Party B = Movie Me

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

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

No?

Life is short. Why are you reading this blog?

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

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


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

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

A Tale of Two Californias

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

LOW BROW

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

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

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

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

HIGH TIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halloweenie

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


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

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

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

Bad Date Good Luck

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

Ms.Baer Room 7

I CAN!

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

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

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

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

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

All It Takes Is a Little Bit of Poop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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