julery

Poop spelled backwards is pooP

2009-01-18T23:08:00.000-08:00

(for Angela)

Brown Poop
Grey Poop
Black Poop
Loose Poop

Cat Poop
Dog Poop
Duck Poop
Goose Poop

Thin Poop
Thick Poop
My Poop
Your Poop

Hot Poop
Loud Poop
Less Poop
More Poop

Throw Poop
Catch Poop
Drop Poop
Ripe Poop

Hear Poop
See Poop
Stop Poop
Wipe Poop.

The Burden of Power

2008-11-09T16:26:00.000-08:00

Normally, my reaction to any political event is to have a strong and vocal opinion. But Wednesday’s announcement that Proposition 8 had passed with flying colors in California, eliminating the rights of homosexuals to marry and, potentially, annulling the marriages of many gay couples, left me saddened and speechless.

Part of the pain came in the déjà vu. In November of 1992 I was a computer science graduate student at the University of Colorado. Sitting among my gaggle of nerds - almost all of whom identified as heterosexual - we rejoiced as we watched the numbers add up for the dynamic and unifying Bill Clinton. We cheered aloud; we cried, elated that 12+ years of ignorance had come to an end. The joy quickly turned to horror as we realized that Amendment 2, constitutionalizing discrimination against homosexuals, had passed. Sound familiar?

Focus on the Family, based in conservative Colorado Springs, supplied the financial juggernaut behind Amendment 2. They ran a flawless smear campaign out in the Colorado Plains. To be successful, they did five things: 1) they wrote an amendment where Yes meant No, 2) they misrepresented that a no vote implied “protected status” for gays, instead of the truth: equal rights for all, 3) they wielded church money and influence onto a civil issue, 4) they shamefully lied about the threat of the amendment to the church and to our children, and, 5) they took their fear and their lies out to honest, working class folks and transformed kindhearted family values into a message of hate. Sound familiar?

But here’s where things get different: in 1992, my friends, my straight friends, were aghast at this result. No one, gay or straight, stopped to celebrate. There was work to be done. So we did something crazy: the very next day, we started an email “list” to discuss your objections to Amendment 2. We held a meeting at school, and we taught all the other students outside of the computer science department how to use an email list serve. In no time we were rallying support all over the state, using the Internet to spread the message that hate was not a family value.

Back in 1958, a Virginia court sentenced Richard and Midred Loving, an interracial couple, to one year in prison after they moved their Washington DC sanctioned marriage to Virginia: “Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.” How silly this statement sounds 50 years later. Eventually, a higher ruled this lower court’s decision unconstitutional; likewise in Colorado, when a 1996 Colorado Supreme Court struck down Amendment 2 as unconstitutional.

AP exit polls reported that 7 in 10 black voters voted Yes on Proposition 8. Out in record numbers to vote for the first black president (depending on how you count) who could finally unify and respect the diversity of our great nation, they helped elect Obama at the same time as they helped condemn the basic rights of over 10% of California’s citizens. Since few blacks and Latinos are practicing Mormons, I can’t help but wonder if, in retrospect, those voters feel used and manipulated, as did many fine families in Colorado, when they later came to understand what their “yes” vote truly represented.

The question for gay marriage, like interracial marriage, is not if, but when. This time around, will we have to wait another 50 years for hate and ignorance to fully dissolve? There is an obligation that comes with the kind of new-found political influence wielded by the previously unrepresented voices who screamed on September 5th, 2008: it is the responsibility to do the right thing. That is the burden of power. Whether you are young or old, gay or straight, black or white, the time has come to do more than pat yourself on the back for what you might have done right, but to also ask yourself, “What can I do now?”

WOW: Stupid People

2008-11-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

This week I am worried that Stupid People may ruin it for the rest of us. As the country enters what could be the most important election of the century, it occurs to me that there is still a possibility that Stupidity will prevail, as it has for the last two election cycles.

I have been living in a bubble, and not just my normal liberal bubble (though, that too); I have been living in a smart people bubble. It is cohabitated by those who read the newspaper, understand the constitution, grasp the importance of the separation of church and state, and can explain the difference between religion, government, and economics.

Here’s a recap of the man-on-the-street radio interview that sparked my concern:

Interviewer: Have you decided who you are going to vote for?
Stupid Lady: Yes, John McCain.
Interviewer: Can you tell us why?
Stupid Lady: Yes, I think Barack Obama is more of a communist.
Interviewer: Can you give an example of a policy that supports that?
Stupid Lady: I just think he wants more Communism.

REALLY?? Really. More Communism? More than what?

You should have to pass a test to vote. You should have to prove that you understand basic high school social studies terms, as well as demonstrate that you have absorbed pertinent election information from somewhere other than Star Magazine.

After the train wreck of the last eight years, there are really only two reasons to support John McCain and the Republican Party:

1) You are stupid.**
2) You are a wealthy CEO who earns over half a million dollars in income per year and appreciates that John McCain will be watching your back with tax cuts, government contracts, and protected status for you.

** ”You are stupid” sometimes masquerades as one of the following:
1.1) Barack Obama isn’t qualified, what with his Harvard Degree law degree and eight years in the senate. You know better.
1.2) You're just doing the same thing your parents have always done.
1.3) Barack Obama is a communist Muslim terrorist supporter. All those senate votes he missed? Trainin’ with Comrade Osama Bin Laden (at least he knows where he is).
1.4) Sarah Palin is hot.

Opposing Sides, RIP.

2008-10-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

I am a writer who doesn’t write.

I haven’t written for 10 months. A very specific incident marks the draught of my creative juju (hint: it’s a four letter word that begins with S, ends with U2C and connotes Stand Up To Cancer).

Turns out, writing is just like riding a bike: You remember how to do it well enough to get to the end of the block, but when you inevitably fall on your ass, people will shamelessly laugh and point their finger at you.

This means that my re-premier has to be really good. That’s a lot of pressure. And, as everyone knows from the movies, writers crumple under pressure. We stop eating, talk to ourselves, chain smoke, and sleep with crazy people (often erroneously referred to as “inspiration.”)

Sitting down to write, I crack my knuckles and take the only logical start: I log onto Facebook to play Scrabulous. Imagine my HORROR to find that it was gone!! I really have been on a desert island. How will anyone ever write anything again? This is not cool.

Well, as Jesus used to say, if you can’t write something new, destroy something old.

I log into Blogger to do the world the good deed of removing the artsy-fartsy-faggy poem that I wrote while curing cancer and exorcising crazy people.

I would show you exactly how bad it was, except it’s gone to Artsy-Fartsy-Faggy-Poem-Heaven now. It will be happy there, dancing capitalizationless and punctuationless among other clauses like “shadows of the lonely soul,” “imperceptible silence,” and “from the dream away.”

RIP

sunglasses at night

2008-01-16T10:04:00.000-08:00

So, I’m cruising down the freeway at the end of my 16-hour day. Yawning and texting while eating and driving. People are hitting their breaks and slowing down to 41mph in the middle lane of the freeway for no apparent reason. It’s any night in L.A.

I glance over at my side-view mirror. Something is hanging off of it, flapping in the wind. Looks like a eucalyptus leaf, I think. “But I haven’t driven through any low hanging brush today.” I squint, take a closer look.

It’s my $100 sunglasses. I can tell because when cars pass me, their headlights glimmer on the 1-cent safety pin that holds the sides together. I’m not sure how they got there, or how long they’ve been there. But I’m pretty sure that the only thing holding them in place is the force of the 65mph head wind. Suddenly Dennis Hopper appears, telling me that if I stop or slow down the car, the glasses will explode.

I hang tight in the left lane for a bit, while I come up with a plan. Slowly, carefully, one by one, I switch lanes to the right. Finally, just past Crenshaw, I pull into the breakdown lane and begin to slow down.

Anyone who tells you that the breakdown lane on a California freeway is a “safe” place to stop is a BFL. Those lanes are mother fuckin’ skinny. And that traffic goes fast.

As soon as my car hits exactly zero MPH, the glasses fall off. I peer down through my closed window. They are nowhere in sight. I open the door. I IMMEDIATELY close the door. Traffic is 12 inches away. And repeating that “EEEERUHHHH” noise of fast-cars-go-by. I wait for a break in the traffic, crack the door. No sign of the glasses. I consider sparing my life and abandoning the glasses, but I ultimately decide it’s not worth it.

Traffic breaks, I exit the car, bend down to the wheel, don’t see the glasses. I feel the kiss of a car-by on my ass and scurry back inside. Again, I briefly ponder prioritizing my life over the glasses. I open the car door, hit the ground, grab the glasses, run to the passenger’s side, and get back in. Alive I am, and back in the company of my protective eyewear.

Back in the safety of my car, it won’t start. Did it pick up some kind of car flu in the breakdown lane? I’m about to look under the hood for who knows what, when it dawns on me. I roll down the driver’s window, put the glasses back on the rearview mirror, start the car right up, and drive off into the moonlight.

before tommorrow.

2008-01-02T12:31:00.000-08:00

the thing about getting old is that it is ageless. everyday the effects of yesterday are still a day away from tomorrow.

the stock market. real estate. the temperature of the earth.

there are things that move in only one direction over time.

what if there are things you can stop? and what if everyday that you don’t stop them, they just get older, closer to their perceived expiration date. what if too far gone is really only further than yesterday, but not nearly as far away as tomorrow?

worse, what if everything isn’t linear at all? what if to get to today, we have to pass through tomorrow?

you’re sitting on a beautiful couch in a beautiful house. across the room is a lamp, casting this warm glow on all the beauty around you. suddenly, the light goes out. now its dark, and you can’t see anything… but that’s ok, because when the light was on, it burned an impression in your mind’s eye of all the beauty. unfortunately, over time, the image inside you fades back to black. it happens so gradually that you barely even notice. you can’t experience the beauty, but you know its there, and somehow that seems like enough. but the truth – the real truth – is that all you see is darkness. in order to see everything beautiful again, you have to turn on the light. but you’re too lazy or too stupid or too scared to get up and walk across a dark room.

get up off your ass, cross the room, and turn on the light. just touch it. all you have to do is touch the fucking light. before tomorrow.

coastal partisanship

2007-12-24T08:43:00.001-08:00

grown women with pubic hair
a white woman cleaning up after me at the gym
white snow
old snow
old cars
old people
coupons
PWBF (people with body fat)
molding
radiators
sensible shoes
the boots of interminable hotness
5’10”
10 rum and cokes
dancing girls
authenticity
north winds
chubby yoga instructors
the beguiling woman on my left

Why should you care what I like?

2007-12-03T10:48:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure why anyone cares what I think; but moreover, I have no idea why anyone should care what I like.

People are out there blogging on their complex and grossly pregnant opinions of everything from politics to crotch snot (ahem). If I don’t care what the New York Times says about a movie, what makes you think I care about what you think about a movie?

Now, hypocrisy being the thing which separates us Americans from other lesser tribes of humanity like Catholic Priests and the French, check this.

Kimya Dawson. Brilliant. Listen here:

http://ahsatan27.imeem.com/music/zgIMimfe/kimya_dawson_tire_swing/

I was introduced to Kimya’s music through the film Juno.

Juno. This film holds a special place in my heart. For the last three years I have had the privilege of reading other people’s shitty scripts, even as I myself wrote slightly better-than-shitty scripts that no one paid attention to because I was just the lowly shitty script reader. Juno was the first script ever to earn a “Buy Now!” from me. Diablo Cody. Brilliant. To make matters more complicated, the filmmakers actually didn’t ruin it. I have to admit that Holly-woo! took this wonderful script and made it better… downside being that I’m pretty sure this event constitutes the 8th sign of the apocalypse. Buy your disaster preparedness kits now: prices may be rising faster than you can say “flood water.”

Scratch in the Snatch

2007-11-28T07:58:00.000-08:00

The sun rose on the junkies
Like a big crack bouquet
Yet something was different
In Venice that day

She found that her hand
Had crested her thigh
First an itch then a scratch
Then a gash! My oh my!

To find out the culprit
Her legs she did spread
And looked down to realize
Her snatch was all red

Where the sun did not shine
Small beasts took a hold
They hid under her girl parts
In the pink fleshy folds

“Ouch” the girl said
When she did try to pee
“I think that a yeasty
Has just bitten me!”

First she panicked and gaped
Where have these things come from?
“Oh fuck!” she exclaimed
“Have I done something dumb?”

She jogged through her mind
And she minded her snatch
But nothing would fix it!
Just to scratch and to scratch.

Back at home in Seattle
A cure she did get
The beasts jumped the ship
“Let’s find a brunette!”

Did she learn a good lesson?
I don’t think so. You see:
It’s better to have more sex
Than to be itchy-free

It’s hard to imagine
How this poem could end
Without a THANKS SKW
For being my friend.

FOD

2007-11-07T17:21:00.001-08:00

Just prior to my extremely minor surgery, I contracted a very serious disease called FOD. FOD is a pervasive problem, and one that should not be taken as lightly as a grain of salt in American Society. I found that, the closer I got to the knife, the more FOD ravaged my brain. I’m sure many other Americans have experienced this as well. It’s like Mad Cow.

While under the influence of FOD, I bequeathed large chunks of money and property to veritable strangers who had been nice to me during the 48 hours prior to my surgery. I made peace with old enemies, sought out indiscreet sexual encounters, and reminded everyone in my life that I loved them. I worked out 4.5 hours per day, in the event that my body was to be permanently marred during surgery. I even talked to the big guy (and girl), in case the FOD antibodies mutated into their lethal counterpart, D.

Bonus Round:  Q: “Why do men chase women?” A: “Because they fear death.”

FOC

2007-11-07T17:20:00.002-08:00

FOD is easily confused with FOC, because the two diseases share many symptoms. All of a sudden I realized: the chances of dying on the operating table? Slim. Less than the chances of my dog chewing off my left eye because she thinks she sees a biscuit reflected in my pupil. That’s what makes FOC such a much more dangerous condition.

C is more mainstream than D. It also comes right before D in the alphabet. Coincidence? I don’t think so. C is everywhere, so it stands to reason it might be in me.

There was that time I spilled the paint stripper all over myself. Or when I slept on the tail pipe side of the overnight video bus to Tiruchengode. Or the mosquito coils I burned during the other 130 nights I was there. I painted the house without opening the windows. Maybe it's all the Walmart chicken I’ve been eating. I do wear my ipod right over my left ovary. Tupperware. It took months for all the epoxy to come off my hands after I repaired those boats. I didn’t take my multi-vitamins last February. My mother smoked when she was pregnant with me. I can’t afford to buy the organic brands anymore. I have nothing to breastfeed. The stuff that cleans the mold off the bathroom ceiling always ricochets back into my face when I spray it. Wait, I have to take a sip of my French spring water from my evian bottle before I apply Zoe’s flea medicine. Why is furniture from IKEA always so heavy? I think some of the Windex got on my toothbrush when I cleaned the bathroom mirror. Anxiety is a breeding ground for free radicals.

But… I look better with a tan.

FOG

2007-11-07T17:20:00.001-08:00

FOG is the disease I contracted just after my surgery. It occurs when you take two vicodin and a muscle relaxant. Apparently, in my adult search for good health, I forgot how fun it is to be good ol' fashioned high like the sky. Today, as I write to you from the sky, it's a gorgeous day - clear with a slight breeze behind my eyes.

Good thing I’m writing this down, because tomorrow I won’t remember a word.

The "don't try this at home" version of cloud 9 is cloud 10: the remarkable triple dose of morphine that they administered to me in the hospital (who knew that was the drug I was demanding when I screamed "MORE!"). Morphine's reputation precedes it. Intense, beautiful, serene? Oh no. Cloudy was the head in my bed.

It is NOT peaceful to have everything that you look at move. When I looked at the ceiling it would melt into the walls. If I tried to look at the walls... well, they would quickly drown the floor. Forget looking at the floor; that's when the levee breaks.

Move over morphine, endorphine is coming back soon.