Party B = Movie Me

Ever drank copious amounts of whisky on a school bus adorned in latin regalia, with 30+ beautiful strangers, making you think you are in a diesal ad for jeans.

If the answer is yes then you have clearly been on a Mexican Party Bus.

No?

Life is short. Why are you reading this blog?

This past Saturday I attended my friend April's 30th b-day Party B. I now know what it is like to live in a movie. To be surper saturated, have my own personal sound track- "Apple Bottom Jeans, Boots with da Furrrr," and smile with my teeth.

The whole night was a rain soaked blur of Santa Clauses (SF's annual SantaCon), full moons, excessive chanting, BOOZE, juking, drunken intimations, r and b music and the obligatory karaoke throwdown, all dolled up in the magic of holiday lights and cheer. AKA a movie about being young. In essence it was this:


I don't know what it is about hipsters but they always have someone taking incredible pictures of themselves while drinking heavily and wearing red lipstick. When I saw the above picture, I was like- WHAT?! That's my life? A Christmas rom com in the city? Indie flick? Seasonal Sprint commercial? I love it.

Needless to say, beyond the glitz and glamour of Party B = Movie Me there is always the cold hard reality. Indeed it was me eating a Whopper at the bar, shortly before devouring a deepfried brautworst that, I eventually found out, had fallen on the floor. It was delicious. And Yes, I was smiling, down to the very last bite, teeth and all.

A Tale of Two Californias

It has been a marvelous week of VAY Freakin CATION. And without realizing it I had planned a tour de force of the sweet state of CALI Freakin FORNIA. Last Friday, after sprinting the hell out of school, I promptly hopped on a plane to LA.

LOW BROW

Yep, LA. It's the spot. I stayed with my friend Andrew, with whom I had once had a torrid international affair. It's always funny when people as us how we met- "One night stand in Vietnam." End of story. Except it really wasn't the end of the story because now we are bros.

Andrew lives in some town called Manhattan Beach. It's really hard for me to describe Manhattan beach because for the most part, I was either throwing up in the sand, getting an in-home massage by a small Asian woman, looking at the bottom of my martini glass, or vaguely watching college football. Bros.

Let's see, my summative assessment of LA- it's sunny as hell, classic low brow, vibrating with sexual energy, and is not too concerned with aesthetics. I liked it. Sort of. I'd have to not be so drunk and see a little bit more than the inside of my friends den of bro-ism to really give it a fair shake.

I did make it to Venice for a few hours. Loved it. So entertaining. A vibrant array of human tragedy and triumph: exactly how it looked on Baywatch and that basketball scene in American History X. So even though I didn't see any celebrities in the fleshy flesh, at least I knew they had once been there. Good enough for me.

HIGH TIDE

SO THEN, after a day back home in Oakland eating Chinese food in bed all day, I took off again for Humboldt County, a good 7 hour drive north up the coast.

The drive was thrilling including a few adrenaline pumped seconds when I accidentally turned off my headlights into the black abyss of the Redwood forests at 70 mph. Pitch. I'm pretty sure I died and am living an alternate thread of existence right now, which would explain why I can't find my hot pink sock.

My friend Stefanie and I arrived late into the night but just early enough to see a giant jar of the ganja innocently chillen on the table. You could really have done a circle dance around the thing. Naturally, all the housemates of Stefanie's friend Hoon, who so graciously hosted us, were getting ready to go to dancehall night in town square. What town am I in? At this point, I'm not sure. 24 hours later- I find out- It's Arcata. Sweet. We pile in a cab, which is driven by a teenage pirate, who told us we smelled like flour tortillas.

Arcata is on fire, and we go to some club banging out all the latest Ja Man, ganja tune bust-a-move-age, and I go buck on the dancefloor like it's prom night 2000.

Surveying the room, you would really think you were in Canada, which I really thought, and still kind of do think, is what's going on. Lots of white dreadlocks, semi-attractive people with an air of passive-aggression, and miles and miles of beard. I somehow got involved in a crazy couple's break up, got humped by the town gay, and drank red stripe. Yep, we were def the last to leave the bar. Lights on and everything.

Good ol thanksgiving. I am in physical pain, and there's a whole lot of lying around. I end up at the best T-Giving ever, which was at this reception hall place on the beach with 60 or so people of all ages, colors, and sizes. There's roughly one million dogs and apparently the majority of the attendants were from "The Farm," some hippie commune in Tennessee. I don't really know but I ate the shit out some Tofurkey. jk. That would never happen.

Today I saw the biggest trees of my life and a baby squirrel to boot. It was gorgeousness galoregeousness in the majestic Avenue of Giants, and I hitched for the first time ever. Now I'm getting reading to sit in a hot tub.

Nor Cal wins. LA- your vodka is free flowing.

California is not so much a state as it is a wonderful conflict of identity and I love it. God Bless this tale of two Calis.

Halloweenie

My little one's had a B-LAST at school on Friday for our Halloween festivities. I dressed up as Snow White, to which many wide eyed children looked at me with glossy-sugar induced amazement, "You are Snow White!" It was pretty cool, although I did want to strangle all of them by the end of the day. My little munchkin below also wanted to strangle me for making her take a picture.


I am still feeling the ramifications of Halloween, as the above pictured lil lady, is still terrified of the ghost that I may or may not have mentioned lives in our classroom. Yes, the ghost of a disobedient child. A disobedient child who was punished....TO DEATH!!!!!!BUAHH HA HA! Okay, fine, I may have gone a little over"kill!" on the ghost stories, but we had SO MUCH FUN and they just kept asking me to tell more!

Yesterday, the little girl was so terrified of "the ghost" that she refused to go out to recess. I stayed with her in the classroom, although I couldn't quite understand the logic of staying in there, since it was according to me, a "hotbed of paranormal activity." Anyways, after we played an unsuccessful game of set I told her all sorts of Happy Stories which she quite enjoyed. We were having a fabulous time attacking each others puppets when- SNAP! the lights turn off. You see there's a motion detector in my room that turns off the lights when motion is limited. Bad Timing- motion detector, Bad timing.

My poor student, of course, took this sudden light outage as evidence of the "hotbed of paranormal activity" and immediately burst into hysterical tears. I have never felt so guilty. SHeesh. Next year no ghost stories, flash light on face, scary looks or be good or die anecdotes- just good 'ol pumpkin seed necklaces and "Thriller" dance offs. But also- I mean, come on, she was a serious Halloweenie.

Bad Date Good Luck

I went on a bad date a month or so ago with an cynical activist guy, who had no sense of humor. Enough said. But while the date himself was not impressive, I had a tremendous time at the art gallery where the date took place. I met a lovely woman named Becky and her lovely friend named Myles, and we have now forged a lovely trifecta of artistry, where in Becky and Myles pump me full of wine and take pictures of me looking coy. Best bad date ever.

Ms.Baer Room 7

I CAN!

So, I teach a mental health 1st-2nd grade class. This means that besides dodging flying chairs and watching the therapist run after students who have jumped out the window- I hear a lot of the old "I Can't" mantra. It hurts my ears to hear this terrible phrase. So, on top of giving my student a WTF look every time I hear those awful, disgusting words, and reminding them that they are the F-cking BOMB! I wrote them an I CAN! poem:

I can do anything,
I know I can!
Even if I'm feeling bad!

I can do anything,
I know it's true!
Watch me show
What I can do!

I can do anything,
I know I will!
I can do anything
Standing still!
I can do anything
On the run!
I can do anything
and make it fun!

I can do anything!
Yes I can!
And everyone will know
I'm my biggest fan!

All It Takes Is a Little Bit of Poop

My cat Guzman de la Guzman, aka The Gooze, is notorious for his voracious appetite. Loaves of bread have been drilled into, sausages stolen, biscut after biscut swiped from right off the table. He's The Gooze. Shameless. Fat. Heart of Gold.

Ever since I moved into my new apartment, I have allowed The Gooze to roam freely outside, a luxury he never experienced before. For a reason.

I came home Friday night to find The Gooze completely uninterested in my sandwich as I sat down on the couch to take a big bite. Strange. Then I found that all the food in his dish had not been eaten. Very Strange. I went to bed, mildly concerned, but too drunk to google it.

The next morning, I slept in, without once being woken up by a fishy little toungue running itself all over my face. Now this was completely absurd. I fed my other cat, Walter, who munched furiosuly while The Gooze vaguely lifted his eyes at me when I shook the food box. This NEVER, EVER happens. For a minute, I thought, wow, maybe this is a reformed Gooze, a Gooze with patience, manners, a sense of pride. It was a thrilling thought with a bright future. I imagined myself able to leave gorceries on the table without a friend to guard them. I saw dinner parties where people were relaxed and happy, Gooze Free. I heard absolutely nothing in the morning. Or maybe he had eaten poop.

I brought the Gooze in to emergency pet care, and indeed The Gooze had eaten poop. Poop has the uncanny ability to ruin an appetite, not only because it's poop, but because it is a carrier for coccidia, a nasty little bacteria that will make even the hungriest of Goozes completely catorexic.

The vet gave me some medicine and I took the little fatty home. It had been a wonderful two days. Even my roomate commented on how much better life is with the Gooze in remission. No furry hand shooting out from thin air as I attempt to get into a juicy corndog, no trail of bred crumbs strewn about the kitchen, no trash knocked over with shreds of tin foil sticking to my feet. There might be something to this coccidia thing. The South Poop Diet.

With bittersweetness, the Gooze is back on his fat again and eating like there is no tomorrow. It was nice while it lasted, and all it took was a little bit of poop.

One Liners

Yep.

Today I was talking to my student Mario who is the cutest, sweetest little space cadet I've ever met. He's 8 years old and acts like he eats sugar sandwiches. He was off task today, singing the "Cut Your Nugget Out" song another student made up last week when I asked him, "Mario, what is your job right now?"

He responds passionately,"To shut up!"

"Okaaayyy," I say in semi-agreement,"What else is your job?"

Without pause, "To pull myself together!"

True. This is why I love kids. They shamelessly embody the nature of the open mic comedian:
When they crack you the fuck up, it's completely unintended.

YO! Ms. Baer Raps

My name is Ms.Baer,
I've got short hair,
If you wanna go to college
I'll help ya get there!

Do you like math?
Do you like to read?
Do you run around the
playground at a very high speed?

If yes is the answer then
I'll see you at school,
Reading big books
and acting real cool,
cuz learning is Awesome,
Fun and Fresh,
Did you know S stands for Student
on Super Man's chest?

You've got the brains,
You've got the heart,
All you've got do is
Ready, Set Start!!!

California Loving

So, I moved to Oakland, California about a week and a half ago. Guess what?

It's sunny.

California is exactly like the brochure- Perfect blue sky, 70 degree weather, ripe lemons dangling from the tree boughs, slim, attractive people jogging about without any indication of sweat. It's perfect.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to live here for the rest of my life. Unless of course, I marry the prince of Estonia and am forced to live in a castle where I sing to raccoons and brush my hair three hundred strokes before bedtime.

Rinse Repeat Rinse Repeat

Never Again!
He says
waving his fist
without a second crowd
coming.

How to tell
twins apart
especially when one
looks so much like
the other.
So much like one
another.
like one,
but no other.

Like me, but
my brother.

Brother, we are
in this thing together.
No telling where
or how,
that path to
SOMEWHERE.
I guess I'll
just
have to
See you there,
Sucker.

2 for 10 Plus 5

I have been holed up on my couch for the past two months, give or take, studying for the California Subject Examination for Teachers. I need to pass the godforsaken thing before I start brainwashing children into loving one another and eating vegetables. The test is intense yadda yadda but I've got the craps under wraps- Hence all the studying. IE Gaseous Planets: Jessica Sucks Ugly Nerd Penis- Jupiter Saturn Uranus Neptune Pluto...

In between the times I have not been studying, quietly, alone in the comfort of my couch (butt dent included), I have been out, drunken, loud and terribly terribly un-alone. It's been a whirlwind, but I suppose there is a kind of equilibrium to my bookworm good girl days and my wild, insufferably drunken bad girl nights, Thus proving, once again, the Law of Conservation of Energy. Potential Energy and Kinetic Energy: These are the equations of my life.

Today was like any other test prep weekday. Study, eat, Study, Study, eat, Bad Movie on Net Flicks (Surfer, Dude Why? WHY??), Study, Study, Eat, Train cat for Russian Circus, Sleep. Only today, in between Surfer, Dude and Study I went to Walgreens to buy Number 2 pencils for the test. Yes, it is a BYOP affair. I pay $270 to take a test at 7:15 in the morning all the way on 111th St- which is basically Indiana- and NO FREE NO 2 PENCILS! Outrage.

N E WAYZ- It was amazing. Walgreens is a truly wonderful place. It was actually the first job I ever had. I was fifteen, liked to steal and needed money to buy jugs of vodka for the weekend. It was perfect, I would sit outside during my break smoking P-funks and eating Cooler-Ranch Doritos in my extra large teal vest and wonder if I could live like this forever. Of course, I was held up by gunpoint before forever came and quit shortly thereafter. I'm pretty sure the perp used the old finger gun in pocket routine, but I WAS NOT going to take one for the walgreens.

I digress.

Walgreens is filled with all sorts of things. Automatic Pet Nail Filers (DOES NOT WORK), a multitude of dieting kits, lipsticks, shoe polishes, tampons... I wandered aimlessly after I found my pencils and was completely at ease. "In my element," you could say. I breezed through an In Touch, checked out the candy aisle - RED HOT JOLLY RANCHERS!!! WOW - picked through the flip-flop and plain t-shirt display and pondered whether or not I should invest in a Turkey flavored Lunchable.

I only had $10 so I went against my better frivolity and picked up the only real food they sell instead: eggs, and continued my meander. Somehow I found myself in the bouncy ball aisle and discovered several cases of these "Giant High Bouncing Glitter Balls!" and spent the next 20 minutes individually bouncing each color, until i decided on pink. It's like a bouncy rubber snow glob twirling with glorious Pink Fairy Dust: Very magical. I spent another 10 minutes deciding whether or not I should forget the pencils, F the test and get the 2 for 10 deal, so I could get the Pink and Green ball. The green was also REALLY cool.

No. I HAD to get the pencils. Every trip to Walgreens has a mission and I couldn't just chuck it all for some shiny green fortune telling glitter ball that can bounce up to two times my height now, could I???

I left with a pack of NO 2 pencils, a carton of eggs, and a pink "Giant High-Bouncing Glitter Ball." I've never been happier. And on my way home- I found a 5 dollar bill on the ground. And it's all because of Walgreens.*SIGH* Walgreens. Where dreams come true.

Assume the Condition

This morning I awoke in my boyfriend's bed after a long night of semi-erotic nightmares only to hear the twinkling voice of a female person, followed by the monotone voice of a male person that would not stop talking. This, I knew, was one of my man's roommates, let's call him- Banana Rama. Naturally when I heard Banana Rama blathering on about gkw (God Knows What), I ASSUMED the female listener was his girlfriend, let's call her- Peanut. Peanut is a friend of mine, and I was surprised that she was over at 9:30 in the morning since she teaches high school, which starts at the ungodly hour of 7:15. I also noted to myself that Peanut has been playing hooky quite a bit lately and I thought, "Man, Peanut's really pushing it. I didn't know she was such a Ferris Bueller"

I sat and listened intently to the female voice, which had become less of a voice and more of a validating squeak to Banana Rama's morning soliloquy. Hmm. Peanut is more of a squawker than a squeaker and this, this was quite odd. My boyf- lets call him- Mister E.- had left and I was alone with my suspicions. Who the hell was out there if not Peanut? Did Banana Rama have a strange high-pitched girl come over at 9:30 am for a quick one-sided convo over coffee and facebook? Who would want to do that? It's a Wednesday! Did Banana Rama have a friend from out of town staying over? An early-rising college pal, passing through? Catching Up? Moving On? OR WAS BANANA RAMA A SHAMELESS CHATTEROX SCUM MAGGOT CHEAT??!??!!!

I had to pee.

I left the room and yes, my friends, yes, it was as my imagination imagined. No Peanut. Not one pad thai inkling of a Peanut. Just the Squeaker- Let's call her- Cookie Two Shoes- listening squeakily to Banana Rama banana ramble on about dinosaurs. I had never seen Cookie Two Shoes before in my life. Who was this minx? This home-wrecker? This bar-hopping Banana Rama lovin' tartlette?

I muffled a fast Hi. to Cookie Two, who cheerfully Good Morning'ed me back, and shuffled nervously to the bathroom. Pondering my deep moral dilemma as I peed, I noted with paranoia that Banana Rama had not looked me in the eye, had not said hello, and in fact, did not introduce me to his fair concubine. This was big, bad, and shit: That scum maggot cheat!!!!

On my way back to the bedroom, I passed the happy hanky-pankers without a word and immediately texted Mister E.


Me: Who is this Cookie Two Shoes?

Mister E.: Banana Rama's Fuck Buddy.

Me: *&^%*%$$%@#!!!!!

Mister E.: J/K. Cookie Two is (Mister E.'s other roommate- Let's call him- Duncan D.) Duncan D.'s lovey dove.

Me: Oh. Ha. I assumed Cookie Two was Banana Rama's newest side of scum maggot slaw. Ha. My bad.

Mister E.: I knew you would.


Thankfully, I had this text exchange with Mister E. before I could hop on the 'ol g chat and ruin Peanut's day with graphic Cookie Two Shoes Banana Rama Split with extra whip cream and hot fudge cherry on top imagery. Crisis averted. Case closed.

I learned a valuable lesson today, One that the wise and best selling author Don Miguel Ruiz has thoroughly divulged in his self-helper- The 4 Agreements:

The Big Number 3: DON'T MAKE ASSUMPTIONS.

DO NOT MAKE ASSUMPTIONS. Hmmph. Fine. Good plan. Good Solid Plan. I'm on it like frosting on a cupcake. Although, Poo: That doesn't sound very fun. And wait, does this mean I have to stop living my life like I'm going to win the lottery in 2012 and consequentially end world hunger? Crap.

FIND CHEWY!

My boyf's friends just lost their precious Chewy in an horrible rest stop nightmare. If you see Chewy, grab her. But don't touch her headband.

Mortal Flesh

In the past weeks I have suffered from the following ailments:

1.) Tennis Elbow
2.) Huge Juicy heel Blisters (*&%#!! cute shoes!)
3.) Broken Cat scratched skin
4.) 1st degree hand burns from boiling hot Italian Wedding Soup
5.) A purple to blue to green to yellow bruise the size of a Ritz cracker on my thigh
6.) Mild Dehydration
7.) 1st degree arm burns from a toaster oven
8.) Menstration
9.) Vodka/Tequila housewarming hangover from hell
10.) Voracious Hunger

All evidence that I am mortal. While humbling, this, indeed, is no way to live. My hand is Swamp thing right now. And I'm pretty sure I won't be able to fall asleep for a while tonight because I'll be too overstimulated by staring at the computer all day.

It's times like these I wish I was a cat. But then again, I'd have to wait for my asshole owner to feed me, take a shower with my tongue, and not be able to force my boyfriend to massage my elbow while cruising ebay for a decent set of printed bedsheets that are not toile, flower related, sports fannery, or "ethnic."

Life. "What a doozy."

My Grandma Was A Hipster

My grandma recently passed away and left behind a trail of hipster goods. Jewelry being the main source: Little pins with painted birds, all kinds of animal broaches, gold chains, 70's pendants...a bunch a stuff. This could mean several things:

A.) My Grandma was a hipster.
B.) All old people are hipsters.
C.) My Grandma was friends with a hipster who liked to give her gifts- A Giftster.
D.) I'm a hipster.
E.) The word hipster is a controversial and somewhat derogatory term that should not be thrown around lightly.
F.) Walter Meownez is #1.

I'd like to think that all of these with the exception of D is true. I took a test in the Hipster handbook once in college and did not qualify into hipsterdom. It was because I answered yes to a question that was something like, "Do you like to drink beer in the back of trucks." Therefore putting me into the hick category. I scored high on Hick. Then my friend Nick and I decided hipsters were racist, and classist so we drank a liter of Gin and chased it with water. Then I threw up all over this Glaswegian club named the Art School, called one of the employees with a massive unibrow "Frida," and had to be dragged home by my legwarmers. Go Figure.

Obama is My Friend

Last night I had a wonderful dream that Barak Obama was at my family Thanksgiving feast. At first it was awkward. Hey...Mr...President...do you want a....thigh...bone? Then it was exciting. Hey! Obama's at my house! Obama's at my house! WOOO HOOO Obama's at my house! I called my friend Stacy and I said, "Stacy, you will never guess who came to Thanksgiving!" Obama. OH BAMA.

I never thought of Obama as the kind of guy you would invite to Thanksgiving. Everyone knows to avoid politics at the dinner table. And if Obamas in the house, sucking down Cold Duck and deviled eggs, looking all Presidential and Democratic and well, political, a convo without politics may be damn near impossible. "So your house...it's white..."

BUT THEN, I heard about Obama's "Special Olympics" comment on Jay Leno, and I was like..damn, I could really hang out with this dude. Obama is a funny dude. I read in the barely credible In Touch Magazine that 27% of pollees lost respect for Obama after that comment. He actually gained my respect, and my friendship if he were ever to want it. Political correctness is pretty much the last thing I care about in a person. And it's not like he said, Jay, I bowl like a retard Jay. A fucking mongoloid. Or when asked what he though about Bush, "Oh that crazy cracker, he's going straight to hell with all of those other Nazis." No, he used Special Olympics as an adjective, and it was funny.

I also read in the barely credible United Airlines in flight magazine, that he occassionly smokes a cigarette to release stress. Cool, we can smoke the errant socially stress-free cigarette, use nouns as adjectives and chillax out on my roof.

This is the kind of friendship I've been looking for. Obama, your humanity is astounding. Let's hang.

YAWP!CiTY

YAWP! Young Asians With Power!

Readers Write: Rain

I have heard that after a monumental rain inordinate amounts of poetry about rain are written then submitted to literary magazines. Whether or not this is true, I am, of course, guilty of writing a post-downpour poem or two.

For years, I have been trying to pen-capture the night I ran down my block chasing after a deer I had been watching from my front porch during a hard summer's rain. Her glistening hide. The deafness of the night beneath the metronome of rain. Orange glow of the streetlights.

Stanza after paragraph, revision after revision, each draft felt like an insult to the EXPERIENCE I had had that night. My precious memory, that wonderful, half forgotten dream, was continuously wasted on my trying words. Ballads, prose, short non-fiction, sestina, and conceit could not satisfy the images and feelings I held so dearly of that night.

I was reminded of the old adage, write what you know. I thought I knew about the doe leaping across my neighbors front lawn, my barefeet unevenly hitting the wet pavement as I chased after her, the succulent smell of rain and grass, and summer.

But in my writing it was if it had happened to someone else, or was in fact fiction, bad fiction. I was tortured, how could I be so incapable of telling my own story. Who was I, if not that rain-soaked girl running madly down the street in the dead of night. But, now as I sit on my porch, silenced by one of those epic Midwestern thunderstorms, waiting to catch a glimpse of my spindle legged deer, perhaps what matters is beyond the text. I was there, rain sliding off my cheeks, breathing happily in the midst of a warm city night. And that’s all I’ll ever need to know.

Flossin Bras

As if
the streets
are an infinite skating rink
that Joni Mitchel
sings about
to make us feel better
about the economy.

I drink too much
sometimes.

I make bad jokes.

Cats are cute.

And that certainty
I thought was so certain
like heat or wooden chairs
was a really lovely
expression of time
standing still
on a particularly
confidant day.

This is my book
of worms.
Homage to the
mystic winds of
LIFE.

That said,
Someone
Buy me that Miami Pink Truck
I adore so much,
And for God's sakes
Just give me what
I want.

Modern Dance Love

Composure

Out of every wound, there is possibility.
Beyond that
Death is the gift that keeps giving,
what I mean is,
inheritance,
legend,
a test.

The family sleeps,
as the dead do,
while the cherry blossoms
plan their next attack,
on Japan,

I am only a granddaughter
who knows what
death looks like on TV,
between people
I don't know.
If I marry a politician,
maybe this will change.
A doctor too.

Eating time
with my grandmother's
teeth, I will listen for the
wind tunnels in her heart
as they collapse on
the tiny cars passing though,
but it won't
...be...like...that.

It will be just like it is now.
A few odd words about composure.
the waiting rattlesnake
between the sheets.

JC

Trust in Jim, You will Win.

Fact of Life

There is no healthy kind of cheeto.

postsecret.com

I saw something terrible today. I found out postsecret.com has organized an event tour that has sold out in 6 cities, including Chicago. I mean, is Margaret Cho gunna be there? This is sick.

Self proclaimed as "an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a postcard," I read my friend this description today and her response was, "I'm already annoyed." And that's just it. Postsecret.com is incredibly annoying. If its mediocre content, ablaze with overly dramatic, sacran, pathetic, obnoxious, corny, depressing and aesthetically challenged confessionals don't bug you, its obscene success in the form of 4 book publications, international blogs in German, Chinese, French, and Spanish, attention from media outlets, museums, Bloggie awards, the Suicide Girls and now, 6 sold-out events, will definitely rub you the wrong way. Postsecret.com's success is a screaming testament to the emotionally exploitative, self-congradulating, voyeuristic culture we currently champion, and Frankly, My Dear, It's Disgusting.

Each secret is one train wreck after another. Neck Benders delight. This week's secrets were especially awful featuring a Valentine's day theme of broken hearted, lovey schmultzy, hallmark holiday hoopla. Rarely do the secrets exhibit a hint of irony, or embody any non-cliche expressions of sincerity. Christ, half of them aren't even secrets, "This postcard is a tribute to all of us who fell in love with our ex's...only to get hurt all over again." puke. ahem. barf. ahem. vomit. I will admit, some are funny...okay fine, just that one: I make $150,000 a year and work for a non-profit. That one still gets me.

Now would be a good time to disclose the reason I even know about postsecret.com. After around 9 months of living in rural Japan, working with the infamous JET program, I had hit rock bottom. I was spending my days sniffing at my desk right before sneaking off to the bathroom to weep, while trying to maintain the illusion that my existence existed. My only sources of comfort were 50% off B-list American rentals on Tuesday nights and these shriveled little twin hot dog packs I could get at 1 in every 17 vending machines.

I was so desperate for some form of catharsis beyond my VHS collection of Sex and the City episodes, that I turned emphatically to the Internet. I visited people.com, gofugyourself.com, and gawker.com several times a day to justify my life as a non-celebrity which was, at least, without ridicule. The hideous fat teacher pants I wore every day would go happily unnoticed and although poor, miserable and addicted to mayonnaise, at least I was FREE. I liked seeing Kirstin Dunst get flack for her saggy tits and trash-bag dresses, Li-lo's hole ripped for wearing the same pair of leggings three days in a row, Bai-Ling's...everything. It filled me with the kind of immediate gratification on par with dipping a bacon wrapped snickers in chocolate milk. Oh yeah. It was good. Deleriously good.

But it wasn't enough. There was no amount of bacon snickers Scarlet Jo Brangelina gossip that could fill the void. I was really low, reading about people I didn't know, (Emmie Rossum? Who?Still don't know) watching trailers to their miserable summer blockbusters, IMBDing teen celebrities who put me through puberty (JTT, Devon Sawa, Andrew Keegan and of course Mike Vitar aka Benny the Jet LOVE OF LIFE). I even befriended Claire Danes on Friendster. I was completely Obsessica, neurotically scouring the Internet landscape for ANYTHING to distract me from my sadness. Then, one glorious day I hit the hotlinks jackpot. The Bloggie Nominations page. This was where I discovered postsecret.com.

It had everything I wanted. Sad Sacks R' Us with a creative twist. There were tons of failed relationships that made my bitter singleness seem like a winning lottery ticket, abusive parents, backstabbing friends, relentless lying, incest, porn. It was great. And it was better than celebrity gossip because it was real. PAIN. Real autobiographical PAIN, written by my god-fearing American comrades who I'd trust with my life, heaven or high water.

The true captains of my misery boat, these anonymous secret keepers were my friends. My fcked up, dim witted, cornball friends, that I could, no matter what, feel a million times better than. I read religiously. I dug through the archives crying, laughing, even farting a few times. Postsecret.com was the genius invention to soothe my suffering. Just knowing that people had it worse, gave me something to look forward to. I was not the only tear-streaked freak out there.

Postsecret.com took me through weeks of self-loathing. But as expected it was not enough. And in retrospect, it was way too much. I had to teach myself to meditate, stop eating mayonnaise and LOG THE HELL OFF. Oh and also decide to leave Japan. So, today when I visited postsecret.com for the first time since International Meltdown '07, a lot of painful memories were dredged up- along with a little perspective: That was a sad time, and a sad reason to like a really lame website. So I guess the secret's out. I HATE postsecret.com

The James R. Thompson Center for Mental Health

I've been wanting to write about the James R. Thompson Center for Mental Health for at least two months. But it wasn't until this weekend that I felt the truly soul deadening ramifications of my temporary office work employment forcing me to break the silence. It's been bad. For the past few days of officelessness, my will to enjoy life has notably decreased. I laid on the couch today, cacooned by blankets, and only felt dread in my heart. Dread, that I would at some point have to get off the couch, dread that that point would inevitably bring me closer to going back to the office, and dread that everything leading me up to these series of points has been utterly, utterly meaningless. Happy V-day to me.

When I first started temping in downtown Chicago I met a friend during break at the James R. Thompson Center. The building itself is quite impressive.- All glassy and shiny and elevatory. It's huge and vacuous and bustling with the insane energy of people talking on their cell phones, carrying briefcases and scurrying to get in line to the highlight of their day:Lunch, Potato and Steak, Panda Garden, Pita Express and of course Mickey D's. They're loving it.

Once I passed security and made it off the elevator onto the 14th floor I was immediately faced with my impending mortality. The hallway that links the offices together is edged by a sheer dropoff overlooking the hollowed out center of this conchlike building. Much like the guardrails in national parks that deter you from thrusting your whims into the Grand Canyon, there is waist high wall with a rail on top to prevent the office workers of America from falling to their doom in front of the Sbarro's on the first floor.

I was shocked. How could people work in an environment in which their imminent demise is constantly (Sorry, I have to) at their disposal? ESPECIALLY since they are all working in OFFICES, pushing paper, talking on speakerphone, mass emailing, and drinking water all the time. I would surely have to be pulled down from the ledge several times a day before I got anything done. I was in there barely five minutes and felt the urge.

What was this architect thinking? Maybe he wanted office workers to have a sense of danger and excitement in their lives. To literally give them the feeling of living on the edge. Like working in a gun shop, or the circus or something. Maybe, he thought, the more people have the opportunity to fling themselves down the mercy of modern architecture, the harder they will work to distract themselves. That their molecules will be roused by this opposition to their Darwinian survival that they will push harder, work longer, and watch more internet porn to persevere. I can only speculate, but either way, the building gave me vertigo, and harrowing images of my own death.

There's nothing in Google to indicate suicide has been attempted or achieved in the James R. Thompson Center for Mental Health. Which is shocking, truly shocking to me. It's the perfect place for such an act, especially considering the fact that in 2002 1.53% of death worldwide was caused by suicide while only .98% was caused by violence. Meaning, more people decided to kill themselves before anyone else got a chance to.

Chew on this:

A study conducted by the National Institute of Occupational Health approximately 10 years ago reported three conclusions to the link between suicide and career paths:

1) White male physicians have a higher than average suicide rate.
2.) Black male guards (excluding correctional institution guards) have a higher than average suicide rate.
3.) White female painters, sculptors and artists have a higher than average suicide rate. *prolly cuz they have to get office jobs to support their canned sweet corn and thrift store habits.

It's times like these when I really wished there was a statistic for everything. I would really love to know how many white collar office workers in the James R. Thompson center have entertained thoughts of hurling themselves off the precipice and at what time of day, which shitty food court bodega they ate from, and how frequently these thoughts emerge. I might have to get investigative about this...

On that note: Have a great Monday no matter what job you have! And if you're going to the James R. Thompson Center- Bring a parachute!

VD

Brooklyn Anchorage

I Love This Poem. Lisa Jarnot is the kind of writer who has the words you thought were yours, only looser, yet more precise.

Read This!

Poem Alasis

Poem Alasis

In the boiling teapot
leaves swirl and gurgle
themselves
into a mingle.
Vacantly gesturing
at one another,
turning the water
a vivid red.

The steam curls all pretty
against a blue wall as
The sun
all fills the room
all happy and warm.
And Relentless.

Damn,
I'm going to miss those
epic midwestern thunderstorms
in California.
the Black clouds
Roiling
between zags of electric light
The Rage.

Which raises the question:
Humingbirds or
Thunderstorms?
Milk or whisky?

As I attempt to destroy
everything around me
Camus avec Camus
flutters in my ear,
"What we risk is
what we value"

(among other rules)
I can always remember

To drink the red tea,
I brewed,
so carefully, and yet
without hesitation.

Life Changers

It's a dream come true. California. The Land of Milk and Honey. The Golden State. The West. I'm off. I got the job. I got the truck. And in June its Walter Munez, Guzman de la Guzman de la Guzman and I bumbling down route 66 eating beef jerky and smoking cat friendly cigars. I will be moving to Oakland, to teach special education in a high-need school. Whoot. It's an adventure. And man, this Chicago winter isn't doing anything but convince me to get on the Bright Side of the Bay.

Life Without Joy

Despite the somber title of this entry, I am not horrifically depressed. In fact I am not depressed at all. I just wanted to note that a Life Without Joy is as impossible as a Life Without Pain. And to that end, let's make a toast: To Life Without Absence!

TS/MP

Flu vi won ka nuvie

I had the godforsaken flu this week. It was/is a completely heinous experience. Sleep is inconceivable because my body has become a hostile, terrible cell in which I am a solitary prisoner. All entertainment such as movies, tv, books, radio is a cruel mockery of the extreme apathy I currently embrace. And I am a damp, moist, sweaty, soiled, stinky, useless blob of flesh. Imagine your worst hangover ever. The morning you woke up with a penis tattoo on your forehead and a pair of shitstained shorts in the trash can. This is the Flu.

Apparently I am not alone: In one year, two flu seasons cause approximately 3 to 5 million severe cases of influenza, and up to 500,000 deaths. According to the natural order of things Influenza pandemics occur every 10 to 20 years. The Spanish know this one well as they experienced the most violent pandemic ever recorded which killed 40 to 100 million people in 1918. Ouch. Can you imagine all those people with penis tattoos waking up to each other's shitstains and sweatsoaked outlines drawn into the bedsheets, all sour mouthed and miserable?

Get Your Flu Shots People! Eat Right, Exercise! And take this moment to thank who ever it is you thank, that you do not have The Flu.

Yelp Sir!

I have been writing reviews under my cat's name on Yelp: Here is the latest:

The Old Oak Tap

2109 W Chicago Ave
Chicago, IL 60686
(773) 772-0406

2 out of 5 stars

Meh. Eh. Peh. Leh. Geh. Feh. I am so tired of overproduced restaurants in the ukivillage/bucktown area that have no sense of culture or identity. Where the food is mediocre, the waitstaff is sub par, and the decorum looks like it came out of a box set from Urban Outfitters.

It's clean, spacious, streamlined, inoffensive. This restaurant is the equivalent of a shitty romcom starring Meryl Streep. With enough money, you can pay A list celebrities to do anything. But by the time the movie is over, and the buzz from my jumbo coke with two straws is just starting to kick in, even Meryl can't stop me from busting out the YAWWWWWNN of the century.


Atlas Cafe

3028 W Armitage Ave
Chicago, IL 60647
(773) 227-0022

4 out of 5 stars

Ah. At long last. A wonderful little haven for unpretentious, undisgusting, inexpensive food in Logan Square. Not only did I want to be best friends with the waitress but the calamari was grilled. Grilled! They deliver, they have coffee flan, the Atlas is da bomb.com.

for more www.walterm.yelp.com

Some reviews are by Ben, some by Me and others by the Both Of Us.

Extremely Extreme

Obsessica

I am a person of obsessive character. Always have been. Therefore I have deemed myself- Obsessica.

Top 5 current Obsessicans:

1.)The Dance of Anger: A Woman's Guide to Intimate Relationships.

Anyone (literally ANYONE) I've talked to about any remotely emotional issue has fallen prey to my Hail Mary's for this book. All my closest friends have their Dance of Anger eye rolling routine down to a T and honestly it does nothing to stop me from toting, promoting, and quoting the hell out this book. It has, for a lack of better expression, Changed my life. Okay so, no one thing can change life- besides death! (ha) but it has definitely been a catalyst for creating change and I recommend it to EVERYONE, male and female. In a nutshell,it's all about breaking relationship patterns, taking responsibility for yourself, and being able to use your anger as a tool. It's better than Catcher in the Rye. I would shamelessly sell it to a blind grandmother with dementia, along with a set of Cutco knives and a marshmallow shooter from Sky Mall.

2.) Walter Munez (Meownez) and Guzman De La Guzman De La Guzman

These are my cats. There's nothing more to say. Yadda Yadda crazy cat lady yadda yadda. Get over it. I love my pets.

3.) Photoshop

Last night, amidst dreaming of erotically washing blue paint off of Christian Bale's leg, I had a vision of a photoshopped postcard that included Two Circles, one black, the other white, and a small black child in between them. This dream could have many meanings.

One- I am having some kind of cultural identity crisis.

Two- I'm in love with Christian Bale and he loves me and I should be expecting this exact postcard to arrive any day now.

Three- I'm obsessicad with Photoshop and I can't stop and I need to find a way to make money through photoshopping pictures of my boyfriend and I in various exotic locations, or I will surely become undone.

4.) List Making

Hence this post. Hence my life. Obsessican #4 Check!

5.) This American Life

I no longer tell stories of my own. What's the point? I did not kill someone accidentally as a teenager, adopt a dissociative child from Eastern Europe, survive a tornado on prom night, hide the exorbitant amount of money I made off of selling bullets to locals in random household items only to sell the items in a garage sale, whisper into an elementary child's ear "Knock it the fuck off you little shit," lie to an internet scammer that his mother was dead after sending him on a wild goose chase to the border of Darfur, want to spend $120 on a deformed red headed baby doll named Nubbins in order to save it from a spoiled child with a racist mother. I did not do any of these things. I could talk about my trip to Walgreens last night. But the one about the guy who started hand sewing highly accurate Superman costumes that he wears on a regular basis after his wife died- is so much better.

Stacy Renee