Provoking Someone's Eye Out

Provoke: Transient Verb. to stir action or feeling. to provide the needed stimulus for. to induce. Verb. to call forth emotions, feelings, and responses.


It is all about this. This moment. Right here. This. One. Moment. This Little. Moment. Wanting in. This moment. See it. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it. Feel this moment. Feel something. Feel anything. Where. Have the moments gone. No one has. This moment. Anymore. No one feels. This moment. Something. Anything. Anymore.

We have. All stopped feeling. Something. Anything. We wake. Get dressed. Work. Go home. Do something. Do something else. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat fifty thousand times. And it is. Shallow. Empty.

We. Get high. Fuck our best friend's spouse. Watch mind numbing television. Have mind numbing conversation. About. Nothing. Drink too much. Cheap beer. Drink too little. Expensive beer. Wax. Wane. Pretentiously. We are so progressive. Here. In this moment. Waxing. Waning. About the state of the union. We. Walk past four men. Sleeping on the street. Holes in their shoes. Hands in our pockets. Head down. Forget. Everything.

We are so progressive. In this city. We are. So. Progressive.

Home. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat fifty thousand times.

And really. What I'm talking about. These moments. Not his moments. Or her moments. Not someone over there's moments. Your moments. Each and every one of your moments. You think. Not think. You are immune. To such moments. Not immune. Better than these moments. Not better. More evolved than these moments. De-evolving. I have seen them. The moments. Your moments. Each one.

And when I do I want to. Do something. Like. Yank out your eyeball. With some. Super Tarantino style kung fu action. In a moment. Fingers ready. Pluck. Gone. All kinds of eyeball missing glop. Hanging out of the. Socket. Drop it in the dirt. Spit. Stomp. Up. Down. Hating every second that you can. See out of the eye. That remains. So it. Must. Not. Remain.

Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat fifty thousand times.

Lick the cornea. Put the eye. In a blender. Set it on. Frappe.

No one really gets to use the frappe setting anymore.

Toss in. Vanilla Silk soymilk. Maybe some raspberries. Tobasco. Strychnine. Strap you down with. Twine. Stolen from the Ikea parking lot. Duct tape. Eyelids open. You. Instinctively. Blink. No reason. Anymore. Feed you the eyeball-vanilla-Silk-soymilk-raspberry-tabasco-strychnine concoction.

Delicious.


** Credit and thanks to B SHARP for providing the title of this post. Thanks B. Oh wait. I already said that. Nevermind then.

Paranoia Settles into the Brain

So. Uh. Okay.

Here is a bit of information for you all. Lately I have been checking out the domain names of those who have been checking me out. I have noticed a fair amount of repeat customers. This makes me happy. But today. Today. This morning. Moments ago. I noticed a domain name that did not make me happy. In fact. It made me a bit. Well. Concerned. Worried if you will. Freaked out kinda.

Someone. Some traffic. Originating from a United States Army domain name. Checked out my blog.

Now I'm not really the paranoid conspiracy theory type. Okay. Well. I sort of am. But I don't believe that anyone would really have any interest in little ol' me. I'm pretty boring actually. But this. Sort of uh. Got me concerned. And I'm sure it's probably just someone goofing off at work on the Federal dime. But. Uh. Well.

I'm wondering if I should be. Well. Worried.

My So-Called Sexy Ass Friends and the New Plague

I have some sexy friends. Really. I do. My friends are shitdamnmotherfucking sexy as hell. And you realize what this means don't you. It means that I should be fucking each and every one of my friends.

No. That is not what it means. Silly rabbit. It means that this is the second post in a row where I am saying nice shit about people. I must be sick. Those of you who know. Know that I am sick. Quite sick indeed. And have figured out this sickness thing. It is none other than bronchio-whooping-pneumonia. Horrible. Isn't it.

So I have bronchio-whooping-pneumonia. And it is not contagious. But it isn't pleasant. The last time I publically discussed my sickness I informed you that I had been coughing up my internal organs. Because I couldn't cough up anything else. Not to get graphic. But this is about to get REAL FUCKING GRAPHIC. So those of you with a weak stomach might want to stop reading now. Skip to the end or something when my tangent will wrap back around and I will be saying nice things about people again.

Still with me. Good.

So I have had this insane dry cough. And chances are. If you have seen me within the last two weeks I have either coughed on you or over you or under you or in your general direction or possibly even kept you awake most of the night with my dry hacking cough.

But guess what. I have good news. My cough isn't...uh...dry anymore. Actually. It is pretty fucking wet. And when I say wet. I could only be referring to one thing.

Phlegm.

Yes. Phlegm.

Even the spelling of the word looks awful. And it sounds awful. Go on. Say it. Say it out loud. Phlegm. Ew. And when I say phlegm people. I mean some of the thickest and stringiest and nastiest shit flying out of my throat. In fact. A mere five minutes ago. I was leaning over the sink in my kitchen. Choking on my own freakin' phlegm.

DISCLAIMER: I originally wrote most of this post last night. So when I wrote it, it was indeed a mere five minutes ago. I am currently sitting in my office at my place of employment and I have not forcibly expelled any phlegm yet today. But the day isn't over yet. So. Let me continue.

And when I finally forcibly expelled it (meaning phlegm) out of my body. It was like giving birth.

Okay. I don't know if it was really like giving birth. Giving birth is probably worse. When I was in high school. Instead of taking auto shop like I wanted. My guidance counselor made me take a course entitled "Child Development" oh yes. Child freakin' development. I remember two things from this course.

First. We had to carry around a freakin' egg for a freakin' week. I guess this was Westhill High School's ghetto ass low budget way of teaching us what it might be like to have a child at the tender age of fifteen. Shit. There were grrrls in my class who were already pregnant. Guess this lesson came a bit on the late side for them. Anyway. My mother -- bless her sweet little immigrant heart -- thought this was the most ludicris idea she ever heard and promptly put my egg in the refrigerator. Where it freakin' belonged.

The second thing I recall from this class was the video from hell. The video of an actual womyn giving actual birth.

This video was all up close and personal. And when I say close up I mean that either the camera had some massive zoom action going on or the person shooting the video was seriously all up on that shit. That video was the only birth control I ever needed. It was by far worse than some of the crime scene photographs that I have since seen. So. I really have no desire. None whatsoever. To ever give birth. And seeing that I don't really have any desire to ever give birth. Let us just call this projectile phlegm action the closest thing I will get to ever in a million billion years to actually giving birth.

My lungs are filled with something nasty. It's like something out of a bad horror movie. And I normally wouldn't share this with you all but damn. I have to tell someone. And here you are. Just sort of right here/there/wherever you are. So you get to hear it.

Let me say that I just don't feel so cute right about now. And I think I'm normally kind of cute. Sort of sometimes cute at least. But now. No cute action. And a great many of you have put up with my non-cuteness as of late. Thanks for that by the way. I owe you some serious cuteness when this is all over.

Or at least some head.

Which brings me back to the reason I began this post in the first place. And that was a damn fine segue by the way. My sexy ass friends. How is it possible that I know so many sexy people. Am I just lucky. I must be. Do I just attract sexy people into my life. Quite possible. Do I maybe have a strange and unusual view as to what is in fact sexy. Pretty damn sure.

So I know some sexy people. In my group of friends and extended friends and such we've got all kinds of sexy. Sexy smiles. Sexy vocal action. Sense of humor sexy. Sexy attitudes. Sexy brainy individuals. Especially those of you who don't even know how sexy and brainy you are one little bit. Insane sexy communication. Dorky sexy. Geeky sexy. Nerdy sexy. And how about talent sexy. All sorts of talent. Artistic drawin' talent sexy. Paintin' talent sexy. Writin' talent sexy. Photographin' talent sexy. Music makin' talent sexy. Sexy folk near and far. Sexy in ways you don't even know.

Yeah. I probably should just fuck all of you. Sexy ass bitches.

This Post Sponsored by the Letter U

The end of two thousand and five is approaching. Two thousand and five. And it is mind blowing if you think about it. Well. Uh. Not really. But that sounded quite enthusiastic didn't it.

I recall when I was in my early teens having a conversation with my high school friend Liggy. We were talking about the future and we were somewhat distraught because we felt that we would be "too old" to fully celebrate the milennium when it in fact arrived. Somehow the thought of being twenty seven years of age was akin to having one foot in the grave and the other in a nursing home. I suppose this is a normal and natural process for the fifteen year old mind. And I am reminded of this every time a young person feels the need to call me ma'am.

Ma'am. Oh bloody hell. Only one person on this planet is actually permitted to refer to me as ma'am without experiencing some very well practiced excessive eye rolling or an over abundance of sarcastic tongue lashing. Only one. So do not attempt this at home thinking that you are that one because the odds are against you. You are most likely not that one.

But I digress.

So. Two thousand and six. It will be here soon. Contemplation often ensues during this end of old and beginning of new year sort of thing. I am not certain as to whether or not I am feeling particularly contemplative. Eh. Who am I kidding. I am always at least somewhat contemplative. At any rate. Somehow the collective "we" feel that if one is to be contemplative or enact significant or non-significant change a new year is an appropriate time to begin such contemplative enactment action.

It is as if we somehow we feel as though we get a fresh start when the calendar flips. The slate is wiped clean. We can begin again. There is a second or third or fifth or fiftith chance. And somehow we can be reborn if we so choose.

But if you ask me. And I know you have not. But knowing me you all are fully aware of the fact that you do not have to ask in order for me to throw my opinion into the mix. So. If you ask me. Ahem. Uh. Shit. I no longer recall where I was going with this idea.

Oh yes. If you ask me. It all seems like a great deal of pressure. This pre new year contemplative enactment action of significant or non-significant change. And with too much pressure things tend to explode or implode or just get sort of soggy.

Soggy. Now is that any way to resolve or enact anything significant or non-significant. I think not. So no pressure cooker action. I will attempt to avoid the soggy exploding implosion. At least in this moment. I cannot promise that it will last. It must be that Gemini thing. Whatever that means.

Anyway. I am not going to make a list of things that I resolve to resolve in the coming year. No. I will not. I refuse to make a list that outlines enactment action of significant or non-significant change. It is tempting. I know I could do it. But I will not. Out of protest. For uh. Something.

Maybe I will talk about you. That would be nice. You. Yes. You. Now that seems like a rather good idea indeed. I will talk about you instead of talking about me. And I will say something nice. I will. Stop laughing. I will say something nice. I will. In fact. Say. Something. Nice.

So here is the nice shit. And I mean it. But do not ask me to go through it all again. I have an image to uphold here people. Uh. Here we go.

Let me say that I am honored to have met and to know some of the most amazing individuals on this planet. Seriously. I am not trying to kiss your collective asses. If anything. You all should be kissing my ass. Collectively and individually. But I mean it. I know some kick ass fucking fantastic human beans. My life has been and continues to be enriched by all of you. Including those of you that I know will never ever read a single word of my ramblings.

You are all beautiful. And talented. Each in your own right. This is true. All of you. Yes. I said all of you. Each and every one of you has in some way had an impact on my existence on this planet this year. Many of you in ways you could not possibly know. Or ways that I could not possibly have imagined. And perhaps "we" should inform each other more often of the wonderful ways in which each individual enriches our life. I am not certain if anyone does this enough. If I had to guess I would probably say that I do not. Unless I am drunk. And that really doesn't count. Because you are usually drunk too. And we don't remember these things then. And life is short. Too short not to say what you mean when you mean it. But I suppose we are all guilty of not doing so for a variety of reasons. But I digress.

We were talking about you. Well. I was talking about you. Many of you. And I mean you. But also you. The you that doesn't know that I am referring to you. Because maybe we have only had a few interactions. Maybe we don't know each other very well. Or maybe we know each other very well. Either way. I am talking about you. The many of you. Because in short you rock. But I am not brief. I am verbose. So I will continue. You are also wise. Compassionate. Encouraging. Inspiring. Loving. Gentle. Passionate. Humble. Brilliant. Geeky as hell. Hysterically funny.

I am an observer. And I have observed you all. In a variety of places and spaces and settings. And I have seen more than you probably know. For some of you more than I wanted to see. But I digress. Seriously. In the little details. I have seen everything. And I am duly impressed. And this doesn't mean that you are perfect. You are all georgously flawed. I am not flawed in any way of course. But we are not talking about me. We are talking about you. Yes. You.

So. Some of you drive me crazy. And others I wish would drive me a bit more crazy. But that might be getting a bit too personal. And since this is not about me I will refrain.

I guess what I am getting at is you are all wonderful for a whole host of different reasons. And I do most certainly hope that you all can see your wonderfulness. You are beautiful. Really.

Well. I do believe that is enough sappy ass shit for one post. Pardon me while I take my leave to go vomit now. Blech. Yuck. Gross.

I mean. Whatever. You didn't really buy all that shit did you. I most certainly hope not. I was just kidding. Sucker.

Possession Inflection Interjection

I have been thinking about language. Again. Language. And more specifically. The ways in which the use of language influences thought. And even more specifically. The ways in which we use language indicating possession.

Now I am speaking of possession. But not of the demonic variety. Forget about Linda Blair for a moment. Although I wonder if I might be able to use this as an interesting analogy. I may return to this idea later. But not now. And just so we are all on the same page. Let me be more specific. To possess is to have some degree of control over the object of said possession.

So. Here. I have been thinking about one word in particular as of late. One word denoting possession.

My.

Yes. My. And there are many ways in which one can use the word my. So let me break it down further.

My. My is an adjective. It is used as the possessive form of I. It is used to modify a noun. So my essentially denotes possession of the noun it modifies. Now with this little refresher in mind it can be said that there are many times in which one might want to denote possession of a noun in the first person in such a manner. Hence. The use of my. For example. I may want to speak of something that I purchased. In such a case I would use the possessive my as the modifier. And to provide further example I will list several nouns that could potentially be modified by said my modifier.

Book. Shoe. Pen. Keys. Bed. Spoon. Camera. Notebook. Gum. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Lover.

WHAT.

Wait. Something has gone terribly wrong. Did I say...yes. Yes. I did.

This is what has been puzzling me as of late. And let me back up for a moment. I understand that we live in a society with capitalism as a framework. And everything is built upon this frame. Everything always has been and likely always will be based on ownership and control and more specifically, the ownership and control of property. In some way. Shape. Form.

It could be argued that property ownership has been the central focus of all existence. And I am not speaking of all cultures and all times. I am not smart enough to do such things. I am not a historian. Nor am I an anthropologist. I can only speak of this place. And this general time period. So with that said. I have disclaimed. Let me continue.

Property. Control. Ownership. And what does this mean. What does this mean for our relationships and the ways in which we view those individuals with whom we share relationship.

It would seem to mean that in some way or shape or form we view people as some form of property. Not a new concept. In our society people were long viewed as property. Another example of the ways in which language and notions of property meld. Rule of Thumb. The original Rule of Thumb stated that a man could beat his wife with a switch. Provided it was not wider than the width of his thumb. Women were deemed the property of a man. Father. Uncle. Husband. And this was acceptable. And my point here is not to determine the rights and/or wrongs of the past. I am merely stating a fact about the past. Without value judgment in this moment. Perhaps I will value judge in a different moment.

But if you examine the ways in which we use language. You can see. Many people utilize the Rule of Thumb phrase. Without meaning to reference to original meaning. And perhaps when I said the people were long viewed as property. I meant. That although we would like to think that things have changed. They. Really. Haven't. Not much.

I would argue that our notion of people and property is much more ingrained than we might realize. And I will offer a second disclaimer. I am not a linguist. Someone who has studied linguistics might agree or disagree or both. Recall these are merely my thoughts. Therefore. Let us continue. Return for a moment to the aforementioned list. My boyfriend. My girlfriend. My lover. My. My. My. My person with significant descriptor attached.

And I don’t believe that people consciously think of possessive qualities when they speak. Or when they are my-ing. I don’t believe that this is intentional. But language is pervasive. And I do believe that it influences the way in which we think and therefore, the way in which we define relationships. And therefore, the way we live our relationships. Furthermore. I believe this has the potential to be psychologically damaging to said relationships.

Psychologically damaging. And perhaps this is where we can return to the Linda Blair analogy. I will argue that we have all either witnessed or experienced relationships in which one person in said relationship has their head spinning around. They are projectile vomiting the likes of which we may never have seen. It may very well be Academy Award winning. Confusion. Misunderstanding. Jealousy. Anger. Heartache. More jealousy. Dishonesty. More confusion. And perhaps if we viewed everyone as an independent individual. A sharing of intimacy on part of each individual. Not a possession. No control. Not ownership. Perhaps then. The confusion and misunderstanding and jealously and anger and heartache and more jealousy and dishonesty and more confusion and such would not exist. For our baseline view of the individual. Our baseline view of the relationship. And perhaps most important, our baseline view of ourselves would be different.

I believe this would be freeing. And our relationships would be richer and deeper.

But now we are back to language. You may be wondering how to describe a relationship with another individual without using the possessive. And I don’t have the answer. You may be wondering how I describe such relationships. I will tell you that I struggle with the use of the possessive. I am certainly guilty of utilizing it in a variety of circumstances. I want this to change. And this requires a great deal of re-training.

I believe we need significant modification to language. One that permits us to describe relationships without gaining possession or asserting subliminal control over people in such a manner. I believe we need to take everything that we think we know and turn it upside down. Shake the dirty secrets out of deep pockets. Allow them to fall to the floor. Sort through the lint. And you all know about my love affair with language. My fetish with words. I do not suggest we stop communicating in a verbal manner. This is not the answer. This is not my answer. I do suggest one moment of thought. One. Single. Tiny. Moment.

And perhaps. Just maybe. We will find the answers. Together.

Celebratin' the Day of the Lord

Give it up for the Lord.

I mean. Really. It is. After all. The birthday of the Lord. So give it up.

I though I should celebrate the day of the Lord proper. So I tried to think about what Christians would do on this day. I thought. And than I thought about it a bit more. I made a list. I checked it twice. I put my plan for celebrating the day of the Lord into action. It is good to have a plan.

So I began the celebration. I began celebrating the day of the Lord. First. I went to THE ONLY FREAKIN' STORE OPEN TWENTY FOUR HOURS ON THE DAY OF THE LORD WHICH WILL OF COURSE REMAIN NAMELESS and bought some condoms. It seemed like a good place to begin. Because I think the Lord would want us to be prepared. In fact I believe the Lord may have said something to the effect of go forth and be prepared. Oh. Wait. Sorry. That "be prepared" thing comes from the Boy Scouts. Not the Lord. Well. Nevertheless. I think the Lord would want us to engage in preparation. Prepared to celebrate the day of his birth. In a manger and shit. So. Yeah. Condoms.

After my condom expedition at the aforementioned unnamed store I went home. And I took a big swig of the codeine ladden cough syrup. I stopped using a spoon to measure out the dosage days ago. Now I just take a swig or two every couple of hours and it seems to be helping. Well. Sort of helping. Actually. Not really so much helping. But that is another matter entirely and not related to the celebration of the day of the Lord stuff so I won't bore you with the details in this particular post.

Okay. So now we've got condoms and narcotics. Wait. Narcotics. How does that relate to the celebration action. Uh. Well. See. The Lord helps those who help themselves. So. The codeine cough syrup is helping my cough -- sort of see above --and I am helping myself to a big swig of the shit. So I am meeting my end of the bargain and I most certainly hope that the Lord bones up and does the same. Busy guy. I know. But as George Michael once said, you've gotta have faith.

Uh. Where was I. Oh yes. Condoms and narcotics. So that doesn't seem like quite enough. I mean it isn't just any birthday you know. We're talking about the Lord here. Jesus. The savior and shit. I think that's a pretty damn big deal.

So I opened a bottle of wine. You know. To wash the taste of the cough syrup out of my mouth. It isn't such pleasant stuff. The cough syrup that is. Not the wine. And I'm not talking cheap ass wine here either. This is the $10 bottle stuff. You cannot be drinking the cheap two buck Chuck when celebrating the day of the Lord. At least not right away. So I opened some wine and had some friends over for a very delightful vegan celebration of the Lord.

See. Vegan. And you know that I did not have any part in the preparation of said vegan feast. After the previous evening events many of you now know I cannot even make a simple batch of popcorn -- unless it is of the microwave variety. Anyway. No animals were harmed in the making of this day of our Lord. Which is more than I can say for all sorts of other events involving the Lord. You know. That whole baby boy killing thing. And that animal sacrifice business. And let us not forget that whole cruxifiction thing. That was pretty damned harmful.

Hmm. Maybe I've crossed the line of sarcasm a wee bit. I am waiting for the lightening to strike me down at any moment.

Anyway. I rented a few movies to continue the day of the Lord celebration. Here's the lineup: the Omen. Carrie. Rosemary's Baby. Die Die My Darling. Mommie Dearest. They all have the Lord in a starring or supportive role so it seemed appropriate.

I really should have rented the Last Temptation of Christ. I guess I just wasn't thinking.

Oh well. There's always next year.

Projectile Coughing Internal Organs

I think that I have been infected. And it is someone's fault. I do not know who I might be able to blame for said infectedness as virtually everyone I know is currently infected or has been infected as of late. But let me make one thing very clear. I am not pleased.

As you all know. I have survived a fairly recent infection of the avian flu. The particular flu strain that I speak of is the variety that subsequently transforms into something even more diabolical than the avian flu. Once you are relieved of the avian flu symptoms you find yourself infected with tuberculosis. It is thoroughly unpleasant. I do not appreciate tuberculosis. I also did not appreciate the tuberculosis type symptoms that did not resolve for approximately four to six weeks.

But at least it was finally over. Or so I thought. Now I think I have been
re-infected.

Let me share with you how it all began. Yesterday morning I woke from a pleasant night of slumbering in my pleasantly comfortable bed with my even more pleasant sheets. It was. In a word. Pleasant. And then it happened.

I coughed up my spleen.

And let me step back for a moment. Let us put this in the proper context. The coughing originally began somewhere around Sunday. I went to visit my very wise friend in Olympia. And noticed a small almost unnoticeable cough. This almost unnoticeable cough became more noticeable by Monday. And now. It is most certainly no longer unnoticeable.

But I was not prepared for what was about to occur. After all. It isn't every day that you cough up your spleen. So I'm standing in my room looking at my spleen on the floor. And I did what I suppose anyone would have done in a similar situation. I picked up my little spleen and went to the kitchen to wash it off.

So I washed it off. And I shoved my spleen back where it belongs. That wasn't exactly the easiest or most pleasant thing I have done as of late. But somehow I managed to shove my spleen back down. Back into the spleen area.

I spent the majority of the day coughing. Coughing. More coughing. So much coughing that Unnamed Attorney Number Four asked me if I could "cough a little bit more quietly" because said unnamed attorney was meeting with a client and my coughing was causing a disturbance.

My coughing was causing a disturbance. How fucking unfortunate.

Anyway. Last night I saw my dear Dirty White Boy Schricken friend. He has been quite ill as well as of late. He is on the list of potential infectors. However he did redeem himself so he is no longer on the list of individuals who may very well get smited. Anyway. He has now developed a cough so severe that it is inhibiting his intake and outtake of the delicious life sustaining oxygen cocktail. And as a former scientist-y person I can tell you that inhibiting the intake and outtake of the delicious life sustaining oxygen cocktail is not so very pleasant. Or a good idea. I mean really. That is why they call it life sustaining people. Pay attention to language.

So after discussing various descriptors such as "flavor and smooth" jasmine tea and cock flavored noodles and additional observations of the burning of books he took pity on my organ expelling coughing. He was kind. He shared some of his codeine laden cough syrupy stuff with me.

Actually. He was probably just getting tired of my hacking all over his place. Maybe I was inadvertently spitting in his eye. No. That is not true. He is a gem. Not exactly a ruby. Not a diamond. Not really an emerald. Maybe not quite a gem. Maybe a piece of quartz. Or some beach glass. Seriously. He is a damn good friend. Thanks for the codeine dawg.

So I don't know about you. And some of you I really don't know about. And to be quite honest. Some of you I don't want to know about. And some of you I know far too much about. And maybe some of you. I want to know a great deal more about. But let me just state in case anyone is unclear on this point that I am not fond of coughing up my spleen. I like my spleen right where it is. In the spleen area. Not on the floor.

I have spent the majority of the morning/afternoon/evening coughing. And I feel my left kidney starting to break loose. And I know that it is only a matter of time before my kidney is up and out and on the floor.

And I hate it when that happens.

Protection Inflection Calls for Rejection

Many of you are very aware that I have been trapped in a bit of political paralysis for some time now. And such paralysis is a difficult place for me to be so duly trapped. Let me explain.

As critical as I am of the United States. And many of you know I can be quite critical. I love this country.

Let me say that again for those of you who perhaps did not catch that one. I LOVE THIS COUNTRY. I do. I mean it. I am not being sarcastic. And I know that I am often sarcastic. But sarcastic I am not being in this moment.

I do not want to run off to Canada or Algiers or Istanbul or Iceland. Well maybe I do. But I'm not willing to give up in this moment. Perhaps I am an optimist. Perhaps I am stubborn. Perhaps I am stupid. Either way I plan to stick around. For at least a little while longer. But this is not the point.

The point is that despite the fact that this country was founded on torture and rape and murder. On the bloodshed of indigenious and not so indigenous brown skinned people. That our foundation was built on death and destruction and lie after lie after lie. And that not much has significant changed with respect to the torture and rape and murder and bloodshed and death and destruction and lying both actually and metaphorically. Despite all of these things I believe that the theoretical framework is solid. And perhaps when I refer to the theoretical frame I mean to say that it is solidly built out of pine or cardboard or paper mache. And it is unfortunate that we used all of the old growth teak and mahogany and such to build elaborate homes for the elite. Poor planning I suppose.

And I do not purport to know a great deal about carpentry or construction. But I have always been quite skilled at taking objects apart and putting them back together. Except for that time I took apart the old rotary dial phone in the kitchen when I was four years old. I didn't do such a snazzy job of putting it back together. But I have come a long way since that point in time.

Where was I. Oh yes. I do believe that we have enough of a foundation to be able to build it up into what it should be. And I know that there is a great deal of debate about what that should be. And I am not going to discuss that in this particular post. Suffice it to say I do believe that there are some quality materials mixed in with the rubbish.

So I have been on a bit of a political hiatius. And it has been killing me. But I felt like I needed to take a moment. Get my head together. I was feeling a bit too much like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. And I'm not opposed to rabbits or holes. But this hole was getting a bit much. Even for me.

I took a moment or two. I took a deep breath. Then I returned.

So today I decided to check in with the mainstream news sources. I have found you can find a great deal about what is happening by observing what isn't being said. But an article caught my eye. Both of them actually.

Bipartisan Call for Wiretapping Probe: Cheney Says Bush Has Right to Authorize Secret Surveillance

And I started thinking. I would like the right to authorize secret surveillance. And I started wondering if perhaps there was some sort of correspondence course that I might enroll in so that I might obtain a certficate of some sort permitting me such a right. That would be excellent.

I started reading the article because I cannot resist anything with "bipartisan" and "wiretapping" and "probe" in the title. So I started reading the article. And I came upon this quote. This is one of those "I could not have said it better myself" kinds of quotes by your favorite patriarch and mine, GWB. I love this shit. Here we go.

"I just want to assure the American people that, one, I've got the authority to do this; two, it is a necessary part of my job to protect you; and three, we're guarding your civil liberties."

Well. That is certainly a relief. Because you see. I want to be protected. The Ramones had it all wrong. I WANT to be PROTECTED. And I want to be protected by a man. Nay. I need to be protected by a man. And as long as said man assures me that he is guarding my civil liberties then I can rest easy at night. Now if my civil liberties were not being guarded. If I had not been so informed. Then I might be concerned. I might worry. I might not sleep well at night. But now. Now. I feel safe.

So I said that I started reading the article. I started reading. But I didn't finish. I realized that I didn't have to finish. This is old news. We know about all of this already. It is like a rerun on television. Cointelpro. It sounds pretty doesn't it. Let us all say it together shall we. Cointelpro.

I decided long ago that I did not want to procreate. But if I did. I think I would name my child Cointelpro. For a fabulous book on the topic -- and I am certain there are many but I enjoyed this one thoroughly -- check out this lovely book about Cointelpro for I do believe it will be an entertaining read. I strongly recommend that you purchase this book from a used and/or independent bookstore. However that doesn't mean we can't utilized the tools of UNNAMED LARGE BOOKSELLING COMPANY for research.

Now that I think of it. Maybe the Ramones had it right all long. Protected. Sedated. It is all the same really. Isn't it.

Glorious Giddiness and Crazy Chemical Containment in the Kitchen

Many of you are already aware of the fact that I have been processing film in my kitchen. Processing film. That is. Developing. Film. In my shitdamnmotherfucking kitchen. Let me just say this one more time. I am processing black and white film in my kitchen.

I am giddy. And it’s been a long time since I have been giddy. Well. Perhaps that is not entirely true. Let me speak of giddy for a moment. And some of the things that have caused said recent giddiness. But only some. I can't give all of my secrets away. Especially since I have recently discovered that some of you actually read this crap. Anyway. Giddiness.

Recently the Piscean Musican at the STATELY HMG provided me with numerous CDs of mind blowing music. Mind blowing. And I would not have expected any less from this particular individual being so musically inclined himself. But I think I may have a problem. As I have been listening to the same CD for weeks now. And I can't seem to stop.

Many of you are aware of this obsession that has developed regarding said CD of Secret Chiefs 3. In fact, many of you have received multiple Secret Chiefs 3 CDs from me. If you have not received them it is only because I have not seen you. There are copies waiting. Waiting. Er. Uh. No. There aren't. You haven't. You can't prove that was me. I would never engage in any sort of illegal copyright infringement sort of thing. I'm just kidding. Kidding.

Uh. Where was I. Oh yes. Obsessed. And it’s not my fault. Not one bit. I blame the aforementioned Piscean Musician. It's his fault. So if you're all sick of me blathering on and on and on about Secret Chiefs 3, take it up with the management. Write a strongly worded letter. Get involved. I will be happy to forward your documents of complaint to said individual. Provided of course that you file the proper form in triplicate.

Uh. Yeah. So I’ve been giddy.

So the other day I was processing film in my kitchen. Wait. Should I explain this further. Am I leaving something out. And I hope by now you are all understanding the punctuation thing. When I want to hear something from you folks I promise you will indeed see a question mark. Maybe I should start from the beginning.

In the beginning...wait. Some guy already said that. Okay. So. I had an idea. I started thinking. And you know what dangerous things can happen when you start thinking. So I was thinking about dark spaces. Closets are dark spaces. Especially when there isn’t any light. So I thought that I should be able to go into my closet, roll out my film, and process it in the kitchen. I got chemicals. And I came home. I mixed them. Now for the potentially tricky part. Rolling out my film. In the closet.

So I got my can opener and a pair of scissors and the film developing reel and tank that I have had since I was seventeen and I went into my closet. Shut the door. Sat on the floor. And I’m feeling like it’s pretty damn dark. And I probably haven’t mentioned this, but there is quite a bit of crap in said closet. So I’m sort of sitting but there isn’t really a whole lot of room. And I don’t exactly take up that much room to begin with. But I’m sitting in this semi-contorted position. And it’s a good thing I’ve has some experience with yoga in the past or I might have gotten stuck. And given the fact that my housemate wasn’t due home for quite some time it might have gotten ugly.

But it didn’t. So I rolled my film. Pried myself off the floor. And went into the now chemically laden kitchen.

Oh. And I put on some Secret Chiefs 3. I mean really. What were you expecting.

So I’m standing in the kitchen in my argyle knee high socks. Pour. Shake. Knock. Knock. Bang. Wait. Shake. Knock. Knock. Bang. Repeat. And I’m sort of dancing around and shaking and knocking and banging the developing tank. I said the DEVELOPING TANK. And the giddiness is expanding logarithmically. Because I realize I am not only developing film IN MY MOTHERFUCKING KITCHEN. But also. Listening to Secret Chiefs 3. AND doing all of said things in my knee high socks.

I’ve been obsessed with knee high socks for some time. However. I have not admitted this in the past. And it’s not really that I haven’t admitted it per se, but I suppose I never really mentioned it before. So let me say it now. Loud and proud. I love me some knee high socks.

In case you were wondering what I might like for a nice little holiday-ish gift. Knee high socks baby. Knee high socks. I mean. Not that you have to get me anything. I'm not exactly getting you anything. So. I guess. I'm not expecting knee high socks. But if you ever feel the need to give me something that you haven't made. Which of course I always prefer. Then go for the knee high socks. But not the ones with the separate toe compartments. Those socks kind of freak me out.

Uh. Where was I again. Oh yes. Developing film in my fucking kitchen. In my fucking kitchen people.

So what does this mean. I will tell you. It means that I will be able to do a great deal more photography. I may be treking through shipyards. Or throwing lids off garbage dumpsters. I will be attending various musical events and click click clicking. Most certainly I will be photographing nerds in bathtubs filled with shiny objects. Beautiful womyn who smile with a sexy innocence. And bubbles. Lots of bubbles.

And this truly makes me feel giddy. Like a school girl with no panties on a cold December morning. Passion. It's all about passion.

Outside Inside at the End

I am feeling somewhat sentimental today. Actually. It began very late yesterday afternoon. And this is not surprising because I am somewhat prone to sentimentality. Perhaps this is why the capturing of images appeals to me so greatly. One moment. One small tiny moment. Frozen. So I am feeling sentimental. And nostalgic. And I can't really talk about it. Confidentiality. You know. That thing. Which normally isn't a problem. I have enough to talk about. But this time it is.

What I can say is that I was on the telephone with a client's family member. Her other line rang. I am holding. And when she returns she is crying. And I know. His time in this life has ended. I am the first person she is speaking with after the news. And it is awkward. And beautiful at the same time. Her tears. Connecting us in a strange and unusual way. And I will not soon forget.

And my first inclination was to tell what I could of this story to my friend. The one who requires that I speak softly. Whisper. His hearing sensitive. Like an animal in the wild. But he wasn't available. Dialed. Twice. No message. What could I say. Sigh. So I opened a beer and sat down and thought about nothing in particular. I gave myself mental space. Tried to perform a few mundane tasks. Find a moment where I could be completely present. Only semi successful.

I am not afraid of death. And I am not particularly saddened by death. And perhaps this makes me an unusual person. I have seen the worst of death. The absolute you can't even imagine it could be that bad worst. And I have seen the best of death. Yes. The best. Several experiences throughout my life have given me a strange glimpse into death as beautiful process. Beautiful.

Last night I sat. With myself. I sat for a moment and realized I couldn't sit. As of late I have noticed. A need to chew. Swallow. Digest. Process. Before anything can be said. And this is new. And I am learning to negotiate with myself.

But I couldn't do it. Not last night. So instead of doing this. I called my very wise friend. And found myself distracted. Very Wise didn't know the situation. I didn't tell him. But I wonder if he perhaps felt my distraction. Although I am most certain he is used to this as it is part of my nature. Still. This was different. And I could not be completely present in our conversation. And this is not the case. Not with him. Not anymore.

We spoke of many things before his one-of-many-late-night-working-for-the-man-extravaganzas was due to begin. And I found myself spitting out random bits of information truncated. Finally a Hallelujah like exclamation when the words he had been seeking washed over wire.

I was vague. And didn't know. Much like I am vague now. Only this time I am aware of every vague syllable. And it is only because I am stumbling through things right here. Right now. With you.

And I realize that this moment that I shared with this womyn. Almost a stranger. Was one of the most intimate moments two people care share. Beginnings and endings. Dramatic. Black. White. And the gray tends to fall away. Slipping past the seemingly important but not important enough to remember. And perhaps this struck me because I have been thinking about intimacy a great deal as of late. And what this means. And my relationship with intimacy as an entity.

And sometimes I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.

Indeed.

I Have Decided Something. And I'm Not Quite Sure What.

Yes. I have. Let me repeat it once again for all of you. I have decided something and I'm not quite sure what. And this is not to be confused with that classic Christmas tune, "There's Something Stuck Up in the Chimney and I Don't Know What it is." Or maybe it's exactly like that song.

Anyway. I have decided something. Or perhaps I have discovered something. And if I have discovered something, I should make it clear that I do not quite know what I have discovered. It's not a dead animal or the clap. But I'm not quite sure what is up with this discovery stuff. Or this deciding stuff.

And that's not entirely true. But as you all know. I am a Gemini. And that means that I am incredibly tangential. And sometimes I forget where I started. But that isn't really the point. The point is I will most certainly twist and turn and weave throughout the course of post. And you my dear friends are merely along for the ride. I am rambling about everything. And nothing in particular.

Life is interesting. I think we can all agree with that statement. Even the most cynical among us should be able to agree with the word interesting. And it has become quite clear to me that the overwhelming majority of people don't really live life. They exist. Or survive. But they don't live. And so I'm thinking about living and what this really means.

So I went where anyone would go for answer to questions about life. The internet. Actually I was looking for definitions. And I don't have a dictionary in my office. So I checked it and here's what I found on one particular unnamed site. What. Did you think I was going to provide you with a link did you. I am not shamelessly promoting this site. Nope. Anyway. On said unnamed sight, there are seven definitions of live. Not the be confused with the band Live. And I use the term "band" loosely when referring to Live. You all know how I feel about that whole "her placenta falls to the floor" lyric. If that isn't enough to make one an axe murderer, I don't know what is.

Anyway. Defining. To live. Seven defintions. There's your recap. Here we go. So it isn't until I read down to number six that I found this: "to pursure a positive, satisfying existance." And I wonder why I had to travel down through five defintions including to subsist, to exist, and to support onesself before I reached this particular definiton. What does that say about how we view life and why so many people do not really live it. I ponder this.

I have always believed that language shapes the way the think. The way we feel. The way we act. Our world view. This is why I have an obsession with words. The words we choose to use. The string of words we assemble to create phrases. The meanings attached. All of these things influence our thought process. Some might say it is a chicken or egg question. But I believe we (and others) brainwash our Selves a little bit every day because of the way we use language.

I know people that don't have such a word obsession. In fact, I know people that are so unobsessed with words that that communicating with them is similar to my poor attempt at conversing in Spanish with a native speaker. I never know what tense I'm speaking in and you would be amazed at how profoundly that can impact conversation. Or maybe you wouldn't be amazed. The point is simple. We need words. We need language. And communicating with those who are not cognizant of the ways in which language impacts their thought process can be like sticking bamboo under your fingernails while sitting on a hot tin roof.

And let me also say I am tickled that I was able to use the word cognizant in the previous paragraph. Let's say it together shall we. Cognizant. Beautiful.

So back to life and living. Here's a little story. I used to work for Company F. And I won't go into how much I hated working for Company F. But I did. And those of you who know about my Company F experience understand. You know what I am talking about. You know about my daily vomiting sessions that I somehow justified as normal. But the point. Yes. The point. Company F did stuff. This stuff provided treatment for specific terminally ill diseases to specific terminally ill people. And when I say specific as in people, I mean people who could either pay, or who were so poor that they were able to qualify for state medical assistance, which doesn't seem to be anyone anymore. Essentially, we killed these terminally ill people and brought them back to life. Sometimes.

But I digress. As I always do.

So I had this job with Company F and I worked with terminally ill people at Company F and you would have thought that perhaps this experience taught me a little something about living. And you would have thought that the realization that one should not continue to work in an environment that caused them to vomit on a daily basis would have taught said person something about living.

But it didn't.

Because I wasn't ready.

And that happens I suppose. So I continued to work in misery at Company F until I was forceably thrown back into a yin/yang balance. And I understood. Sort of. But I didn't quite learn. Not completely. Until now.

I wonder if sometimes we are presented with lessons that we are not quite ready to chew and swallow and digest so we store them like squirrels storing nuts for winter. And then one day winter arrives. And the lessons are there. Perfectly preserved and waiting to be injested.

Sometimes the lessons are simple. As if we knew the answers all along on some level of consciousness, but we didn't see, smell, feel, taste, or otherwise become intimate with complete clarity.

So life. It's this funny thing.

Recently, I was having a conversation with a very wise friend. This is an individual I have known for a long time through another very wise friend. But we were never really more than casual acquaintenances until recently. So we are talking at the HMG about the role that art plays in one's life. The passion that accompanies the creative process that is as essential as breathing. And the rung it occupies on the ladder of priorities. And I am explaining something about this and he says something in return that almost knocks me to the ground. He inferred. He implied. He basically stated in a way that I could not overlook or ignore, that I am an artist.

The shock. The horror.

But I'm not an artist. I've never called myself an artist. I have many friends that are artists. I call them artists. But not me. An artist. Nope.

And I wonder why I can have such an open and broadly sweeping definition of what art is and what an artist is, but I have never thought of myself as such.

So here I am. Sitting there. At the HMG. In the freakin' cold because my very wise friend is a smoker and I am such a good friend that I will brave said cold for said smoker. No need to thank me. And I realize in this moment all of the things about living that I have forgotten. Or never knew. Things that I have been fighting. For a long fucking time.

Oh come on. You didn't think I could get through a post without a bit of profanity did you.

And I speak of all these things to the very wise friend that introduced me to the very wise former acquaintenance now friend. And he essentially gave me a pat on the back, albeit verbally, and a "good job kid" as he often does when I finally come to accept things that he has been trying to explain to me for the past nine years.

Assumptions of Appendage Action

So the other day I am leaving my office. And I get on the bus to go home. And it's one of those smaller busses. My route typically has some of that big ass reticulated double bus action during commuter hours.

But not on this day.

So now bunches-o-people are trying to cram themselves in a bus half the size of what is typical for this particular time and day and place and space and so on and so forth. So we did what anyone trying to get their asses home would do. Shoe horn ourselves in and hold on and hope for the best.

And I'm standing because we now live in a world where men no longer offer their seats to women because we are all "equal" and shit even though we still only make $0.74 on the dollar compared to the average male wage.

But I'm not bitter or anything.

So I'm standing. And I'm fine with this because I have some serious bus surfing skills. We're stuffed into this bus like a can of sardines. Well, I assume we're like a can of sardines. I can't really say, because it's been a long time since I've been in the vicinity of a can of sardines, but I imagine that a can of sardines can't have changed all that much since the last time I saw one. And I don't really remember when I last saw a can of sardines. And I guess it doesn't really matter, because now I'm totally off topic. And this is a perfect example of the tangential nature of my communication and why it is necessary for you to direct the path on occasion.

So what I'm saying is that there is just no way not to be close to other people on the bus in these circumstances. You're all packed together in some sort of bus goo and that's just the way it is. There are things you just have to accept and deal with in these situations. You pretty much expect to get bumped and knocked and such. So I'm standing and I'm thinking. I'm thinking about how I need to clean my bathroom. And I'm humming this little tune that's been running through my head as of late. And life is good.

And then it happens. I'm just standing and thinking about Dow Scrubbing Bubbles and humming in my head and it happens. I feel something.

And at first I didn't pay much attention.

And then I feel it again. I tried to pretend I was imagining things. But I couldn't. This time it was unmistakable.

Someone touched my butt.

And in case my words seem vague, let me clarify this for everyone. SOMEONE on the bus TOUCHED MY BUTT. And if that wasn't bad enough, I think, although I cannot be certain, that someone on the bus touched my butt with a part of their anatomy that was quite possibly NOT their hand.

Eww. Let me just say that again. Eww.

And the worst part of this whole situation was the fact that I had no idea who did it. You might be wondering how it is possible not to know who just TOUCHED YOUR BUTT with a non-hand appendage, but I didn't know. I didn't have a clue. And the prospects were not looking good.

Now let me say that it wouldn't have mattered who was touching my butt, assuming all strangers are created equal. For a stranger touching my butt in a public place with a non-hand appendage, or any appendage for that matter, is just too creepy for me. I have my own set of kinks which I will not discuss here and now because that would be so off topic that I don't think I could find my way back. And I would guess that I have just as many kinks and such as the next grrrl, but I'm really not down with the unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus thing.

And if you are down with the unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus thing, that's great. I'm not being judgmental. It's just not for me. My biscuit does not get buttered by the unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus thing.

Now I realize that my butt tends to be out there in the world taking up space more than most and therefore, it sometimes get in the way. I understand this. Really, I do. But this does not mean that I WANT YOU TO TOUCH IT! Good grief, I mean if you want to touch my butt, you could at least have the decency to ask.

"Excuse me Miss, may I please touch your butt?"

I might spit in your eye, but at least I would have respect for you for having the decency to ask. I'm a sucker for folks who are polite. Oh yeah. Polite is sexy. Unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus without even having the decency to ask first is not so much sexy.

So let me just say as an aside that If any of you currently reading this have an overwhelming desire to touch my butt, with or without a non-hand appendage, I promise not to spit in your eye if you ask me first. I might kick you, but I will not spit in your eye.

Direct Line to the Lord

So you should all know by now. Strange things happen to me. Let me provide yet another example in the never ending list of strange encounters that I experience in life. Last Saturday night I was standing on the corner of First and Pine. Perhaps it was Pike. I never can seem to remember if it is Pike or Pine. Pine or Pike. I suppose it doesn't really matter, because no one else can ever seem to distinguish the two either. I do know that Pine is north of Pike. Northern pine. Get it. Aren't I clever. Nevertheless, this still does not help me determine where the hell I am at any given moment in the Pike Pine vicinity.

But I digress.

So I'm standing on the corner of First and Pike or Pine or Pike and I'm waiting for the bus to go home after a thoroughly entertaining evening with thoroughly entertaining friends. It's like that. This bus waiting thing. Waiting. And I'm minding my own business. And then it happens.

Someone attempts to speak to me.

And in case you were wondering, this is exactly what I want to happen at one o'clock in the freakin' morning while I am waiting for the bus. I want to speak to strangers at this hour. That makes me feel special. It makes me feel like I am loved and wanted. It makes me think that perhaps a good friend of mine has a point when he talks about wanting to purchase a taser. Okay not so much, but you get the idea. So this guy approaches me and begins to speak to me in Spanish. I know a little bit of spanish. Un poco. Enough to know that I don't know what the hell he is talking about. And I am able to explain to him in Spanish that I don't really speak Spanish and I don't have a clue.

I'm thinking about this and I'm realizing that it probably would have been much more convincing to tell him in English that I don't really speak Spanish. There's that hindsight thing again. Always creeping up on you when you least expect it.

Where was I. Oh yes. Yes. Now I remember.

So this guy who decides he must talk to me at one o'clock in the freakin' morning asks me if I am Mexican. In case any of you were wondering, I am not Mexican. This isn't the first time that someone has asked me if I am Mexican. However, it might be the first time that someone has asked me if I am Mexican at one o'clock in the morning while I am waiting for the bus in downtown Seattle.

Are you noticing a bit of a theme here folks. Good. You're smarter than I thought. Well, some of you are. I hope the rest of you are at the very least damn cute. You've got to work what you've got to work with. But this is not the point.

So I'm feeling like this is the typical one o'clock in the morning waiting for the bus pick up line. Because let's face it, what womyn doesn't want to be hit on at one o'clock in the morning while waiting for the bus in downtown Seattle. But I was wrong. This gentleman wasn't merely trying to hit on me. However I was not aware of this at this particular point and time in the story.

And I'm getting ahead of myself. So let me just continue on with the story. When we last left our hero, she was waiting for the bus at one o'clock in the morning and she was about to hear the line. You know the one. That question that men ask. And it is usually not a good sign. Because no one that I might want to ask ever does ask. Unless of course they are being amusing and sarcastic because they have already heard the story that I am about to relay. And then it's kind of cute. But that doesn't really count. That isn't the kind of "bad sign questioning" I am referring to. No, not at all. And you will see exactly what I mean in a moment. Patience my dear friends, patience.

So back to my story. Here we go. Then he asks the question. Oh you know what question I'm talking about. Yep. He asked it.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

Now I've got to give the guy credit for being so bold at one o'clock in the morning while waiting for the bus in downtown Seattle, but how am I really supposed to answer this question. I've never been one of those womyn that lie to men about these things. I've never given a fake phone number. I don't let men I don't know buy me drinks so that I can either a.) feel good about myself, or b.) drink for free. That shit just isn't me folks, but most of you already know this about me. However, if you are a man I do know and you would like to buy me a drink, by all means, bring it. As long as it's not a forty of PBR. Nevertheless, what I am saying I suppose, is that I am not one of those grrrls. I'm fairly blunt, but not to the point of hurting people's feelings. I don't usually bullshit people. Unless it's work related. But that doesn't really count.

Okay, as a side note, I'm actually a big freakin' sap. The truth is out. Fine. Are you happy now. Well are you. Wait. What was I talking about again. Oh yeah, I remember. Nevermind.

So he asks the question and something tells me to lie. And it isn't the screaming fluorescent LIE sign blinking in front of me. No, it was something else. So I tell him that I do in fact have a boyfriend. I have lots of friends that are boys so I can easily justify this lie. And I'm trying quickly to think of a name of one of you just in case he asks. Do you see, this is the problem with lying in the first place.

And then I realize why I lied.

Dude tells me that he has seen god. Three times. In downtown Seattle no less. That's right. The man has the red hotline phone to the lord and he decided he was going to tell me all about it.

And when I say all about it, I mean ALL about it. Suddenly this man was my new best friend and he decided he would spend the next five or so minutes until the bus arrived describing in full and complete detail, his conversations with the lord. But that's not all folks. I was fortunate enough to ride the bus with this particular gentleman all the way freakin' home. Therefore, if there was any part of his story I missed on the first telling, I would most certainly receive clarification. As well as any additional significant details that he may have forgotten the firs fifty times I got to hear about him meeting the lord.

So for those of you who aren't hip, I thought I would provide you with some information. Here are some things you should know about the lord:

-- The lord has purple eyes. That's right, purple. According to my new pal (I will refrain from using the name he provided to me) god has beautiful purple eyes.

-- God is a pretty big dude. I sort of expected as much. I mean I wouldn't really expect god to be a short guy. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm short myself and I tend to have a preference for shorter people. But god ain't short.

-- The lord don't like evil. Okay, you probably already knew this. But maybe what you didn't know is the fact that there is a lot of evil out there. People with money are basically evil. I can't say that I entirely disagree with my new pal on this point.

-- God wears some sort of cream colored outfit and there are some sort of flowers either real or embroidered on his calves. This is a bit more obscure because at this point my pal was speaking in English and Spanish and I couldn't follow a great deal of this description. Maybe he was trying to tell me that god has some sort of flower tattoos on his calves. That would be pretty sweet.

-- The lord got strength. My pal told me that god hugged him and his entire body shook violently because god is a strong man. I suppose this isn't exactly surprising either. I mean it would be a problem if god was kind of a wimp and other folks could kick his ass. You don't get to be god having your ass kicked.

-- God can introduce you to Jesus. Again, probably not surprising. I mean after all Jesus is the son of god so it seems to make sense that such an introduction would be possible. Most parents like to introduce people to their kids. Unless you've got some bad ass anti-christ meth smoking kids. Then maybe not so much. But I'd be willing to bet that most parents can't introduce you to their kid in some ring of smoke like god can. Then again, most parents aren't god.

-- The lord can make some shit happen. If you have seen god and spoken to god and god tells you that you are a good person, then god will probably make some shit happen for you. For example, if you've got some bad stuff in life, god might be willing to give you an extra nod or two. That seems to make sense.

So I basically spoke with my new pal all the way home. And when I say all the way home, I mean all the freakin' way home. As this guy lives in my 'hood, chances are good that I will run into him again. Maybe if I run into him again at one o'clock in the morning, on the corner of First and Pike or Pine or Pike or Pine, he will have more information to provide to me about the lord which I can then relay to you.

Spirals and Shiny things for the Reverend

I am going to toot my own horn. This is not entirely true, but as you all know, I will segue into something completely different which is of course always the point. But as we must begin in this manner, let us begin with the beginning. Where was I. Ah yes. For all of the grief I get from you people I think you should know how much I rock. And why exactly do I rock you ask. No, you're not asking because you already know. I did the unthinkable.

I helped clean LDS's apartment. No I am not referring to the Latter Day Saints. I am referring to the one and only Reverend B. My dear friend of nine years. Funny story about that friendship. It goes a little something like this...once upon a time I met this phenomenal writer. Back then he was Dr Krazylegs and boy were his legs crazy. We met in the park and he read to me from a Steven Jessie Bernstein book and showed me his artwork and talked about the sunlight shining on my nose.

And I was absolutely terrified. Because I had never in my life met anyone quite like him.

I still haven't. But I am no longer terrified.

And because I am who I am I once tried to run away from this wonderful human being. I ran fast. And I was in better shape in those days so I could really move. I created all sorts of new math to keep distance between us. I told him that I didn't like orange juice and hated reading the Sunday newspaper. I refused to borrow books.

But he never gave up on me. He still hasn't.

And I kept talking and peering around corners and together we dug holes so vast and wide and filled them with beautiful things.

I have now let go of the new math. And yes, I have admitted that I like orange juice. I recently even borrowed a book. And it doesn't matter how crazy I am, he is always lending his support. He is never jealous of other friendships like other folks I have known. He constantly helps me find the balance between not taking myself too seriously and knowing exactly when to take myself seriously. He cares about what I have to say, even when I don't seem to care that much. And he doesn't take any of my bullshit either. Except every once in a while he allows me to think that I have gotten away with something spectacular. He knows that eventually I will get it.

But I digress. We were talking about the once doctor now reverend's apartment that needed cleaning like a hooker needs stiletto heels. For those of you who have seen his apartment you know this is no small task. It was frightening. But I made it through. Alive. Unscathed. No scabies either.

Seriously. This is one of those things. One of those things that I felt so happy to be able to do for someone who has been there despite miscellaneous moments of our own individual insanity. Now of course I probably know much more about this fine young man than I did previously. However I am grateful to see it all in its imperfect perfection. Unless he decides to cut his own hair in the bathroom again. Geesh.

And as I write this, my dear friend is moving. Far. Okay not that far, but pretty damn far. He has a new career ahead of him that will enable him to leave a truly permanent mark on the world. His art will now be seen far and wide. And as saddened as I am by his departure, I couldn't be more proud or more thrilled at how far he has traveled down this wonderfully mysterious road. He will not need luck, but I will think of him when I see the night's first star. I will pause and ponder at wishing wells.

And in this moment, I can only say to him, if that road should require you to travel in twists and turns in cavernous ways, I will be here with a shovel and we can dig our own path below ground. I love you man. Always.

Transportation Conspiracies and Cafe Cubano Catastrophies

I hate Metro. And let me just pause for a moment. I really hate those folks. Hate. Harsh. Strong. I know. But I must be true to myself and in this trueness one things is clear. I fucking hate Metro.

Some of you are aware of my newly discovered hatred of Metro route number two. Metro route number two allegedly arrives at a set schedule. However, I do not believe it. I have a theory. The Metro route number two schedule was created, fabricated if you will, to convince large groups of people to wait for the route two at specific set intervals. Metro route number two never arrives at these set intervals. The question is simple. What is happening during these periods of time when mass quantities of individuals are waiting for the two?

I do not have the answer.

I believe it is something very very bad. If you have any thoughts or ideas of inside information, please contact me immediately. Especially if you do now or have in the past worked for Metro.

But there is more to this tale. Much more. Last night, something happened.

Last night I discovered a Metro bus route that I despise even more than I despise the two. You may be thinking that this is not possible. Two days ago I may have agreed with you. Now I must assure you that it certainly is possible. The route I now despise more than the two is Metro route thirteen. Is it a coincidence that this route also travels to the top of Queen Anne hill. I think not. What we have is yet another non-schedule schedule conspiracy.

And this is how conspiracy theories are built. On truth. Hard solid fucking evidence people. Solid fucking evidence.

Last night I waited so long for the route thirteen that a muthafuckin' two arrived. That people, is a very long time.

But there's more.

My thirteen-two travels led me to a glorious cup of cafe Cubano. Thick. Rich. Sweet. Dark. All of this coupled with cool breezing. Creative companion. Well fine, tripled then. You get the idea. The two. The thirteen. Lost in my mind.

And then it happened.

Sipping. Sipping. Sipping sweetness.

"this little light of mine"

It couldn't be. Not here. Not now.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

But it was happening. It was happening badly. And it was too late.

"this little light of mine"

I sat paralyzed.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

I could not speak. I could not make a sound.

"this little light of mine"

I could not even blink.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

I was screwed.

"let it shine, let it shine, let it shine"

I'm not really sure why this happened. This horrible man was singing. Someone gave him a microphone. It was the worst rendition of the song I had ever heard. At a Cuban themed coffee house. It was decidedly inappropriate. It was a head on collision. I didn't want to look. But I couldn't stop myself. And then. I wished I hadn't.

As I walked down Queen Anne hill -- for I certainly wasn't going to tempt fate twice in the same evening by waiting for the two or the thirteen -- I began to do something I do not typically do. I began to hum.

"this little light of mine"

Oh shit.

I hummed all the way down the hill. I hummed while waiting for a non-two non-thirteen bus that typically does arrive on time. I hummed while getting on the bus. I hummed on the bus. I hummed while getting off the bus. I hummed while walking home. I hummed going up the steps to my door. I was still humming while I walked into the foyer. Glanced at the junk mail. Humming.

I have now come to believe that there is a strong and significant connection between Metro route number two, thirteen and "This Little Light of Mine."

If anyone can shed light on the above, please contact me immediately.

"let it shine, let it shine, let it shine"

Lock 'Em Up then Drown 'Em

Before you begin reading the article I have posted, I find it necessary to put this information into the proper context for everyone. One moment while I climb onto my soap box.

As you are reading, please keep in mind that not every individual housed in a jail has been convicted of a crime. Many are accused, but unable to afford bail and therefore, must remain in custody until their case is resolved. NOT that this should make any difference, but it is interesting to note that not only were these individuals incarcerated while they were "presumed innocent" under our legal system, but additionally, they were left alone, locked in these facilities to die like so much unwanted garbage.

When the filmakers begin to complete their work in documenting the horrific tragedies that have occurred recently in our country, perhaps they will be able to save money on production by lifting footage directly from the movie Titanic. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

New Orleans: Prisoners Abandoned to Floodwaters

Officers Deserted a Jail Building, Leaving Inmates Locked in Cells

(New York, September 22, 2005) — As Hurricane Katrina began pounding New Orleans, the sheriff's department abandoned hundreds of inmates imprisoned in the city’s jail, Human Rights Watch said today.

Inmates in Templeman III, one of several buildings in the Orleans Parish Prison compound, reported that as of Monday, August 29, there were no correctional officers in the building, which held more than 600 inmates. These inmates, including some who were locked in ground-floor cells, were not evacuated until Thursday, September 1, four days after flood waters in the jail had reached chest-level.

“Of all the nightmares during Hurricane Katrina, this must be one of the worst,” said Corinne Carey, researcher from Human Rights Watch. “Prisoners were abandoned in their cells without food or water for days as floodwaters rose toward the ceiling.”

Human Rights Watch called on the U.S. Department of Justice to conduct an investigation into the conduct of the Orleans Sheriff's Department, which runs the jail, and to establish the fate of the prisoners who had been locked in the jail. The Louisiana Department of Public Safety and Corrections, which oversaw the evacuation, and the Orleans Sheriff’s Department should account for the 517 inmates who are missing from the list of people evacuated from the jail.

Carey spent five days in Louisiana, conducting dozens of interviews with inmates evacuated from Orleans Parish Prison, correctional officers, state officials, lawyers and their investigators who had interviewed more than 1,000 inmates evacuated from the prison.

The sheriff of Orleans Parish, Marlin N. Gusman, did not call for help in evacuating the prison until midnight on Monday, August 29, a state Department of Corrections and Public Safety spokeswoman told Human Rights Watch. Other parish prisons, she said, had called for help on the previous Saturday and Sunday. The evacuation of Orleans Parish Prison was not completed until Friday, September 2.

According to officers who worked at two of the jail buildings, Templeman 1 and 2, they began to evacuate prisoners from those buildings on Tuesday, August 30, when the floodwaters reached chest level inside. These prisoners were taken by boat to the Broad Street overpass bridge, and ultimately transported to correctional facilities outside New Orleans.

But at Templeman III, which housed about 600 inmates, there was no prison staff to help the prisoners. Inmates interviewed by Human Rights Watch varied about when they last remember seeing guards at the facility, but they all insisted that there were no correctional officers in the facility on Monday, August 29. A spokeswoman for the Orleans parish sheriff’s department told Human Rights Watch she did not know whether the officers at Templeman III had left the building before the evacuation.

According to inmates interviewed by Human Rights Watch, they had no food or water from the inmates' last meal over the weekend of August 27-28 until they were evacuated on Thursday, September 1. By Monday, August 29, the generators had died, leaving them without lights and sealed in without air circulation. The toilets backed up, creating an unbearable stench.

“They left us to die there,” Dan Bright, an Orleans Parish Prison inmate told Human Rights Watch at Rapides Parish Prison, where he was sent after the evacuation.

As the water began rising on the first floor, prisoners became anxious and then desperate. Some of the inmates were able to force open their cell doors, helped by inmates held in the common area. All of them, however, remained trapped in the locked facility.

“The water started rising, it was getting to here,” said Earrand Kelly, an inmate from Templeman III, as he pointed at his neck. “We was calling down to the guys in the cells under us, talking to them every couple of minutes. They were crying, they were scared. The one that I was cool with, he was saying ‘I'm scared. I feel like I'm about to drown.' He was crying.”

Some inmates from Templeman III have said they saw bodies floating in the floodwaters as they were evacuated from the prison. A number of inmates told Human Rights Watch that they were not able to get everyone out from their cells.

Inmates broke jail windows to let air in. They also set fire to blankets and shirts and hung them out of the windows to let people know they were still in the facility. Apparently at least a dozen inmates jumped out of the windows.

”We started to see people in T3 hangin' shirts on fire out the windows,” Brooke Moss, an Orleans Parish Prison officer told Human Rights Watch. “They were wavin' em. Then we saw them jumping out of the windows . . . Later on, we saw a sign, I think somebody wrote `help' on it.”

As of yesterday, signs reading “Help Us,” and “One Man Down,” could still be seen hanging from a window in the third floor of Templeman III.

Several corrections officers told Human Rights Watch there was no evacuation plan for the prison, even though the facility had been evacuated during floods in the 1990s.

“It was complete chaos,” said a corrections officer with more than 30 years of service at Orleans Parish Prison. When asked what he thought happened to the inmates in Templeman III, he shook his head and said: “Ain't no tellin’ what happened to those people.”

“At best, the inmates were left to fend for themselves,” said Carey. “At worst, some may have died.”

Human Rights Watch was not able to speak directly with Orleans Parish Sheriff Marlin N. Gussman or the ranking official in charge of Templeman III. A spokeswoman for the sheriff’s department told Human Rights Watch that search-and-rescue teams had gone to the prison and she insisted that “nobody drowned, nobody was left behind.”

Human Rights Watch compared an official list of all inmates held at Orleans Parish Prison immediately prior to the hurricane with the most recent list of the evacuated inmates compiled by the state Department of Corrections and Public Safety (which was entitled, “All Offenders Evacuated”). However, the list did not include 517 inmates from the jail, including 130 from Templeman III.

Many of the men held at jail had been arrested for offenses like criminal trespass, public drunkenness or disorderly conduct. Many had not even been brought before a judge and charged, much less been convicted.

Forthcoming Fecundity on Flirtatiousness

I've been alive on this planet for some time now. And during these years of being alive on this planet, I have heard many things. Some of these things that I have heard have been quite strange. And when I say strange, I mean very fucking strange. Come on folks, you're all intelligent. Well, not all of you, but I'm willing to give most of you the benefit of the doubt, because I am a positive fucking person and I believe that human beings have a lot of potential, despite what some people may think. Therefore, I firmly believe that you know what strange means. And I don't want to hear any of your philosophical arguments about strange being relative and blah blah blah. Fucking strange. Figure it out.

At any rate, I have been hearing strange things lately. Many. And I suppose I could talk about all of the strange things I have been hearing. For example, I have heard this wild rumor that there are many many human beings who are suffering or who have lost their lives unnecessarily in our very own country because the powers that be once again have fucked shit up. Those same being powers have found it critically more important to care for the needs of the white and wealthy than the poor and "colored" because they just don't have the lobbying power. I wish I could say I was ready to write about the events in the hurricane ravaged regions of our country. I cannot. For I am far too overcome with anger and grief to form words that would do any justice to those who have articulated before me. No, I will not speak of these things today in this post. However, until I am able to do so, I encourage you all to speak out about this travesty. Speak loudly. It is time that we are finally heard. By any means necessary.

With the above said, I am going to try to segue back to the main topic of this post. That is challenging to do given the serious nature of the topic in the previous paragraph and the non-serious nature of what will follow. However sometimes we need to re-engergize and take a moment to laugh so we can actually do the work necessary in the world to enact change. This is one of those re-energizing moments. Without these moments of laughter, we as a society become paralyzed. I would like to see us collectively end this paralysis, so I will attempt to bring a bit of light hearted humor to a very difficult time. So here we go. I have recently heard another tidbit of information that I have no choice but to label strange information. I have recently been informed of the fact that I am "quite" flirtatious. Now this information was quite a surprise to hear. And I have to wonder if this is some sort of universal opinion. I thought about taking a poll, but then I realized that taking a poll requires effort. I am too lazy for that kind of effort.

And I am forced to ask, but rhetorically of course, can one be too flirtatious. And I say this because if you tell me that I am quite flirtatious, I will automatically assume that you mean too flirtatious. I have been taught to read between the lines. To look through the bullshit and determine what people really mean. Perhaps there is some sort of scale of flirtation that I was not aware of and therefore, I have been breaking the rules. If there is some sort of code book, I would ask that some kind soul please provide it to me. I will happily pay any postage charges incurred in this effort. However, as an aside, this statement does explain quite a bit. Oh no, there's that word again. Quite. It does explain why so many people think I "like them in that way" when I in fact, don't. So I have been provided with this information as of late. And I am pondering it.

I attempted, albeit half-heartedly, to inquire further into this statement. I was curious as to why some people might think that this is in fact true. However my attempt was half-hearted because I also am not quite certain that I actually care if it is in fact true. For I believe, if I am in fact, "quite" flirtatious that this is not exactly a negative. We aren't exactly kind to each other much of the time. People are more isolated now. Community has changed. As June Jordan asked, "where is the love" and while she wasn't exactly referring to flirtatiousness, there is a certain caring about humanity in such actions. Perhaps my flirtatious nature has more to do with the fact that I actually give a crap about people. Stop laughing, you know this is true. Perhaps I am what some call too nice. Too nice. Can one be too nice. I am not certain. I don't think many people are very nice to each other at all. I have not given up on the human being yet. I still hold hope for us. And what is so bad about making people feel good about themselves.

However at the same time, I do not want to be misinterpreted. I do not want to cause concern or confusion. This is turning out to be more of a dilemma than I originally anticipated. Here I thought I was going to relay a bit of tongue in cheek commentary on my alleged flirtatiousness. I inquired about this flirtatious dilemma to a friend. I was informed that I am flirtatious by nature because of my astrological sign. "Gemini's are notorously flirtatious. And fickle." Gee, thanks. Now, not only am I a shameless flirt, but fickle too. I guess I should have kept my big mouth shut.

I will probably continue to ponder this topic. If you have thoughts, please feel free to weigh in. I probably won't care. Wait, of course I will. Perhaps I will have a t-shirt printed with a disclaimer. Warning. Any actions perceived to be a flirtatious act on the part of the wearer may not in fact, be intended as such. These actions include, but are not limited to eye contact, smiling, laughing, baking you cookies, helping you paint your house, taking care of you when you are sick, hugging, kissing, licking, biting, beating you with a riding crop (uh, maybe I'm getting carried away here) or any form of contact, physical, mental, or emotional. The wearer regrets any inconvenience this may cause and is not responsible or liable for any damages to any persons affected directly or indirectly by such actions.

Circular Spirals of Soggy Contemplative Contemplation

I'm in a contemplative sort of mood. It might be the rain. We haven't really seen rain in a while. Suddenly the sky opened. I think Jimmy Hoffa's body floated down my street yesterday. This is a reminder of what is yet to come. Not Jimmy Hoffa, the rain. Soon. Very soon.

So now the wheels are turning. And getting a bit rusty.

Maybe I should contemplate more. Maybe I should contemplate less. Maybe I should set my alarm clock. I am reminded of a Zen koan that is something to the effect of, "if you've eaten your rice, then wash your bowl." The idea is that we should live in the present moment. Right here. No here. This moment. This one. Now. This little tiny moment. Oops, no this one. Even more specifically, it could be said that we should let go of all of the other moments that we simultaneously live and re-live in our mind.

We need to let go of living and re-living and just live. This moment. Right here. Nope, this one. Right now. This little teeny tiny moment. This delicious little piece of a moment. Here. Now.

I don't think that we -- and of course I am using the collective we -- are very good at living in the present moment. It's damn hard. The moment keeps shifting. Changing. Moving. Changing again. We have expectations and fears and creepy crawly bump in the night ideology. However I do believe we -- here we go again -- are very good at living in every single solitary other moment, including moments that do not now, never have, and never will exist. These non-existent moments tease us. Tantalize us. Draw us into their non-existent existence. Like a spiral. And we like it. Hate it. Simultaneously. And there is something beautiful about the realization of the liking and the hating and the contradiction. The journey. No, I'm not talking about the band or Steve Perry. That would be a capital J, but I'm not sure they deserve it.

And I must confess, I love using the proverbial we. The collective we. I won't put we in quotes. It would seem too pretentious. I love this collective we because it depersonalizes whatever I happen to be saying in any given moment. It is philosophical rather than actual. I can detach from the words. The moment. I can hide behind the tangent. Maybe within the tangent. It is mathematical. Sinusoidal. I am outside of the words. The moment. I remain anonymous.

And maybe this is why I write. And maybe this is where I want to remain. But as I have said, I am a contradiction. Long ago a friend of mine once told me that he had spent years trying to get to know me. He spent years trying to get inside some space that he felt was closed. I laughed and told him I was an entry way without a door, but rather consisting of an open space for one to easily walk through, unobstructed. Okay, I know I've never been good at metaphor. If you have a better one, I'm open to hearing it. But I digress. He told me the walls were stone and the guard at the opening was fierce. I guess he wasn't very good at metaphor either. And I disagreed. Even now, I disagree. In actuality, I feel there is often far too much on the page. But that may be because I am rather verbose. Hey, you over there, I heard that!

And what I find most interesting at this moment is the fact that I am relaying this tale on this page. I spread the words out onto the universe like Veganise on whole wheat bread from Great Harvest bakery. Damn they have fine bread. I am rambling like rain water dragging dirt and leaves and the occasional piece of polished glass down uneven alley streets. Completely aware of the fact that I have no point. But having a point, I believe, is completely overrated.

Although I am always curious to hear your point. Well, not you over there, but the rest of you, most definitely.

Revolutionary Ramblings on Restless Rhythm

"If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you." Henry Rollins


Words. Syllables strung together forming melody like whispers. I am intrigued, entranced, perhaps even a bit obsessed. The written word. The spoken word. Rhythm. Rhythm. Rhythm. I am verbose. It has always been this way. However the sound of words strategically placed. Listening. Listening. Obsession. The sound of words placed forward and backward and sideways gleaning meaning, or not. Yes, I may very well require a twelve step program.

And in this beautiful world of word, language, rhythm, sound, I find a pretense that creates a distortion. An inaccessibility that divides us. I want to unite us through words, through language, melody, rhythm. I write specifically about this with respect to poetry, although I could most certainly argue that that are individuals working in a variety of artistic mediums that carry the same pretense of the "highbrown/lowbrow" debate that I find preposterous and limiting. Please feel free to apply these meanderings to various forms of artist expression. I will not specifically discuss other art forms in this post, although I could. It saddens me that there is a debate about what poetry (and art, see above or have you forgotten already) is and isn't, as if we could or should define and structure language, communication, syllables in this way.

I want all words, all expression, valued and visible. We are gloriously, beautifully flawed as human beings. For one moment, let us embrace this. Value it in ourselves. Value it in others. Listen. Listen. Learn something from our stories. Different. Similar. Our imperfections shining brightly. Embrace the perfection of our imperfection. Laugh at our contradictions. Breathe in and out. For a moment, let us stop being so fucking frightened all of the time. Let us let go of "what if" and simply do, live, be present, accept the beauty in small moments.

Poetry is not meant merely for the printing of words on pages of ground up pressed and polished former trees, to be lost in dusty literary journals, but rather, we should post our words on government buildings, display phrases in bathroom stalls, plant ideas at the corner bus stop. I want to find words on parking meters, phrases on fire hydrants. Let us write our words in chalk on sidewalks, and write new words when the rain washes them away.

This can begin with you.

Bitch Slappin' Negativity

I am finding that I have been meeting a lot of negative people lately. Where do they come from anyway? I used to think it was the abundance of rain in Seattle, but we haven't had much rain as of late. It must be something else. Maybe it's me, because it is, afterall, ALL about ME isn't it?

Seriously though, what is up with the negativity? This is not a rhetorical question people. Now this is not to imply that my middle name is Pollyanna. It isn't. I am quite skilled at complaining about this or that or the other thing. I am also prone to exaggeration, but that is merely for my own amusement. It seems that everyone I have been meeting as of late is not only always complaining, but they are downright miserable "oh woe is me-ing" all over the shitdamnmotherfucking place.

I mean really, just because I don't have any other color in my wardrobe except black, doesn't mean I'm a negative person. I'm not. Quite the contrary. I'm perky. I'm fun. I'm pretty damn cool if I do say so myself. I am also empathetic, but a grrl has got to draw the line at some point. This constant negativity shit is not attractive.

The bizarre thing is that some of these miserable fucks don't really seem to have that much to be miserable about. The one person who has gone through utter hell for the past few years, who SHOULD be fucking miserable, isn't. In fact, she's pretty damn positive under the circumstances. However these other folks, geesh! At least try to fake some happiness people.

Why are people so miserable? Now you know I love you all in Seattle, but I have never met a larger group of miserable and pretentious folks. I'll save further comment about the pretentiousness of Seattle for another post, before Seattelites hunt me down and whip me with some wheatgrass or pho noodles. I'm sure you will all tell me to stop whining, bitch slap a few of these people, and get over it myself. Well before you can even type out the "b" in bitch slap, I assure you, the point has already been noted.

So you all know who you are. I am not your psychotherapist. If you wish me to be, please be advised that my fee is $85/hour, and I require a non-refundable minimum retainer. This is tough love baby.

Exhibitionist Exhibit Eschews Excitement

Today I was riding the bus. Route 18 to be exact. I was just minding my own business. When it happened. Again.

I must be a lucky person, because this is not the first time I have had the pleasure of witnessing a detailed unveiling of the male anatomy in a public place. Just in case there might be any confusion regarding the above statement, I am being sarcastic. I could go into great detail as to why I don't particularly want to view the typically covered nether regions of the male anatomy on the bus, but for the sake of brevity, which I do not normally possess an ounce of, I will focus on one, and only one reason as to why I find this...problematic.

But first, let me tell you what I witnessed.

So I'm sitting at the front of the bus. I am sitting in one of two rows of seats that face each other. As I said, I am minding my own business. A man enters the bus and takes the seat opposite mine. He is wearing a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood up covering his head and part of his face, sunglasses, and very short nylon running shorts. I take note of the glowing white legs and proceed to look out the window across from me.

I feel as if someone is staring at me, so I look up. Then, I see it.

Yes. It.

It is no longer enclosed in the aforementioned running shorts. It is now out, on the seat of the bus. So I did the only thing I could do.

I laughed. Loud. People looked in my direction.

I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, but I found it amusing. Apparently this wasn't the reaction running short man wanted, because he stood up and moved closer to the front of the bus.

Now, let's get to the point. The reason that I laughed. While I certainly do not appreciate being flashed on the bus...isn't it bad enough I am on the bus to begin with people...but if you are going to be an exhibitionist, I feel strongly that you should, at the very least, have something worth exhibiting. Running short man did not.

Did I mention it appeared to be er, fully extended? Maybe I'm wrong about that. At least I hope I am, for his sake.

So here is my tip for the day. Don't expose yourself on the bus. This should be a given, but obviously it isn't. However, if you feel the need to get your exhibitionist fix while riding Metro, please take my words of wisdom to heart. Simply put, if you're going to take it out, be sure it's something to brag about.