Mogwat Hinso

I hate Ms. Baer

2011-02-13T22:12:00.000-08:00

My students are pretty serious haters when it comes to authority, doing classwork, and generally existing in a classroom. These are some of the most outrageous things they have said/written in my 1.5 years of teaching:

1.) I'm going to burn your fucking dick off.
2.) I'll fuck you in your fucking ass.
3.) Fuck You Bich- written in water color.
4.) Dear Jamal, I'm sorry I called you a greedy, fattie, crybaby today. I was mad at someone else. Do you forgive me?
5.) I see your titties.

There have also been bomb threats, a student who wished he had an older brother who would come to school and stomp Ms. Baer so she would explode, mention of cowboys having cowboy sex, I HATE YOU!! screamed at the top of the lungs, I'm going to kick you in the vagina, and yes I have also been called stupid.

My students are 6-9 years old and some days they smell like poop.

Sundays are hard.

Portlandia

2011-01-24T15:42:00.000-08:00

I went to Portland last weekend and it was just lovely. Some thoughts on Portland:

1.) Still in the 90's. This not only includes flannel shirts tied around the waist, a bumping Doc Martin's store and a propensity towards erotica, but GOOD PRICES. It seemed to my travel companions and I that inflation may have come to a halt in the 90's for the dear city of Portland. I chugged a top shelf martini for 5 dollars there. And it was NOT happy hour. 5 dollars.

Also- My roommate invited his 90's high school sweetheart to hang out, and she was the kind of crazy that you only really saw in the 90's- Girl Interrupted, Poison Ivy, Kids, Mad Love. Think red lipstick, alcoholism, no shame. The first bar refused to serve her, the second bar asked her to stop dry humping on the booth and by the time we got home she was offering everyone an assortment of pharmaceuticals.

I also thought I was eating next to Jared Leto at one point. NINE-TIES.

2.) The Rose Garden. Not in bloom. Bullshit.

3.) Damn. Good. Food. Jessie's picks: Beesaw's Bacon Breakfast Sandwich (goat cheese, avocado, applewood smoked bacon, french bread) and mimosas, Cafe Mingo's Happy Hour (5 dollar small plates and drinks- sauteed calamari, cold meat plate, lamb meatballs, fried mozzarella), Sansai Grill's all day happy hour- 1/2 price on selected rolls and sake, Kenny and Zuke's Jewish delicatessen (extensive selection of vintage bottled sodas and bagel dogs), and Biwa Japanese Ramen House(a broth to write home about). And since Portland is still in the 90's each meal cost less than 20 dollars WITH dranks.

4.) Vintage Clothing- Can't swing a dead raccoon without hitting a vintage store. You guessed it- Lots of 90's style threads to be had. Were oral herpes 90's too? Because I saw an inordinate amount of that too. In the Vintage stores. Hmm.

5.) Forest Park- Nature is pretty in in Portland. Local food, fair-trade Coffee, rivers, fog. I went on a two mile hike with my friend Danny and my roommate in the Northwestern Rainforest known as Forest Park. Glorious. Just glorious. I subjected Danny to a personality test and then we beat the metaphor of Waves as romantic relationships to death concluding that waves are a good metaphor for basically everything. Waves are a metaphor for Portland. Sometimes they are calm like a smooth jazz song playing at your favorite Powell's location, and sometimes they are totally gnarly, like a pair of oddly stained stonewashed jeans on an androgynous local dj who refuses to humor (humor- not even play- humor) your request for a song that didn't exist in the 90's.

Basically, I loved Portland. I'd live there if it wasn't an hour from the ocean and it didn't rain half the year. It warms my heart that there will always be a place where I can wear multi-colored spandex without judgment, stuff my face with fresh organic hand massaged chickens for 10 dollars and buy the hat that was made out of the raccoon I swung when I was looking for a store that carries the flower printed baby doll dress Alicia Silverstone wore in "Cryin'."

Pillow Talk

2011-01-08T11:25:00.000-08:00

I have been a pillow case making fool for the past couple of months. Here is a small showCASE:

Amish You a Merry Christmas

2010-12-28T01:03:00.000-08:00

Just when you think the miracle of Christmas is a holey old joke of a sock- You go to Wisconsin and everything changes.

I live in California. And I love it. But the only other place I would consider living in this world is Wisconsin. Imagine my ultimate joy when I found out that my small clan and I would be celebrating the birth of C in an unincorporated village on the snow filled plains of Wisconsin this year. Yahtzee!

On Christmas day, my family piled into my father's beloved mini van and off we drove to my cousins house- All very "Over the river and through the woods." Amidst explaining to my other cousin the Oakland slang, "Doin too much," my dad drove off the road and into a ditch. Whether he was "doin too much" or "not enough" is still up for debate.

The family squawked about for a minute or two, complaining of cold, making jokes and generally being useless when a little blue light from the distance started bobbing towards us. It was The Amish. Or An Amish. A man with a very long beard. As he chatted with the other Men, another Amish came by. In a horse drawn buggy. A voice from it shouted, "I would help but cars are ugly!"

Mokay. I didn't know the Amish were so feisty. Feisty and efficient. Within 5 minutes the bobbing blue light man came back to us with a small metal wagon sleigh thing attached to a pair of enormous horses. As fast as you could say, "Amish you a Merry Christmas!" the Amish tied a chain from the van to the wagon, cried yehaw; his mighty horses plucking the van from its snowy resting place- then disappeared back into the barn from whence they came.

A country Christmas Miracle. I was thrilled, my faith (in horses) restored, my hands numb from clapping in 30 degree weather. We hopped back into the van to the aroma of Roast Beast and exulted. The Amish are doin just right and yes, cars are ugly.

Don't Forget to Love Yourself

2010-12-11T09:26:00.000-08:00

My students and I wrote this song.

I love myself,
I am very attractive,
Everything I do
is super duper positive.

I'm nice,
I'm cool,
I'm good,
I'm a rockstar.

Bet ya didn't know
I live on Planet Ma-ars.
I'm an alien shark
with High Self-Esteem,
I'm so cool
I'm on the Ice Cream Team.

School is Bomb!

2010-12-10T17:13:00.000-08:00

The high school drop out rate is on the rise. There are a lot of scary statistics out there saying so. The worst kind of statistics. The kind you won't really think about until the day America loses the Battle of the Universe to Lithuania and we are all wearing McDonalds French Fry cups for mittens. Everyone will want to know- How did we lose to Lithuania?

A failing and progressively ineffective public education system will be the answer. Well, one of them at least.

If it's not the fact that public ed is still stuck in a education model that was made in the industrial era- prioritizing skills more useful in the factory than in the innovation of the global market- it will be a sheer numbers game.

There won't be enough people to fight for American freedom because not enough people will be able to have the freedom of a High School diploma *. Without a diploma * you can't join the military. Without military power, you lose the Battle of the Universe. Tic Toc. Tic Toc.

As I was driving to school the other day I heard a wonderful commercial on the radio urging young people to go back to school! Ernest and free flowing voices of urban youth spoke of their teenage parenthood, incarcerations, and homelessness. Education they claimed, was their only option for success. Of course, I was tearing up, passionately nodding my head and gripping the steering wheel in fierce agreement. When they finished, "This announcement is sponsored by the United States Army."

It reminded me of a speech Arne Duncan, Secretary of Education, gave wherein he stated, "75 percent of young Americans, between the ages of 17 to 24, are unable to enlist in the military today because they have failed to graduate from high school, have a criminal record *, or are physically unfit."

75%. Great for an outlet mall. Terrible for the United States. Now, I'm not an alarmist, NRA member, war monger or any other such proponent of bombs, violence, or the killing of innocent babies, but like it or not, the military is necessary for National Security. We want it strong for various reasons. Plus, it's been helpful for things like stopping Hitler and keeping out terrorists.......oh wait, nevermind.

Should the Battle of the Universe take place in an era low on high school graduates, American military will be understaffed, ill-prepared, and the rest of us could be at risk for an unwelcomed draft.

Dramatic? Yes. Lose sleep? Not just yet. Another reason why Public ed is in crisis and needs a massive overhaul? HU-RAH!

You Know Your Cat Is Your Best Friend...

2010-10-30T21:53:00.001-07:00

When you file into the bathroom together, go to your respective receptacles and share a morning pee with each other. Everyday.

Best Guests

2010-10-19T16:17:00.000-07:00

I just had four friends from Chicago short noticedly stay at my house this past week. At first I was a little, "Ah shit, What did I agree to?" But then became obsessed with finding the perfect cat litter.

The first night we hung out they bought me dinner.

The second day we hung out- they allowed me to take them surfing. Aka- I got to go surfing on a weekday- aka their vacation became my vacation.

They stuck Harold and Kumar into the DVD player while cooking a delicious meal and made me a vodka soda with lime.

They cleaned my kitchen leaving it in better shape than when they arrived.

They invited me to Napa to drink more vodka sodas with lime, eat more delicious food- we're talkin fresh oysters from the seaside, insisted we go wine tasting, and supported my decision to buy apple flavored Licorice.

Really the Award goes out to couch surfers who know how to treat couch owners. God bless ya!

Why is my ear hecka wobbly?

2010-09-02T21:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, as I was lining my students up from recess, I heard a horrified yelp from the back of the line. I looked back into the small face of my newest student,let's call him Jorge - Fernando, yelling in a panic "WHY IS MY EAR HECKA WOBBLY!?!"

I let him touch my ear to assure him that everyones ears are hecka wobbly. He then started to squeeze his ear into a pair of lips and began talking to me. "My ear is talking," he said and filed into the classroom.

This is why I love my job.

Robin Williams, You Have It All

2010-08-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

When making my Top 5 Most Perfect Movies list I considered the movie Hook. But then I watched it on the USA channel at my parent’s house in Minnesota for the 8 millionth time. And you know - as much as Dustin Hoffman virtually disappears as an actor in his genius depiction of a poetic yet bumbling drama queen of a Captain Hook and that infamous imaginary food fight has lead me to experiment with food coloring on mash potatoes and scour the earth for a glass of BoBo- the movie is kind of annoying. I really hated Peter Banning’s sappy 10 year old son crybabying over how his dad never watches him play baseball and that weirdo scene where Julia Roberts turns into a life size princess Tinkerbell and tries to get into Robin Williams' pants. Of course RU-FI-OOOO was a 1991 wet dream and a half and the lost boys were a charming amalgamation of thoughtful raggamuffinry, but all in all, Hook was far from perfection. It is, HOWEVER, a pretty darn good Robin Williams flick.

Robin, Robin, Robin. So many movies. So many Laughs. So many tears. Love him or hate him- the dude has skillz. Therefore I came up with the best and worst of Robin William’s oeurve. Note: Half the movies on the Goddawful list I have not seen but am fully confident in their excruciating dreadfullness based on trailers and general life experience.

Top 10 Most Brilliant Robin Williams Movies

1.) Ms. Doubtfire
2.) Aladdin
3.) The Birdcage
4.) Death to Smoochy
5.) Deconstructing Harry
6.) Dead Poets Society
7.) Hook
8.) The Word According to Garp
9.) Good Will Hunting
10.) Patch Adams

Top 10 Most Goddawful Robin Williams Movies

1.) August Rush
2.) The Adventures of Baron Munchausen
3.) Night At the Museum 1 and 2
4.) License to Wed
5.) Jumanji
6.) One Hour Photo
7.) Old Dogs
8.) Fern Gully
9.) Insomnia
10.) Patch Adams

I’m not gunna lie- I fricken love RW. He’s a nutjob and I wish we were roommates. We’d sit around drinking absinthe all day doing character monologues back and forth until we woke up the next morning singing “You Never Had A Friend Like Me” while washing the dishes. Oh, What Dreams May Come!

Top 5 Most Perfect Movies

2010-08-05T13:25:00.000-07:00

Perfect? What on earth could that mean? The idea of the perfect movie first occurred to me several months ago when I attended a Movie in the Park extravaganza in San Francisco. The feature was…dun dun duuuun…Back to the Future. A park filled with an urban gathering of the Mcfly generation was, as expected, the best possible way to see Back to the Future for the 15th time and despite the fact that I was sitting on some random pipe in the ground and some exhibitionist couple were violently sucking face two inches in front of me, I had a marvelous time.

I left thinking, “What a perfect movie!” Every single minute mattered, entertained, and delighted. From Crispin Glover, Michael J Fox, and Leah Thompson to Christopher Lloyd RIP- (Wait, did he die?) the acting was SPOT ON. Even Einstein the dog was on point. The details were impeccable- Anyone remember the ululating Libyan terrorists? THE POWER OF LOVE!? I could go on.

What I decided makes a perfect movie are the following elements:

A.) Not a minute is wasted on superfluous scenes intended to showcase the leading actor’s talent (or lack thereof), extraneous plot developments, or overdramatized landscape panning.
B.) Each actor owned their role in a way that nobody else could.
C.) The soundtrack enhances the concept of the film without becoming the centerpiece of its momentum.
D.) The plot is seamless with scenes that are coherent but not overly predictable.
E.) Every time you watch the movie, you notice some new detail that’s extremely funny, telling, or well...perfect.

Enough reasoning. Here is my Top 5 Most Perfect Movie List:

1.) Ferris Bueller’s Day off
2.) Back To the Future
3.) The Sandlot
4.) The Fugitive
5.) Close tie between Ace Ventura Pet Detective and Dumb and Dumber

Clearly, I am a product of the Mcfly Generation. Feel free to add or debate this list with your own experiences in Perfect Cinema. Goodnight and Good Luck.

Helium Article # 1

2010-07-30T21:42:00.000-07:00

In my wisdom teeth removal recovery period I have joined a website called Helium.com. It's some kind of information sharing self-publishing article generator thing. It provides article topic titles and you go nuts writing away.

Today I chose the topic: Online Dating Mistakes Men Need to Avoid

Here it is:

As someone who treated online dating like a sport for about 5 months and went on at least 40 dates, I consider myself an expert on the online dating mistakes of men. Here are the top five things men should consider as they enter the ether world of love:

1.) How accurate are your pictures?

The very last date I went on and the reason why I quit online dating was because my date grossly misrepresented himself in his online pictures. Not only was he overweight, beady eyed, and poorly dressed, but he had a terrible personality to boot. Now if you are an overweight, beady eyed, poorly dressed man with a terrible personality, please present yourself that way. If you find a lady that’s into that sort of thing, you will know it’s real. Sell yourself in any other way and you’ll be wasting your time and money on a woman who will turn you into a cautionary online dating tale faster than you can say McMuffin Breath.

2.) Do you need a therapist more than you need a girlfriend?

At least 30% of the dates I went on were pro bono therapy sessions wherein I reassured, understood, rationalized, and talked down the saddest men in the world. Yes. Life is hard. But it’s a lot harder to find a hot girl that gives a hoot about your bummed out sack of broken dreams…on the first date.

3.) Are you as funny in real life as you are on paper?

How many times did I LOL when reading a potential suitors profile? SO MANY! How many times did I LOL in a face to face? Not at all. Never. Nope. I even had a guy ADMIT that he is funnier on paper. Most women don’t date paper, so step up your face game or chill out on the Mr. Witty profile man.

4.) Eager Beaver?

I know its super exciting to be out with a fantastic lady with a cool phone, but really try not to make 5 future plans with her after ten minutes of waiting for the first drink to kick in. If you think she’s the cat’s pajamas and all you want to do is touch her arm, take three deep breaths and try to hold out for the next 15 or so minutes to pass. If you have to touch her, be subtle: No weirdo hand on the lower back. If you need to tell her she’s pretty make a comment about her necklace. Do not go overboard on the compliments and please, whatever you do: hide your boner at all costs.

5.) Open up.

Number one most obnoxious thing a guy can do on a date is be a total dud. We ladies would much rather have a horror story than no story at all. I once went on a date with a guy who had just gotten back from a trip to Brazil. I thought, “Great we’ll have so much to talk about! Traveling, cultural/social observations, bachelor party shenanigans, ocean creatures!” Imagine my disappointment when all the guy could squeeze out of his Brazilian excursion was that he ate a lot of beef and went rock climbing once. I also found out that his job involves a lot of paper shuffling and that he works out until 9 o’clock three days a week. Womp Womp. The ability to elaborate is key to keeping an intelligent woman’s attention. It gives us more fodder with which to psychoanalyze you and subsequently decide if we want to see you naked or not. There’s a fine line between sexy mystery man (only exists in foreign movies), and short-answer bad conversation dude (all too common). Try not to be the latter.

Yeah Well, Life's Not Fair

2010-07-24T20:34:00.000-07:00

Remember when you were a kid and Jessica Fairbanks, your best twin-name friend/nemesis, got to ride the pretty tall white horse named Dakota, and you got stuck with the fat old flea-bitten fart of equine genetics named Ralph. And how you expressed to your mother that,"It's not fair!"? and she responded with something to the tune of, "Yeah Well, life's not fair (YWLNF)." And how in that moment YWLNF was least desirable pentad of words you would ever ever want to hear?

Then when you got older and found out that indeed life IS NOT fair and that its' injustices both small and large are not only ever-present but yet to come. And that if you said "It's not fair," every time something was not fair you would be a miserable/infantalized adult with no friends and an equally disgruntled parrot named Lady?

Yes, life is full of inequalities- My students make sure to remind me of this on a daily basis. I try as little as possible to drop the YWLNF line of them, but sometimes it's all I got. I started thinking- What can really truly justify the YWLNF line. Less- "My boss is a prick loser and has out for me" and more "Life's a bitch and then you die"- I came up with a list.

1.) Having extremely abusive/shitty parents
2.) Innocent Bystander Casualties
3.) Extreme Psoriasis
4.) Colostomy Bag Necessity
5.) Severe Wheat/Gluten Allergies- seriously, what.
6.) Genocide
8.) Dirty drinking water
9.) Underdeveloped/absent sexual organs
10.) The fact that nearly 99.9% of the population will never get to go to outer space.

Sometimes you'll hit a kid with YWLNF because they're upset that they got the blue frisbee instead of the green one. Then other times you have to explain to a 7 year old that the reason they are not coming back to the same class next year is because their crackhead mother, with her own abusive background, exposed them to so much severe emotional, chemical, and sexual trauma at the age of 3 that their current guardian can no longer take on the challenges of caring for such a damaged child, and that they have to be shipped to another city where their Child Protective Services case was first opened, and entered into the foster care system, where they will not know anyone, will gain an even deeper sense of abandonment than they already have and have to rely on the failings of the under-funded Social Services to survive past high school.

But you can't really say YWLNF to a kid like that because they already know- and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it- I guess that's what makes certain parts of Life truly unfair- - the inability to change them

Coulda Shoulda Woulda

2010-07-09T15:40:00.001-07:00

I have been a busy little beaver in the past month- wrapping up the school year, traveling, river ratting, sharpening my teeth. So busy that I have not had a smidgen of time to do any serious blogging of sorts. Damn Shame. This does not, however, mean that I have not THOUGHT about my blog. I think about it all the time- In fact I think about it so much I thought I'd blog about thinking about my blog. Finally- A little motivation- RIGHHTTTT!

Here are my top 5 Blog Thoughts (with Abstract):

1.) I djflkanut NEW YORK

When I went to NYC a few weeks ago to visit friends from various parts of my life I learned three things about myself: 1.) When it comes to vintage clothes under $20 I have no control. 2.) I love Ramen. 3.)Heat + Humidity + One leaky wallet + UTTER FILTH = Me djflkanuting New York.

While I relished the time I spent with my friends, who I love dearly and with great passion, I really did not enjoy New York this time around. I mean don't get me wrong: The food was off the HOOK, the shopping rocked my frock, and the people are insanely beautiful. But the HEAT. THE HEAT. JESUS MARYSUS. Imagine 90 degree humidity holding hands with the infernal sun: On top of rotting trash, millions of sweaty, stinky pedestrians, constant mind-numbing consumption, and an eternal hangover: NYC you kicked my ass.

2.) THE ONE

That's it. It Happened. I'm completely, totally, head over heels, butt-crazy IN LOVE! You know how people who are partners-4-life tell you that they just KNEW on the first date- just KNEW. I understand that now. City of Oakland: I HECKA DO!

3.) To Clean or Not to Clean

The other day I was washing my dishes, and started laughing. This is it, I thought to myself. Cleaning: It's friggen awesome. Dear Mom, You win.

4.) The Road Not Taken

Life is full of infinite possibilities. And so is email. I recently started this game "The Road Not Taken" (inspired by the Robert Frost poem) with my friend Nick, wherein I give 5 possible responses to his last email. Now the first email thread was pretty cut and dry.He wrote something- I wrote 5 somethings back. However when the ball went over to Nick's court. The response thread grew. He gave five responses- one response per 5 responses I gave- Then 5 whole new responses to my email in summation. Resulting in 10 total responses.

Now of course, we could continue on like this. I could directly respond to his last 5 responses then create a whole new thread of 5 more responses totaling in 10 responses per email OR I could Experiment In Exploding The Universe By Dabbling In Exponential Infinity Popping or EIETUBDIEIP. Think painting of a painting of a painting or in Laymen's terms: Sheri Lewis's "Song that Never Ends."

Every response gets 5 responses. This would require alot of work on both Nick and I's part. We'd both have to be very committed- which is kind of ironic since the whole point of giving 5 responses is to not commit. In any case- EIETUBDIEIP is not for the light of heart. But then again- consider: The Road.

5.) Trader Jo'Mama

Trader Joe's is funny because they try to keep it real by giving "ethnic" branding to their diverse array of food items:

Trader Giotti
Trader Jose
Trader Ming

In any case I came up with a list of possible Traders and their corresponding products:

a.) Trader Joke: Vegan Prime Rib
b.) Trader Jonas Brothers: Static Free Hair Brush
c.) Trader Guzman (my cat): Corn on the Cob - he loves corn. loves...................................

ugh this one is a fail. i really tried. if you got anything Joe-wise let me know.

Party Accomplished

2010-06-08T17:11:00.001-07:00

Zee Hosts

Lucky Josh Dodds

MOMMA!

Bluegrass Bandini's- My favorite song: H1N1

Yup

Ladies of the Lawn

Jukin'!

Mr.Coleman

Smile High Club

Before the mug breaks.

My backyard alight with the lucid night

Party for Party Sake

2010-05-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

Being Mean

2010-05-08T18:09:00.000-07:00

The best part of becoming friends with someone is when you can start making fun of them to their face. My friend Josh Dodds and I are at this very point in our relationship and I am loving it. Mcdonalds style. Today after we went to a brunch with a bunch of people we vaguely know we sat on my couch for an hour making fun/gushing over each other.

JD: Jess, I just love your hair. Maybe you should do it like this (starts playing with hair.)
JB: I like my hair. You are obsessed with my hair.
JD: I am obsessed with hair in general. Why is it so greasy?
JB: I put pomade in it.
JD: You put grease in your hair?
JB: Yup. Do You?
JD: Well, you know, I got to. You don't have to though.
JB: It gets puffy.
JD: Like frizzy?
JB: Like Puffy. Big.
JD: I don't think so. I think it would be fine without it. Do you put it in when it's wet or dry?
JB: Both. It depends. I put it in dry today.
JD: You should put it in wet.
JB: It's not as effective. I like the way it looks now.
JD: Yeah, it looks good.
JB: Exactly.
JD: I don't know Jess. It feels nasty.
JB: Nobody told you to put your hands in it.
JD: Right.

Oh and when I wrote "the best part of becoming friends with someone is when you can start making fun of them to their face." What I really meant to say was, "The best part of becoming friends with someone is when you can shamelessly talk about your hair and the other person actually cares."

Special Ed vs Specialer Ed

2010-04-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

Last Friday my friend/teacher partner Erika and I were strapped for lesson plans so decided we were gunna give our ragamuffins what they really want: an intermural-special-ed-dodgeball-throwdown. Erika and I both teach Separate Day Classes with special ed students, but in very different capacities. While Erika's students are struggling to remember the letter A, mine are screaming,"I'll fuck you in the ass!"

The most important distinction here is that Erika's students are in Special Ed primarily because they have a Specific Learning Disability or have been labeled "Mentally Retarded." My little hellraisers' disabilities, on the other hand, are due to "emotional disturbance." Students in my class very rarely have any cognitive deficits. They are just filled with rage.

So obviously pitting these two groups against one another in dodgeball was the most logical thing to do.

We penned the band of outsiders in a fenced in area, split the court in a half with purple chalk and let them at it. In a matter of minutes Erika's students had all been hit roughly ten times and at least three of my students were on a time-out from throwing above the neck and attempting to insight a riot. Ms. A's kids huddled at the back of the fence dancing and singing around generally ignoring the balls whipping past their faces, while my precious babes loomed over the purple line with blood dripping from their mouths screaming countless taunts, teases, and degradations of the soul. It was quite a sight to behold.

I, being a charitable and slightly vengeful person myself, joined Erika's motley crew and cross-haired all my favorite students- Jesse Owens, Hip-Hop, Spider-Monkey, Bo-jangles, Ziona Get-It-Straight, Cornbread and Ms. Fierce, beaning them all with a Ms. Baer ball to the knee caps. Suckas! Of course they showed me absolutely no mercy and I ended up running off the court with my tail between my legs and my arms cradling my head, screaming "STOPPPPP!!!"

In any case. If you are ever bored and have two special ed classes at your disposal, I encourage you to go to your neighborhood dollar store, purchase 8 rubber balls and head out to the nearest blacktop. It will be the best 8 dollars you ever spend.

Hands-On Learning

2010-04-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

This week I went to the SFMOMA with one of my favorite students. She's a third grader and the definition of precocious. It was her first time going to any museum EVER even though she had seen them on TV and stuff. For the sake of confidentiality- let's call her Ziona- her self-proclaimed alter ego.
I am going to break down our adventure into top 5 incidents:

Incident #1: On the way to the moma is a park called Yerba Buena gardens. It's really beautiful and has all sorts of water features. Ziona is in pure heaven. She's a total water baby, and is pulling out all her change to make wishes for Martin Luther King and I am going to assume, her father, who passed away 4 years ago. In defiance of all logic and celebration of all possibility- every wish she makes is about the resurrection of her father. I watch her tenderly and make a similar wish of my own.

Incident #2: We are still at Yerba Buena and Ziona is obsessed with the water. Sitting there serenely she sweeps the water with the tips of her fingers:
Z: This feels like Barack Obama's Handshake.
M: What do you mean?
Z: Cold.
M: How do you know Barack Obama's handshake is cold?
Z: No answer.

Incident #3: We get into the museum and it's like shooting a gun to commence a race. Ziona is OFF! and I am forced to walk way more briskly than my usual museum stroll. I catch up to her just in time to see that the first thing she does at the sight of art is go right up to that sucker and put her whole hand on it. Smack.
M: Oh uh, don't do that.
Z: Why not?
M: Um, cuz you're not supposed to, and.....(she's off again)
By the time I catch up with her she's getting yelled at by a docent because there's a pool table sculpture with very meticulously placed balls atop it and Ziona is reaching over to grab one. My need to explain the rules has passed and Ziona sulks for a mere two seconds, "I don't like that lady," and is Peuwh...off yet again.

Incident #4: There is a video featuring a man dressed in drag slowly moving about a white room and fondling a pearl between two white gloved fingers. After running in and out of the room roughly 13 times Ziona keeps returning to the video, making little comments like, "What is she DOING?" "That's a man." "OHHH a pearl!"
Me: You seem to really like this video.
Z: I just wanna keep watching it because it doesn't make sense.
M: Do you think it has meaning?
Z: No
M: What if it did have meaning? What would it be?
Z: Slow-motion
M: Like being patient?
Z: Yes.

Incident #5: Ziona wants a subway sandwich so we decide to leave. On our way to the car we encounter another water feature, different from the one in Yerba Buena. Within seconds she's got her hands in it.
M: Does this one feel like Barack Obama's handshake?
Z: No.
M: Why not?
Z: Too cold.
M: Oh.

Needless to say we had an excellent time. I don't think I saw any art that day, except of course, the art of being, which Ziona has flawlessly mastered. In the car ride back she asked me if diamonds really do come from Africa and we had a wonderful conversation about questioning leadership. "I love this," I thought and turned up some Justin Timberlake real loud for drive back home.

Friends Tell Friends...

2010-02-03T22:21:00.000-08:00

...When they have something in their teeth, or on their face or hanging off their shoe. For years, I have had an overwhelming urge to tell strangers with babies slung all over them that they have something on their shirt, head, back, ankle... Like a piece of schmutz ketchup. I never actually say it. But I always think it. And damn if it doesn't crack me up. EVERY-SINGLE-TIME.

Dinner

2010-01-18T22:42:00.000-08:00

Mama brought ducks
With their little heads cut off
Kept em in a separate Tupperware
From the carrots
She dumped em in the
Frying pan
Sparks of broken water
Shot out at her
Face and hands
Burning her skin.

She barely jumped back
Let her skin burn
Watching those dead ducks
Fry. Fry. Fry.
Burn. Burn. Burn.

Nobody said nothing
When we ate the
Carrots
And the duck.
Mama’s hands all
Bleeding onto the plate.

Excessive Mischief

2010-01-18T10:20:00.000-08:00

Recently a student of mine was written up by her bus driver for spitting on another kid. I am hoping this was her attempt to experiment with what she has been learning about hedgehogs- that they spit on each other for over 20 minutes at a time (Nobody knows why!)- and not her determination to be bus bully of the month. In any case, when I received the written notice there was a section of boxes catagorizing the offense. There was, of course, the violence box, swearing, moving around, yelling, disregard for authority boxes: Typical stuff. But to my sort-of delight, my student's deviance had been marked EXCESSIVE MISCHIEF.

Ha. I thought, Excessive mischief. How poetic: Implying that a certain amount of mischief is acceptable, if not encouraged. That mischief is an inevitable and essential part of being. Heck, I remember throwing pop cans out of the bus when I was in grade school, bagels out of cars in high school, doing donuts on the quad in college. Mischief is a one of the thickest fibers of life, and I'd like to think that this write-up document whole-heartedly acknowledges this tried and true fact.

There is a line, however, between mischief and Excessive Mischief. Being mean, dangerous, and gross is exactly where that line exists and my student definitely crossed it. So I tied her up and stuck her in a cupboard for about twenty minutes, while blasting Sheri Lewis's Song That Never Ends through a set of headphones I taped to her head and am pretty sure she'll never do it again. Conditioning folks, it's all about conditioning.

She will be back on plain old type 1 mischief in no time, I trust, and hope that her endeavors are as full of the wonderous joys of youthful mischieviocity as hiding toxic fish sauce in the back seat of your friend Maya's car in order to get back at her from when she sprinkled your lawn with instant mash potatoes. But the second that shit gets excessive, it's all lamb-chop baby, and there's no turning back.

Party B = Movie Me

2009-12-13T18:24:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-04T18:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-24T19:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-04T17:31:00.000-07:00

I CAN!

2009-09-24T14:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-14T16:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-27T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-18T20:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-12T17:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-29T20:10:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-04-29T12:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-01T21:21:00.001-07:00

YAWP! Young Asians With Power!

2009-03-25T14:12:00.001-07:00

Readers Write: Rain

2009-03-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-20T17:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-19T17:35:00.001-07:00

Composure

2009-03-10T20:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-07T16:53:00.001-08:00

Trust in Jim, You will Win.

Fact of Life

2009-02-20T13:04:00.000-08:00

There is no healthy kind of cheeto.

postsecret.com

2009-02-16T21:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-15T21:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-15T13:22:00.000-08:00

Brooklyn Anchorage

2009-02-03T20:52:00.001-08:00

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!

2009-02-03T14:10:00.000-08:00

Poem Alasis

2009-01-30T12:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-27T13:03:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-26T19:08:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-23T08:48:00.000-08:00

Flu vi won ka nuvie

2009-01-20T17:52:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-20T17:28:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-17T20:57:00.000-08:00

Obsessica

2009-01-02T19:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-01T23:10:00.001-08:00

Dj Fabulette

2008-12-31T16:33:00.001-08:00

On Top Of The World

2008-12-31T09:18:00.001-08:00

I think air balloons are just marvelous.
I would like to ride one.
And live in a cloud.

Muralista

2008-12-27T14:31:00.001-08:00

Ben and I

FINALLY

Finished Our Mural!!!

Sunday Best

2008-12-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

Today I watched Doubt, a stunning, spare movie about conviction. It was, in movie speak, riveting. Morally provocative. Two ecclesiastic thumbs up. I highly recommend you and your beloved see it with a large coke, small popcorn and nerd rope.

It was so riveting that, well, I had an idea. A bit of background:

The movie was set in the Catholic Church setting circa 1969. I’ve never been much of a church goer, but I do like the idea of wearing dresses that require a trench coat and gloves every week to sit and contemplate the fiber of my spiritual essence in a gloriously cavernous church adorned with stained glass windows and intricate moldings. In the movie- Philip Seymour Hoffman plays an eloquent priest that serves up some seriously evocative sermons. I liked that too. The idea of going once a week to intellectually process some conflict of the soul with a group of my peers. – I will say here that- not all priests can engage their parish to a truly profound level- but in my religious fantasy every time I leave the church, I leave light, contemplative, and spiritually effervescent. Like a quiet winter’s toast of soul bubbly.

I like everything about Sunday Church sans the reality of Sunday Church. Disclaimer- These judgments are purely based on my limited and singular experience- Church is full of old people, and While I appreciate old people, they move slow and often want not to speak at length about abstract thoughts. I mean most people don't in general. So scratch the old people thing- Most people are incapable of having an in depth, abstract conversation, and Church is full of most people. The preacher or minister is often boring or complacent- hell fires this, good lord is the best, YAY! Jesus Christ love all mighty our savior. Fine. The music can be of mediocre production and the pews are horribly uncomfortable. Oh yea and alot of the dogma is pretty oppressive. Disclaimer- It just isn't for me- I understand and am happy for people who find a sense of community and comfort in the church. I know it's helped many people in times of trouble and guided them to find meaning and create a set of values in spirit and in practice, and I know it can be a really lovely important institution -I have no strong negativity towards Church or Churchgoers (okay some- those crazies who think God created 9-11 to punish America for not burning gay people on crosses- not a fan) - But again- It's just not for me.

So what is for me? This is my idea-

The Church of Art

Every Sunday, a congregation of artists, writers, musicians, dancers, thinkers etc. come together to listen to the sermon of a transient lecturer- whoever they may be- and this lecturer will elocute about something - whether it be an artist, song, piece of work etc,- and this topic in some way or another poses a question, or idea. Kind of like a visiting professor in a college lecture hall. There will also be music to be performed by whoever, local musicians, not-local musicians, dj's, kind of like an open mic- but not terrible- and then everyone creates! Something must be made! And then a small feast will follow. Special programs can be planned such as unveiling of a piece, or a performance- I mean really the format will be open- most likely decided by the lecturer of the day. Everyone will dress up and perhaps bring something to eat potluck style. And we will all feel as though we are a part of something important, beautiful, even Godly when we go home. I'm envisioning Bean Bag Chairs.

Oh, it's a rough idea. But nonetheless one I will pursue further. To Worship Art: Our Art, the Art of the World, And The High Art of the Spirit.

Anyone want to pass out the pamphlet?

Photoshop: The Agony and The Ecstacy

2008-12-16T17:56:00.000-08:00

As you can tell, I've been learning how to Photoshop. It is so exhilarating to learn a new skill. And I have to admit I'm a bit obsessed now. My entire commute home today was dedicated to the imagination of my next Photoshop project, mentally moving the magnetic lasso over the outline of Superwoman's sumptuous outline, adding layer upon layer, heightening the contrast of her flowing black locks, then flattening OH YES! flattening! This is where the Ecstasy part comes in. There's something so juicy, so undeniable, so absolutely gorgeous about Photoshop. There's the freedom, and the process, the immediate gratification and the endless options, the playground of google images and the CLONE TOOL, the impermanence of your choices and the possibility of perfection. Yes! More! Much Much More! I couldn't stop if I tried.

This past Sunday, I spent 9 hours straight working on the Mucca Pazza poster in my last post. I didn't eat, I didn't go to the bathroom, I barely drank anything, and when my boyfriend insisted I take a break and enjoy some cuddle-time USA (which I LOVE and ALWAYS go for)- I shoved him out of my way. My body was cold and uncomfortable, my head hurt, and my eyeballs felt like they were about to drop out of their sockets. When given helpful tips from friends I became testy and impatient. Angry. Bitter. I cursed the lord profusely, cracking my neck violently all the while and stared transfixed at the blazing godawful screen. This is the Agony.

It was all together horrible. Yet entirely filled with bliss.

I've been thinking about this for the past few days. This Agony and This Ecstasy go far beyond Photoshop. In my world, I relate this dynamic to the creative process, whether the medium be music, painting, poetry or yes, Photoshop. All the conflict that goes into creation- the pain, and the pleasure- is was causes the creation to take form. Ah, a paradox. Chicken or the Egg. I suffer if I don't make things and I suffer when I do. I am free and happy when I'm lying in my bed (cuddling perhaps), just enjoying my thoughts, and I am delighted when I'm obsessed and focused on a project.

The word Agony also means Passion in reference to the Passion of Christ. Ecstasy, in religious terms, is an altered state of consciousness, one of spiritual awareness, visions and euphoria. Christ must have experienced Ecstasy in order to commit to the Agony. Or maybe the Agony put him into a state of Ecstasy. Scientifically, the relationship is symbiotic. Personally, I am thrilled...oh and miserable...

As an artist I have experienced the dichotomy of Agony and Ecstasy, as if on repeat, in every project I have worked on. In some the agony outweighed Ecstasy and in others it was vice versa. But I will never forget the time I attempted to drill a screw into the base of a tree trunk that was part of the enchanted forest I made in college. The drill slipped and tore right through my forefinger. Blood poured out. In my pain and in sight of all the red, all I could do was laugh. A deep, exalted, guttural kind of laugh.

And as my tears of laughter mixed with my finger blood on the floor I thought, "Man, this is the best."

2008-12-16T13:51:00.000-08:00

My Second Photoshop- Co-op Image Benefit- Come One! Come All!

2008-12-14T19:40:00.000-08:00

First Photoshop- Holiday in the Hood

Should

2008-12-09T19:07:00.001-08:00

Driving today amidst the insanity of a snowy slopfest the car in front me spun out and slid past the stop sign it was fruitlessly braking for. I thought. He should have pumped his brakes. Really should have. He would not have slipped then. If he was doing what he should have done in such dreary conditions. Yes. I speaketh the truth. SHOULD. SHOULD. SHOULD.

But really it wouldn't have mattered. There still would have been no cars around to maim, no pedestrians to kill, the driver would have had one less stop sign of note in his life, and I would not be writing about the word Should right here and now.

SHOULD. It's a psychologically complex word that gets thrown around like the word fuck at a football game. I'm not actually sure if fuck is indeed used profusely at football games. I've never been to one. Maybe Shit, is the word of choice Oh Lord! CockSucker! Son of a Gun with Two Daddies and a Limpin' Pony! I would not be the one to ask. I guess I should know what I'm talking about before I start making such bold statements. I really should.

The first time I received wrath from dispensing this auxiliary verb was when I was in a long distance relationship in college. I casually mentioned "Hey you should buy the next phone card."

Bf: OH YEAH?! I SHOULD DO ALOT OF THINGS(snap!)!!!

me: oh, um. sorry?

Yes, I could have asked: "Hey will you by the next phone card?" I should have seen the disaster signs ahead...

I was so shocked and frightened by the intensity of his response it took me years to recover. I've even tried using this intense kind of reaction on other boyfriends who have dropped the should bomb on me. It never helped. Getting all uh uh uh about shit never helps. Nevertheless, I was still shaken. This seemingly harmless word, almost second nature in saying, can really put the ugly twist on an otherwise simple situation.

I was once told that the word Should is not our own voice, but the voice of someone or something outside of ourself. Meaning, Should embodies things outside of our real values, desires, routine, goals, priorities and even maturity. For me, there are two kinds of should- Self-Should and Some-Other-Asshole-Should.

Self-Should

"I should really clean the dishes."

Translation:

I don't give a shit about the dishes, but my roommate is a Nazi, and she'll be all up in my g-string if I don't do them asap.

I hate doing the dishes but my mom always told me to clean them promptly lest rats take over and eat me in my sleep.

I have to watch CSI, Prison Break, catch the finale of the Amazing race and start on the last season of 24, but my boss always told me- if you have time to lean you have time to clean, and he's the man so...

Some-Other-Asshole-Should

"You should really do the dishes."

Translation

You are a stupid sloppy bitch and I hate you. I am awesome.

If you don't do the dishes rats will start infesting your house and nesting in your in rotting half-eaten carcass. I am awesome.

You lazy boob stop masturbating to Keifer Sutherland and be a productive member of this great American dream. I am awesome.

Should comes is all shapes and sizes. In fun conversations- "Yea, you should totally buy a talking toucan and name it Sam!" , and not so fun ones- "You should stop doing heroine. You're disappearing."

But no matter the situation- Should implies that whatever is happening presently is not satisfactory in some way. It implies that someone else knows better, is more morally, ethically authoritative, and that their way is best. It implies discomfort with the self, the feeling of powerlessness beneath expectations and demands from external sources, and perhaps, more significantly the pressure to change. Should is a real doozy.

Word.

So on this precipice I do Declare! I should no more be less than what I should!

OOOkay...yea... OR I don't have any real answers but I am going to try and be more aware of this shape shifting should. Should I fail, God Help us all.

Out of Towners

2008-12-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

I know now where my character will go when I say Jupiter. I took some ayahuasca last night. I felt the gravity of the earth as my body is a water mass. tear dripping down chin, butterflies, dew sliding off a blade of grass. white plastic catching sun by wind. my eyes seem to have retained their browness. my head aches still. And And. treatise of the spirit. controlless in the night. controlling throughout. arghy mc arghy.

sleep chain drink elixir. montage of dream. montage of life. baby, wet baby, first boots, snowhill ice treat, cold kisses on small beds, first nipple tug, school, smoke room, grey vans heading south, rain storm depart, depart, depart.

I thought, last night was special. Something. I make a character struggle. I die as a snake skin shedding. A dead woman loves life. Has three sons, and is determined to be as sick as she is herself. Dads fall on wedding days. with no less goodbye, than that.

I'd like to shake hands with all the children.

Mercredi, believe it. Hands touching in the crown of interlaced fingers. This is it guys. I'll snap my head off one day, and someone or maybe no one will see it.

Sweetness in The Palm of Your Hand

2008-11-27T12:16:00.000-08:00

Went to the dentist
the other day
he told me I have a cavity

I got sweet tooth
sweet tooth
for you baby
Uh huh!
I got a sweet tooth
sweet tooth
for you baby

Jolly rancher lover
watermelon crush
bubble yum
bubble yum
for your touch

I got sweet tooth
sweet tooth
for you baby
Uh huh!
I got a sweet tooth
sweet tooth
for you baby

Sugar High,
Candy low
Sweet too much
you gotta go go go
before I crash
(Oh No!)
Before I crash!
(Oh no!)
Before I crash!
(Oh No!)
Don't wanna break
break
break
your sweet honeycomb

I got a sweet tooth
sweet tooth
I can't stay away
I got sweet tooth
sweet tooth
for you baby!!!

Come on baby,
Give me a cavity!

Big Waves Small Bikinis

2008-11-25T14:41:00.000-08:00

hey there you. beach comber. sea fare drifter. I look up into the magnificence of water- globular, translucent, gravitational. tongue out wagging. I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty as a cup goes, down drain, drifting in the succulent pond of a Caribbean bay. remember that vacation we took in your living room? when we turned on all the lights, and laid on pillows, pretending to float on those rubber inflatable rafts I'm always dying to buy in sky mall magazines on trips i take to new york or other places not so warm? That was nice. I liked that. We liked each other so much then. Liking is such a thing as goes. and goes. the sun was out like a drag queen today. blaring. It was comforting to look at it through my front windows. all steamed up from the inside. and the birds switching back and forth across the white space above the houses. called sky, grey clouds. blue. my stomach rumbles. my skin crawls. I crack my neck irresistibly. The home I'm looking for comes in 16 months advance introspection and the owners are asleep in the loft space, unbeknown st to buyers perusing the open house. right by the edge of the lake. right up there to the very touch of the water. quite a show. i check my bank account, as a part of feeling productive. it's always a bit suspenseful. but there's no time to worry about money. I've got existentialism to consider. or, i wish i mean. oy oy oy oy oy. mother, oy mother. God I miss shopping. the aching arm shoving swishing the fabric out and away, squinting to see that glowing hint of a perfect dress. Imagining all wearing contexts. taking off my clothes in public. the competition. mmm. it fills me with creative prowess. eve a couture. mmm. just like a piece of sushi with sake. roll em out. yea yea, dearest the day was a dump without you. it was fine. it was....splendiddditty. it was song about bad dentistry and swear words (their excessive use by toddlers in the hood) and a time when women were just lampshades. just bufferers for the light of men who stand on two legs. those torch bearing Olympiads. ouch. ayyee. someone give me a bag of marbles. I lost mine. pphhhheh.

Better Night

2008-11-24T21:11:00.000-08:00

Stopping by the park on a snowy evening. the lamplight is glorious amidst the sugary snow falling around. as if in circle. this globe. Is one with out the other? the boots squeal by this walk. I am startled by my own sound. Thoughts come and wonder and terribly dwell, yet passing, not for a bit too long to be noticed by these cold downward stars. I am glad I walked to see this. I am satisfied by my choice. An elegant dog passes. The park is empty besides he and I and his young owner wearing sweatpants. Here we are. Together at last.

Okay Day

2008-11-24T16:24:00.000-08:00

As if a coil were drawn in the sand representing something much like a fish scale, singular, and shiny and profound. I asked you here to make sense with. Yet somehow I am lost in the blank spaces of words. between the / time .Leave me. A casserole. There, hug flakes drifting down to the burning touch of a cheek. Why won’t you wake me without this dream? I am intolerable above ground. Says the worm. I am slighter than your two hands can manage. In the lily pad surface of the earth, eyes bulge in their dying wish. And wonder. I slept tewleve hours last night in mind of buildings and appointments and impending vacations. Hearing all the fuzzy breaks of wave on tormented beach. There are ships at distances with every mans wishes on board. I wish I was a mind reader somedays. Heatbreak is a fading suggestion from indifference. Speaks the ocelot. Speaks the reader. Joyless, Esctatic, it’s all the same return to nothingness. Sizzling through our fingers as they dig tirelessly of the soil.