Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Most of my life and certainly whenever possible, I sit next to my brother on airplanes because, as he puts it, he's the only one who knows how to handle me.
I'm a nervous flier. It's a flaw I've developed in adulthood. I don't remember being so freaked out as a child. I regarded airplanes as exciting and glamorous. Now, I tend to look at them as coffins.
Anyway, Melissa learned this about me the hard way on our flights to and fro Vancouver. Getting there was one thing. We were excited, she found my superstitious boarding rituals funny, our flight was so early, we were halfway there before I was fully awake. The trip home was another story.
We moved our flight up as there was no sense hanging out in the Vancouver Airport for 9 (yeah, nine) hours. As we booked the change at the front desk, Melissa looked over and asked, "You okay with this?"
"Yeah, yeah." I nervously replied. "It's just...you know, destiny."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, we're starting to fuck with destiny. It's stupid, I know. But moving flights around turns us into one of those cautionary tales where if we'd only been on our original flight..."
"Oh my God."
We still switched our flights but my neurosis had been awakened. I was nervous, antsy, looking for signs. Everything became like the beginning of Final Destination.
My fight with the customs agent who accused me of loitering? Sign.
The endless metal detector line with the trainee security guard? Sign.
The fact that we were miraculously sitting in an emergency aisle. Oh dear God.
Melissa looked at me with delight as we found our seats. "Check it out! Leg room!"
"You don't find it the least bit odd that we switched flights at the last minute on this packed airplane and have two seats together in the highly popular, much requested EMERGENCY aisle, which we did even ask for?"
She rubbed my shoulder and wisely turned on her iPod as she said, "No, psycho. I don't."
The plane took off and I looked out the window. So long, world. I hope my family is able to go on. My friends might never laugh again but maybe they're form some scholarship in my honor, the recipients never knowing or caring who the hell I was. All because we didn't want to lounge around in a gorgeous Canadian metropolis for a mere day, one of many we'd have left, if only...
I tuned into AirCanada's fabulous television service and chuckled my way through three old episodes of 30 Rock, a glorious distraction. 2 hours later, we were about to touchdown in San Francisco. As the wheels of the plane graced ground, Mel looked at me and smiled. "We made it, Bethy!"
"Unless an airplane runs into us on the runway, like the Pan Am/KLM crash in the Canary Islands.*"
"Jesus, you're insane."
"Okay." I said. "We survived. So you know what that means? Our original flight is going to smash into a mountain. Mark my words."
Melissa rolled her eyes, grabbed our bags and sighed, "I have a new appreciation for your brother."
*My psychosis does have it's benefits. The reason we won the Bonus Round of Cruise Ship Trivia (answer: Canary Islands) is because I'm all about the Canary Islands due to the Pan Am/KLM crash. So, uh, you're welcome...
Monday, September 28, 2009
"Our high notoriety inmates get the most interest," said Lt. Sam Robinson, a San Quentin spokesman. "I have tried to figure this out, but I don't have an answer."
Um, I have an answer. They’re the only ones anyone has ever heard of. Duh. Is Lt. Sam sitting there scratching his head because he just can’t seem to crack the case of the why the mass murderer with his mug splashed across the news gets so much mail but the dime a dozen drug dealer gets no love.
In addition to the Sherlock-esque Lt. Sam, I also enjoyed this anonymous chick, who’s got a “disapproving husband”:
"He is good looking and I loved his big hands," she said of Ramirez (the Night Stalker). "The thrill of danger of going up to a state penitentiary made it all worth it because to me it was like a dream come true to face one of the world's most feared men. Like my mom used to say, you can love someone but you don't have to like them," she says.
And Ramirez, despite being her "best friend," deserves to die for his crimes, she said.
Some pen pal. You’d think she’d at least be opposed to the death penalty. Shouldn’t she be desperately calling Sister Helen Prejean trying to keep her beloved from the needle? I’d certainly prefer this rapist and murderer of the elderly stay behind bars before he burns in the fires of hell, but even I don’t think the government should be killing people and Richard Ramirez is hardly my best friend. But this chick? She’ll write him letters on her puppy dog stationary till the apparently exciting day he fries.
Also, that’s quite an interpretation of her mother’s words of wisdom.
"From the beginning I was clear about the end," Uhl says. "I am glad that I always kept clear of any romantic relationship. That's just an emotional roller coaster."
It certainly is! I love how this woman is so clear about her boundaries. I mean, really. Writing a convicted serial killer 20 times a day is one thing. But a romantic relationship? Well, that’s just ridiculous.
Years ago, when I was in college in Philadelphia, I sat snowed in my apartment and watched a documentary on these very women. And there in Marin's own San Quentin, visiting her husband the Night Stalker, was a woman named Doreen.
Doreen, an actual 40 year old virgin, had fallen in love with Richard via mail and visits, marrying him in a prison waiting-room ceremony in 1996. The filmmakers, in an effort to show Doreen's relatively normal life, showed her walking into work, a Party America store in Marin County with San Quentin looming in the background.
Watching in my tiny Philadelphia apartment, I gasped. That was MY Party America. I'd been there a million times. It's 15 minutes from my childhood home.
The Night Stalker's Pen Pal Wife managed the Corte Madera Party America?!?!?!?
Needless to say, the moment I returned home and many times since, my brother and I made pilgrimages to stalk (heh) Doreen. Lo and behold, there she was (and probably is.) I remember once we bought one roll of Scotch tape from her. We couldn't think of anything else. I mean, a mylar balloon would have been weird. With trembling hands, I passed her a 5 dollar bill. It was exhilarating.
Eve forwarded me this very article this morning and announced, "You know she waited on me at Party America in Corte Madera, right?"
Oh Eve, I thought. A woman after my own heart.
I don't know who's more nuts: the women who fall in love with both Lyle and Erik Menendez or me, who feels a loving pang of friendship upon learning Eve shares in my stalking of Doreen...
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Newlywed Game provided the most surreal experience of my life thanks to contestants "Gladys" and "Sylvia" who are in their 80's and met 2 years ago. When asked to describe Sylvia's favorite part of her body, Gladys, sitting on stage with her purse in her lap, responded, "My pussy."
The crowd erupted into hysterics as I sat stunned, staring into the dark, dumbfounded. Even as I remember it now, 36 hours later, I find myself pausing, both pleased that Gladys and Sylvia are still enjoying sex WELL into their twilight years and horrified that this grandmotherly woman in the appliqued sweatshirt used the word "pussy." Sylvia's answer as to her favorite part of Gladys' body, "her boat" was accepted.
Her boat, you guys. Her boat.
Speaking of boats, we docked in Skagway yesterday and wandered around town, stopping into a small diner for grilled cheese sandwiches and wandering around the wooden sidewalks in the rain. I actually really liked ye olde village in the middle of the mountains and could see myself living there for 2 whole weeks. The town lesbians, of which there must have been 2, organized an Olivia Happy Hour and tour of "Skag-Gay" but we hiked back to the ship in our rain gear, snuggling up with tea and books and our constant questions.
Like "What is the story with Del Sol?"
Del Sol is a store located in EVERY port. Apparently, everything for sale in Del Sol changes color in the sun. Everything. Why they've chosen to operate in Alaska is beyond us. There's also the Alaska T-Shirt Company which we patronize with great enthusiasm. This is the last week of Alaskan cruises. The 'season' is over this week. So everything's like, a dollar. We chatted with a gentleman yesterday who comes to Skagway just in the summer to work at an internet cafe and fish. The rest of the year, he studies industrial engineering in Ohio.
We also have lots of questions about the ship, like what happens if someone gets murdered. This subject came up when I was upgrading rooms on the second day. When asked by the front desk staff if I was having a good time, I thoughtlessly responded, "Yes. I hope there's a murder."
In relaying this to Melissa, she asked me the context.
"None. I really do wish there was a murder mystery on board. Don't you?"
What happens in the event of a maritime crime? Is there a brig? Who's in charge? Are marshalls on board? We're debating going to the naturalist lecture in a little while and asking this during the Q&A.
Each time we dock into port, we're docking with the same Holland America ships. Melissa and I would prefer to race them, imagining ourselves in the Captain's Deck screaming, "Go! Go!" Should our fellow travellers take too long to board, we envision ourselves pulling up the gangplank and hollering, "Sorry, ya took too long! Get a ride with them!" We'd yell this, motioning with our heads to the ship next door, our arms laden with ropes in our desperation to beat The Svenerdam or The Copendam to the next port.
Needless to say, we're desperate for some action.
I can report Betty DeGeneres holds unofficial court every night in the Ocean Lounge, the bar that employs the classical music quartet. Last night as Melissa and I walked by, they were playing the Schlinder's List Theme. Schindler's List, by the way, is available on DVD to be delivered to one's stateroom.
"Can you imagine?" Mel asked. "What a great day! I'm exhausted and having too much fun. Got any downers? Oh, here. Schindler's List. Terrific."
I was out strolling Deck 6 this morning, the walking track that surrounds the boat. As I stopped in my ski jacket and knit hat to record my thoughts on global warming, I was met by a group of very serious looking lesbians just as I announced, "I don't see what the big deal is. Global WARMING? This shit is freezing."
The glaciers were nothing compared to their icy stares. Brrrrr.
There are occasional sales listed on our daily program. Last night from 9-11pm was the $10 sale. The line started to form at 8 and by 9:01 (at which point I was in line, obviously), the doors had yet to open and mutiny had begun. These ladies did not fuck around, including one in a tank top, tattoos and sunglasses who started yelling at the staff in her panic and frustration. "It's after 9!"
She actually ducked under the gate and started digging through the glittery $10 watches and bedazzled clutches before they'd managed to turn the lights on. Mel had seen hints of the sale situation earlier when all hell broke loose over the discounted earring sets on the Lido Deck. Needless to say, I was throwing elbows with the best of them and am now the proud owner of a very cheap looking watch I refer to as "my bling."
Tonight is the "white party" to which I have nothing to wear and the comedian Mimi Gonzalez, one of the equally shocked hosts of the Newlywed Game. And tomorrow, we arrive in our final port of Ketchican. For the most part (Gladys and her boat aside) this is very much like a normal, relaxing cruise. We're drinking a lot of herbal tea, reading lots of books and have learned the hard way to avoid the deviled eggs.
We are keeping our heterosexuality in the closet, so to speak as I've come to find a new appreciation of why one would want to go on an exclusively lesbian cruise. I'll talk more about this later, but there's a very obvious, very nice sense of comfort these women are experiencing, especially those from places perhaps more conservative than San Francisco. I'd hate to take away from that, even in the littlest bit, by revealing our slight difference. I'm on their turf, after all. And am grateful for the opportunity.
Thus far, my favorite part of the cruise is that every day, someone changes the carpets in the elevators to reflect the days of the week. What a marvelous job, sneaking in each (of the 12!) elevators at midnight, removing Wednesday and throwing down Thursday. It must be so satisfying.
(Betty DeGeneres just walked by!)
I'm off to pretend to admire the glaciers. But really, I'm just biding my time until "Trivia" and some game called "Spot the fake Amber." Anything that gets me closer to 11 tonight when the White Party's DJ Tina Saldina spins a "Tribute to Michael Jackson."
Melissa just leaned over and pointed out we hadn't seen Gladys and Sylvia in awhile.
Hello? I think those two are utilizing the "Do Not Disturb" door hanger and that's all we need to know...
*Ranger Randy is making an announcement in his awkward Southern drawl. He keeps stumbling over his words and I think it's because lesbians make him nervous. I assure you, these ladies have some serious questions about nature and glaciers. Oh, I'm wrong. A woman on a scooter behind me just announced over her hand of playing cards, "I like Ranger Randy! He gave me a hug."
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I should point out that I'm writing to you from an internet "cafe" in Skagway called Northern Exposure.
It's exactly like the TV show, Northern Exposure. A woman in here just asked, "Is this sale for everybody or just locals?"
Some dude yelled back, "For everybody damnit!"
Honestly, I thought this was a Hollywood creation...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Greetings from the lesbian cruise!
We're "at sea" currently, having left Vancouver Sunday evening. Today, at 3pm, we arrive in Juneau. As I keep saying to Melissa, "We can describe this all we want. No one will ever believe us."
Picture, if you will, 1500 lesbians from EVERY end of the spectrum. Most are middle aged, casually dressed, lots of "walking sticks." Lots of men's haircuts, matching t-shirts. They're from all over the world and I guess it's just like any other cruise. Some are here to read and relax, some are here to get wasted and hook up.
I can't help but imagine my mother walking around, regarding the entire experience as a fascinating glimpse into lesbian life. (Mom, you'd constantly be saying, "This is SO interesting!")
There are 3 or 4 male passengers, or so we've been told. Sunday, after waiting forever to get into our TINY* but totally acceptable room, Mel and I ate (kind of shitty) lunch and sat on the deck watching sea plans take off and land from the harbor. We finally got in our room to shower and nap and then suddenly, we had to have this lifeboat drill (we're in boat 11, FYI) and I, for the life of me, could not figure out my lifevest.
Please now visualize sirens blaring as I stand on the deck in sweatpants and a pashmina as 6 (six) very reassurring and very butch lesbians all tried to tie me in this complicated vest and I kept screaming at Melissa to stop laughing while alternately thanking these problem-solving women.
Then the staff did a roll call.
"Gladys and Elinor?"
"Melissa and Elizabeth?"
"Susan and Sylvia?"
Silence...Who knows what happened to Susan and Sylvia. They could be dead in Vancouver Harbor for all we know. That was the end of them.
We napped until it was time for dinner. We were seated with 4 other women, one couple from Oakland who were very nice and 2 "solos."
Anyone on this cruise alone can be part of "Solos" and wear a necklance proclaiming their aloneness. Melissa and I are constantly noting the Solos. They have all kinds of activities throughout the day (and night...heh.) Anyway, we have not really revealed we are not lesbians yet although I made mention to a childhood crush who was obviously a guy and then thought, "Oh shit. They'll know!"
No one pushed me on the issue however.
After dinner was spent at the Martini Bar, one of 583 bars on this boat where Piano Man Dave played hits from the 60's, 70's and 80's to a devoted and enthusiastic audience of 9 women. Piano Man Dave's repertoire consists of such of revered classics as "Desperado" and "Take me Home Country Road." AND Piano Man Dave punctuates certain parts of a song with "Boom."
As in, "You've been out chasing fences, for so long now....BOOM."
Obviously, we find ourselves wildly attractive and Melissa keeps saying, "OMG, you just got checked out!!! Ima about to kick some ass."
We've worked out every morning in the gym although we both almost fell off the treadmill as it is VERY choppy today. I'm fine but Mel's feeling a little seasick and is wearing her pressure point bracelets. Every once in a while, we see a little pile of sawdust where someone has thrown up. Yesterday was lunch on the deck before "Trivia" and then "Close and Personal with Betty Degeneres." Last night was Formal Night (lesbian prom) and also the Newlywed Game, which we did not try out for, although considered it. The lesbian prom was really something to behold, mainly because of the varying version of "formal wear." There was everything from gowns and tuxedos (tails!) and black "Olivia" t-shirts paired with black sweats and sneakers. Melissa and I both wore black wrap dresses and had our photo taken, because again, it's prom.
Oh! I can't forget to tell you about Trivia, but I think I should save it for the Culture Blog. Um, we have a Jeopardy champ on board. You know how people who went to Harvard manage to bring up Harvard every 4 seconds? Yeah, so do people from Jeopardy. Especially at "2pm Trivia in the Crow's Nest!"
There's tons of activities and we can't decide which to do, although we're pretty compatible in when we want to do activities and when we want to lounge. A million DVD's are available to borrow in our room, and tonight, we plan to view Titanic.
No joke. Titanic.
We haven't decided on a shore excursion yet, although are debating several. We're playing it by ear and in between saying, "I cannot believe of all of our schemes, this is the one we actually did," we are having a very fun, make-up-less time.
Seriously. There is no way to describe this experience. It's hilarious and fun, however and we're taking lots of video.
We miss you and love you!
xxoo, Beth (and "Mel")
PS: "I bet everyone thinks I'm the man." -Melissa Griffin
*We got a room upgrade and now have a window, which is awesome until 2 am last night when we thought the ship was going to capsize. Mel and I sat perched on our knees on our pillows staring out the window terrified as waves crashed and the boat DRAMATICALLY rocked back and forth. We looked like dogs...
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
It's a girl, which we knew.
They named it Montana, which explains why they didn't want us to know.
Congratulations Newsom Family. I'm sure she'll grow up to cure cancer...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
You know. Suliman. Gavin Newsom's "black foster brother."
The Weekly has a fabulous piece about Gavin's foster friend who may or may not be named Suliman and may or may not be in jail FOR SELLING CRACK. Apparently, Gavin spent his childhood running through the slums of Marin City with his black foster brother, Suliman Akabar/Stephen Ashby, thus providing our Mayor with a certain level of street cred.
Over the years, Gavin's occasionally mentioned his relationship with "Suli" to the press and now that he's a candidate to run "the 8th largest economy in the world," people are asking, "Hey, what ever happened to your black foster brother?"
If I may paraphrase the Newsom Campaign's response, "Er, uh, We don't know. He's in jail. He had to sell crack to support his family. Stop asking us about it! It's personal!"
The Weekly couldn't find any trace of this brother or friend of whatever Suliman was to Gavin, but I definitely remember the mention of the foster brother in my favorite Gavin article of all time, THIS from 2005's Chronicle. My favorite Gavin moment?
The mayor spends so much time in Hunters Point, in Sunnydale and other housing projects in the southeastern quadrant of the city that young men there, idle on a weekday mid-morning, pass him by with a casual greeting: "G, man."
(I've bolded the best parts, obviously.)
I was asking around last night's League of Pissed Off Voters Fundraiser. First of all, everyone knew exactly what I was talking about when I asked, "So, Suliman, huh?"
Second of all, the consensus was that Gavin did probably have a "black friend" once a long time ago. Hilary Newsom Callan, Gavin's sister, confirmed that she hadn't heard from "Suli in years." Hilary, we all agreed, seems like a nice, normal person who would honestly verify something like the existence of a foster brother.
As one political insider broke it down for me, "When you're running for Mayor in a relatively small city, a close childhood friend can get spun into something more than that and you just ride with it. It's not that big of a deal." Running for Governor, however, is a different story.
I just think it's really interesting that of all the wonderfully curious things to investigate about Gavin Newsom, we're focused on the black foster brother.
In related news, Jordan and Jonathan Knight (of New Kids on the Block*) had a black ADOPTED brother, so, you know...
*I originally typed "New Kids on the Black." Heh.*
ALSO, you can read all about last night's event HERE at See Spot Write in the SF Appeal...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
We walked out to the front door check-in area, manned by a old dame we’ll call Jill. A little background on Jill: Late in life, Jill’s con-man boyfriend swindled her and violently and dramatically murdered her rich elderly aunt, hoping to cash in on Jill’s monetary windfall. Jill was quickly on to him, busted some detective balls and eventually got the asshole arrested. She then wrote a true crime book about it (including the gruesome crime-scene photos), was on Dateline NBC, runs a victims rights organization and works the front desk at my Grandmother’s retirement home. Jill is a fucking tough broad in a floral blouse and silver perm, and needless to say, a character.
“Oh, Jill. Thank God.” My mother announced. “Can you find us one of those lists of TV channels for mother?”
“I got those right here, dear. How’s our girl doing?”
“She’s confused.” Mom sighed. “And she’s pissed about it.”
“Aw Christ, Joanne. We’ve got those gals all over. In the apartments, in the Health Center, and Lord knows, in that Third Floor Nut House. I had one gal, a real cookie. A real great lady. Went on cruises in her heyday. And she’d wander around, thinking she was strolling around the deck of a cruise ship. And I’d walk with her. On and on, she’d go. She’d want to have dinner with the Captain? Fine. We’ll need to clean your good dress, then. The Percer is being rude? I’ll speak to someone about that. You’re mother’s waiting to meet you and we need to hurry? Well, hell, ladies. She’s 91 years old. Old mom’s been dead since 1957 but I don’t need to tell her that. So I says, Oh, your mother, phoned. She’ll be waiting for us. You see, Beth? You got to get in their space, is what you got to do.”
With that, an emergency buzzer blared on Jill’s desk. “Oh, shut up, you.” Jill rolled her eyes and flipped off the sound. She patted her bouffant and continued. “You don’t need to be the one who tells ‘em Sister died in the 70’s. They don’t remember anything but they’ll remember you’re the one who told them that sis was dead when they’re sure as sunshine she wasn’t. They’ll forget it all in 20 minutes anyway.
You get in their space, Joanne. Now, your mother’s not quite that loony yet. But she will be. I’ll go up and see her tomorrow. I’ll check on in on her, don’t you worry.”
Jill had us in hysterics, performing a routine so perfectly dry and deadpan and horribly blunt, I instantly wanted to make a movie about her. Years of trying to get someone executed will do that to you, I guess."
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tomorrow is September 11th, a day which will forever ruin birthdays for those born on that tragic date. Obviously, the events of that horrific morning are still unbelievable, profoundly evil and unspeakably sad.
That being said, I continue to find them incredibly interesting.
Thus, I will remain glued to the TV as soon as the 9/11 annual rehashings begin. I intently watch all of but not limited to:
-News footage of the day as it happened (ideal)
-Analytical timelines and movements of the 19 terrorists
I’m not proud of this, but I can’t be any worse than all of the people throwing parties tomorrow night like no one’s noticed it’s September 11th. I know the terrorists “win” if we totally change our lives and live in constant fear and reflection, but I can’t help it. There’s no way I will ever be able to do anything on September 11th that is unrelated to the tragic events of 2001.
Oddly, my favorite person to share all of the 9/11 coverage with is my mother, who against her better judgment and amid claims this whole thing is ridiculous, will sit with me for hours alternately gasping at the horrors and offering various theories.
I hope you don't think we're comparing this unspeakable historical tragedy to the Superbowl or the Oscars. It's not like we have themed snacks or anything...
“No.” I responded. But then I paused. “Actually, I did make a new friend.”
“Oh really? Who?”
Jan Wahl is surprisingly fabulous. I know she got into it with Quentin Tarantino and enjoys a wacky trademark, but I’m telling you, the woman is hilarious. She’s like a brilliant, wise, broad with the mouth of a sailor and convincing words of wisdom on dating and romance. I couldn’t believe I was discussing such personal aspects of my life with Jan Wahl, of all people. But seriously, I can’t get over it.
She’s fucking funny!
*Thanks to SFMike for the fabulous photos of last night and check back in a few days for The Beths' video report on the Gala...
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Younger male friend of a relative? Sold.
Anyway, his name was something like Josh and he was hilarious. Hilarious in that he was smart and weird and kind of eccentric, with this bizarre collection of experiences and stories. He was right out of a Wes Anderson movie and I got the biggest kick out of him. One night, my cousin and his cronies came back to my hotel room to drink and eat and hang out until the early morning. They sat around the dining room swapping stories and drinking wine out of coffee mugs and suddenly, Josh claimed he could draw the entire globe, including outlining every country on the planet.
He then proceeds to actually do this, grabbing paper wherever we can find it. All of us crowded around, watching as, at least to our questionable knowledge, this kid actually drew a legit map, labeling as he went along. I was enthralled, appalled, amazed.
And so, Al Franken having the lower 48 down pat is great and all. But 5 years ago, a 23 year old did the entire fucking globe on a cocktail napkin in a Manhattan hotel room at 4am. So, you know...
Monday, September 07, 2009
Sunday, September 06, 2009
I took the 10 minutes, followed the instructions, went through the dreaded restart and upgraded the Flip Video program.
Um, check out what I can now create!
Do I think everyone at Burning Man is a poser? Yes.
Should I say so in mixed company? No.
Anyway, when pressed to explain why I enjoy flipping through the bolded names and tight-grinned photos of people who would never deign to speak to me, I was stumped. I mean, really. If you want to talk about posers, any big city society's got them in spades. Why is it that I roll my eyes at Burning Man but read this (to fucking die for) article and will gladly sell my first born for a spot anywhere in the Monkey Bar? There's really not that much of a difference. Some people enjoy doing drugs in the sand once a year to prove that they're open-minded for 8 whole days. And some people will attend the opening of an abortion clinic if it means they'll be photographed and make someone jealous.
When you think about it, I'm the worst of them all. Because I just read about the people attending the opening of the abortion clinic. I'm not even invited! I'd have to get an actual abortion to go.
So now I feel a little bad for shitting on the Burners because we all have our flawed vices, right? For example, instead of hand-washing the mites and HPV our of my cargo pants like Burning Man People, I'll be spending Tuesday night stalking the Opening Night of the Symphony. So I will do my best to dampen my desire to strangle the population of the Playa if they will do their best to dampen their...christ, anything. Soap, hair, love of the sitar...
Friday, September 04, 2009
Authorities euthanized more than 100 dogs and cats found near Jimenez's mobile home and found more than 200 dead cats and dogs decomposing in trash bags.
And while I am desperate to impress and befriend literally everyone on Earth, there are few people so hard to crack as Grey Cloud. He does not offer praise, he refuses to acknowledge success...I'd given up.
Last night, we ran from one fancy bar to another. And at Boulevard, I realized the dramatic change sobriety has afforded me. Grey Cloud, who would be horrifed I'm telling you this, said he was proud of me. I have burned his words into my brain, they mean so much.
Who doesn't love sunshine blown up their ass every day of the week and twice on Sunday. But the praise that seems to have the greatest impact is that from those who never give it out.
He drives me nuts, he's weird and moody, but in this rare moment of sincerity, charm and aesthetic praise from this straight man whom against my better insticts, I love very much...well, shit.
I was speechless...
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Anyway, after Tim left I got showered and changed and walked out my front door to find my upstairs neighbor adding flare to his bicycles for "The Playa." Yeah, he's on his way to Burning Man. I had to sort of walk over his little art project and as I did so, I wished him well on his hippie adventure.
"Hey, did you lose your cat this morning?" He asked me.
"Well, I saw you running down the sidewalk all crazy. I thought maybe you were chasing your cat."
"Nope. I don't have a cat. That was me working out."
"Oh. It was so weird. I couldn't figure it out. There was that guy standing there and..."
I sighed. "That's my trainer."
"Oh, you're working out! I thought you were running after an animal."
"Nope. That's what I look like when I try and exercise..."
This is why I hate breaking a sweat in public. People think it's like the end of the world or something is horribly wrong. I'm amazed no one called the cops, my running down an urban sidewalk is such an alarming sight. It's really quite encouraging...