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.