I bypass the lettuce to get at the vinaigrette container underneath, I suddenly have a countertop covered in the cilantro clump I was supposed to mix in. I firmly believe it is a conspiracy of the currently powerful organic produce movement to make containers burst to the brim with feta-topped leafy green nutrients just to sucker us in to thinking we're getting something that's both healthy and supersized. But it's not like the disappointment experienced when opening a bag of potato chips, that sinking feeling that occurs when the packed air escapes and there's only five Baked Lays in the whole package. That, at least, is tolerable; you don't need work area to eat salted processed potatoes. But salads, that requires movement—getting the dressing dispersed, cutting the tomato, picking off the red onions--"tossed" salad, ya know? T. Joe, (can I call you Mr. T?), I beseech you, give me some room to work with here. I love you, but I feel like I need some space, that's all.

Still not done, I give up.

Computers, in spite of all the hype, are still too slow. Good night.

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Wednesday, August 23, 2006


Ciao, bella(s)

At three the alarm blared in my room, ripping me from halcyon, timeless dreams of healthful, berry-flavored, vitamin-enhanced friendship and endorphin-enriched laughter. Suddenly, that inky, pre-sunrise shade of darkness streams in from outside; the chilly air meets my skin as I hesitantly push away the blankets.

As the post-shower bits of steam roll out from the bathroom, I stumble down the stairs to join my friends who are already awake and working determinedly at coaxing the logical zipper of a terrifically overstuffed suitcase to close. It's an all too familiar scene for anyone who's ever traveled, the final repacking of all the items (a.k.a. crap) you brought along, sixty percent which was necessary and forty plus percent which was for just in case. And even though you know for sure that there's less stuff now than when you arrived, its just too painful to meticulously fold the twisted ball of dirty laundry you've created which now--like a diva molecule expanded in heat--refuses to bow to the tight constraints of space of a black Samsonite carryall. Soon, it will join the ranks on the baggage cart with all the other black rectangular carryalls that seem to be the market leader luggage of choice with a solid 90 percent share.

At 3:30 a.m., the road to the airport is ours. We turbo power it across the Oakland freeways like Knightrider in 1983. At the loading zone, the traffic monitor eyes us warily as we take too long to say goodbye. He bans the smoker to the other side of the street, and the remaining loiterers among us receive the classic evil/stink eye. Alright, man, were leaving, wouldn't want to block in the cars behind us who don't even exist at this hour--onward KITT.

When friends (a.k.a. my bitches) fly away, it's sad, marking the return from an isolated, soma-supported vacation time and space back to a much more mundane reality of alarm clocks and commutes and MS Office software. I'll clean up the guest aftermath--empty the cigarette ashes, wash the towels, fold up the couch--until the physical traces disappear and only the less tangible memories are left behind (and for some reason big toothpaste marks on the counter and an extra pair of tweezers in the bathroom).

So thanks, friends (you know who you are) for visiting, for letting me drive you perilously around San Fran (are you not stronger people now? If you can survive my driving, you can survive anything, I hear...And is it really my fault that so many people wanted to commit suicide by jumping in front of my car on that sunny Monday?). Thanks for letting me know that it is not only possible but highly time efficient to learn German via audio mp3 nestled in your ear while falling asleep/passing out on a deflated air mattress, a bottle of Mickey malt liquor cuddled up at your side. Till next time, ciao bellas.

Friday, September 01, 2006


Death of a President

Today I heard about a "docudrama" set to air on Channel 4 in Britain next month. Apart from learning a new vocab word (dude, have you seen that new "docudrama?"), I'm realizing that the day many privately contemplate when considering politics--the assassination of Prez Bush--may actually come, even if only in film. [Heres a link to the article on the 90-minute movie for those with morbid imaginations...]

I am very curious how people will react to this. I know how I reacted, with a simultaneous jaw-drop and little giddy burst of laughter. Is it wrong that I should giggle out loud at this hypothetical bloodshed? On some fundamental human appreciation for life level, probably. Nonetheless, am I absolutely dying to see this film? Yep.

And judging from the amount of press this theoretical world created by British filmmaker Gabriel Range has generated, I expect the movie to grip a lot of eyeballs at the Toronto Film Festival and generate a host of downloads on Bittorrent even before its official broadcast in the UK.

Of the responses I've read so far, a few are standouts, and leave me hoping some news station will conduct an opinion poll just so I can see where people stand on this concept. The White House, naturally, stated that "the film did not even merit a response." The governor of Texas said, "I find this shocking, I find it disturbing. I don't know if there are many people in America who would want to watch something like that." The Republican party there is pushing for it not to be screened. This tactic, as we all know from Michael Moore days, will only drive more attention and interest (and DVD sales) to the film, so "keep on truckin'," GOP.

A British media watch spokesman called Death of a President "Irresponsible," and said "it could even trigger a real assassination attempt..There's a lot of feeling against President Bush and this may well put ideas into people's heads." That is, of course, because nobody would ever have thought of such an act without the evil demon of TV broadcasting to plant its bastard assassin seed in the pure, delicate minds of the easily influenced.

One of my favorite comments, however, came from a reader in San Jose, who asked simply (addressing the UK), "why do you hate America so much? We don't hate you?" then continued to describe her pride in her family's English ancestry.

Personally, I think its great. True, I am an avid anti-Bush un-supporter, but I don't necessarily wish death upon him, just impeachment. A film with an incendiary premise like this one, however, even for all its fictional violence, has the benefit of making us pose the question of "what if?". Not only what if someone were to get trigger happy on W, but of all the surrounding circumstances and attitudes that could lead to that final explosion of the powder keg, a social critique, of sorts. As Americans, we pass judgment all the time, but when the film turns its lens on us, we're instantly put on the defensive and turn to a literal interpretation of the script rather than considering what we might take away from it.

So bravo, Gabriel Range, for actually producing the documentary of the scenario so many had secretly fantasized and not dared to speak of at length. We'll be eagerly waiting for some version (shaky handheld camera, en espanol, whatever) to get leaked onto the internet. Till then...any thoughts?

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Wednesday, August 30, 2006


The Ugly American (long live soccer)

The year was 1999, a year (and a hairdo) many of us would like to bid rest in peace and hurl sans regret (along with all the 1989-1993 photos of ourselves) onto a giant bonfire/funeral pyre fueled by sticks, twigs, the occasional drunken splash of Stella Artois, melting Polaroid memories, and a dose of envirotech-friendly clean-burning ethanol.

There I was, a 19-year old art student with a twinkle in my eye and a world is my oyster outlook ready to take on the little continent called Europe (or at least the little country called France) on my very first study abroad trip. It was great--AirFrance gaved me wine on the flight to Paris (no ID!), I could smoke all over the airport, hash flowed from the Seine, the city was beautiful, the sky was beautiful, the boys were beautiful. And the history, the art, the culture, sigh...

But for all my naivete and pre-crushed-by-the-cold-cruel-world optimism, I had an advantage. A professor had given me an article to read before I left called, "Don't Be an Ugly American." I wish I still had a copy of that, as it was one of the best articles I've ever read on cultural awareness/sensitivity, the lessons of which we could desperately benefit from today (hint, cough, Dubya, cough). I made some of the best friends of my life there, some American, some Canadian, and some (shocker) French. And for whatever reason, in spite of being in a foreign country, I fell in love, felt connected, with a place as I had never felt before. (On a side note, San Francisco's also stealing my affections these days, but don't worry Paris, you'll always be the first.)

I was told in those days that I would learn more, be more accepted, be treated better, and be better off all around if I were to become a cultural sponge, that is to absorb and observe the customs of the land I was visiting without imposing my own culture onto it and expecting others to adapt to my established ways--something of a when in Rome attitude.

I wasn't a tourist, exactly, but a short-term student resident, so I should behave, I was instructed, as a respectful local might behave. What did that mean? Well, avoid the obvious big ugly, entitled American travel no-no's, like don't speak louder when someone doesn't speak English, they still won't understand you. Don't wear shorts, a Green Bay Packers t-shirt, athletic sneakers, and a baseball cap around if you want to blend in. And for god's sake, don't bring up how America saved France's ass in World War II, and how they should all be thanking us that they're not speaking German right now (seriously, were you even alive then, morons?).

So it pains me now, years later, to read an article published last month in the University of South Florida Oracle (my undergrad alma mater), entitled, "Soccer needed that headbutt." As you might guess, the headline refers to French soccer star Zidane's infamous headbutt of an Italian player (supposedly in reaction to a classic yo' mama insult) at the World Cup Final. Here's an excerpt to give a general idea of the tone and content:

Like any other red-bloded American, I hate World Cup Soccer...But when I heard France was amazingly in the final of an actual sporting event, I had to watch, because if there's anything I hate more than soccer, it's the French. So I woke up Sunday and had some soccer with my Freedom toast...Before Zidane, I thought every French person drank wine, was rude, and would seduce your girlfriend before giving you the time of day. But Zidane was the complete opposite of that...Zidane may have ignored his coach, teammates, and other players when walking off the field Sunday, but he should be proud he did things the right way: the American way.

And so on and so forth. At first I laughed, because damn, remember Freedom toast?! But when I thought about it, and thought that the author might actually believe the bullshit he was writing, it just made me feel angry and frustrated and powerless all at once (a.k.a. a bad, gnawing, makes you want to go kung fu/kung pow on a down pillow made with real animal down, none of this synthetic veggie-friendly filler stuff feeling).

And then I caught sight of another article printed last week on CNN.com about a non-profit group (Business for Diplomatic Action) who recently published a Word Citizens Guide designed for executive travelers on how to avoid the ugly American syndrome when going abroad on business. I have to add one excerpt from this one, too, ya mind?:

Surveys indicate that the ugly-American persona is not only alive and well, but getting bigger and uglier. And research aimed at discovering the roots of anti-American sentiments around the world points, in part, to the American personality. People overseas don't just dislike our foreign policy; they dislike us. And that's unsettling to U.S. businesses with interests abroad, as well as to the U.S. tourism industry vying for a share of incoming foreign travelers.

"Historically, people would separate the American government and the American people. But that distinction is being blurred," says Eggspuehler. "Typically, our people were admired for our way of life. It was a lifestyle that many aspired to, and that's not the case any more."

Well, duh, we might say, didn't necessarily need official research to tell us that we as Americans aren't winning any world popularity contests lately (hint, cough, pardon me for this pesky Dubya cough, awful allergen, cough). Can't quite say why given this chummy red-blooded (red-necked) American attitude and friendly bombs we're dropping on the middle east, but that's for another journal entry entirely. But the fact that the ugly American theme keeps coming up (for economic as well as general respect reasons), should indicate that it's at a plague-status (orange hi-alert danger level).

Although we are born and raised citizens, we are (at least I hope), not all red-blooded Americans in need of a World Citizens Guide in order to conduct ourselves respectfully with people unlike us (foreigners or otherwise). Are we afraid to be decent, sensitive people? Are we threatened somehow by those who may have alternative customs and ways of doing things? Are we afraid of being turned out by the macho men and the ruling masses? When they call us liberals, vegetarians, free-thinkers, yoga-posers, supporters of stem cell research, pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, godless Berkeley residents, we should say thanks very much.

So, kids, for today's lesson, let's get a little hippy and do some soul searching. We're going to look way down, deep inside to the inner core of our beings, no, not at our souls, but at our environmentally installed sense of patriotism (I pledge allegiance to the flag...). Must patriotism come with a standing order to establish our own dominance? Must we forcefully project entitlement, arrogance, and we're number one onto others? If we can't change our national politics, we can at least look at ourselves and say, "today, I will not be ugly" (for best results, repeat in the manner of Stuart Smalley).

Very good. Now go collect your Birkenstocks by the door and go forth a better human being. Oh, and long live soccer.

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Wednesday, February 08, 2006


Pop Culture

It’s 10:00 on a Wednesday, an hour made for lounging, sipping on soymilk, and getting our last laughs at the best-of-Superbowl 2006 commercials on the internet before moving on to making fun of the Grammy’s tomorrow. Speaking of which, I just noticed that Kelly Clarkson has become a two-time Grammy winner, an assurance that winners must be voted upon and appointed through an outdated Electoral College system and that we will have plenty of salon-highlighted material to scoff at in the morning.

I wonder how the picking the winners process really goes. Are the judges all sitting around at dinner in that awkward, uncomfortable first-date position, thumbs twiddling, making eye contact…but not too much. Then someone with a Scottish accent says an artist’s name aloud and all of a sudden it’s one of those break-the-ice bonding moments where they realize they have something in common: “Oh, Fall Out Boy, I’ve heard that name before, let’s pick him! Did someone say cats--You like cats? Get out of town, I like cats! It must be love.”

What can we do? This country invented rock’n’roll (curse, spit) and these are the shining stars? Maroon 5 is good? Jessica Simpson milked $800,000 for playing a pedophile on the Pizza Hut Superbowl TV spot? Cough, gag, raging disbelief punctuated by a triple exclamation point and the numeral “1” typo you just entered as your shift key power was seized suddenly by paralytic shock.

Damn it, you’ve gone quadroplane, or quadroped, or quadroplegic, or one of those quad things you really never wanted to be. Might as well end it all now by hitchhiking on the back of the doomed pre-FedEx teradactyl and call it the high road: “Dear everyone, I love you all, but this is just fucked.”

Now, how ‘bout them Oscars? Better go duke it out at Blockbuster for all those DVDs of the Best Picture Nominees nobody’s ever seen. Capote all the way--because, hey, I’ve heard of that guy! He was that Chicago gangster, right?

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Wednesday, August 31, 2005


Duality

Sometimes I feel like two people. There’s the social front, the happy exterior that chatters and laughs and interacts and dresses up on weekends. Then there’s the private self, the one that stares out of windows, writes in journals late at night, strings together arpeggioed chords into sad melodies on the piano, searches for meaningful links in all the pieces of world out there. Do we all have that dual nature to our personalities, I wonder? Is it a tactic of survival of the fittest in a society of unwritten yet distinctly felt rules of conduct? Like how we are expected to be one way in one situation, another in a different situation, and can’t wait to be alone and be just who we are. Is it fear that makes us this way—a trembling, timorous combination of boredom, disillusionment, despondency, apathy, a need for acceptance, for social contact, for love, for appreciation? Is it just me; is it my age; am I going through a phase, as they say?

Whoever has come up with the answer to those questions can be my new guru. I have no god to pray to and don’t particularly want one. I have a plethora of things to do to keep myself busy and supposedly have a bright future ahead of me by all standard measures. I have plenty of friends and know lots of people in theory. But it all feels so superficial, and maybe I’m tired of marching forward, head held high, painted fingernails extended for a handshake that ultimately just scratches the surface of everything and everyone but never really understands anything at all. I explained to a friend the other day that I am waiting to be intrigued, but that hasn’t happened yet.

This feeling is an intangible, formidable opponent, more detected than seen. It has no definable volume or mass but exerts pressure on the body equal to that of water at great depths. I hear it in my head like an ambient noise; it is the sound of the ocean caught inside a seashell held up to the ear; a lost home; a remembered sensation; an ember. A shiver.

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Monday, April 24, 2006


Voyage of the Commuter Pilgrim

There you are riding along in a traincar, a couple of deer-coated strangers sitting across from you; your head's bowed down; you're resting your eyes in the closely-nestled aisles. Flecks of idyllic green roll by at an even, flawless pace, blending seamlessly together on the ocular canvas with the yellow and red and ochre leaves softly ruffled by breaths of wind, flowing as water, mixing in the eye as paint daubs after Seurat. A Sunday afternoon on the grass.

And then suddenly, you hear a voice. Not just any voice, a voice from above. Booming, larger, nay, louder than life. It overpowers the puny earbud propped precariously on the lobe of your left ear in a rather unfair competition of dominance, like a tiger battling a golden hamster--a no-contest TKO--like a Sumo wrestler sitting on a fluffy sprinkle-topped cupcake. See ya, sweet, sweet rainbow jimmies--it would take a braver man than I to go in after you...But ah, yes, the voice, from where does such an omnipresent sound originate? God??!!

Panic. Help, I've been spotted by Thee! But wait, do I detect an accent? Is that Indian, maybe, no, Scottish? Could it be a Eurasian tempest-tossed entity born in the perma-frosted tundras of Siberia, blizzard-borne into Mumbai, swept up the Ganges, imperialized into British rule, raised in the back alleys of Glasgow, traumatized into joining a neo-postpunk band and wearing white lip gloss as a reaction against black eye liner? Why do I so desperately crave a samosa and palak paneer? Come and dance with me, Michael??!! And then it speaks. You hang on every word.

"We will be stopped here shortly." (Aah! The judgment!)

"It seems that someone has fallen onto the tracks." (Is that metaphorical? What have I done?)

"We're waiting for the crew to pull him up to safety." (Who am I? What does it all mean?)

Time ticks painfully, slowly by. You look around. Those deer-coated strangers across from you start to look less dapper. Maybe it's your impatience, your fear for your soul, your slightly hallucinogenic disposition brought on by lack of sleep and reckless consumption of seven times the recommended dosage of one Halls cherry cough drop per hour. Or maybe its the rib-crushing elastic waistband peeking out from beneath deer-coat number one's open lapel. Inexplicably, you suddenly burn to complete a crossword puzzle and scream out underused words like "dispassionate."

So you look elsewhere, out the window. The warm amber leaves fluttering so delicately in the wind just moments ago seem to have fallen off and turned to hungry, smoking flames. This is no grande jatte, and it's not even Sunday. You're in that weird factory area on the raised tracks beyond West Oakland with no chance of escape. An unruly child presses his face to the window dramatically; his warped face becomes appropriately grotesque. His mother sports a perma-frost job on her head. Boo!

"We will be moving now. Passengers going to the Richmond line may transfer at 12th Street, City Center. All other passengers can jump off platform 1, or wait till MacArthur and jump off a wider variety of platforms still countable on an average primates hand. We appreciate your patience."

Just another day on the lamb (sacrificial?), on the train. [insert country twang here] Keep on truckin', keep on truckin', rolling down the road, keep on commutin', keep on commutin', some day you'll be home...

"Thank you for choosing Bart."

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Friday, April 14, 2006


V for Virus?
Current mood: sleepy

Can I just complain a sec here? I'm so sleepy and so sick and finally the rain went away but now I can't breathe and I just took a nap sitting up then woke up to find that the Easter bunny, contrary to the going belief, is in fact real (I must thank highly educational google video evidence for that). And not only is he a living, solid puff of fur and cotton tail, but he's a criminal type with anger management issues who enjoys making middle-aged men cry by knocking ice cream cones out of their hands before putting the paw to their face in a random act of violence.

Pardon me for writing this under the influence of Congested logic, a type of logic similar to Dream logic--where disjointed images play out unlikely scenes in healthy lands made of peppermint swirls and butterflies and lollipops. Except that instead of chasing butterflies, we limited breathers chase sparkly orange winged Dayquil Liquicaps. And in our zeal for rapid health re-gain, we carelessly mix all the popular myth remedies--Airborne, Echinacea, green tea with antioxidants, a 32 oz. Jamba Juice Cold buster, a 6-pill vitamin cocktail, and an effervescent, delightfully tasteless glass of Theraflu.

Being sick, tissue-laden, home-bound, and more than a little afraid of bunnies on a Good Friday night makes me sad. Viruses mooching off my cells, the Easter bunny breaking out of the cabbage patch and acting all thug life. Jesus, what in the name of...well, you...is happening on this sacred eve of the eve of the day of the Resurrection of...well, you? What's next, will side-swept bangs and the BoHo style movement go away? Will full color return to fine art photography? Will Judas finally hire a PR agency to clear his name faster than those parasitic microbes cleared the ranks of my immune system in this topsy-turvy world we live in?

All this madness just makes me want to raise my white tissue and surrender, good night. But no, I won't let the virus win; I'll fight it off--the microscopic beast may destroy my body, but it'll never destroy my spirit! It'll be alright, focus on the positive. Look at that, Grandma sent me a pastel Easter card with cool glitter...and a Chocolate bunny inside. And you know something, I refuse to feel guilty this year about biting its head off.

The moral? Stay healthy, all. Happy Easter.

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Sunday, February 26, 2006


You Can’t See Me Cause I’m Wearing Black

Thank you to Dennis for sending me the drawing for this snapshot story collaboration. Check out his graphic music reviews, too (he's on my blog subscription list).

***

They say that scent is an invisible litmus test--it can determine attraction / genetic compatibility, weed out the weaker DNA strands to ensure survival of the fittest.

Something about places like this smells wrong. Not just the rancid scent of gunpowder proof whiskey shots echoing in the words of the gadfly with the carefully sculpted eyebrow. Or the dizzying fumes of liberally applied hairspray, waxy texturizer reflecting the videoshow projector beams, casting out flare, sending a glaring haze of white specks racing before the eyes.

The vantage point from the corner booth is good for people-watching. The bench is as comfortable as can be expected for foam-cushioned vinyl, a long tear on the left ripping through its flesh like a shrapnel war scar, faded patches of worn discoloration tattooed into its surface in unspoken tribute to the hundreds of butts that have squished down upon it. Noticing the wet ring of old Guiness on the table, I strategically put a napkin down like a sanitary seat protector, reminding myself that the don't-touch-anything style "hover" maneuver would be preferable even in the age of Charmin's pre-moistened toilet paper roll (somehow just gross in its own right), but one can never be too careful these days.

Let the flaneurism begin. Looking around, I spot someone hanging upside down like the original trapeze artist for the Cirque du Soleil troupe that was replaced just before they got famous. Someone else is dancing as only a politically conservative white man could, sporting a brown braided watchband that's buckled two notches too tight, just oozing out style and sweat from suffocating sebaceous glands struggling to choke out their low-oxygen screams. While considering how he managed to get that thing buckled at all--you can't exactly suck in your wrist, or lay flat on the bed to Bavarian-sausage stuff yourself into the too tight pair of jeans--Mr. Gadfly himself walks by, flashing me a peace sign and shouting out in his drunken Czech accent, "Heel-lo, Lady ee-n Black! Represent!"

The peace sign is making a comeback in Hollywood, I read in one of those celebrity gossip magazines not too long ago. On the other hand, "Represent," I am fairly certain, has been quarantined in the "I beg you for the good of mankind, don't say that anymore," ward. But he's not from here, and he had that dreamy, wide-eyed sparkle in his eye that all the foreigners have when they hear New York or California mentioned in conversation, so I flash him an appreciative smile. A few minutes later I see him downing blue liquids from test tubes and chatting with the shooter girl with the High-Risk-of-Terror-Attack Orange hair. He looks happy; it's sweet, the American dream.

Suddenly, my cell phone--set on Verizon's new "it's louder than a 'Screaming Infants for Amateur Drummers' convention in here, so if you don't scare the Bejesus and Mary Chain out of me, you'll be ignored" Manner mode, vibrates violently. "Shit, that's right," I mumble, "I was supposed to call that dude when the band came on." Glancing at my watch, I see that it's quarter till midnight and in typical musician-time fashion, the band with the slated 9 PM show still has yet to appear.

Unsticking myself from my vinyl watching-post, I cast a parting glance at the Guiness ring, which has managed to seep through the napkin like a rust stain through latex paint. "Stubborn bastard," I mutter under my breath while secretly admiring it for its persistent strength. I head outside to make my phone call. Under the glow of the gaslamps, I can see that my black coat is covered in napkin lint--like so many retro Minnie Mouse polk-a-dots that seem to be fashionable again, right.

"Hey, it's me, I saw that you called. No, they're not playing yet, but you should come out. This place is a dive, you'll absolutely hate it. Wear some of those yuppy sand-washed jeans and a thin t-shirt that shows off all two-and-a-half of your pierced man nipples (yes, you are 'special', my love). What, you already are? Perfect, then, see you soon."

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Saturday, March 11, 2006


Different Names for the Same Thing

Here's snapshot story collaboration #2. Two versions this time, a lighter side and a darker side. Thanks again to Dennis (mending king) for the Illustration.

***

Lighter Side--The Devil wears Prada

Throughout the night, the rain continued to fall. And that was good, because it accentuated the kinky curls he'd lovingly, chemically rolled in with his home perm. He was looking like a million (pesos) tonight, he knew, like a prophet, a god even, like Adonis (if that Greek looker would ever put a shirt on). Or Fabio, with fewer highlights and with less butter.

Here was the game plan: he'd open the door at the Iguana Lounge, pause a moment in the doorway--under pretense of surveying the scene--but really to showcase his watered silk button-up (the hand-sewn whipstitching just looked better under moonlight), and his "I just got rained on but I don't give a damn" attitude. He'd enter, left foot first, right foot close behind in measured step, as only a dancer could, as if tracing a zigzag pattern of perfectly perpendicular angles in the sand. When he arrived at the bar at the far end of the room, he'd select his position. While his location appeared to be chosen by chance, he knew what he was doing, knew his most photogenic angles, and the walk over had allowed him plenty of time to scout out the most advantageous spot to that end.

Then he'd strike up a dialogue with the second prettiest lady in the room (one mustn't start, you see, with the prize, the first prettiest, as she had to notice that his affections were headed elsewhere, thereby transforming himself into a can't have object and thus becoming more desirable in her eyes--so he reasoned).

"So, you come here often, er, I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," he would inquire with a shy smile (they really dug the shy smile, he had learned, made him appear sensitive and drew attention to the oh-so manly chest hair he'd artfully combed out smooth earlier). "Wait, let me guess, it's Isabella, isn't it? That means 'consecrated to God,' 'bella' means beautiful, 'Isa' is a reference to a mythological sea, and your eyes are certainly a divinely beautiful ocean I could drown in" (Score! Really showed off his learning--his knowledge of theology, etymology, mythology, and, by extension, oceanography).

"What, my thumb ring? What do the etched symbols mean, you ask? Actually, it's Sanskrit (when in doubt, always cite Sanskrit), and they mean 'peace and harmony'." (Excellent, this was really moving along swimmingly; now he got the pacifist, musical talent, and the exotic language card in there, couldn't be better).

"I look like Fabio? Really, you think so? You're so funny, I'd never have compared myself to him" (nice, give her a compliment). "So, you think I could call you, catch a sunset, maybe sweep you off your feet some time?"

She shouldn't be taking so long to respond, but he waited patiently for her reply. She seemed to be surveying the competition. One man was nearly passed out on the bar, slurring loudly at the bartender. Another was betting a woman in proximity ten dollars if he didn't have your name tattooed on his ass. The woman accepted the bet, and called him on it. Obligingly, the man lowered his pants, and, sure enough, "your name" was tattooed on his ass. Ten dollars were exchanged.

"Oh, you're leaving now? Well, here, take my card, it's shellacked and impermeable to the rain." (good, an artistic term for the road).

It was time for him to go as well. Pausing again in the doorway on the way out, he turned dramatically to peer over his shoulder (had General Hospital taught him nothing?) before making his exit. Back into the rain he went, and the butter he'd applied all over his skin started to melt away.

***

***

Darker Side--The Demon Knight

He used to think of it as his own personal holy water, the blessed rain that hammered down on him now to purge him of his dark thoughts, drowning the demons that scuffled behind on his heel. But such a liquid creation, he had grown to know, was too elevated for the likes of him. For he had pondered the universe time and time again and concluded--as had so many other ponderers before him--that his own insignificance made the likelihood of a rain-shower crafted exclusively in his name highly improbable.

So maybe it wasn't soul-cleansing water. Maybe it simply was what it was--a cold evening rain--the whimsical caprice of a child-god up in the clouds who skipped about in a loin cloth and oversized safety pin--laughing at the convulsive shivers that shook his frame, a futile biological attempt at homeostatic self-preservation.

How Divinity irritated him--its omnipresent presence always hanging around like the last red-eyed stragglers in the bar after the hip crowd has gone home. That watchful eye, that can't run can't hide bassline, that pity the fool, you're not with us you're against us hypocrisy. He preferred the do unto others before they do unto you theology. He fancied he must look a bit like a prophet himself at the moment, with that unshaven beard and those long wet curls (surely meritorious of the envy of Judas or Justin Hawkins, one), with that cigarette perched on his lip radiating a circle of unnatural light--a cancer stick, a modern halo...

He inhaled deeply of his tar-laced halo, just because he could and because he simply didn't care; his whole life was a long trudge through a tar pit. Or so he told himself, pausing to wipe the acid rain from his brow and to let the little demon scamps on his trail hitch a ride on his shoulder. He didn't mind them, really. They bore the faces of gargoyles, at once frightening, at once macabrely beautiful. And he felt an affinity with them somehow, their coarseness, their imperfections, endeared them to him.

Walking alone along the oil-slicked, tired road--past the bolted doors, past the closed shades, past the skeleton trees--he smelled the stench that is indigenous to urban streets, that peculiar mix of exhaust and sweat and urine and rot.

But nothing could touch him. He approached the world in full battle armor, equally impermeable to taint and to light. Before they do unto you--he was the self-damned warrior, the walking wounded, bleeding internally, but marching on with measured step.
Throughout the night, the rain continued to fall.

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A friend sent me one of his poems today (which I hope he won’t mind me reposting.) It leans toward tragic, but it’s one of the most honest things I’ve read in a while, one of those stories a million others would tell if they could formulate the words.

I guess you might call this one of those universally experienced states of mind. That’s real communication, I guess, that point when it begins to mean something to someone else. So for this entry, I’ll be contemplative. Keep writing, friend.

WARNING TO A MOTH

The flame of Beauty
Burns so bright
It guides the Moth
Through the cold and cruel night.

The flame of Love
Burns so bright
It guides the Moth
During its uncoordinated flight.
The flame of Joy
Burns so bright
It guides the Moth
When no path is in sight.

All those mighty flames
Together burn so bright
What could be wrong, Moth?
Everything seems so right.

No! Turn back little insect
From these flames so bright
Turn back innocent Moth
Learn from my tragic plight.

Once did I seek
Those flames so bright
Once was I a Moth
In search of warmth and light.

But these flames
Deceptively and deliciously bright
They burn wings, dear Moth
And without wings you have no might.

Turn back while you can
From flames so bright
My brother Moth
I know you are cold tonight

I too was cold
And I flew into those flames so bright
I am no longer a Moth
For I lost the gift of flight

Now here I crawl
On the floor until I die
Stay out in the cold brother Moth
Or Beauty, Love and Joy
Will also destroy your life.

Friday, March 17, 2006


Irish Blood, English Heart…

Let me get this out of the way: Here it is, St. Patrick's Day again. The holiday nobody really cares about but will, nonetheless, always get its recognition with a printed spot on the calendar, a silly green hat with Shamrocks dangling off springs chez Starbucks, a host of low-brow Irish jokes from the general population, and a marked spike in sales of Bono-inspired yellow aviator glasses.

I'll begin this paragraph like a bad scholarship application essay: I'm doing my part toward being a good citizen of the global community because: 1) I laughed at a joke e-mail about the Irish today. 2) I listened to a Pogues record. 3) I read an article about foreign tourists to Ireland being duped by shady claims that the clover plant (particularly of the four leaf variety) grows only in the motherland of U2. 4) I resisted the impulse to make a drunken "get that man a pint" comment. 5) I started a sentence with "tis." 6) Admittedly, I didn't wear green today, but I did have red on--the complementary color to green--and therefore just as good (if but our world were only more painterly sigh). And that, class, is your cultural awareness lesson du jour--and the reason why, personally, I am still without scholarship.

O' ye Patrick, Saint by name (or so we are meant to believe), today's your day. Bring the green tights out of the closet and dance without shame with all yer merrymen. If someone manages to confuse you with Robin Hood for lack of a photo and sufficient information, do not be concerned. Keep on singin'; keep on dancin'; keep on smiling that your name is Patrick, Saint on official documents, a highly-enviable stage name for your career in music if you ever decide to go a little less leprechaun and a little more pagan/druid in the style of Iron Maiden.

So be thankful, cause isn't that what this day is all about? And if someone manages to confuse your day with Thanksgiving for lack of a photo and sufficient information, it is because that person has no Irish blood in her genetic construction to her immediate knowledge. This individual's only hope of being Irish is that sometime, back in the olden days, her English kinsmen had a torrid affair while stationed in Dublin on one of their routine conquering for the Empire missions, and thus produced a secret bastard lineage that is now her family tree and explains the mystery of why there's that one guy a couple generations back named "Hamilton Weir."

Now, having established her Irishness, this aforementioned individual needs to get in touch with her people. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to write a limerick--(a traditional form of Irish poetry known by the name 'Haiku' in the Americas).

Merry Leprechaun Day to all, and to all a good night!...(or is that the line for Christmas?)

***

H A I K U.
TO-CON-VEY ONE'S MOOD
IN SEV-EN-TEEN SYLL-ABLE-S
IS VE-RY DIF-FIC.
--John Cooper Clarke

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Sunday, March 12, 2006


Talk like a Man

Why Men Quote Caddyshack

Anyone who takes the time to learn something new every day by reading the messages on ringer tees and two year-old bumper stickers has been urged to "Vote for Pedro." Here in Berkeley--home to a thriving community of hoodie sweatshirts and the West Coast (and possibly global) headquarters of irrelevant sticker politics--it's been a close race between Mr. Pedro, Arnold the Governator, and the Sanrio characters (hellooo, Kitty). But still, given Mr. Pedro's apparent popularity, I think it's fair to proclaim him the victor, the end.

Which brings me to the only mildly related topic yet wildly embraced practice (especially among males of an un-certain age), of quoting movies. Not only in the context of academically critiquing films (as we all do when we're hanging out with friends on Saturday nights), but inserted like a way-too-long-but-really-gets-the-point-across-while-demonstrating-my-easy-familiarity-with-film-and-possibly-provoking-a-laugh adjective into general conversation.

Then I read this article in Women's Health that has a clinical psychologist theoretically break down the key points of manly communication, known among teenagers as "boy-talk" and among the rest of us with the legal right to rent a car, as "guy-speak" (ah, the enhanced vocabulary that comes with age). So it seems that movie lines are just one of the ways all you "Lovely Lads" communicate these days.

Basically, the pillars of manly words are grounded in three principles: efficiency, self-preservation (in the interest of all things macho), and a "solid chunk of dead air." Harsh stereotypes?...well, maybe. But here they are:

***

TALK LIKE A MAN

1) Movie lines
There exists an unspoken short list of universally acknowledged movies and TV shows that a guy can quote any time, in any situation. "There's no simpler way to acknowledge you've screwed up than with a Homer Simpson-inspired 'Doh!'" Deeper Motivation: "We rely on this stuff because sometimes the real words land us smack in situations we're not sure we can handle."

2) Last Night's Scores
"If we're required to verbally engage with another male for any longer than it takes to establish that it's a nice day out, sports is where we turn. 'You're from Pittsburg? How about that new Penguins rookie forward?'" Deeper motivation: "There's a competitive factor at play. Being up on all the latest scores, stats, and acquisitions demonstrates our superior insight and knowledge."

3) Ball Busting
"Dude, Bill Cosby called. He wants his sweater back." This demonstrates the competitive blood at the heart of most male discourse, which makes the desire to get a laugh--even at the expense of a friend--trump all other considerations." Deeper Motivation: "Making your friends laugh is a way of being in control. And it distracts from being made fun of yourself."

4) Dead Silence--(this has got to be my personal favorite way to communicate)
Four guys can sit together in a room without speaking for a solid hour and it wouldn't mean that anyone was mad. It would signal four perfectly ideal male relationships all operating on the same peaceful, contented, knowing plane. "If you ask us what we're thinking and we blithely say 'nothing,' it may not be entirely true." Deeper Motivation: "Silence frequently has to do with fear of being judged. Once the words are out, they're there for the critiquing. 'And if keeping quiet doesn't work, we can always fall back on our Caddyshack wisdom. Which is nice.'"
5) Hot Women
Nothing gets you in the 'ball game' as much as a "who would you date?" debate over famous hot women--involving "Scarlett Johansson vs. Paris Hilton." Deeper motivation: "A guy can dream, can't he?"

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On the way home from work tonight I saw a dead man. Not metaphorically dead--stone cold dead, toes jutting out from beneath the white sheet as his body lies limp on a stretcher dead. Funerals not included, I have now seen two expired bodies, or twenty mortally exposed toes of strangers in my life.

I never know quite where to look or quite what to feel in situations like this. There’s a numbness--a reminder of our own mortality, certainly--and at the same time, a feeling that my passing glances are intrusive, so I should look away and walk forward in the oblivious, unaffected way the rest of the world marches by in. I didn’t know him, but how sad to go like that, spending your last moments on a tired traincar with graffiti on the sides and a door that doesn’t shut correctly from all the daily wear.

Earlier at work we had a weep-fest listening to the song ‘Wires’ topped only by the song ‘what Sarah said,’ and then this? But love is watching someone die…But who’s going to watch you die?... It really makes one think, doesn’t it? About what’s important, about how all the material distractions, self-delusions, and shallow encounters fall away at the end. I guess we just never know what’s going to happen, and that’s what hope is for. That’s why we get up and carry on and try to step back from our myopic worlds of selves every now and again to make sure we’re opening up our hearts sometimes.



Friday, February 24, 2006


A Very Simple Wish

Not much for this one--just stumbled across this today and liked it.

***

A Very Simple Wish

i want to write an image
like a log-cabin quilt pattern
and stretch it across all the lonely
people who just don't fit in
we might make a world
if i do that

i want to boil a stew
with all the leftover folk
whose bodies are full
of empty lives
we might feed a world
if i do that

twice in our lives
we need direction
when we are young and innocent
when we are old and cynical
but since the old refused
to discipline us
we now refuse
to discipline them
which is a comtemptuous way
for us to respond
to each other

i'm always surprised
that it's easier to stick
a gun in someone's face
or a knife in someone's back
than to touch skin to skin
anyone whom we like

i should imagine if nature holds true
one day we will lose our hands
since we do no work nor make
any love
if nature is true
we shall all lose our eyes
since we cannot even now distinguish
the good from the evil

i should imagine we shall lose our souls
since we have so blatantly put them up
for sale and glutted the marketplace
thereby depressing the price

i wonder why we don't love
not some people way on
the other side of the world with strange
customs and habits
not some folk from whom we were sold
hundreds of years ago
but people who look like us
who think like us
who want to love us
why don't we love them

i want to make a quilt
of all the patches and find
one long strong pole
to lift it up

i've a mind to build
a whole new world

--Nikki Giovanni

This is just weird. There’s this article yesterday in the SF Chronicle called “Study finds ugly faces more likely to end up in mug shots.”

The results of this federally sponsored survey of 15,000 high schoolers said:

***

"We find that unattractive individuals commit more crime in comparison to average-looking ones, and very attractive individuals commit less crime in comparison to those who are average-looking."

Economists found that the long-term consequences of being young and ugly were small but consistent. Cute guys were uniformly less likely than averages would indicate to have committed seven crimes, including burglary and selling drugs, while the unhandsome were consistently more likely to have broken the law. Other studies have shown that unattractive men and women are less likely to be hired, and that they earn less money than the better-looking. Such inferior circumstances may steer some to crime, Mocan and Tekin suggest.

***

Jesus, economists, are you trying to make it worse for all the ugly kids? Give them some aspirational dreams why don’t you? So sorry, horse-face, you will be underpaid, or a criminal, or both--our study says so. But fear not, there’s a lot one can do now with decorating small spaces, what with the Swedish design movement and all.

Way to go government, for “federally sponsoring” a study that will be so useful in fighting crime. My tax dollars (which I have yet to pay you this year) are buying only the most advanced research, I am glad to hear. Criminals are ugly? You don’t say! Just when I was ready to cruise on up to the county jail to find my soulmate! Guess it’s back to the produce section in the grocery store and the 10 p.m. “scene” in the Barnes and Noble travel section. Thank goodness for sociological studies, phew.