Anarchist Girl Scout

Pussycat / Pussycat / I love you / Yes / I do

2012-02-01T19:36:00.000-08:00

So, now I have to take my cat to the vet. He's wheezing a lot and sneezing. He's always kind of sneezing and wheezy (allergies), but it is loads worse lately.
I really don't want to loose my companion animal, so I hope it is nothing serious. He's lost a bit of weight, and he seems disinterested in life in general lately.
I know I don't really deserve it, and I know I said I was going to stop bitching, but I really need to catch a break here. Really.
I feel like a terrible person. He's been sneezing for so long, but I just thought it was his allergies messing up again. Now, he's all skinny and sad. I am worried.

Grey skies are going to clear up / Put on a happy face

2012-02-01T03:40:00.000-08:00

God fucking dammit. When am I going to catch a mother-fucking break? Seriously.
Okay, so, after reading my last entry, I was like, "You're being a whiny little bitch, self." So, I promised myself I would not write another post until I could really focus on the positive things. The thing is, I keep getting more and more disappointing news, and it is really fucking hard to see the silver lining on a cloud of shit. However, I am going to force myself to realize what a petty little fucker I am being by taking everything that's challenging me lately and trying to see the positive aspect of it. I know, this is some real Tony Robbins kind of shit, right? That's not normally my kind of bag, but fuck it, it's better than being a miserable fuck all the time. Let's unleash the mother-fucking power within then . . .

BAD THING: I had a root canal less than two years ago and was grossly over charged. The root canal now needs to be re-treated, which is not covered by my insurance. So, in addition to over paying once, I will now have to pay for it again at my own expense. This makes my total bill $2,600.00 for future treatments to my mouth - which may or may not solve the problem. Also, it hurts like a mother-fucker.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: At least I have teeth and a plan. I saw a woman at the grocery the other day with visibly rotting teeth. Looking at her mouth made my mouth hurt even more. I might not be able to afford my treatment, but I can get some of it done now, and probably not be in pain for too much longer. I also have a lot of friends and family that are praying that the re-treatment does work for me, which gives me hope that it will. There are some people who don't have any support.

BAD THING: All of my money is being used on medical things, which makes saving for any of my goals impossible. I don't have lofty goals. I want a place to live and transportation I can depend on. I would really like to visit with my friends, too.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: I have people who are nice enough to let me stay with them so that I can afford (well, get closer to affording) the medical treatment I need. I have enough money to buy food and (for right now - knock on wood) my car still works as a transportation device and that's all I really need.

BAD THING: Living with my parents has made me a social pariah, and people pass judgement on me all the time.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: I know the truth about me. I know that full time job most of my life. I know that, even though I don't have much, I've worked for everything I do have. I'm grateful that my past has taught me not to judge people by their pocketbooks, and I know that morality has fuck all to do with wealth. I know that the line of work I chose to go into doesn't always provide for me financially, but I feel like it is a calling that I have to answer, so I am comforted by the satisfaction the work gives me. Also, it helps that my parents are pretty boss people.

BAD THING: I can't seem to loose any weight, no matter what I do.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: My cholesterol is good, my blood pressure is good, and I feel better (besides this fucking tooth) than I have in years.

BAD THING: My best friends live far away.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: There's technology. I can connect with them still - even though we're miles apart. Also, I have such a great friend-family that I wouldn't trade them for a bunch of local luke-warms. Also, even though we're not as close, I do have friends close by who are lovely people.

BAD THING: There has been a lot of stress at work.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: Trouble or not, I can't imagine doing anything else. Not a lot of people can say that they are in the occupation that they feel was meant for them. I am my job. It's in my bones.

BAD THING: No boyfriend / girlfriend.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: I'm not dead yet. I can still meet someone and have the family I want.

BAD THING: Ovarian cysts give me anxiety because I already lost one ovary.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: I am being treated for cysts and they are being monitored. It is a pain in the ass with my insurance, but, hey . . . some people have no health care and no choices.

BAD THING: I'm a whining little bitch.
SILVER FUCKING LINING: Hopefully not forever! This is my frist step to curing that.

Say you don't need no diamond rings / And I'll be satisfied / Tell me you want the kind of things / That money just can't buy

2012-01-22T20:13:00.000-08:00

I know this isn't very punk rock of me, but I fucking hate being poor. Like, I goddamn loathe it. I don't really want to be rich. I mean, I wouldn't refuse gobs of cash, but it isn't a life-goal I'm actively seeking. However, this poverty shit is getting really old. I'd like to be comfortable, you know?
I think I am just particularly depressed because my friend told me how much is in her savings account and it is more than quadruple what I have to my name in general. I've worked for the same company now for nine years, and I work all the time. I am always working. I don't have nice things, or many things at all, really. My car has no air conditioning, a busted headlight lens, and the driver's side window doesn't roll down. I don't really want more things, but I'd like a secure place to live and a car I can depend on. If anything happened to my car right now, I'd just be doomed, you know? I can't even really pay for the health costs I need, either. I have a possible abscess on my tooth, and I can't afford the dentist. I have insurance . . . the co-pay is too much for me. It's frustrating. I mean, I knew that I'd be poor for life, but I didn't really think I'd be this poor for this long with this little. In the past few years, my salary has decreased by several thousands as my cost of living has increased several thousands of dollars. I'm not so poor that, say, I'm eating out of garbage cans, but I've been that poor before and I am frightfully close to being that poor again. There's no cushion. It upsets me because there are some of my friends with money who don't understand where I am coming from. Some are even judgemental when I say I can't afford something, or say strange things like, "Maybe you shouldn't go out then if you can't afford to get your teeth done." I don't "go out" all the time - probably once every two weeks. When I do, I spend between ten and fifteen dollars. At that rate, it would take me nearly five years (without the cost of treatment rising at all) to save up to have my teeth worked on. So, until I am thirty-six, I would have no social life at all to save up for the current cost of treatment. To me, that makes very, very little sense. I'm not bitching just to bitch, though. (Okay, maybe a little I am.) I am bitching because today this lady at the grocery really made me mad. This woman with WIC cheques was checking out. She had a little boy with her who looked like he was about six or seven. Anyway, the lady was talking to him (I'm guessing he was her son) about how he had a good report from school, and so he could pick one candy from the rack. These candies range in price from forty-five cents to a dollar and nine cents. The kid picked a sixty-five cent candy. Out of nowhere, the woman in between us in line then piped up and said, "So, you pay for your groceries with my tax dollars so that you can buy CANDY with your money?" Holy shit. What a fucking cunt. That's all I could think. I mean, it is a treat - a treat for a little fucking boy, a little boy who got a good report from school. Who gives a shit what his mother has done to bring her to the lowly, lowly state as public assistance? (I've never been on the dole - I've worked since I was fourteen . . . and I'm not talking some bullshit babysitting job, either. I worked my way through high school and college and ever since. I'm a worker. Which is weird, because I've met soccer moms who have never worked outside the home a day in their lives who have more judgement against welfare recipients than I've ever had.) He's a little fucking boy. Is he supposed to wait until his mother saves up, gets a better job, and works her way out of poverty to have a treat now and then? A sixty-five-cent chocolate? The mother-type just sheepishly looked at her embarrassed. The lady continued to mumble about welfare moms and Obama under her breath. I debated in my head saying something to her, but ultimately I decided I didn't want to potentially draw the kid into this - he seemed oblivious about what was going on . . . his little hands were wrapped around his coveted candy and his eyes were wide with anticipation looking forward to the moment he'd get to eat it. All I could think was: no matter how poor this family is, doesn't every kid deserve that? I felt bad for the mom-like character; I wish I could have taken back that lady's comment so the woman would still have the joy of that moment when she got to provide something for the kid. I really wish that a person's value wasn't so intertwined with how much money they make, and I wish like hell that my wages provided the modest lifestyle that I want. Right now, it isn't adding up.

I want a Sunday kind of love / A love past Saturday night / And I'd like to know it's more than just love at first sight.

2012-01-21T21:21:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to Ashleigh G. from Windmill, New Mexico! Not only does she live in fucking WINDMILL (and that's some badass Don Quixote shit if I ever heard it), but she won the Girl Scout lip balm set. Now her lips will be cookie-scented and moisturized. What more could you want? Well, maybe you want actual Girl Scout cookies.

Fun fact: Thin Mints are the second-highest selling cookie in America.
The highest seller? Oreos. Which are sold year-round in groceries.
Cheaters.

Our next contest is to give away one box of each of the three most popular Girl Scout cookie varieties: 1 box Thin Mints, 1 box Samoas/Caramel deLites, and 1 box Tagalongs/Peanut Butter Patties. I can't eat Girl Scout cookies (none of them are vegan - though, they are all Kosher), but I am buying these to support my troop in our efforts to go camping and donate to the National Resources Defense Council.
What do you have to do to win them? Just send me an e-mail at anarchistgirlscout@gmail.com with the name of your favorite Girl Scout cookie in the subject line. I'll pick one person on February 19th to win the three cookie boxes and e-mail him or her for the address. Good luck!
P.S. Rest in peace, Etta James! Tell my grandmother that I miss her . . . the two of you should hang out. I think you'd be friends!

My therapist said not to see you no more / She said you're like a disease without any cure / She said I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore

2012-01-14T06:04:00.000-08:00

So, today, I saw this video:

A lot of people are responding to this girl by saying that they hate her. I don't hate her, but I can see how someone could fucking fall prey to that. Her ignorance and intolerance is making her a pretty easy target for hatred and frustration. I don't hate her, though, and I urge other people not to jump to the comforting exercise which is hatred, too. No one ever changed a mind by making an enemy, and I sincerely hope this girl eventually changes her mind. Right now, she's limiting her own life by trying to limit the lives of others. Seeing the video did evoke two pretty strong emotions, however: sadness and pride. I was sad because it was very disheartening to me to be presented with an example of a fellow human being (let alone a fellow Girl Scout) who was so filled with confusion and fear. She is clearly afraid of transgendered people, and I think her fear stems from confusion. She seems to believe that transgender people are being deceptive when they present at the gender they most identify with, whereas I can't think of anything more honest. It's an honesty not easily come by in our society, either, as only illustrated by the opposition for acceptance presented in this video. She uses the research conducted by the GSUSA that supports all-girl groups as one support for her argument that transgendered individuals identifying as girls should not be allowed in Girl Scouts. There are two things wrong with this. First off, she's acting like a group of girls, some of who are biologically female and some who are biologically male, cannot be an all-girl group. That's false. Biologically male people who are transgender girls are girls. Secondly, the benefits that an all-girl group has for children seem to be right in line with accepting transgender people who identify as girls. From 10 Emerging Truths, a publication of the GSUSA, she quotes these advantages to having an all-girl group:* Relate to other girls* Talk about issues you can't in front of boys* Be yourself* Look how you want to lookNow, I like to believe that girls in my troop and other troops are deeper than just our biology. I think the problems facing girls - transgendered or not - go beyond just talking about period cramps. In fact, the problems my girls talk about with rarely have anything to do with biology, and I lead a troop at an age where most girls are going through heaps of changes including starting menstruation, beginning to develop breasts, and other not-so-fun girl issues. So, I don't see where a transgendered individual would not be an asset to the group or benefit herself from the interactions described by any of these points. It seems to me, that an individual who identifies with girls as their gender, but was born biologically male could only deepen the conversations and allow Girl Scouts to exercise the freedom and acceptance that they desire from each other with one and other. I don't think I have to point this out, but I felt a great sense of pride to be a Girl Scout, too, while watching this video because I love the fact that the Girl Scouts continues to be an accepting, inclusive organization. I know there are troops and councils out there that are less so, but the fact the our over-seeing organization consistantly adopts policies and practices that validate and support all girls makes me proud to be a leader.I'm even proud that, though I completely disagree with the girl in the video, she's allowed to voice her opinion and that the practices of the Girl Scouts allow her to do so. I like that the Girl Scouts invites and encourages girls to continue to voice their opinions. Oddly, I'm even a little proud of the girl in the video for voicing her opinion, though I am hopeful she changes her mind. (Not for the sake of others, but for her - the burden of ignorance is weighing so heavily on her that it has filled her with fear and turned her into a bully.) I like that the organization of Girl Scouts is constantly changing and growing and that the one constant is that we try to create the best environment for our girls so that they may become the best global citizens possible. I try, daily, to live up to the Girl Scout Law - which can be fucking hard sometimes. It isn't easy to be a sister to a bigot like the girl in the video. It isn't easy to be kind when someone else's words are so caustic. But, you know what? I'm proud that the Girl Scouts remains and organization that at its base is all about being the best person you can be to benefit yourself and others. So, I keep striving for that goal. I'm also proud of the person I am as a Girl Scout. When I was younger, I couldn't say the same thing. I had a shitty leader most of the time, who encouraged small-minded behavior and prompted the other girls to reject me. (I'm not transgendered - I was just weird and showing early signs of my bisexuality.) That was disappointing. However, the values of Girl Scouting are what drew me back in and make me proud to be a Girl Scout today. I'm proud that all girls in my troop feel wanted and like they belong. I'm proud that even though we are very different, we accept and care for each other. I'm proud that in the four years I've been leading, our troop has tripled in size. I'm proud that my girls make thoughtful decisions and are generous with their time and resources. I'm proud that at an age when girls are stereotypically most selfish, they are working hard to see beyond themselves and out to the greater good they can do in society. I'm also proud of all the girls (and guys) who have responded to the video and positive ways, like this:I want to do a service project and go camping with her, too! I'm so happy and proud to be a Girl Scout.

Listen! red light, yellow light, green-a-light go! / Crazy little woman in a one man show / Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love / Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up

2012-01-12T17:34:00.000-08:00

Oh, mother fucker.So, I was dating someone and that fell the fuck apart. Now, I'm alone again, and . . . it is driving me nuts.Some of my friends were having some success finding dates on craigslist, so I thought I would give it a shot. I know what you are thinking. I know, because I am thinking it, too. Craigslist is not the place to find humans. It is the place to find old couches, bike tires, and things of that fucking ilk, not goddamn human beings. Especially in my town. Those friends with successful dates? They live across the country where craigslist goes through some kind of mystic transformation where a few people who aren't just alcoholics or hoarders or both occassionally post. But, I'm fucking desperate, so here we go. Now, it might be a good time to interject one little thing about myself. You know those commercials where people bitch and moan about being rejected from eHarmony? You probably think to yourself, "No one really gets rejected from eHarmony. I don't know anyone that's happened to!" Well, now you do, motherfuckers! I was rejected. That nice old man on the commercials turns out to be quite the picky little cunt when it comes to soliciting clients. So, I find myself on craigslist. I'm reminded of that Louis C.K. bit where he talks about people eating Cinnabons. Basically, he comments on how people are never happy eating them. He talks about how Cinnabons are not for people with self respect. Craigslist is my Cinnabon, and I made the shit decision to take a big fucking bite. And, you know what? THEY FUCKING REJECTED ME, TOO. I have no idea why, but they flagged my ad for removal. I am too hideous for mother-fucking Craigslist. Son of a bitch. I bit into that greasy, nasty, fucked-up Cinnabon, and all I got out of it was more rejection and indigestion. Fuck 'em.

Everyday I work hard / At night I spend restless time / Those rich kids and all their lazy money / They can't hold a candle to mine

2012-01-03T21:10:00.001-08:00

It's Girl Scout cookie season again! The sale started today. We're taking pre-orders until the 27th. My girls are excited. I hope we sell a fuck ton of cookies. I really want the girls to be able to go camping. We need to sell about seventy-five boxes per girl to make that happen. Part of the reason we need to sell so many boxes is because the girls have decided to make a charitable donation of $100.00 to the Natural Resources Defense Council. The girls picked this charity after doing a little research. We made a list and then voted. The Heifer Project came in second, and maybe we'll donate to them next year.The girls always want to donate to everyone. I always have to talk them down to a $100.00 donation to just one place. They really, really want to go camping this year (we could only afford to go bowling last year), but they are so generous. I hope we meet our goals this year. Most of the girl in my troop have never even seen a real city park let alone a camp ground. Speaking of camp grounds, I am going to an adult retreat with other Girl Scout leaders in February. This should be interesting. I don't really blend with the other leaders in our community. First of all, outside of the leaders who meet in my immediate circle, I'm the only one without a kid of my own. Aesthetically, I stick out like a sore thumb, too. I've had multiple concerned leaders ask me if something happened in reference to my hair color. I'm pretty sure we don't listen to the same music, shop the same stores, eat the same food, or vote for the same candidates, but we all really care about the girls and that's what most interests me. They're all fairly nice people (some are really nice), though, and I love camping, so this should be fun. (I hope!)

I've got something to say / I killed your baby today / And it doesn't matter much to me / As long as it's dead

2012-01-01T19:35:00.000-08:00

I am having a lot of stress lately. All of it is related to finances. I mean, there's some other things that are stressing me out, but the root of all of my problems is money. Here's the deal: I moved in with my parents to save money. I have a lot of credit card debt that I am chipping away at, and I am trying to save my money I would be spending on rent in savings. Great idea, but things keep coming up that are sucking me fucking dry. I'm making less money at work, and I am not getting any contract work - that usually accounts for about a third of my annual income. Now, the fucking air conditioner in my car isn't working, and my tooth has an abcess. I'm not so worried about the car. I've never had a nice car - I've always had shit. Now, it is just a little bit shittier. Sure, it is a little embarassing to have to pat myself down with coffee filters to absorb all the flop sweat I've built up from riding around in the baking Florida sun, but in this land of no public transportation, I am just glad to have a car. The tooth thing is pissing me off, though. Just a year ago, I had a root canal and a cap put on the tooth. Ever since then, there's been an abcess on my gums. I had new x-rays done and, apparently, they can't see much of an infection. The doctor's exact words were, "Welp, it might be this grey line here. Yeah, that's maybe it." He leaves before even telling me my options and I am directed to an office lady who tells me I have two choices: 1) Pay forty dollars and have them take the tooth out completely. This will basically be me flushing that $3,000.00 cap I just fucking bought down the toilet. Also, I'll have a gap like a fucking hillbilly (even though it is the second to last tooth and would be hard to see) and I would put my other straight teeth in jeopardy of becoming crooked. Frankly, I am fucked-up enough looking. I don't need that shit. 2) Pay fourteen hundred dollars for them to re-treat the root canal. They might find something, they might not. They might fix the problem, they might not. They might also destroy the cap again, and then I would need another one. Fucking A. Also, can I just point out that dental work is a fucking screw job? Those prices are with insurance. Fuck me gently with a chain saw. Jesus. So, basically, I need more money. A lot more money. I would consider a second job, but I work all the time as it is, so I don't know if that is realistic. If anyone out there has any ideas, though, I'd love to hear them.

People don't need to know my name. / If I've done any harm, then I'm to blame. / If I've helped someone, then I've helped me. / And I've opened up my eyes to see.

2012-01-01T11:28:00.000-08:00

2012 brings us the 100th anniversary of Girl Scouting! So, naturally, I am fucking psyched. So, to mark the occassional, I am giving away a "Party Pack" of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers in (wait for it) Girl Scout cookie flavors. I know, I know . . . that's about as boss as it gets.

That's right . . . all this could be yours.

All you have to do try and win this is e-mail me with the subject line Girl Scouts at anarchistgirlscout@gmail.com. I'll pick one person on January 8, 2011 to recieve the Party Pack.
The Girl Scouts really is a wonderful organization that helps girls to help themselves and make the world a better place. My experience as a leader with the girls has been wonderful so far.
If you are interested in becoming a scout leader, you can find out more at the Girl Scouts official website about how to contact your local Girl Scout community for volunteer opprotunities.
Our troop's cookie sale is now less than a week away with pre-orders starting January 6th. We'll be picking a charity to support once again and we really hope to also raise enough money to go camping. Happy New Year, everyone, and good luck!

And she's kind of like a movie / Everyone rushes to see / And no one understands it / Sittin' in their seats

2011-12-28T20:21:00.000-08:00

So, I saw the movie Young Adult a few days ago. It isn't memorable. I was actually pretty disappointed with Diablo Cody for writing something so absurd it tipped back into being blah. I like Juno - I thought it was cute, but Cody's most triumphant moment for me will seemingly always be her candid look at the world of erotic dancing in Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper even though large chunks of that book did feel me up and left me with an irrational and confusing anger. I can't explain it, and I don't fucking want to, but reading it was an experience for me, you know? Her films haven't lived up to that sensation for me, and I can't really put my finger on why, but something's fucking missing. The main character in Young Adult is a monster - plain and simple. It's as if someone told Charlize Theron, "channel Chelsea Handler - only bitchier and not that funny." She's a bitch who moved out of town, and now she's spied something she wants (a married man who just became a father) so she goes back to get it. Don't get me wrong, the movie is entertaining, but it left me with an unpleasant bitterness and not much else. The trade off wasn't worth the few gag giggles that I got in the process. If you're anything like me, you'll spend the first three-quarters of the movie writing her off as of all the girls you hated in high school. There is a plot twist, though, that - although the specific contents of said twists are probably not predicatable - has a definitely expected nature. You knew some shit was going to be revealed so that things would turn a corner with how the characters were presented. Some people might say that Cody is trying to mirror the pathetic structure of a young adult novel with these sorts of predictable devices, but I don't think so. I think she's just gotten lazy, and that's disappointing.

Walking around with your head in the clouds / Makes no sense at all / Selling yourself short, but you're walking so tall / Makes no sense at all

2011-12-26T21:13:00.000-08:00

Oh, holy fucking Christ. I feel like my insides are revolting. Good fucking God.
I was once at a convention for work when I saw a uterus in a jar. It was part of a preserved specimens collection on display. I was amazed at how small it is. In fact, I think my words at the moment were, "Holy shit - that little thing can cause so much trouble?" For those of you that don't know, a uterus is about the size of a small pear.
That little fucking pear is driving me fucking nuts right now. I'm glad I'm healthy - this isn't a complaint. It's more like an observation coupled with an explanation. I'm observing that my lower abdomen feels like someone is stabbing me with a screwdriver and twisting it a little each time. I'm explaining why, then, nothing I write tonight will make a whole lot of sense probably because I am feeling it for sure. For sure.
Anyway, I just finished reading Bob Mould's autobiography See a Little Light. I started it a long time ago, but his alcoholic childhood and closeted adolescence really bummed me out, so I had to put it down.
I'm glad I picked it back up.
I was interested in reading the book because I love the band Hüsker Dü. I first heard Hüsker Dü three years after they stopped making music together. I was sitting on the floor at a local record store. I remember it really well because I was wearing a skirt and my eleven-year-old thighs were all sore from riding my bike to the store. That banana seat was a real bitch sometimes. Anyway, the floor was feeling awesome as I was rooting through milk crates stuffed full of "forgottens." Forgottens were records and cassettes that hadn't sold in a long time, and were put away under the tables as sort of a bargain bin. No one ever saw them - it was a marketing strategy gone way wrong. The store owner put a sign on the crates acknowledging his failure while still not correcting it. Personally, I think that it was always a strategy on his part to be able to hoard these records while still appearing to be making an attempt to sell them. Most people that came into the store were not as young as me - I was the only little kid that wasn't wandering around with an older sibling. I was most often alone when I went there, so there was no one to stop me from getting on the floor and spending hours digging through the forgottens. There was no organization to the forgottens, and - mostly - it was just an area where scummy teenagers would try to slip records they'd peeled off the price tags from to get for a cheaper price. It never worked, though, because the store owner knew every record in the place.Anyway, I picked up a copy of Candy Apple Grey and asked the store owner to play it for me. He was fucking around with his dogs - he was always fucking around with those dogs when no one was there. He shuffled over to me, muttered some sarcastic question about whether or not I had parents, and then took the record from my hand. I remember he looked at the album cover, asked me if I had ever heard the band before, and then gave me his hand to help me off the floor. I could always tell if he thought the music I was interested in was good or not because if it wasn't that great, he'd throw it on the store's tiny audio system. He'd let it spin for a little bit, let me publicly see the error of my ways, and then he'd dismiss it for something else. If it was good, though, he'd put it on the stereo system that had these giant headphones. I'd sit on this shitty wooden stool he had that was all soft and worn from years of use. The cracks of the wood were filled with years of grime and dirt from other listeners' hands. I loved sitting on that stool. When I first started sitting on that stool, my legs would dangle. When the store closed some years later, they were planted firmly on the fucking ground. He put it on, smiled, and left me with the headphones on. I listened the the whole record. The only time I got up was when I went over to the counter to ask him to flip it for me. (After a terrible, record-scratching, needle-breaking incident, we came to an agreement that I was to be less of a do-er and more of an asker when it came to playing records.)I bought the record and played it all the time. The next time I was in the store, I asked the owner where I could see them play, and he told me to, "go buy a fucking Delorean." Those were the days before the Internet. How the fuck was I supposed to know? Anyway, that crusty bastard was kind of a soft-heart on the inside and in the coming months when I went to visit the store he may have picked up a copy of Zen Arcade and Flip Your Wig. You know, they just happened to come up when he was looking for stuff in the store, and, you know, I could listen to them if I wanted.
Anyway, that former me sitting on the stool with the giant headphones on was super-psyched to be getting just a little peek at the back story of a band that might have some coherent explanation. Next to listening to the music, it is as close as I'm ever going to get to being there, which is especially poignant in the fuck-you-if-you-weren't-there culture of rock n' roll. (I bought this book at a record store a few years ago and could not get into it. The editing is so bad that whole sections of the book are repeated - word-for-word - in multiple chapters. I plan to try it again someday, but not today.)Want to know something weird, though? The Hüsker Dü section was the part that ended up holding my interest the least. I mean, it was pretty good to hear from the artist the meaning (or lack of meaning) behind the songs, and all that nonsense, but in the end it was the same ugly story that always kind of turns me off: great band, great potential, potential realized, personal problems, things fall apart, they argue about money. It's not that I am so overly romantic that I think that contracts and money are not part of releasing music. However, it's kind of like when you're friends with a married couple and their marriage falls apart. You don't want to hear the ugly details of who got what and why. You don't want to see the contents of the settlement. However, I'd be down-right hypocritical if I didn't accept that as part of Mr. Mould's story because I loved the candid nature of his story in all other instances. The way that he recounts his childhood without bitterness but brutal honesty is refreshing. He points out his parents' downfalls without painting them as monsterous. He lays bare inner conflicts that are both shocking and distubringly relatable. His post-Hüsker Dü life is captivating, too. He explores some aspects of gay culture that everyone seems aware of but no one seems to talk about without being all rainbow about it. I could relate to this. Some people think being queer is one of two things: nipple rings and feather boas or in the proverbial closet. Mould is neither (though he does spend some time being scandelous - like all (well, most) people do when fully taking the helm of their own sexuality). There is one theme throughout the book that seems to fall into the 'human nature' aspect of being irritating. He often will list one of his personal story-comings, say he's not making any excuses for himself, but then continue to list the reasons that lead him to make whatever bad choices he made. I think I only find this annoying because I do that same fucking thing, and I am disappointed with myself every time I do it. Also like me, Mould is a worker. Being a worker is largely a cultural thing. There are some people I've met who aren't workers and I am always fascinated by them. They can go for stretches without devoting large chunks of their time to a project or job. I can't do that - it is not in my blood. I've had a job as long as I can remember, and when I have my job I do it well. The thing I liked most about this book, though, is that Mould is sentimental without being mushy. I appreciate that. You get the feeling that he's not just bullshitting you through enough pages to fill a book, he's not explaining or bragging. He's telling a story that turns out to be a pretty good one. I highly reccommend it.

Nobody likes you / Everyone left you / They're all out without you / Having fun

2011-12-26T14:47:00.000-08:00

I love that I have my computer back. Now, I can do oh-so productive things like watch shit like this:
They're All Out Without You from johnroecker on Vimeo.
Things I enjoyed:
* She licks the blood off of Jesus.
* Her mom wouldn't have adjusted the headphones to channel all the sound through one ear.

Silent night, holy night! / Shepherds quake at the sight / Glories stream from heaven afar / Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia! / Christ, the Saviour is born / Christ, the Saviour is born

2011-12-25T20:06:00.000-08:00

You guys . . . my folks got me a bike!

You know, it's weird. I never really thinking of writing as something that I do that is essential, but it fucking is. My computer contracted a nasty little Trojan something or other, and was out of commission for a while there. However, thanks to my brother-in-law, I've got my computer back - minus the credit-card-number-stealing virtual pirates. Anyway, I really missed writing on here. It really is like home therapy for me. I mean, it's a good place to talk to yourself without being (or seeming like) a fucking lunatic. Now, though, since it's been a while, I am having a hard time thinking of how I am going to write some of the things I wanted to down.
Christmas was yesterday. Christmas is my hands-down favorite holiday of the year. I love Christmas. This year, I didn't get to do a lot of the Christmastime things that I like to do, but there's always next year. I went to my sister and her husband's house for Christmas. There was a fair degree of stress there because my sister's house is, like, an hour away, and we brought a lot of the food. The plan was for us (my mom and me) to go over early and cook and that didn't really work out. So, my mom was freaking out about having things ready and I drove alone in a car with no air conditioning to my sister's to be greeted by a very grumpy, stressed sister when I got there. Guess what? It all turned out fucking fine like I thought it would.
One thing that I wish had gone differently, though, was dinner. Well, the seating at dinner. There were two tables - one on the porch and one outside. My sister, brother, and parents were sitting at the outside table - clearly where I wanted to be. My aunt and uncle and brother-in-law's parents were sitting on the patio. I was the last person to get a plate, so guess where I ended up sitting? I'll give you a hint: it wasn't with my hilarious, joking family. Other than that, it was good. I just love my family time so much. It sucks that I missed out on Christmas dinner, but in the grand scheme of things, I don't have anything to be ungrateful for (no matter how hard I try). On the contrary, I have plenty to be grateful for.
I love gift-giving. I really do. I think people generally liked my presents. That's the best present I get every year - when the recipients of my gifts like their presents. I spend a lot of time trying to get people things that I think they will use and enjoy. I know it is silly and materialistic and not the real meaning of Christmas and all that, but . . . I love it when people think the gift I gave them is fucking boss. It makes me feel fucking awesome.
I hope everyone out there had a good holiday. Merry Christmas.

Step into Christmas, let's join together / We can watch the snow fall forever and ever / Eat, drink, and be merry, come along with me / Step into Christmas, the admission's free

2011-12-15T03:08:00.000-08:00

506 pounds! That's how much food the Girl Scouts from my Juniors troop, a Daisy Troop, and a Brownie troop collected to donated to Metropolitan Ministries in just one week.
I'm so super proud of them - everyone helped. The Daisies made banners advertising the sale, the Brownies made flyers that went home to the parents and community members, and the Juniors collected the boxes, counted and seperated the food items into categories, and delivered the food. I really love it when my troop gets to work with other troops like this.
We also had our Christmas party last Wednesday. It was a lot of fun. We made hot chocolate and stirred it with peppermint candy canes. The Daisy leaders brought in Santa hat brownies that were topped with strawberries and so fucking cute I could hardly stand it. The Brownie leaders brought in chips, too. They all sat around and ate and watched It's Christmastime, Charlie Brown together. So fucking heart-warming.
At dismissal, we gave them their ornaments that they made their parents. Unfortunately, one girl got hers messed up on the way home by some bad-ass neighborhood boys. Assholes. I helped her re-make it later in the week, though, so she had something to give her parents. I was pretty proud of her for not running after them and beating the shit out of them (she could - she's the fittest girl in scouts).
I think our non-perishable food drive will have to become a yearly tradition. The girls got so much out of it - - and I did, too. Next time I see the girls it will be 2012 - - we're not having a meeting until after Christmas. I am so blessed to volunteer with such wonderful girls and fellow leaders.

And I won't be forsaken / If you think thoughts unkind / Just bring home the bacon / And bring it home on time

2011-12-10T21:23:00.001-08:00

Oh, Men's Health. You named my city the fourth saddest place to live in the country, and you named our neighbor, Saint Petersburg the number one saddest. What's worse, you did it by calling us, "frown towns." That phrase basically makes me want to go on a punching spree through your offices. Seriously? I thought this was Men's Health, not Kindergarten Children's Author and Television Program Host's Health. Frown Towns? Jesus, Men's Health, grow a pair.
I guess I can kind of see St. Pete being up there on the list. It's the San Francisco to our Oakland (clearly, Tampa is the Oakland in that relationship) except instead of being a haven for gays and other cosmopolitan types (though, there are a lot of queers in Saint Pete), it's where you send your grandparents to die. So, yeah, they have great beaches, but they also have tons of seniors pretty much packing in their bucket lists after being disgarded by their families. I can see how life could be a major bummer there because of these outside factors. (By the way, can you stop sending your grandparents to live here and take up residency and vote against things like tax dollars for school because they don't have any kids in our public school system and never have? Thanks.)
But, seriously, number one?!? Number one? Over places like Flint, Michigan? And Reno, Nevada? And any city in fucking Texas? (Texas is a state that just flying over makes me sad.)
And, Tampa - number four? Are you fucking serious? Don't fuck with my city, assholes. A good friend of mine, who is from Chicago, married this other friend of mine that's a Tampa native. Someone once asked him if he would ever move back to Chicago. He told them that Tampa girls don't move, so if he wanted to stay fucking married he better like staying in Tampa. That's fucking true - we don't move. Why would we? We have an amazing city to live in with crazy-ass politicians and lap dance kings like Joe Redner, awesome and interesting venues like the Tampa Theatre, and fucking teddy bear atheletes like Marty St. Louis. Why the fuck would we want to move? We're the lightning capital of the world, mother fuckers.
Wake up and smell the AAA complimentary map of the United States that you got free with your trial membership that came with your subscription to your own shitty magazine, Men's Health. Tampa's awesome.

Frost the snow man / Was a jolly, happy soul / With a corn cob pipe and a button nose / And two eyes made out of coal

2011-12-10T19:35:00.001-08:00

I made these tonight, and they are really amazing. I'm so super modest.

Vegan Peanut Butter Cookies (a holiday homage to Iggy Pop)

Adapted from http://tinyurl.com/janaebutter Check out Janae's blog!

Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose
1 teaspoon baking soda¾ teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup natural peanut butter
2/3 cup light agave nectar
2 tablespoons sugar (optional)
1/3 cup vegetable
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Directions
Preheat oven to 350ºF and place rack in the top third of oven. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Combine flour, baking soda and salt in a small bowl.
In the bowl of a stand mixer or other bowl, combine peanut butter, maple syrup, sugar (if using), oil, and vanilla. Mix until all ingredients are fully incorporated.
Pour the dry ingredients on top of the wet, and mix again just until the flour disappears. The dough should be crumbly but stiff. Let dough rest for five minutes, then give another stir or two.
Scoop dough by packed, rounded tablespoon onto baking sheet about an inch apart (they don’t spread while they bake). Using a fork, create a cross-hatch pattern on top of each scoop, while also pressing down to flatten the cookie. The dough will want to crack around the edges; this is okay.
Bake in batches on the top rack of the oven about 12-14 minutes, until golden brown.
Makes about 30 delicious cookies.

All of the other reindeer / Used to laugh and call him names / They never let poor Rudolph / Join in any reindeer games

2011-12-10T04:40:00.001-08:00

So, yesterday I was in a chat room. (Yes, I am fully aware that this isn't 1998. People still go in chat rooms. I swear! They do!) Anyway, the administrator of the forum that hosts the chat room was online and he was talking about how he hates it when people post things promoting their own site or information on his forum - his forum that is a fansite. I thought that was weird because, you know . . . you're a fansite. So, clearly, you're not posting original information and your whole existence is built off of promoting and talking about someone else's career and work. I didn't find it weird in a way that made me angry or upset, but more of a, "Huh, that's odd," kind of feeling. So, I said that.
Then, he asked me to explain.
So, I did that.
Then, he said that they always gave credit to their news sources, and they didn't rip anyone off.
That seemed fucking non-sequitur to me me.
I mean, I wasn't accusing him of stealing anything. In fact, I'm pretty impressed that this person has done so much with their fanaticism. The only thing my obsession has produced is a record collection and some pretty awesome personal memories. So, I definitely don't think of him or the site in the thieving capacity, but more so in the productive one.
So, that leads me to think that he views people who post things directing people to their own work on his forum as thieves.
This was confirmed when he called them "leeches."
Hmm.
I felt a little fucking awkward at this point because I've promoted contests on Anarchist Girl Scout on this fansite before. I never thought of myself as a self-promoting leech. I more thought of myself as someone looking for people with similar interests who might want the shit I was giving away.
So, yeah, that was disappointing because I felt like an outlet I'd found to reach like-minded people was being shut off. I don't think he was talking about me, because I don't think in the sea of commentary on this forum my little contributions stick out, but he was talking about people who do what I've done, so . . . yeah.
By the way, I don't have contests on Anarchist Girl Scout as a means of self-promotion. What's there to promote? Me? An anonymous Girl Scout leader with excellent taste in music and bad social skills who writes a tiny little blog? Gift-giving and using the Post Office are two of my favorite hobbies - hence the contests. Do I like that people read my blog? Well, sure, but it is more from a home-therapy aspect and less from a self-promotion aspect. I like the idea of a few anonymous people out there connecting with my little life stories. It's nice to know someone is listening even if you don't know who the fuck they are. That's why I give out shit like stickers, too. I like the idea of people I don't know reading my stuff.
He went on to say that he didn't feel like he was doing anything wrong because the people his fansite is built around show support by sending him things to give away and showing support themselves.
Again, that seemed weird to me because I wasn't hinting that they didn't, or that a fansite is a bad thing to have (clearly, I enjoy being on it).
I mean, I wasn't saying that at all - I was more confused over how someone could be so super cynical over other people just trying to get their own things out there and make connections, too.
So, I was still pretty confused.
I asked if he minded if people link back to his site, and mention the fansite in their own blogs, etc. He said that was absolutely okay.
So, other people can promote his site on their sites, but they can't promote themselves on his forum. That seemed weird to me, but I guess I just don't understand the Internet.

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree! / Much pleasure thou can'st give me; / O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree! / Much pleasure thou can'st give me

2011-12-08T19:18:00.001-08:00

Today was a really shitty day at work. We had an event that was a really big deal, and I'd put in a lot of hours to make sure it went well. And . . . it did go well - really, really well.
However, one of the other workers I was helping to supervise made a sort-of-critical mistake publicly, and I had to deal with the aftermath. Everyone left happy, though, so I was feel pretty good about my management skills.
Then, as everyone was gathering in the main meeting hall, I decided to hit to bathroom. What a fucking mistake that was.
I was in the bathroom when I heard the lady a few stalls over start wailing. Like, it was a wall of fucking sobbing - large, guttural, panicked sobs. Before I could exit to see what was wrong, some of the event hall staff came bolting inside - - apparently, you could hear her outside of the restroom as well. Because of how the bathroom was laid out, I was just kind of trapped in the stall awkwardly as they tried to help this lady. They told her she had to tell them what was wrong and open the stall door. The woman in the stall just kind of tried to choke out some words, but no one could understand her. One of the staff lady then told her - in kind of a firm voice - that she needed to either open the stall door or tell them what was wrong.
That's when the lady in the stall managed to squeak out, "I miscarried. I think I - I think I did."
The whole tone of the room flipped on a dime then. Because I am a selfish creature, I instantly was transported back to my own memories of losing a baby.
The once-firm staff lady approached the woman in the stall with a totally different tone in her voice. She said, "It's going to be okay. We'll get you an ambulance, but you've got to let us in now to help you." She unbolted the door and they walked her outside.
I waited a little while longer. It was bizarre - the scene of so much activity and anxious tension just a moment ago was now so still and quiet. I was still stuck in my own memories, thinking about the horrible moment that I discovered what had happened. When I was pregnant, it was one of the worst times in my life. I was with a man who didn't love me (and was, at the time, an ocean away), and I was broke. I didn't have a plan, and my friends couldn't relate to my situation. I didn't tell my mom or dad because I wanted to wait until I had better news - a direction that I was going to go with this new little life I was growing. It killed me to keep anything from them, but the risks of their disappointment way outweighed the benefits of lifting the burden of secrecy. Still, there was an internal happiness. I would think about the child, and - it's so fucking weird - I would feel comforted in just rubbing my belly.
I realized at this point that my eyes were watering up a little, so I actively worked on pushing the thoughts of loss and pain out of my head.
I wiped my eyes, and I went to the sink. I blotted my face a little with a wet paper towel so my complexion would return to normal. When I exited the bathroom, I saw her - the lady from the stall - sitting on a bench. She wasn't someone with our group - I didn't recognize her at all. However, the shape she was in seemed pretty familiar. Her lips were bluish and her eyes were completely bloodshot. She looked like hell. She kept clutching her own arms - cradling herself in emptiness. She was surrounded by people, but she seemed so alone. The paramedic helped her onto a stretcher, and she left her purse sitting on the bench. The event staff lady - I think it was the same one who got her out of the stall in the bathroom - handed it to her. She weakly replied, "thank you," but it was pretty clear that the whereabouts of her belongings were of no concern to her at this moment. So many people were trying to help her, but there was really nothing anyone could do, you know?
Then, someone from my group came over to me, and grabbed my arm. They said something I didn't quite catch about me taking too long to get to the main meeting hall. I put all my feelings from what I just witnessed away, and followed into an expansive space. I didn't allow my mind to think about that poor lady and what had happened. Well, that was the plan, but I still found myself having to be on constant vigilance for those feelings that continued to creep back in to my mind.
Then, it happened. The company big shots were all lined up. Committee members like myself lined up to receive recognition for our parts in making this event possible. They named each person - one-by-one - who had helped out. People with the most minor parts got named . . . and they forgot to say my name. I wasn't recognized as a member of the committee. I had to stand there, and look out-of-place. One of the big shots even thought that I was mistakenly up there, while I was on the stage for part of the presentation and tried to usher me to a seat while I was doing my job.
It shouldn't be a big deal. I'm not trying to climb the corporate ladder or anything like that, but . . . my job is my life. I work all the time. I am always doing something work-related it seems, and this is the third time at a major event I've helped organize, that I've been overlooked when it comes time to give recognition.
I felt stupid and petty even caring about it, but I could feel my cheeks getting hot.
I went home with this feeling of disappointment sitting in my stomach from the way I reacted to the way my feelings had unfolded. I should be able just to let it go, right? I'm a team player; I don't need recognition.
There are also people with much bigger problems than me.
Fuck it - it still feels fucking rotten to be forgotten.

Met my old lover in the grocery store / The snow was falling Christmas Eve / I stole behind her in the frozen foods / And I touched her on the sleeve

2011-12-06T21:04:00.001-08:00

Do you ever watch that show, 30 Rock?I do. (Now might be the moment when you are realizing that I am not one of those kinds of people who is above watching banal television. I totally watch banal television. I watch the shit out of it.) The main character on the show, Liz Lemon, is kind of a mess. On one hand, she has a really good job, plenty of bread, etc. On the other hand, she's a social cripple with who emotionally eats and sometimes wears man shirts and lesbian shoes in a non-hip way. Lately, I've really been tipping into on-the-other-hand Liz territory. Case in point - the other day I had back-to-back meetings going on twelve hours straight. I chose to wear boots and a dress so I'd look somewhat presentable for the long haul. The problem? No clean panties. Shit.
So, I did what any other girl would do in my situation: bathing suit bottom. Right? I mean, they are almost underpants. In fact, they are better than underpants - they can go underwater and dry, like, sort-of fast. Fuck yeah! Super aquatic panties to the rescue, bitches!
Um, no.
No, no, no, no.
This proved to be a terrible idea. It started off fine. For the first six hours I was golden. Gol-den. The bathing suit bottoms were so comfortable and no one could even tell! It was a small miracle. I even started thinking, "Man, they should make all underpants like this."
Oh, the foolish fucking thoughts of an ignorant mind.
Around hour six, something weird started happening. They started sliding down. By hour seven, I was having to actively participate in holding them up most of the time. I found a safety pin and fixed them by hour eight so they were droopy but not falling off.
Who knew these mother fuckers stretched out so much?
So, I made it through my meetings like a champ, and I don't think anyone suspected my underpants were trying to make a run for it. There was one truly worrisome moment before the safety pin fix in which they made it down to passed mid-ass and I had to quickly take a seat and kind of shuffle to get them back up.

I looked like this, only not sexy.

On the way home, I decided to stop at the grocery. After all those hours of meetings, I was starving and I was experiencing nothing but success with my safety pin fix.
I got my groceries quickly and bundled them up in my arms. I was walking to my car looking for my keys in my purse when it happened. I felt the safety pin give way. It was like a slow-motion cartoon - the pin undid and the bathing suit bottoms slinked down to my ankles.
I hopped out of them, hoping no one had noticed, but it was way too late. Even in the cloaking shadows of early evening, the weird but cute bag boy (Bag man? He's about my age, but he likes shit like Dungeons and Dragons so I don't know what the fuck to call him) was looking at my square on from across the lot lane. It was too dark to tell, but I think his cheeks were a little red (mine sure as fuck were) and he was grinning and shaking his head. I used the toe of my boot to lift the panties up high enough for me to nab them. I shoved them into my bag and kept walking to my car. I slid inside. I drove home in a flurry of embarassed heat - my cheeks pretty much burning with the memories of the dark-haired bagger grinning at me.
I go to that grocery, like, all the time. It's my favorite. And that dude - - I swear, he must work, like, eighty-hours a week! He's always there.
Seriously, though, who else has problems like this that isn't on a mother-fucking sitcom? Can just having a comically tragic social standing be grounds to recieve writer's royalties?

Cantet nunc io / Chorus angelorum / Cantet nunc aula caelestium / Gloria, gloria / In excelsis Deo / Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus, / Venite adoremus, Dominum

2011-12-04T21:52:00.001-08:00

I am so tired, but I am not sleeping. It seems like a lot of things are unraveling lately, and I don't know how to fix any of them.
What's worse is that no one seems to have this feeling of panic or dread that I currently do worming its way through their systems.
Case in point: my brother is probably going to lose his job next Wednesday. Like, it will just be gone. He hasn't lost it through his own fault. He sells health insurance plans over the phone. People aren't calling.
I am totally fucking wound about this. I mean, he is supporting a family, they have a bid on a house, and he is supposed to be married in April. I can't even begin to tell you how angsty all this is making me.
It's upsetting to me that I have no power over this situation - - no way to help my brother out.
I guess I just feel kind of like a failure lately. It's not the type of feeling you want wrapping around you at night.

Flashback to Springtime, saw him again / Would've been good to go for lunch / Couldn't agree when we both were free / We tried, we said we'd keep in touch

2011-11-25T05:01:00.001-08:00

I am a bloated, fat, American fuck. Oh, God . . . why did I eat so much Tofurkey?
And, strangely, even though I am actually in pain now from eating too much, why do I have a strange craving for a Tofurkey sandwich right now? I mean, it is like my whole body is saying, "Good Christ - we are never eating again. The idea of eating is literally sickening to me. It makes every cell in my being feel like vomiting." But, then, there's also this little spark in my head that says, "I wonder if there's any of that cranberry sauce left?"
What. the. hell.
Ugh . . .
Anyway, I had a lovely Thanksgiving with my family. Here's a haiku to pretty much sum everything up:

Post-Thanksgiving Haiku

Food was delicious
But family was sweeter
Love you all so much

Today's the Macy's Day Parade / Night of the living dead is on its way

2011-11-24T10:40:00.001-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! To celebrate, here's some haiku written just for the occasion:

Thanksgiving Haiku #1: On Vegans at Thanksgiving Dinner, Part I

Don't you dare worry
I'm not one of those vegans
Yeah, you know the type

Thanksgiving Haiku #2: On Vegans at Thanksgiving Dinner, Part II (a.k.a. Unfunny Jokes)

Why are you asking
If I want to carve the bird
And then snickering?

Thanksgiving Haiku #3: On Cranberry Sauce

Red-headed temptress
Of the Thanksgiving table
Sweet, tart duality

Thanksgiving Haiku #4: On Mashed Potatoes

It's creamed starches
Or as I like to call it
Heavenly mortar

Thanksgiving Haiku #5: On Pie

Waitress, the movie
You gave me inspiration
No stopping me now

Thanksgiving Haiku #6: On Pie Specifically Being Served Today

Marshmallow topping
Stuffed full with fruit and spice
Potato chip crust

Thanksgiving Haiku #7: On Why I Prefer to Watch Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on Television

All those big balloons
And the kids in marching bands
Too much in real life

Thanksgiving Haiku #8: On What I Always Think of First When I Think of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

Oh, come on, you guys!
The answer is obvious -
It's that Green Day song.

Thanksgiving Haiku #9: On Green Bean Casserole

What's the attraction?
To this glob of gooey shit?
It looks pre-eaten.

Thanksgiving Haiku #10: On Advert Bragging About Stores That Are Open Today

I get really sad,
When you talk about being open,
Those poor employees!

Thanksgiving Haiku #11: On Black Friday Adverts on Television

I hate the way that,
Women are portrayed so bad:
Greedy, dumb, or mean.

Thanksgiving Haiku #12: On Actually Being Grateful

Can't begin to say
In one day and a dozen poems
How grateful I am

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

I think of how you deceived, and I get my blood on fire. / The last one to believe, I never thought of execution.

2011-11-21T08:51:00.001-08:00

Okay, so I have been trying to come up with a clever way to include this in one of my other posts, but I can't. Then it dawned on me, that I can't because it is too fucking awesome and needs its own fucking post - duh.
What am I talking about?
Vegan Black Metal Chef.
You heard me, Vegan. Black Metal. Chef.
Holy shit, right?
Anyway, Vegan Black Metal Chef is basically the coolest cooking / lifestyle tutorial that I have ever seen - ever.
What's even cooler about this?
I went to fucking high school with this guy.
Usually, the only things that remind me of my are awkward and / or uncomfortable.
Oh, and I think he's the first person ever to find an actual use for those Star-Trek-looking knives that they sell at Renaissance Fairs and shit.
So, kudos, Vegan Black Metal Chef for being awesome and cruelty-free!

Keep out of reach of children, don't you talk to strangers / Get your philosophy from a bumper sticker

2011-11-19T20:33:00.001-08:00

I'm back in the sunshine state. I've actually been back for a few days, but, man, has it been a busy few days.
My presentation went really fucking well. We presented to over eighty people - the place was standing room only. It was pretty fucking nuts because, at that same conference, I attended sessions that only had, like, three people in them. (It is an open-session deal where you can pick which individual sessions you want to go to without signing up ahead of time.) I have to say that I was nervous as shit, but having a larger audience actually calmed me down a bit. It was like, "Holy fuck - people read the description and want to hear what I have to say about something? Woah." So, it was a little bit of a confidence booster. It was a little surreal turning the corner into the conference room, though, and seeing it jam-packed with people. People mostly wearing business suits and typing furiously on their smart phones. People who, before I started talking, were checking out my streak of purple hair and Green Day Authority sticker on my laptop. (Yeah, I "forgot" to take it off first. Sorry, boss.)
Anyway, there was a lot of positive feedback from the presentation. It was very nice to hear people believe in what you've done and the research you've conducted.
Also, New Orleans, what the fuck? You're pretty awesome. I was there once before (also for a conference - as a participant not a presenter), but this time it kind of started to really sink in, you know?
There's a lot of history there, and I fucking love history - especially weird history. Y'all have that in spades in New Orleans. Also, it is really nice being surrounded by music all the time.
Also, the shopkeepers were really nice - - and not in that Southern-compulsory-niceness-not-really-heartfelt kind of way. The ladies at the yarn shop in the French Quarter were really entertaining and hooked me up with some hand-spun wool that I am going to knit the shit out of.
Also, the cats at this restaurant, 13 Monaghan. were really nice, too. There were three people running the whole place: a cook, a girl who ran between the bar and the tables, and a manager-type with OCD who also did the dishes in the back. They were all working their asses off while being really friendly and nice. They were even polite when this group of corporate assholes came in and started barking out orders to them like they were lesser humans. What made me really like them, though, was that the girl was nice to these assholes, but punished them by getting to whatever they needed last. It wasn't like she made them wait forever, or that she made their dining experience any worse, really, but I just noticed that in her route around the room, she'd take up everyone's needs and get their shit dead last - regardless of what they asked for or when. It's a pretty just way of prioritizing your clients' requests, if you ask me. Also, in a city that loves fucking animal flesh (New Orleans is not a really down with the vegan scene.), the waitress/barkeep girl brought me the best vegan barbeque sandwich I have ever had.
You know what didn't impress me either time I was in New Orleans? Borboun Street. Holy fuck - if I wanted to see that many drunken idiots, I'd go to a frat party. I'm not anti-drunk. Hell, I love a good drink. (I love a few good drinks, actually.) However, there's fun drunk and pathetic drunk and Borboun Street definitely tips more into the pathetic drunk side. It's like there's no reason to be happy there, so people just chub up on booze and force themselves to feel better. Yuck. Don't like.
Anyway, New Orleans was definitely a cool town, save for the piss-soaked quagmire that was Borboun Street.
Also, congratulations to Melissa! She won the last contest. I'll be sending out her record and nail polish tomorrow.

Once upon a time long ago / I heard someone singing, soft and low

2011-11-10T06:13:00.000-08:00

So, I am in New Orleans on business. I present at a National Convention in a few hours. I kind of feel like I am going to throw up. Part of it is nerves. Part of it is that fact that I just watched Penn State fans defend Joe Paterno.
Ugh.
Listen, to future employees of Penn State out there: if you know or honestly suspect child fucking - that is CHILDREN actually being FUCKED, then please go to some real authority figure that can actually do something about it.
I didn't really think that needed to be said, but, apparently, it does.
Sickening.

Movin' right along we found a life on the highway, / And your way is my way, so trust my navigation. / California here we come, that pie-in-the-sky land. / Palm trees and warm sand, though sadly we just left Rhode Island.

2011-11-07T03:18:00.000-08:00

I have been pretty much working non-stop for the past week. I suppose that's good because it keeps my mind off other things. We had a huge event on Saturday. The whole company basically took over this big museum for the event and I was in charge of one of the sections. The crew working underneath me was really, really nice, and some of them even helped clean up and get the presentation materials back into my van after their fucking time cards had been punched. That's class, people.
The biggest thing that's happening, though, is that I'm going to New Orleans at the end of the week for work to present a completely new training product. I'm not going to lie - I am nervous as shit. I am consistantly afraid that the presentation hall won't have the technology we requested, that my laptop will fucking freeze, that I will forget who the fuck I am and just start speaking crazy.
These are real and valid concerns.
What's even more disturbing is this means I have to miss the next Girl Scout meeting. We had such a good one last time, too! The three troops all got together for a presentation from one of my favorite organizations - Paws for Friendship. Paws for Friendship works on a simple premise: people with loving companion animals take their animal companions to visit people in places where they can't live with their own companion animals - - like nursing homes, half-way houses, etc. It's a pretty awesome idea if you think about it.
I wanted my cat to participate, but - mother-fucker - he's allergic to dogs. And I think maybe to other cats. Anyway, he sneezes all the time and so the vet wouldn't give him a clean bill of health to do it.
Anyway, the girls are going to be making things for Paws for Friendship to sell at the next meeting and I am going to miss it. This makes me a fucking grouchy bear. Someone else is going to have to cover for me.
I have a huge troop this year - over twenty girls. That makes me feel pretty fucking fantastic. I mean, they all joined because they heard from my girls last year that it was fun. I love that. Sometimes I think I'm not enough for these girls - that I am not fully reaching my service potential with them. I still believe that's true. However, things like this make me believe that maybe I am on the right road to getting there.
P.S. There's still time to enter this contest.
P.P.S. Thank you to the people who sent me e-mails with kind words regarding the break-up. It still sucks, but the all-out panic feeling is subsiding. I'll try to bitch a little less about it here.

Ooh baby when you cry / Your face is momentary / You hide your looks / Behind these scars

2011-11-02T03:03:00.000-07:00

Okay, time to stop being an asshole for just a brief moment in time. I haven't written anything in the last few days because every time I started to I sounded like a bigger and bigger sad-sack, mother-fucking dick. Fuck it.
I broke up with my girlfriend.
I'm going to either find someone else, or I fucking won't. She'll either come to fucking terms with who she is or she won't. Sitting around being a goddamn pessimist about it isn't going to fucking help anything.
I can't lie and say that it doesn't really hurt that things did not work out. I can't make believe that there's not something constantly pulling at me - nagging feelings of regret, doubt, and just generally saddness. However, I can stop being such an asshole about it by discounting all the good things going on in my life right now and all the things I should be fucking happy about.
Here's a short list of shit I for which I should be grateful:
1. My living hero, Billie Joe Armstrong, has played a little flurry of surprise shows lately with his band, Green Day. This means I get to see shit like this on the Internet:

That's Green Day covering The Misfit's Hybrid Moments while dressed as a fairy (not seen in this video), a zombie, the Mad Hatter, and Jack Skellington. Woah.
2. Work's actually been really decent lately. I just got an award, actually - which really surprised me seeing as I ditched everyone and went to California for the summer. The award came with a fancy parking space, but I keep forgetting to use it.
3. Speaking of work . . . I've been asked to speak at another conference! Holy shit, right? Two in a row, bitches! I guess some of the shit I says makes sense to someone. Anyway, this time it is in New Orleans. I love that fucking town - so this will be awesome.
4. It's my favorite season - HOLIDAY SEASON. I am bonkers for mother-fucking holidays. I love them. I think I worked in a craft store for too long or something, because I'm always up for wreath-making and cookie-decorating.
Anyway, I'm going to try to be more grateful and less gripey. I mean, holy shit - this is my life, right? Don't I learn anything from my past mistakes? Once it's over, it's over. It's going to hurt, but I will live.
Let's see how long I can keep this attitude up before the next panic attack.

Caught out running, With just a little too much to hide / Maybe baby, Everything's gonna turn out fine / Please read the letter, I mailed it to your door / It's crazy how it all turned out, We needed so much more

2011-10-30T15:12:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here in a dark room trying to get some sleep, but the sleeping pills aren't helping this time and the sunlight is still streaming in through little cracks in the blinds. It wouldn't normally bother me at all, but today is seems like a spotlight focused right on my fucking ocular cavities when all I want at this point is a little peace and obscurity. I broke it off with the girl. I couldn't do it anymore, and I feel like I failed her in so many ways. I mean, I am lost in a tangle of confusion - should I have even started this with her? What was I thinking the end result of this game would be? How did I ever imagine any winning scenarios?
I'm older than her - not by much, but by enough. I believe I should have known better. I should have seen the signs and said to myself, "This isn't going to lead to anything other than disappointment and pain - a whole lot of fucking pain, so don't even fuck with it."
I didn't though. I was greedy for some love after all this time, and I wanted it with her. Now . . . I don't know.
I mean, I know that she needs to fix the dishonesty with herself. She needs to fucking admit that her attractions are real. I can't conceive of a life where I am not able to admit to myself my own desires. I'm not just talking about fucking here. I'm talking about not being allowed to investigate your potential love for another human being because of the trappings of your family - your own personal mental trappings . . . it's fucking heart-breaking. So, I broke it off so I wouldn't have to be a part of that anymore. I wouldn't have to witness it as directly.
How fucking weak am I? What kind of fucking coward does that? I feel like if I were a better person - even slightly - I could have done something, made some kind of change. I'm so scared that I made things worse instead of better.
It hurt so fucking much, though - - some of the things that she would say. Some of the things I would have to witness. Some of the thoughts I'd find myself privy to that I wish I could have just excavated from the shared consciousness between us. Some of those things literally disgusted me. They injected an icy sadness in my marrow that froze inside me and bristled into an angry, turgid tension as it solidified in my bones. I couldn't believe that there were people out there - people who I could love - who could think that way. I didn't know I could get so close to hateful ignorance still.
Then there's my own pettiness and humanity that keeps fucking with me and interfering with my ability to believe that I am basically a good person.
Parts of my gnawing psyche make me think that I'll never fucking find anyone to love me like I want to be loved. I'm terrified I'll never find a partner that can need me and be needed by me. Then I'm depressed that I am such a mother-fucking cliché that this is the thought making track marks on my cerebellum as it does fucking laps over and over on the spaces in my mind that I like to pretend don't exist - where haunting feelings dwell in pits of insecurity and heartache. If you look at my list of past loves, things don't seem to be going so well. When I was very young, I saw a girl who ended up killing herself. My high school boyfriend was a queer - a nice queer, but a closeted, Catholic queer. My college boyfriend was messed-up, small-town ignorant (though painfully smart) whose own baggage collided with mine to make for some fabulous destruction. The common factor is me. I'm mother-fucking poison. At least the queer seems to have a some-what happy life now. There were other smatterings in between those . . . but those were the big three of my life. Now, I have this one failure to add. The relationship was shorter - by far - than any of the other tragedies, but there's something sticking about it.
I'm also such a goddamn animal that - even in all this emotional turmoil - I'm filled with anxiety now about who I'm going to be able to fuck. I know, that's pretty fucking horrible, right? It's true, though. I had decided a while back that I would only fuck people when I was in a loving, committed relationship with them - now what the fuck am I going to do? I'm so disappointed in myself for giving a shit about this. I really am.
Even though I am very open here - writing to strangers out in the web of artificial connection - I keep my cards pretty close to the vest in real life. I'm very good at reading people, and my quick judgements about them usually turn out to be accurate portrayals of who they are. I think I got that from my father. He taught me how to be crafty and clever - how to see things in people that they aren't saying. This is important if you are trying to rush a decision on whether or not to trust someone. So, I have some very close friends who knew everything about me within five minutes of meeting me because I could tell they were good stock and that I could trust them, you know? Most people, though - they don't seem like the types of folks I would be able to trust. Not really. I'm okay with that. However, it makes harboring the heartache inside that much harder. Most people at work don't even think of me as someone who would have feelings deeper than a teaspoon - they don't know that I am capable or in want of love and passion. So, you can see how it is going to be hard to be surrounded by people who have this misunderstanding of the depth of my emotions and desires when every breath lately feels like it's weighted and all my body seems to be doing lately is redirecting fevered energy that keeps trying to well up and manifest into a panic attack.
I just want to loose controll and go to sleep. I can't even fucking do that.

Taking off his turban, they said, is this man a Jew? / 'Cause they're working for the clampdown / They put up a poster saying we earn more than you! / When we're working for the clampdown

2011-10-25T20:46:00.000-07:00

It's time to give some shit away again. Someone asked me after the conclusion of the last concert why it is that I give things away at all on my blog. The answer is pretty simple: I love giving things to people. I really do. It's more fun then getting, actually. I do these little random acts of kindness all the time selfishly because it makes me feel really fucking happy. Giving presents is one of my favorite things to do. That's all there is to that.
Anyway, back to the new contest. Here's what you could win:

Green Day's Warning 7" on clear yellow vinyl

China Glaze's Lemon Fizz

Awesome, right?
All you have to do to enter is e-mail me at anarchistgirlscout@gmail.com with "Yellow" in the subject line. That's all you need to do. (Though, if you want, you can write me a little love letter, too - those are always appreciated.)
I will pick ONE winner to recieve both items on November 9th, so enter before then.
Good luck!

We were a mess, bloody and half undressed / In the shelter of the shadows of the frisbie street creek / A canopy of trees and leaves / With us hidden underneath

2011-10-25T02:58:00.000-07:00

Is it possible to be homesick for someplace that's not your home?
I miss California.
I miss the elevation - the land peaking and snaking around with sharp ribs of enthusiastically jutting upward acreage. We don't have that here in Florida. In Florida, the land is so flat that if it weren't for the buildings, you could see as far as your eyes and the curve of the Earth would allow. Don't get me wrong, that's amazing, too. The sunsets in Florida just bleed out into the fictional corners of existence that the limitations of your peripheral vision have created. Since the land is so flat, the horizon can seemingly stretch out to eternity. It's pretty fucking breath-taking. However, I find myself sometimes longing for those peaks and valleys. Most of my Girl Scouts have never even seen a mountain in person.
I also miss the constitution of the land itself. There are no rocks in Florida. Florida is floating on a limestone sponge. Sometimes this sponge gives way and swallows up houses and cars and shit. I'm sure that happens in areas uninhabited, too, but there's no property damage so no one gives a shit. Sprinkled on top of this sponge is sand. The sand can be really lovely and impressive. I'm fairly certain that the beaches at Siesta Key are covered with powder sprinkled there by Seraphim who shook this dander from the stuff that makes up the infrastructure of the Heavens. It is so soft and warm and welcoming. In California there were rocks, and dirt, and clay, though. There's a sureness to the land there that is totally absent here - though knowing it is resting near a fault line that could at any moment decide to flip the land like a rug being beaten clean gives a slight taint of irony to the idea that the land is more secure there. It's just a feeling you get when you put your feet down on the ground in California. At least, it was that way for me.
As much as I was pining for the culture of my own hometown over the summer, too, I miss the feeling of California. I really do. When I was over there for so long, I missed being able to get real coffee from El Molino in Ybor City. Even though I am a vegan, I missed having anyone around me who knew that Tampans invented Cuban sandwiches - not Miamians. (For that matter, I missed being around anyone who knew what real cuban bread - with the goddamn palmetto leaf in the center - was like.) I missed my Southern girlfriends with their regular nail ladies that they developed a relationship with - a bond that extends beyond service-seeker and service-provider. Women in California didn't really seem to have that.
In California, though, I didn't have to bother the server every time I went out to eat trying to figure out something that I could eat on the menu. The culture supports independence and togetherness at the same time with things like public transport. That might not seem like a big fucking deal to anyone who lives in a city with busses and shit already, but coming from a city without much public transportation to speak of, I can tell you that it is, most certainly, a big fucking deal. When you don't need a car to get someplace, you are so much better off. Also, I didn't have to worry about being myself - where ever I was. I didn't have to consider who might see me being too queer, too loud, too punk, too obnoxious. I wasn't ever afraid of getting my ass kicked. (Though I probably came closer to it there than here - fucking bitch on the 57 line bus and I got into it!) I felt . . . more free. More independence.
Mostly, though, I miss my friends. I have lovely and amazing people in my life here - my friends in Tampa and my family are such a part of who I am. However, my California friends are just as much a piece of me. There's comfort in knowing you're going to see someone again, but there's also a tinge of sadness in knowing you can't see them whenever you want. Like, when it is Saturday night and you want to go out with one of them and they are three-thousand miles away. Or when something happens that you know would be right up their fucking alley in town and you can't share that experience with them.
So, I'm homesick - homesick for a place that I am maybe just now realizing became my home, too, over the summer. I could never turn my back on my hometown. I'm a Florida girl. There's a connection with this other place, though, that's nagging at me, too, and it can't be denied.

Jesus loves me / This I know / For the Bible tells me so / Little ones to him belong / They are weak but He is strong

2011-10-21T21:12:00.000-07:00

Oh, man. I get so mad at you. Frustrated.
So fucking frustrated.
You make me so upset sometimes because you can't - or won't - understand the need for honesty.
Forget not being honest with your folks. Fuck that. I've come to grips with the fact that being out to them is something I don't have the luxury of giving a shit about. You want to be in the closet when it comes to those backwards-ass, small-minded, mother-fucking hillbillies that spawned you? Fine, fucking fine. We'll live in the god-damn dark ages when it comes to them if that's what you want. I won't lie to them, this is really what you want, then I won't fucking speak to them at all.
What I can't get over tonight is your lack of honesty with yourself. We've been fucking for a while now. I have to tell you - I love it. It's not so much that I love the physical sensations (though - trust me - I do); it's more so that I love being that close to you. I love that you melt when I touch you a certain way, I love that you drop your defenses and beg me to make you feel good, and I love, love, love how you make me feel so strong and beautiful when I fuck you.
I feel like part of how I can truly show you that I love you is in how I fuck you. That might sound weird, but I think a lot of people who are engaged in relationships where they love the person they are fucking could relate to this.
So, it really hurt today when you told me that you think of the time we spend being intimate together as sex, but not, you know, "sex-sex."
Now, I am not one to limit other people's definitions of sex. How do I know when I am having sex? Well, when it feels like sex to me. There's a level of intimacy and closeness that needs to be reached. Otherwise, its just fleshy fucking friction - not sex - to me.
However, today you looked me in the face - and told me that you thought we were having sex, but, you know, "Two girls can't really have sex-sex."
Are you out of your fucking mind?
You went on to talk about how it wasn't really going all the way because there was no dick involved.
Holy shit. Are you that much in denial?
So, now, here I am - up late and watching you sleep. I'm feeling so much love for you. You're so wonderful and beautiful in so many ways. I don't want to give up on you, but I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. We have the same fights over and over with a slightly different focus each time.
I can't imagine growing tired of you, but I am tired of how you can't admit the most basic things to yourself.

I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck / With a pink carnation and a pickup truck / But I knew I was out of luck / The day the music died.

2011-10-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

So, the other day I went to a training at council. It was me and about a two dozen other ladies in a room together. We were a pretty motley crew - there was one lady in a tank top with tattoos on her arms: a fairy, a magnolia, a large black swirling line, and some Celtic shit. Another woman was wearing a shirt from Threadless, carrying a standard-issue side-satchel (I think once you sign up to be a hipster they send one to you in the mail), horn-rimmed glasses, and awkward shorts. Another mom was there with her baby. I can't really tell you what her face looked like because she was constantly whipping out her boob - full tit - to feed the kid. It was weird not because I thought it was inappropriate of her to be breast feeding, but, rather, she seemed to be taking extra care in ensuring we all got a good look at her chewed up areolas before letting the kid latch on. She mumbled random comments about breast feeding not being a crime and gave darting looks to anyone who glanced in her direction while her tit was out. There were a few moms there who were wearing shapeless sweatpants and t-shirts with characters like Tweety Bird on them making declarations akin to, "I'm not a morning person!" printed on the front. Then there were the aging Barbies. Holy cow. Some of these chicks were from the richest little hamlets around. It was like I was next to some kind of super-polished little clutch of alien lifeforms. They all had designer bags, perfectly done hair, and makeup that actually looked like the M.A.C. advertisements at the mall. As I found out in the meet-and-greet portion of the training, they were all stay-at-home moms. These bitches didn't even have any place to be! And they still looked like this! On purpose! At first, I thought one of them may have had a job - - she introduced her self and said, "I have a full time job," but followed it after a dramatic pause with, "raising my two little blessings, Cap and Whitney-Julia, and taking care of the best husband on Earth!" Clever, bitch. I think tattoo mom who works the night shift just might want to deck you right now. Also, did you seriously say one of your kids was named Cap? Like, what you screw on a bottle? Really?!? At first, I thought I didn't hear her correctly, but her non-stop bragging about her damn kids assured me that they were, in fact, Cap (like what you screw on a bottle) and Whitney-Julia. I said that Whitlia would be a good nickname for Whitney-Julia and Barbie gave me a cold stare and said, "Oh, I like her name the way it is. I hate it when her friends call her 'Whitz,' and I correct them every time. Well, I bet old Whitz just loves the shit out of that.
Anyway, here are things I learned about her kids through very long, drawn-out stories:
- Cap is, apparently, a boy.
- Cap and Whitz take horseback riding very seriously.
- Cap wrestles on some damn team at his private school.
- Whitz took ballroom dancing last year, but is looking for something more challenging. She's also in gymnastics, jazz, and tap. That's right . . . and tap and jazz.
- Cap and Whitz took ballet when they were younger, because, you know - - they have a pretty edgy mom. A boy? In ballet? Bah-nanas!
- Whitz is afraid of spiders.
- Cap looks just like his mother and Whitz looks more like her father, but their cousin Rhyeanne (yes, it was spelled for me - its pronounced like Ryan) looks just like Grandma. She's a redhead.
- Cap and Whitz go to the club all the time with their parents and love tennis. Love it!
Now, I don't begrudge anyone for being proud of their kids. I mean, that's great. You love your kids, and you want to talk about them and tell other people how awesome they are. I get it.
However, this lady didn't seem to give a shit that this wasn't a training on her awesome offspring. Time would tick by and people would try to redirect her, but she couldn't be fucking bothered.
She was also totally a one-upper. She was constantly saying shit like:
Oh, what's that mom in the shapeless t-shirt (that actually may have really been a nightgown) with Eeyore on it? Your kid just got their green belt in karate? Well, my Cap is the youngest brown belt in this region!
Oh, what's that you say, hipster mom? Your child just learned how to swim? Well, Whitney-Julia has just completely lifeguard training? Can you believe it?!?
It was really annoying.
Of course, my opinions didn't count for shit because I don't have any of my own children. In the world of scouting, if you haven't pushed a human being out of your cooch or had one ripped from your abdomen, you might as well show up wearing a fucking muzzle.
Anyway, we had to work in groups to respond to these emergency scenario cards. Of course - of fucking course - I was stuck in the group with Cap and Whitz's mom. Of course.
So, our emergency scenario said that we were going to Disneyworld. I fucking hate Disney. The other moms in the group were all about our imaginary trip, though. All about it. Anyway, the card told us that on our imaginary trip, we'd pre-paid for everything. However, when we got to Disneyworld, they didn't have any record of our reservation and would not be able to accommidate us. What should we do?
Now, to me, this was an obvious one. They can't or won't accomidate us. I'd pull out all the documentation I had and try to sway their minds. If they didn't fucking budge, I'd explain the disappointing news to the girls, take them to a less crowded (but still on property location), come up with a plan, and call their parents. Then, at a later date, I'd fucking murder the person who fucked up our little trip and get that fucking sorry excuse rat-obsessed theme park to make it right.
I mean, that's sane, right?
Nope!
The other leaders in my group agreed that the best - no, the only acceptable course of action would be to have, "extra money," and just pay for all the girls to go and, "sort it out later."
Um, what's that, bitch? All I heard was, "I am fucking crazy," when you said that.
I said that there was no way I would do that and I instantly got the icy stares. Then came the comments about me not having my own children, so, of course, I don't understand how heart-breaking it is when they are disappointed. (All of which made me instantly glad for my own parents who didn't raise any lilly-livered fucking milk-toast brat that wasn't able to handle the occassional disappointment.)
Here's a sampling of some of those comments:
- You could actually stand there - with girls crying - and then just tell them that you were going home and there would be no Disney?!?
- I don't think a scout leader should be so detached from her girls. I mean, I couldn't handle it if my scouts were so sad!
- When, er, if, you ever decide to have your own children, you'll understand. Mothers just can't turn their back on kids - anyone's kids - like that.
In my throat, there was mounting a pretty vicious, "Fuck you." However, I didn't want my troop to be known as the problem troop at council, you know? So, I swallowed my pride and explained that - aside from the whole character-building experience of problem-solving and accepting disappointment, I wouldn't fucking just pay for them because I don't have that kind of money. I don't even have that kind of plastic money. It doesn't exist for me.
They said in that case I should ask my co-leader or, get this, a parent.
Ask my co-leader? What co-leader? Parents? Who the fuck are these parents that would be able and willing to go on a trip like this? These people don't fucking exist in my area. And if one of them did, they damn sure wouldn't have Disney money, and I'm not the type of bitch that would ask them for it and put them on the spot like that.
Fuckin' A.
We went round and round on this until time was called. Well, it was more like they went round and round. They tried to convence me I was wrong, and I kept just telling them we'd have to agree to disagree . . . with them continuing to fucking harp on it forever. It was really starting to depress me - how sharp their words were getting. How clearly they misjudged my shameful finances for lack of concern for the girls.
I love the girls. This was a total fucking bummer.
Sigh.
It's weird being so different from someone that geographically you're so close to. Our area codes may be the same, but we couldn't have been any more different than if these broads had stepped off a goddamn spacecraft.

I see the girls walk by dressed in summer clothes / I have to turn my head until the darkness goes

2011-10-10T03:24:00.000-07:00

Um, so yeah, it's Frankenpolish . . . get it? I helped throw a nail polish party recently, and it was awesome. Normally, this type of party if reserved for, like, seven-year-old girls, but this time it was to celebrate my friend's thirty-first birthday. I think the youngest person in the room was nineteen and she was the youngest by five or six years. I made some nail-polish-themed cakes that were freaking adorable. We ate, drank, and had a good fucking time in general. Yay, friends! Yay, nail polish! Yay, party!

Back in school and Maxwell plays the fool again / Teacher gets annoyed / Wishing to avoid an unpleasant scene

2011-10-06T02:51:00.000-07:00

Steve Jobs died today. I read that on my cell phone moments after it was announced. Then, I saw this:

They always manage to take the term asshole to new depths over at Westboro Baptist Church. Seriously. This time they are managing to incorporate maximum irony.

Then all these stupid and insensitive #iDead hashtags started popping up on Twitter.

People are so disappointing.

Anyway, I am sad to hear that he died. He was only 56 - my dad's age.

I don't think much will change in the world as a result of his death, but the impact his life had is immeasurable.

I'm also sad to hear that he passed away because, frankly, I like his story. Adopted by working-class people, he didn't grow up with a lot of money. He dropped out of college and took the classes he wanted to on his own - while living in absolute poverty. Anyone who can take a beginning like that and pull a hattrick to become one of the most influencial people on today's society deserves a little bit of respect.

You're just a fuck / I can't explain it 'cause I think you suck

2011-10-04T03:37:00.000-07:00

Wow. I think ManGlaze's Fuck Off and Dye might just be my new favorite nail polish. It goes on like liquid paper and dries freakishly quick. It has this really beautiful suede finish. Like I said, I think I'm in love.
So, we had our first Girl Scout parent meeting last night - what a motley crew. There was one lady that - no matter what we said - was angry.
Angry lady: I gots to fill out these forms and bring in twelve dollars?!?
GS Rep: Yes, or you can sign up online right now where Adelaide will help you.
AL: I needs a credit card for that, don't I?!?
GS Rep: Yes, or you can fill out the form and give us cash or cheque.
AL: You can't make this no simpler to sign up for Girl Scouts? I can't just send her with the money on Wednesday? I gotta be wastin' my time fillin' out all these forms?!?
GS Rep: We need a paper record of her permission to participate.
AL: Oh, oh - - I bet you do! I bet you do!
There was no pleasing her. Ten minutes later she was saying the form needed more detail and to ask for more information. Oi - people.
I was glad there was a huge turn out last night. I think I am going to have a big troop this year.
I love Girl Scouts!

I was hell, victim of a scandal / Coz this girl's too much for E to handle / Broke tha bee's grip, started to run / Back to tha crib, grabbed tha elephant gun

2011-10-02T07:35:00.000-07:00

Oh, holy shit. I've gained another five pounds. Another five pounds.
What am I, the mother-fucking Stay Puft Marshmallow bitch? I am starting to think maybe yes.
Actually, I know exactly what is wrong. I'm eating shit. I am seriously eating shit. It's a time-management problem partially. I have been working seemingly endless days - with the line between one work day and the next blurring with infinite furor. Fucking crazy - madhouse shit. I mean, my job is fulfilling and all that shit, but it is also time-consuming . . . waaay beyond the normal work day. So, I don't have a lot of time to work out or to make healthy, satisfying meals.
Also, though, its a monetary problem. I make a lot less money than I did last year, and so I've gone from being able to afford food-food to being able to afford shit. When you see some big fat lady at the grocery store that has a wad of coupons in her hand, she's probably not a fucking cow because she eats tons of food. She's probably a fat ass because she is filling her fucking body with generic macaroni and cheese in from those shitty little boxes - which is basically like pouring fucking cement in your arteries.
It fucking sucks, man. I am going to have to start giving up a little more so that I can stop being so fucking disgusting.
By that, I don't mean that fat people are disgusting. I've been fat most of my adult life. Fuck it. However, I feel disgusting. It's shit.
So, my goal is to lose twenty-five pounds by Christmas. I'm packed my lunches for the work week already, I'm not going to eat shit because I'm broke or in a hurry, and I am going to work out at least four times a week.
This is going to fucking happen.

But it's been no bed of roses / No pleasure cruise / I consider it a challenge before the whole human race / And I ain't gonna lose

2011-10-02T06:02:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Jennifer (Jennafroggy)! She won the contest for nail polish. She'll be getting two bottles of Orly in Basketcase and Cherry Bomb. Speaking of nails, I recently got a Konad nail stamping system.
Now, I am broke as a joke, so I didn't buy the Konad plates - - I got mine from Bundle monster. I got Series 2, but I really wanted Series 1. (I am a sucker for skulls and there is a skull stamp on that one.)
Anyway, I pretty crap at nail stamping so far. I think maybe it just takes practice.

Well, I ain't very good / But I get practice by myself / Forgot my one line / So I just said what I felt

2011-09-27T03:38:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday morning, this co-worker of mine sees me in the common area eating breakfast. I always get there kind of early so I can have a few moments to get settled and eat. I don't like to eat at home for various reasons, and really enjoy the calmness before the fucking storm that is my regular work day. So, I'm pouring my almond milk over my cereal and she tells me, "I've got something to show you."
I follow her to her office - the whole time thinking about how my cereal is turning helplessly to fucking inedible mush.
Then she hands me an obituary notice. I scan the names.
Holy shit.
This guy I played with in the band in high school killed himself.
She said she thought I would know him because we were in the same program in high school at around the same time.
I did remember him.
He was so smart, nice, and funny.
Why would he do that?
It said in the obituary that he battled with mental illness and prescription drug abuse.
He was also, I believe, a closet-case homosexual.
I think years of self-shaming related to this are what lead to his other problems in life.
I don't understand suicide, though. Ever.
You know, I can get being so miserable that you want to die, but I can't wrap my head around the moment that must come for every person that takes their own life when the faintest spark of hope is completely smothered that they actually go through with it. I can't imagine that moment, what it feels like.
I pray his family will find some joy in his memory.
The rest of my day was fucking shot after hearing this news. I mean, I wasn't his best friend or anything - we hardly knew each other outside of our shared activities in high school. This news made me truly sad, though.
I went back and poured my mushy cereal down the sink and washed the dishes. I couldn't eat thinking about the absolute desperation this guy must have felt. He was only 32.
I had just watched 8: A Mormon Proposition with my . . . I guess we'll call her my girlfriend, what the hell, the night before. I'd seen it before, but she hadn't. I still teared up when they talked about the Mormon boy who killed himself because he was gay. His parents talked about finding peace - peace - in his death. They rubbed him out - erased him - and took the side of the church over their child. I don't care who you are, that's fucking twisted. I can't imagine disowning spiritually my own flesh and blood over who he or she is attracted to - who he or she wants to love. That's sick.
I can tell it scared the little closet-case I am dating, too - - with good reason, it's fucking scary.
It's fucking terrifying to think that cruelty exists on that level - where you can wash away the child that you raised and claimed to love because of who he or she is.
I don't know. Sometimes I think we've made a lot of progress, but how much progress can we have made if the situation is so dire that the stakes are literally life-and-death?

But I'm losing a lot of my feelings / And I'm running out of friends / You know you lied to me in the beginning / Tried to bring me to the end

2011-09-26T03:25:00.000-07:00

So, I'm sick. Mother fucker.
I have an extremely long day at work today and tomorrow, and I am supposed to have my first Girl Scout meeting of the year Wednesday.
Now, my nose won't stop running, my eyes are all teary, and I've got more than a tickle in my throat. My head feels like it is made of cement.
Ugh.
This fucking sucks.

Hello, Daddy / Hello, Mom / I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!

2011-09-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

My last muppet-related post was also kind of a nail-polish post.This one is completely a nail polish post.
I love nail polish.
I'm not too fucking swift at doing my own nails, but I still love it. Thanks to the Internet, I can take note of other people who are similarly obsessed.
Here are a few of my favorite nail-related blogs:
All Laquered Up - This one is a little bit of everything nail art, the author of this blog tries a lot of different polishes.
Vettelicious - This author likes her sparkles - - so do I.
Let Them Have Polish - This site is simple, but has good ideas and pictures.
Chromatic Misadventures - It's close-up nail porn, and not much else.
Steph's Closet - Tutorials? Yes, please.
The Swatchaholic - There's a whole section dedicated to Konad. Yes, Konad.
Black Nail Polish and Lip Gloss - I love the author's personality.
The Daily Nail - It's so wonderfully quirky.
Scrangie - Anyone who references Full Metal Jacket is basically my best friend.
Laquerized - This is more nail porn than you can probably handle.
Burgers and Nails - It's burgers. It's nails. It's awesome.
Anyway, in the spirit of nail polish love, I am having a punk rock polish giveaway! I am giving away two bottles of my favorite nail polish brand, Orly. The two colors I picked to give away share their names with two of my all-time favorite songs, too: Basketcase and Cherry Bomb.
I'm going to pick one person to win both bottles. All you have to do to enter to win is e-mail me at anarchistgirlscout@gmail.com to enter. If you win, I'll e-mail you for your mailing address. I will e-mail everyone on October 1st to let you know wether or not you won!

Cherry Bomb!

Basketcase

Movin' right along / Foot-loose and fancy free / Gettin' there is half the fun / Come share it with me

2011-09-24T08:43:00.000-07:00

It is Jim Henson's 75th birthday today! Mr. Henson had a wonderful effect on my childhood - some of my happiest memories are muppet-related. I think our society really discounts creativity and innovation - Mr. Henson was such an artist and helped inspire so many people. Also, his muppets spoke so many truths about equality, family, learning, and love. I can't think of anyone today who does as much for bringing people together with humor, love, and art as he did. In honor of that special day, I present (Are you ready for this?):

Muppet Nails! Now, these are not my nails, this photograph is from Nerdy Nails for the Girly Geeks, an awesome blog for the laquer obsessed.These nails may have just topped by excitement when I learned about OPI's muppet-inspired polish collection.

Come and play / Everything's A-OK / Friendly neighbors there / That's where we meet

2011-09-23T03:06:00.000-07:00

G Club from Seasame Street:You're welcome, world.

I'll send a letter to that girl / Asking her to be my own / But my pen is writing wrong / So I'll say it in a song

2011-09-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

Holy. Shit.
Holy shit!
Look at what someone sent me in the mail today!
I used to have this twat boyfriend, and when we broke up he decided to further break my heart by destroying my record collection a little at a time. (Seriously, why not just rip out my soul, mother fucker?)
Anyway, these were two pieces of my collection that I still hadn't replaced (I'll never catch up), and an anonymous reader sent them to me!
That was so kind and awesome - whoever you are, THANK YOU.

Bedside table, alarm clock's blinking 2 a.m. / I can't take it, I can't take it. / Conversation spells more frustration. / I can't take it, I can't take it.

2011-09-22T02:49:00.001-07:00

So, I was supposed to meet with my Girl Scouts yesterday, but I couldn't because the Brownie and Daisy troops aren't organized.
That fucking sucks. I have eleven girls ready to go who are just as excited to meet as I am, but . . . we're being held up.
Fuck that. If they don't have their shit together by next week, we are just going to meet.
I'm kind of amazed we have any girls signing up at all, though. We're in an area that is mostly populated by Hispanics and . . . none of the sign-up materials are in Spanish. Last year, too, they could sign up on paper and pay with cash. This year, they have to sign up on the computer with an e-mail address and a credit card.
Guess how many applications I've processed by putting them on my own credit card?
If you said eleven, you're right.
Anyway, I can't wait to get started - once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout!
Now, for no reason at all, here's a random drummer joke someone told me today:
How do you get a drummer off your property?
Pay him for the pizza.

It's time to put on makeup / It's time to dress up right / It's time to raise the curtain on the muppet show tonight

2011-09-21T03:44:00.000-07:00

Today we woke up to an America where soldiers can ask and tell. D.A.D.T. was officially no more at midnight last night. When Obama first signed the repeal of D.A.D.T., I remember getting into an argument with a stranger I usually have pretty high respect for over its significance.
This argument (because it took place on the shameful social network exercise known as Twitter - - yeah, I'm judging myself pretty harshly for having an argument on Twitter, too) lead to me having arguments in real life with some of my friends about the same subject. The general problem: I think it's a big deal and they don't.
Personally, even though I am a pacifist, I see it as an obvious win - and kind of a big fucking deal. I mean, this is the military . . . the military is officially admitting that queers are among their ranks and that they are (or legally have to be) fine with it. That's fucking bananas to me, because for my entire adult life, that's not been the case.
More so, I think in discounting victories such as this, we seek only to take from the cause that is are continuing crawl towards civil rights. Because that's what this fight is - it's the struggle for civil rights. It isn't being promoted as such (for reasons I'll never understand) with any agression, but that's what it is.
I think we need to recognize today with some significance . . . and look forward to the next step.
If you need more inspiration for why it's a good idea to keep fighting this fight, look no further than right here:

Say it will always be like this / The two of us together / It will always be like this / Forever and ever and ever...

2011-09-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

Oh, wait. What's that? It's my respect for Jay Leno slowly growing. Duh.

Sometimes I wonder if I should be left alone / And lock myself up in a padded room / I'd sit and spew my guts out to the open air / No one wants to hear a drunken fool

2011-09-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

This is an open letter to the girl I've been dating.
Dear Little One,
     I love you.
     As insecure as I usually am about this type of thing, I think you love me, too. I mean, you seem so fucking honest when you say it to me. I can't imagine that's not genuine.
     I know this is really hard for you. You've never dated a girl before. Your parents hate queers. You're struggling with a reality that the only future you've even envisioned for yourself might not really be the one you want. I can't say I know how you feel, but I can say I understand the gravity of the situation.
     You make me so happy. I love being with you. I love seeing you. When I hear your voice on the phone . . . it's so fucking comforting just to know you value me enough to spend your time talking to me.
     However, you also scare me. I'm not willing to live a life in the closet. I'm not willing to be a forever secret you keep. This isn't going to be any fucking Brokeback bullshit. That goes against the very fiber that knits together my constitution. I'm afraid you'll never come out. I'm afraid you expect me to crawl into that proverbial closet with you.
     That's not going to happen.
     We're going to have to stop this relationship if that's the only future you'd be comfortable with, and I'm afraid I won't be able to end this before it goes on too long and we're both miserable.
     My biggest fear, though, lies in my love and respect for you. I love you so fucking much. I really do. I could envision a life with you. However, I'm not as naïve as you. I'm the first girl you've ever expressed your interest in . . . maybe I'm not 'the one.' Maybe there's someone else out there that will make you happier. The thing is, though, Little One, that I don't think that you'll ever really be happy with a man. I know that's what you want deep down; I know it would be easier. What you've told me, though . . . I think you're a lesbian. I'm not - I'm attracted to men and women. You're only really attracted to women, though, and that scares the shit out of you.
     I love and respect you too much to watch you go down a road where you are constantly searching for something you don't really want just to make everyone else happy. Fuck them. I'll always care about you, but I can't sit back and watch that. I just can't. I don't want you to have a lesser life. I want you to have a wonderful life - the life you deserve.
     I can live with it if we don't work out. If you don't want me, that's okay. I'm enjoying these moments with you and waiting to see what happens. We might not have a future together, but the way things are going, I wonder sometimes if you're going to have any type of future at all - with or without me.
     Please don't be afraid of who you are. It's fucking wonderful.
     I love you.
     XOXO

Happy Birthday to you / You live in a zoo / You look like a monkey / And you smell like one, too

2011-09-16T02:39:00.000-07:00

Today's my birthday! I'm turning thirty-one today.
Just like last year, there's a crew of people who are out there trying to make me feel old as fuck because I am thirty-one and apparently, that means I am one foot in the mother-fucking grave 'round here. Comments I have recieved so far:
* Your birthday's coming up? Oh, sorry. I know how that is.
* Thirty-one?!? You don't look that old.
* Oh my gosh - I just assumed you were so much younger because you're not married. I didn't realize you were one of us older gals!
* Wow! You don't look thirty-one.
* Don't let it bother you. We all get older.
Here's what I say to that:
Thank you for your concern about my longevity, but, please, shut the fuck up. It doesn't bother me. In fact, I like my birthday. I'm really grateful for all the living I've gotten to do so far, and I hope to live a whole bunch more. Being a fucking Debbie Downer about my day that's supposed to be happy (it's called Happy Birthday, assholes, not Fucking-Downer Birthday) doesn't make you more in-touch with things or adult or mature or whatever the fuck you tell yourself. It makes you come off sounding like a depressing twat.
You want to be depressed about a birthday? Be depressed about your own, then. (Though, I don't recommend it.)
Leave my birthday alone. It doesn't need your attempted mind fuck.
Bring on the (vegan) cake, mother fuckers!

I've got something in my pocket / That belongs across my face / I keep it very close to me / In a most convenient place

2011-09-14T04:23:00.000-07:00

I went to my first Girl Scout leader training Tuesday. Apparently, we are going to be selling nuts and magazines this fall. I can't wait.
That's not sarcasm, though, I am not really looking forward to collecting money and trying to explain online magazine orders. I am, however, looking forward to earning money so my troop can do things.
Speaking of my troop, let's talk about numbers for a second - I have ONE girl registered so far. ONE. They took away the paper registrations and now everything is on the computer . . . and in English. Most of the parents of the girls in my troop don't have Internet access, don't have a valid credit card (to pay the dues online), and don't speak English. So, basically, I am going to have to take their dues from them in cash and then turn around and register them myself. I will have to make up email addresses for them if they don't have one. Very annoying.
I understand the need to streamline this nonsense, but I just wish there were a better option for my girls. I mean, c'mon, Girl Scouts - no Spanish version? In my neighborhood everything is in English and Spanish. Actually, at most stores - the cashier is more likely to be fluent in Spanish, not English.
I've had some trouble in the past getting parents to trust me (or anyone) to let their girls be in scouts. This just seems like another road block. However, we will prevail - I'll get these girls registered so we can get going soon. Our first official meeting is supposed to be next Wednesday.
I'm so fucking psyched. Hooray Girl Scouts!

They've got a fiddler there that always slickens his hair / And folks he sure do pull some bow. / And when the big Bassoon seconds to the Trombones croon. / It moans just like a sinner on Revival Day, on Revival Day.

2011-09-11T20:05:00.000-07:00

Today is September 11th. It is the tenth anniversary of the September 11th.
You know, I am not much for sensationalism. I think that our news media in America does a wonderful job of keeping everyone paralyzed - and pacified - with fear. It's down-right horrific.
I agree, too, that there's a line that needs to be drawn with the type of presentation given to memorial coverage. When I was in New York City last time, I had some time to kill, so I went to the NBC behind-the-scenes tour. Let me tell you something - it was jarring. There was this beautiful little tour guide telling me all about the lighting choices that are made during the evening news to evoke certain feelings in viewers. She said that like it was a good thing - like the act of manipulating feelings was a good thing. I think about that tour today when I look at the memorial coverage and hear the drums beating staccato in the background and the red splashes of background lightning . . . and I think, "What are they doing?" I mean, seriously, what are they trying to make us feel . . . and why? What the fuck do they want from us?
I have no problem evoking enough feelings of my own on this day. When I say I was terrified - I was. I mean, think about it - not since Peal Harbor Day has there been an attack like this on America. Say what you want about the place, but it's my home. I can't deny that I'm not satisfied with how American came to achieve its former seemingly invincible image, there was always some comfort (however false) in thinking that there was no way it would happen here.
I can recall every moment of what I did that day, even though it is one of the most mundane days of my existence. I hardly even left the couch. I think the hardest part was seeing all the panicking people jumping from the building to their deaths. It still makes me fucking tear up to think about it. I mean, there was such a feeling of helplessness. You wanted to do something, but what the fuck could you do? Those people - those were someone's somebodies. It seemed to take them so long to fall, you know? I was thinking - what are they thinking? Are they praying? I would have been. I would have been hoping my loved ones could hear my prayers. I would want them to have some peace if I could manage that. I mean, I don't even know if I would be brave enough to jump. I would hope that I would have just maybe died of panic or fright if that is even possible. All the other options for the doomed people that day seem far, far less desirable.
As for my own personal story, I don't know if my story is interesting or important, but I certainly remember where I was. It was five days before my twenty-first birthday.
I worked at the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport at the time. I was a rental car agent. A couple of days before, while I was working, Air Force One landed and President Bush walked through the airport. I remember it because my co-worker was really into it. She took pictures as he walked by with this little disposable camera.
On September 10th, I worked the graveyard shift by myself which meant I had to wait for the last plane to come in before locking up. Well, the last plane was a Delta commuter from Atlanta and it was supposed to land September 11th at 3:00 in the morning. It was always late, though, but this morning it was extra late. Hours rolled by and the plane still hadn't landed. Flight attendant shortage had kept the plane from ever taking off. So, we (me and the agents from other companies) were just sitting and waiting and overtired. It took so long for the plane to get there that by the time the day crew showed up, it still hadn't landed. So, I left the shop front in the hands of the day crew girl and went home. The second I got home, at a little before 9, the day crew girl called and told me that she wasn't going to be able to make any more phone calls out, that the airport was on lockdown, and that she was scared because Air Force One was still at a hangar at the airport (Bush was reading the infamous goat story at a local school) and she worried about being attacked. She said that there were soldiers with guns and dogs and they were letting people make one call out before shutting off the phone lines. She wanted me to call her husband at work and her kids' schools and tell them that she was on lockdown and not able to leave until the lockdown was over.
I thought she had lost her mind until I turned on the news. It was really scary. I remember sitting on the couch with my boyfriend at the time, and we were just silent watching all the horrible footage of people in total panic. I was so heart-broken seeing the people jump from the buildings. It was horrible.
From then on, my job was so different. I used to just walk into work at the last minute every day. I would go to the gates to meet big-deal renters, and, sometimes, on the tarmac. Now, I had to get to work at least thirty minutes early to have my car checked. The soldiers with the big guns and dogs didn't go away after the lockdown was called off, and it took months to get back to regular business. Stranded people were trying to rent anything to get back home - and I was working pretty much non-stop in the days following renting cars to people who needed to get home. It was good to have something mundane to think about, but it was also hard when someone would come up to the counter desperate to get home and we couldn't help them for one reason or the other.
Muhammed, another agent, was sent to work in the back cleaning cars for fear people would react badly to a middle easterner at the counter. It was a huge economic blow to his family because there was no commission from working in the back. When he was put on the counter months later, it only lasted a few days before he was asked to return to the back. People were horrible to him and one guy even chucked a telephone at him. He was threatened and spit at. It was so humiliating for him. He wasn't a burnout stoner just making enough to get high and buy snacks at the Shell station. (They were a lot of fun and nice guys - but their ambition was shockingly low.) He didn't belong cleaning out cars. He was the type of man who prided himself on wearing shoes so well shined you could see your face in them. He worked so hard to get his numbers up - it was a real career for him. He had to take charity from his church (he was Presbyterian) and from us at work just to make ends meet without his commision check. We'd try not to be blatant about it. Saying things like, "Oops - we can't eat all these apples we bought, would you like to take some home?" That kind of thing.
It was a full year before he came back to the counter.
He still didn't make very much money for a while. People would still ask to rent from someone else, they never trusted him, and every once in a while he still got a someone redneck who would just sneer at him and say something along the lines of, "fucking towel head."
I was laid off on my birthday because the company I was working for fired all new employees across the board as a security measure. I was hired the three days later by another company in the same airport, but it was still jarring how much everything was changing. The whole airport had a way different feel. It is like we were all worried and anxious but not sure why. I mean, it was clear we wouldn't be attacked again, but still. It was a very difficult time.
Someone on Twitter said they hated this day because it was like having someone show you pictures of the fatal car wreck that killed your wife on the anniversary of her death. I can understand that. I think that there's too much on the television, too many attempts to recharge the panic. That's sick, and its a betrayl to the people whose stories are being remembered.
However, I don't agree with some (most?) of my friends who say we should ignore the day completely. I mean, it does make me sad - and a little scared - that none of my Girl Scouts can tell you what happened on September 11th, 2001. They don't know. They were just babies, but . . . I knew at their age about Pearl Harbor. I knew about the "conflict" in Vietnam. People don't talk to their kids about this anymore. It's frightening. It makes me worry about what kind of people they'll grow up to be without any history.
Won't we just become more gullible? More weak? More susceptible to repeating our past mistakes?
I can understand why people would want to forget this day. However, I also understand why we cannot and should not. There are some stories - however terrible - that need to be told.

You need somebody to be with to feel complete. / So you look for what you need in everyone you meet. / Loneliness fuels your insecurities, and you think / "Maybe something's wrong with me..."

2011-09-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

I guess I was missed at work because my days now are longer and more chaotic than ever. For real. However, I am super excited because we are just about to start Girl Scouts again! This is fucking awesome because I have been really craving some Girl Scout time - make new friends and all that shit. Awesome.
I've been thinking about girls who kick ass lately. One story that keeps running though my mind is of Tina Dooley Anderson. When she was fifteen, she was raped by the man whose children she was babysitting. He was - get this - a member of her church. When she turned up pregnant, she was forced to apologize in front of her congregation for her loose morals.
No fucking lie.
This wasn't, like, in the 1800s or some shit. This was 14 years ago - in the mid-nineties. People had microwaves and CD players and shit - - it seems like too advanced a time for this kind of backwards ass shit, does it not?
Anyway, even after all this time, Anderson (who was sent to live with strangers until the baby was born and given up for adoption) found the strength to have her rapist prosecuted. He was convicted and will be serving fifteen to thirty years in prison.
Now, this scumbag has admitted that he did have sex with her, once, but he claims it was consensual. He claims he committed these acts with her - - not that he did something to her. It's seemingly subtle word choice, but it means a lot.
He thinks he's responsible, but he thinks she is, too.
I never understand this about child rapists.
How can something be consensual, though, when you can't legally give your consent?
It shouldn't matter if she was crawling on the floor begging for him to fuck her (which, I don't think was the case) - he was the authority figure, the adult, and he should have kept his fucking dick in his pants.
Anyway, Anderson - a person I know nothing of, really - is kind of developing into a hero of mine. I mean, I never had the courage to face my attackers, you know?
It's a terrifying thing. I wouldn't even know where to begin, and its a part of myself I know I am not ready or willing to open back up.
Ms. Anderson did it, though. For some reason, that's comforting to me.

I'm killing myself somehow to stay awake / I'm not particular who I entertain / I'm not concerned with the spectacle I make

2011-09-02T20:50:00.000-07:00

Uck. This was a shitty week. My sister's having marriage problems, and it is keeping all of us awake at night. We are an insanely close family. When one of us hurts, we all hurt.
Now, I have this weird red spot on my boob. It appeared out of nowhere, and it is freaking me out because I think its a bacterial infection or something. I left work early today to go to the doctor to find out that they made a mistake and my appointment isn't until a month from today. Holy fucking Christ. I talked them into Tuesday, but still . . . I left work early. Sucks.
I need to stop bitching and moaning, though. Coming back to fifteen hour work days, endless meetings, and tons of spreadsheets due at the snap of a finger has not been easy, but at least I have sweet summer memories to think of when I am stressed. On some level, I think that the time I gave myself this summer has actually saved my life. For serious.
I've just been running hard for so long, and it was nice not to have to do that for a while.
Also, my birthday is coming up. Now, most people my age (early thirties) hate their birthday. I don't know why. Birthdays equal friends and cake and beer. What is there not to love? Seriously. Plus, I think people who fear their birthdays age faster. Ironic punishment or some shit.
I don't have any tattoos (people are always surprised to learn this about me), but I might soon. My sister really wants to get sister tattoos (matching ones). Maybe this will be a birthday thing. I am a little worried about getting a tattoo. I won't mind the pain (I think it's going to pale in comparison to the surgery I've had). I am mostly worried because I have horrible skin and I am a fat ass. I think it'll look lost in my sea of pocked and scarred skin.
However, I am going to think positive. Fucking positive.

Oh let our love survive / Or dry the tears from your eyes / Let's don't let a good thing die

2011-08-28T20:11:00.000-07:00

Well, today was another banner fucking day. I woke up early and got to cooking. I have several people that I'm cooking for, so I was basically moving like a machine all morning long. One of those people was my little sister. Now, I love my little sister. However, she eats total shit. Preservative-ridden, high sodium shit. So, I made her some homemade macaroni and cheese with broccoli and tomato and some peanut butter chocolate cupcakes. Not health food, but made-from-scratch deliciousness - - not a red dye number forty to be found.
Anyway, we drive over there and my sister meets us in the front yard. Usually, my sister always looks like she fell out of a goddamn magazine, but she looked awful today.
We head up the walk, and my mom asks her what's wrong, and she bursts into fucking tears. She's crying her eyes out, and in between sobs we gather that her husband just left and that things aren't going well between them.
They've been married all of nine months.
She's felt like he's been distant and ignoring her. His family is like that, though. We're all so loud and close and we talk - we talk all the time. His family is more reserved and less touchy-feely.
Apparently, there's another man she's been talking to in the meantime. She even kissed him. I'm really disappointed in her for this. I can't stand cheating. I've been on the other end of that, and there's no real way to summarize the type of hurt that comes from that type of betrayal.
The man isn't just any man, either, its her much, much older, married boss. Married - with children.
Now, I'm disappointed with sister.
I want to take a goddamn baseball bat to the side of this mother-fucker's head. (I would never, ever do that, but I wanna. I wanna badly.) I mean, he's old enough to be her father, he's got a family, and he's her boss. I told her that even if she was single - didn't have a husband of her own; I wouldn't want her around this asshole. I mean, he's an authority figure here.
My thoughts might be irrational, but I don't give a shit. That's my mother-fucking sister.
I told my sister and her husband (yes, he came home - and he was really calm and sweet) that I wanted them to try to make it work. He wants her to quit her job. I think that's reasonable.
Ask me two months ago if I ever thought this was a possibility, and I'd tell you no fucking way. I love my sister's husband. He's a good guy. He loves her immensely. It's just very stressful. I want my sister to be happy. I am hopeful she isn't throwing away long-term happiness due to short-term difficulties.
I am confident that they can and will work it out. I'm praying they will work it out. He says he'll do anything to make it work. I believe him.
It just sucks.

We watch the shows -- we watch the stars / On videos for hours and hours / We hardly need to use our ears / How music changes through the years

2011-08-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

Do you want the bad news or good news first?
Yeah, I thought so . . . bad news first.
This has not been an easy week.
First off, work fucking sucked in some regards. I met a lot of new clients - which was great. However, twice - fucking twice - in the middle of a presentation, someone came into my office and asked me to do something else while I was presenting.
Good fucking Christ. I mean, seriously. I take my job to heart, and this kind of shit pisses me off. It makes me look like a scattered asshole, and it makes the clients lose faith in me.
Then there was the flood.
The flood made minor interruptions in client meetings look like nothing.
In the west wing of our building the sewer backed up . . . and literally flooded the place with shit. Tons and tons of shit.
There really is no way to explain that delicately. None.
You wanna go in what room? Oh, that room. Well, you can't.
It's covered in fucking shit.
Holy God. The smell, apparently, had quite the radius. People kept congratulating me on having no sense of smell. Finally, having only a fraction of the senses normal people have pays off. Finally.
The janitorial staff refused to clean up the shit, too, so we had to just deal with it until an outside company that pretty much specializes in cleaning up shit. (Sidenote: The fact that those exist is both disturbing and comforting at the same time.)
Mother-fucker.
My personal life is not going as well as I thought it was, also, which fucking blows.
Oh, and I ran into some mother-fucking, dickless, asshole, cunt-face shit bags this morning. I went for my weekly weekend walk. I like to walk about ten or eleven miles every weekend. While I was walking, these asshole boys started following me and making fun of what a fat ass I am.
Now, I get not wanting to fuck me or share a small space with my fat ass, but following me? Just to be a dick? Fuck you, mother-fuckers. Fuck you.
An old man was a dick about it, too - he purposefully ran into me with his crazy tricycle and said, "You're wider than the sidewalk - what do you expect?"
I am a fat ass, but I am not wider than the sidewalk. He was being an asshole.
Oh! And I saw a dead dog. Someone's baby got run over. Terrible walk. Better luck next week.
Okay, though, some good news.
Girl Scouts - I am going to my first leader meeting soon, so that must mean that we are going to get started soon. I cannot wait. I have visited with a couple of the scouts from last year, and they are so looking forward to joining. I am so looking forward to meeting with my troop on a regular basis again. I've really missed it.
Also, I started an online shop at Cafe Press: http://www.cafepress.com/AnarchistGirlScout.
Yes, this is happening. You can now buy shit from me! I hope you do.
Hopefully, I won't be such a whiny little bitch next time I post. I apologize for my doldrums.

I've been standing when you're holding your face / I'm gonna choke you til you're blue in the face / pretty thoughts and a dirty mind / Aaahhh

2011-08-21T04:03:00.000-07:00

I am really happy tonight. Really happy. So, I went back to work this week after as rather long sabbatical. It has been weird how quickly the routine has become familiar to me. I mean, I was gone for so long, but it feels like I never left. The same people are pretty much doing the same thing. I mean, it's kind of like when you go hiking in the woods, and you notice a patch of carpet moss growing in the shady roots of a tree. Things may move a little bit over time, but the overall feeling of that patch is going to be the same no matter what. It feels so still, but you're also aware that it's alive. It's hard to explain. It's charging ahead, exchanging toxins for oxygen, breathing - living. However, it feels so fucking dormant at the same time.
I already have an event to organize. This is the part of my job that probably gives me the most problems. I don't even know how I get saddled with this responsibility, anyway - I'm not great at it. There's far, far better candidates for this job, you know? I should be really upset about this. There's no budget, the event is in two weeks, and a large percentage of our clients are expected to come.
However, I'm having a good time in my personal life, so it makes me not really give a shit that I am facing a potential cluster fuck at work.
I mean, I really don't feel the panic. I'm sure I will. I like doing a good job, but I just . . . I guess I have some kind of renewed faith that shit is gonna work out, you know?
Also, Girl Scouts is off to a rocky start, but for the BEST possible reason. The leader of the Daisy troop - a good friend of mine - is preggers! She's gonna have a little one in March! This is so exciting because she's been trying for so long, and they've had so many difficulties. She's farther than she's ever been with a baby, and I know - I know - it's going to work out this time. (I'm asking everyone in the collective universe to think good thoughts for her and this little life she's growing.) However, since she has had so much trouble, she's not sure if she can commit to Scouts this year. So, we need to find a new Daisy leader before we can kick things off.
Frankly, I can't wait. I love Scouts (clearly), and I am so excited about doing things with my troop this year. The age group I have, the Juniors, are at this point in their lives that is so interesting. They are developing personalities that are independent of their parents. It's really fascinating to witness. I can't wait to hear what they want to do, too.
Last year, we raised money for Stand Up 2 Cancer, I want to get us fundraising earlier so we can really make an impact this year, too. They feel really good when our troop writes the cheque for charity. I do, too.
Since this entry has been kind of a spastic hot mess anyway, here's a video for no reason of Green Day covering Foxboro Hot Tubs' It's Fuck Time at the Tiki Bar this summer:

Clarification: Not my video. Wasn't lucky enough to go - someone else with sneaky hands and a really decent recording device took this video.

When I was younger, worrying about it / Trying to make these decisions for myself / And I go on to ask myself what's right and what's wrong about it / And I don't really know what makes it, ask yourself

2011-08-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, Leah! You won a sweet record! Hope you enjoy it!

I'll be giving something else away next month! I don't know what yet, but it'll be something awesome. I love sending things in the mail!

The day you left me, left me feeling oh so bad / Still I'm not sure about all the doubts we had / From the beginning we both knew it wouldn't last / Decisions have been made the die has been cast

2011-08-11T09:24:00.000-07:00

I'm back in the Sunshine State - land of orange groves and alligators!

Because of this, I will be giving away a Hüsker Dü / Green Day 7" split of Don't Want to Know if You Are Lonely. It's a beautiful piece of orange vinyl that reminds me of those citrus globes for which my home state is famous.

What do you have to do to enter?

It is very, very easy. Just e-mail anarchistgirlscout@gmail.com your name and mailing address. Even if you don't win the record, I'll still send you a small surprise.
Good luck!
I will draw the name of one winner on August 13th!

It's just a day like any other day / A beautiful day for an accident, let's say / Yes it's just a day, like any other day / Just one step closer to the end of the buffet

2011-08-10T22:59:00.000-07:00

I'M HOME! I am back in the greatest state in the Union, again, my beloved Florida. Good Christ on a cracker, I stepped off of the plane and felt this warm blanket of humidity envelope me as I walked down the jet bridge. It managed to warm my bones that had been chilled for these past fifty-one days in a matter of seconds. I felt this damp electricity scatter itself through the surface cells of my skin and run itself up and down my spine. Fucking magic, I tell you - this goddamn swamp land is fucking magic to me.
Don't get me wrong, it's a bittersweet homecoming. I am going to miss the East Bay tremendously - mostly because I will miss the people who I love that reside in that area, but also because I became fairly attached to the area itself.
However, nothing feels like home, does it? I've already seen my first cockroach and drunk my first glass of nectar de guayaba. I had to get the guava juice in tonight because tomorrow I start and apple cleanse diet to try and get my body at least slightly back into a pattern of not constantly eating shit (delicious, high-calorie shit) all the time. My eating habits in the East Bay were only comparable to that of a teenage boy who has been left the emergency credit card and a stack of takeaway menus while his parents are out of town for the weekend. So, in other words, they were fucking awesome. I lived in a continual state of gut rot. Major gut rot.
Some people might be asking, what did you do for 51 days?
Well, here's a very listy rundown, catergorized, of course.
Volunteer Work:
* Hopalong Animal Rescue
* San Francisco Pride (for Hopalong)
* Girl Scout Day Camp
Movies Seen:
* Cowboys vs. Aliens
* Bad Teacher
* Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, Part Two
* Rise of the Planet of the Apes
* Horrible Bosses
* The Help
* Back to the Future
* Super 8
Concerts Attended:
* Emily's Army @ Thee Parkside
* Dolly Parton @ Sleeptrain Pavilion
* The Dollyrots @ Bottom of the Hill
Places of Drinkable Industry Visited:
* Urban Legend Cellars
* St. George Distillery
* Numi Tea Gardens
Also, by the numbers:
Old friends seen - 4
New friends made - 3
T-shirts purchased - 11
T-shirts purchased for myself (out of the 11) - 9
Bottles of nail polish purchased - 6
Bottles of nail polish taken home - 2
Cookies given away to strangers - 216
Cupcakes given away to strangers - 68
Dollars spent riding public transport - 104
Records purchased - 4
CD's purchased - 3
Number of times I went to San Francisco - 5
Pairs of socks purchased - 4
Times I went swimming - 1
Beers drunk - um . . . .
Yeah, so basically, it was a good time. I hope I didn't overstay my welcome, and that you'll have me back again soon sometime. Maybe one day I'll earn that bi-coastal moniker that I've coveted for so long.

Why can't you just admit it, you've had it, you're sick of me / You're fed up with all my bad habits, you're sick of me

2011-08-09T15:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, so good news and bad news . . . Bad news: The day after I leave the great state of California, Green Day - my all-time favorite band ever is playing a surprise show. Fuckin' A. I'd change my flight, but I don't have the money for that. Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Plus, its for charity. I love things for charity. Mother-fucking fuck.
Good news: It's still pretty boss and bitchin' how great a time I've had here due to my first-rate friend being so fucking cool. So, yeah. That's pretty awesome. I shouldn't be such a greedy little bitch, right?
Also, some people e-mailed due to the last post I made and said they wanted to see the patch that Kelly from The Dollyrots drew on my jacket. Well, here it is:

Rock n' roll!!!!

And then we’ll light a cigarette, for two / Maybe we’ll ride on handlebars, so new / Go on and give it to me

2011-08-09T11:41:00.000-07:00

A couple of nights ago, I went to see The Dollyrots in San Francisco at The Bottom of the Hill. The Bottom of the Hill is a pretty swank little joint. Actually, the whole bar venue scene in the bar area seems a little cleaner than you would expect it to be. I mean, its true that I've only gone to bars in nice areas, but even the nice area bars back home seem a little scummier. Maybe it is because everyone is a little sweatier, you know? Humidity is a bitch. It not only makes things a little scummier physically, but it sucks your will to live and then you're lazy as fuck and things start to go to the fucking wayside. So, yeah. Everything's been kind of cleaner here. It is weird. You'd sort of expect it to be the opposite, I guess, since Oakland is known mostly for gangs. Then again, Tampa is known mostly for cigars, pirates, and strip bars, so . . . yeah.
I arrived with two of my good friends, and another friend who just moved to San Francisco was meeting us there. I hadn't seen the third friend in years and years, and I was so glad to be reconnecting with her. We all went to the most badass college on Earth, New College of Florida. Two-thirds of The Dollyrots also went there. I went directly to the bar with the idea in my head that I would get myself a beer and surprise my friend with a gin and tonic. Turns out, this place is so nice that they only serve drinks one at a time because, you know, I could have been buying a beer for a toddler or something. So, I just got the gin and tonic. The bar tender was really nice about it. I told her I understood - my parents used to work a bar and I wouldn't have wanted someone to be a dick to them just for following the rules and trying to hold onto their liquor license.
We went back to the merch table, and I bought buttons for my Girl Scout jacket along with a Dollyrots t-shirt. The opening act was a band named Sunderland, who I had not previously heard. They described themselves as, "power pop from the Northwest."
Holy cow were they cute. They were so fucking cute. A basic description of them would be to say that they included two fairly beachy boys, a child who looked like Opie's cousin in a lumberjack shirt, and a dead ringer for Zachary Quinto's younger brother. There was lots of hilarity. Lumberjack Opie forget some equipment, so we were all encouraged to laugh at him. Very nice.
At one point, they said that they were happy to be playing with The Dollyrots because they'd been listening to them since they were kids. Since they were kids. Were seemed like a really funny coming out of their little baby mouths. They weren't a group of slouches, though. Not at all - they actually sounded pretty good.
We moved up a little for The Dollyrots. They were so freaking cute - drinking Miller Lite and complaining about how the venue the night before had been a little overly hospitable and generous with their offers for alcoholic beverages after the show.
They played a lot of our favorite songs like Jackie Chan, Kick Me to the Curb, and Beacuse I'm Awesome. They were totally cute and charming, and I really loved how Luis and Kelly kept looking at each other with absolute familiarity. It was a good set.
However, and I know I have said this before, I am totally not in love with the way the youth of today stands still as stone at shows. I mean, what the fuck, people? Did you come there to fucking take up oxygen and space and drool on yourself like the catatonic? C'mon now. Fucking give me something.
They don't move. They don't dance. They don't rock. They don't shift side-to-side. They are fucking statues with a pulse. It is very disconcerning. I am not a fan.
We went outside to follow The Dollyrots after their set. I touched Kelly and she asked me - in a very sweet, polite way (Southern girl!) to hold on a minute. I wanted her to sign my jacket. I taught my Girl Scouts to sing Because I'm Awesome, and I know they're gonna flip their shit when they see the Kelly signed me fucking jacket.
But, oh - oh, my dears. She did better than sign it. She drew a damn merit badge with her bass on it. It was so adorable I could hardly stand it. For real. After that, we went to this little diner place for pie and coffee and talking. It was a wonderful evening of reconnecting with friends and being awesome.

Tell me, doctor / Where are we going this time? / Is this the fifties? / Or nineteen ninty-nine?

2011-08-08T18:29:00.000-07:00

Man, it is cold as fuck in this house. I'm dog-sitting, but only in the most basic sense of that word. This dog is super-chill. She requires pretty much no effort. I mean, last night she had a pretty disgusting accident (I won't get into it other than saying she wears a diaper and still managed to make a mess.), but other than that she's been awesome. She sleeps a lot, and she snores adorably. Two days ago I went to see Back to the Future at the Paramount Theatre. Basically, there are three types of people in the world:
* people who haven't seen Back to the Future
* people who love Back to the Future
* idiots
I mean, Marty McFly is one of the best characters ever. He's a good boy, but not too good that he seems totally fucking unreal. I knew guys like Marty McFly. I kind of wanted to be Marty McFly when I was little. He was so cool.
Anyway, the audience was a motley fucking crew to say the least. I was excited to see parents bringing their little ones who'd never seen the flick - how awesome would it be to see this movie for the first time like God intended it, on the big screen?
There was this one really cute family behind us who had a pile of children with them. They were really polite. They said excuse me when going in and out to get snacks. I appreciated that. People don't teach their kids to do shit like that anymore.
This pair of lesbian hipsters directly behind me were less kind, though, the obviously saw the little ones as a huge inconvenience. That's the thing about public movie theatres, though, the public is there. If you want to control the guest list, buy and LCD projector, a white fucking sheet, and some laundry twine and have it your way at home. Besides, the same girls who thought the kids were a pain in the ass pretty much kicked the back of my chair (which was crazy far from their chair - leg room for days) through the entire film. Fuckers.
Anyway, before the film they has this really rad raffle where a woman named Golden Gertie spun a large multi-numbered wheel called the Dec-o-Wheel to come up with the raffle ticket number. We didn't win anything, but the guy who called out the prizes was a lot of fun. I liked Gertie, too, she had a really kind face that reminded me of someone. I liked, too, that when she turned around you could see all these, like, skin growths on her back. I like that she didn't shy away from the red satin halter dress because of them. It made her seem more attractive. Her hands have that frail look of someone either knee-deep or past their forties, but her face was pretty youthful. She had a nice smile and expressive eyes. Like I said, I liked her moxie.
Anyway, how can I describe the movie? Well, amazing. People laughed at the right places, clapped at the right places, and - I'm pretty sure - cried at the right places. There was a lot of joy and love in the room, let's just say that. It really brought back memories of seeing this flick with my parents for the first time at the Britton Twin - a now defunct dollar movie theatre that rested behind a real movie theatre in a shopping mall. I never saw movies first-run, which I was okay with. The projection of the movie was in much better quality than the first time I saw it. There were no holes or scratches in the film.
Afterward, we went to Rudy's Can't Fail Café. I've been to the location in Emeryville, California a few times, but not to the one by the Fox Theatre. Guess what I saw there? My stickers! That's right, stickers from my blog. Holy, man. I don't know why, but it was really exciting to see my stickers in a place I'd never been to before. Really exciting. Too exciting. There were two on the back of the sign-in clipboard, and there was one on the little cup that holds the pens for people ordering take-away to sign for their cheque.

What would Billie Joe do?
He'd read Anarchist Girl Scout.

I kind of freaked out. Especially since no other stickers - save for that of the establishment - were to be seen. Fucking awesome.
I ordered a veggie burger and fries and pie. Yes, and pie. Holy God, when you are excited, you need pie. Right? Right. It's a known fact.
I was totally happy, and I was so very glad I was there with my first-rate friend. I had invited someone else who I am trying to be friends with to come along, and it didn't work out. It's shitty, but I am so glad it didn't. I was glad to be happy and geeky and feel . . . well, free. There's a lot of comfort that comes from knowing some one twelve years, let alone liking, respecting, and caring for them for that long. So, yeah, I was pretty happy to be just with this person and not with anyone else.
This entire experience has made me want to watch Back to the Future II like hardcore. I mean, shit, hoverboards. Amazing.

Ah ha, hush that fuss / Everybody move to the back of the bus / Do you want to bump and slump with us? / We the type of people make the club get crunk

2011-08-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

So, I tried writing a serious poem today. Yeah, like for real. I used to do it all the time. I was part of a poetry collective, if you can fucking believe that. Thirsty Ear Poetry Collective - we performed in Ybor City in the early 90s. I was the youngest member - I joined when I was twelve. Because of a city-wide curfew on young folks back then, my mom had to come with me to all of the readings. People would talk and snicker because, I dunno, I guess they thought I was going to open up my mouth and talk about boys and lip gloss and shit. Or maybe some super-melodramatic retelling of what happened that week on My So-called Life.
People really underestimate children. I mean, I wasn't great (I'm still not great), but I wasn't total shit, either. I had several people tell me how surprised they were I didn't suck. I always thought that was so weird.
So, anyway, here's my latest effort. I hope you like it:

The 57 Line

Sun strikes a psychedelic silhouette
of
the people in their wells and standing in shadows -
clinging to the sides, desperate but casual,
Masking an internal struggle for balance
Calm for a moment of non-movement -
Not quiet stillness as the petrol pulse keeps tempo
with the very quake and quiver of our own cells
strapped in to their stations by crimson hematic core lines.
Get where you are going -
Hop to the damaged dental work of concrete's climate-conquered failures.
Breathe out the beast while letting new oxygen and new others in.
Turn and watch the lumbering giant as she glides down the next street.

I've seen love before / I can't take this anymore / Someone's losin' her heart

2011-08-04T01:10:00.000-07:00

Happy Shark Week, you guys!
Have you seen this video? Of course you have. It is everywhere. What kind of a fucking moron kisses a fucking shark? Asshole.
Okay, so some of you are going to think I'm the fucking asshole for the story I am about to tell. Let me start by saying, when I eat out, I am usually a pretty easy customer. I generally eat out for the experience of being out with people, not so much the eating part. So, often times, when I am eating out, I hate to be the picky vegan. I usually just go with whatever, and I eat the margins, and I go home with a belly full of potato.
Not today.
Today we ventured out to Chez Panisse.
Chez Panisse - even the cafe part that we went into - is pretty fancy. It's not Ferris-Bueller-goes-to-lunch-in-the-city fancy, but pretty close. You can wear jeans there, but you can't run your finger on the rim of your plate to get the good stuff up before the waiter takes it away. Eating there is a mother-fucking social engagement, you know?
Chez Panisse is also the type of place that you don't want to leave saying, "I stomached the food." It's the type of place where your food is an investment - however temporary its physical state - that you make in the overall experience.
So, we went there, and I asked what was vegan on the menu and the answer was basically nothing, but that he would inquire.
Moments later he came back and told me they were making me some kind of eggplant dish.
I hate eggplant.
I can't be firm enough about this. There's very few vegetables I won't eat. Eggplant and asparagus. That's really it. They are disgusting. My mind cannot be changed about this.
I also thought it was a little presumptuous that they were already making it without asking me. So, I told him that I hated eggplant. My friend got really worried that the Chez Pantry Police were going to kick us out. She said, "You didn't have to say it like that," and later, "I want to come back here; I hope this isn't a problem." She wasn't been overly worried, but honestly.
Oh, ye of little faith.
I want to be clear - I wasn't rude. I was direct. They were already making the dish. It would be ruder to let them continue and then refuse it. It was strange of them to assume I'd eat anything they offered (I recently learned some people can be allergic even to eggplant), and their boldness in selecting my meal for me required equal, yet not cruel, boldness in rejecting it. Though, i was sad I made my friend uncomfortable.
Additionally, I'd add that I am pretty good at turning these types of situations around. I mean, I am not a charming person. However, I am pretty good at charming waiters or people in service jobs in general. I know this type of job - even in the nicest places - is shit. I mean, you have to serve people all day. What kind of fucking person doesn't get over that quick? Masochists? That like really boring shit like bringing bread and butter to people?
So, I have high empathy. I am super nice to them, I smile, and, yeah, I lay it on thick - but not too thick. I think the most important thing is that I genuinely appreciate their service.
So, I feel by the time our food came (green beans for me - thank you!), all was well in the land of waiter-kitchen-customer harmony.
Besides, a lot of people fear asking for what they really want. There is no real reason to live that way. The worst thing that could ever happen is you are told, "no." Honestly, if the waiter had said that it was all they could offer, I would have probably tried it.
And I never would have gone back there again even if the eggplant was sent straight from Heaven and made my mouth into an ever-lasting paradise with its toothsome comfort. Not because I was being an ass about the food, but, rather, because I don't like that type of treatment. No restaurant is above their customers - no matter how much cred they have or how many fancy cookbooks they have produced.
So, I am glad he worked something else out and it was awesome and everyone was happy in the end. I could have had a luke warm experience, but I didn't.
That's one of the things I like the most about myself, actually, when it's brass tacks, I don't usually settle.
I'm sorry I made my friend uncomfortable, but I feel like restaurants that charge as much as this place and present themselves on reputation should, you know, live up to a reputation of excellent service. It was pretty wonderful that they did.
So, I would recommend it. It is definitely a nice experience.
My friend picked up the tab, which made me feel pretty rotten. I am sure - and she is sure - that I am going to make it up to her, but still. I hate feeling like I didn't pay my share. It's not really even an equality thing, because I don't care if other people don't pay theirs. I mean, I don't like being taken advantage of, but I can't stand not to pay my own way. I think it's the working class in me.
I mean, I just don't understand people who aren't interested in being self-supporting individuals at a fundamental level. So, the idea of being one of those people - even slightly or for a moment - actually kind of sickens me.
I'm not judging people who take, I'm just saying I don't get it and I don't want to be it, you know?

My return to work and to stress is going to hit me like a god-damn Mack truck, but I've still got a few more days.
I think I am going to enjoy them.

You treat me just like dirt / You have all the fun I stay home and work

2011-08-02T10:53:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it is my last week in the East Bay. I'm sure I'll be back, but, still, it feels weird to be leaving. Being around my first-rate friend for so long has been very nice, indeed.

In other news, have you seen these?

I know, right? Shut up. Just shut up, world. These are too awesome. I am particularly fond of numbers six, eight, and eleven. The molecule ones are pretty cool, too, though.

They laugh in the middle / Of my speech / Swingin' in the hall / Out of reach

2011-08-02T09:44:00.000-07:00

Hey, it's bald Will Hunting sticking up for educators:

"Maybe you're a shitty camera man; I don't know."
I think I may have just fallen in love (again) with Matt Damon.

The center of attention / got an honorable mention once again / congratulations and salutations / you're a figment of your own imagination

2011-08-01T11:17:00.000-07:00

11 people e-mailed to try and win the grey vinyl Minority 7" from Adeline Records . . .

. . . so 11 names went in the brain bowl.

Congratulations, Jeff! Your record will go out with today's post! I hope you enjoy it.
Next month I will be giving away something else. Everyone who didn't win will at least get a sticker. (Some people even got cookies.) I love sending packages!

Close encounters of the strangest kind / I got the heebee-jeebes for the hundredth time / It didn't work out the way it was planned / All I got now is a beer in my hand

2011-08-01T09:28:00.000-07:00

This post is nothing but food porn. Feast your eyes on cupcakes I made last night:

Inspired by The Network, Green Day, and Foxboro Hot Tubs, all of these cupcakes are vegan and made from scratch with love.

Right Hand-o-ramas: Miller Lite and blood orange

Sassafras Roots: Root beer and spiced apple*

Ruby Rooms: Brandy and grenadine

Holy shit - I am so good at this.
*Apparently, there are no good videos of Sassafras Roots being played live. Sorry.

These are wonderful times we're livin' in / God still walks in the hearts of men

2011-07-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

So, I made some St. Jimmy cookies the other day.

They are made from shit I bought at the 7-11 (get it?), and, as usual, they are vegan.
Here's the recipe.
Stuff:
* Three and a half cups all-purpose flour
* One and a half cup of powdered sugar for the cookies
* Two additional cups of powdered sugar for the frosting
* One cup margarine (two sticks)
* Half a bag of Lay's potato chips - crushed
* Half a teaspoon of crushed cloves
* Half a teaspoon of crushed cardamom
* One teaspoon vanilla extract
* Two teaspoons baking soda
* Two teaspoons baking powder
* One teaspoon cream of tartar
How-to:
* Pre-heat the oven to four hundred degrees.
* Cream the margarine and one and a half cups of powdered sugar.
* Add all remaining cookie ingredients - except for the flour and crushed potato chips. Mix well.
* Add the flour one half cup at a time until fully incorportated.
* Fold in the crushed potato chips. Make sure they are evenly distributed.
* Roll out to a quarter of an inch thick and cut into shapes. (I used an old soup can as my cookie cutter.)
* Bake for 10 - 12 minutes or until just barely browning on the edges.
* Let cool completely.
* To frost, add water s-l-o-w-l-y to two cups of powdered sugar until you get a toothpaste consistancy. This is your frosting. You can dye it or pipe it on as is.
Enjoy!

One light, one mind, flashing in the dark / Blinded by the silence of a thousand broken hearts / For crying out loud, she screamed onto me / A free for all, fuck 'em all, you are at your own sight

2011-07-27T16:33:00.000-07:00

Do you like to get stickers? Do you like awesome music? Do you like to potentially win things? Well, then this contest is for you.
I am giving away one copy of Green Day's Minority 7" on grey vinyl. Adeline Records pressed three hundred of these, and now they are sold out. I have an extra copy that I am giving away.
I will put everyone's name who requests one of our new stickers by August 1st into a metaphorical (or maybe even actual) hat, and select one person to recieve the 7". The one person who wins will get the record sent to them along with their sticker.

the new Anarchist Girl Scout sticker

Minority 7" that ONE person will win

If you'd like to request a sticker and enter the contest, all you need to do is e-mail me your name and a physical address to mail the sticker to at anarchistgirlscout@gmail.com.
Won't it be fucking awesome if you win? Good luck!
P.S. Green Day Authority, probably the most awesome fan site ever, is also having a contest to give away even more copies of this same record. I thought people interested in this contest might be interested in that one as well. (Please note that I'm not affliated with GDA . . . I just think they're cool.)

Why'd you come in here lookin' like that / In your high heel boots and your painted on jeans / All decked out like a cowgirl's dream

2011-07-26T21:27:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went to go see Dolly Parton at the Sleep Train Pavilion in Concord. Dolly Mother-Fucking Parton. Holy shit. I sometimes like to pretend I'm not from the South - I stammer and stop myself from saying words like y'all, ain't, and (gulp) reckon when in certain company. However, my soul can't deny my latitudinal origins when I hear that sweet as honey voice - Ms. Parton can tear me apart with just line or two.
Oh, and what she says in those lines. Lord, she is a gifted song writer. Have you ever heard Jolene? Fucking amazing. It is so hard to believe that she wrote that song about some woman trying to break her heart. I mean, I would not be able to overcome my own caustic personality traits when jealousy is involved to spin a beautiful melody like that - let alone write those lyrics that dip right into your soul and speak to the very tenderness of uncertainty when your relationship is challenged. Hell, even when feeling fucking great, I could never write anything that fucking amazing. When she sang it at the concert last night, she gave a little nod to her queer fans in the audience by belting out the words 'drag queen' in place of 'Jolene' for a bar or two. (Try it - it's fun.) After that, she served the song up - doling out the slices of heartbreak and determination with perfection.
I am getting ahead of myself, though. Let's begin at the beginning. There was no opening act, so there was just piped in music before the strart of the concert. The sun hadn't set yet, and the fans were gathering in blended levels of anticipation. There were your casual fans who spotted a good deal on Groupon, your Dolly-Parton-is-fun-and-kitchy fans dressed in blonde wigs and stilettos, the queers, the cowgirls and cowboys, and the people I call 'transcendence fans.' Transcendence fans come from all walks of life - - they have nothing in common with each other . . . other than the fact that they love Dolly. They know the word to every song. They can't wait for her to pull out her auto harp or Appalachian dulcimer just so they can marvel at how artfully she strums with those fingernails of hers. The first little typewriter sounds of 9-to-5 send them into a frenzy.
I am one of these transcendence fans.
I've always loved Dolly. When I was in high school, a friend of mine was going through my record collection, and after Operation Ivy, she discovered Dolly Parton's White Limozeen. She held it up, and said, "Is this a joke?" I remember very, very clearly saying, "Any album with Yellow Roses on it ain't no joke."
Do you think I got shit from the 'punk community' for loving Ms. Parton? Fuck yes. Do you think I give a shit? Fuck no.
I'll never apologize for loving Ms. Parton.
There were some hipsters in front of us - there to watch the show ironically, no doubt. They sat so still during most of the show.
Dolly came out in a stunning buttercup yellow dress with sequins and fringe. She opened with a cover of Walkin' on Sunshine - Katrina and the Waves never sounded so good. She seemed to be radiating right off the stage - her personality is so big. Physically, she's tiny. Personality-wise? A god-damn Colossus, I swear.
She laid into Jolene pretty early, and then went on another stint of covers - including The Beatles' Help, and Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven. The jewel, though, was her rendition of Collective Soul's Shine.
She played the usual favorites: 9 to 5, Here You Come Again, and Islands in the Stream. She spun some charming yarns; I cried during Coat of Many Colors.
She played for a little under two hours - with a twenty minute intermission punctuating two sets. It was absolutely fucking amazing. I loved every minute of it. My hands were sore from clapping along to each song.
The nice thing, too, about Dolly Parton, is that she is really - really - all about the love. She loves the gays, she loves her family, she loves herself, she loves her fans. Love, love, love. She makes you feel good to listen to her - even the sad songs have a ring of love wrapped around them so fucking tight that you feel love and warmth and kindness oozing out.
Thank you, Ms. Parton, I will forever love you. I still have Why'd You Come in Here Lookin' Like That stuck in my head.

"mm AAH!”, went the little green frog one day. / "mm AAH!”, went the little green frog. / "mm AAH!”, went the little green frog one day, / And the little green frog went, “mm AH mm AH mm AH AH!”

2011-07-21T23:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I am now four days in to Girl Scout day camp. Which means, eighty percent of camp is over, and I have only one day left. Holy shit.Let me tell you something about the children in California: they grow 'em cute here. There's only one kid that tries to push the fucking envelope in a bad way in my group, and even she isn't that bad. Though they are all radically different, there are some distinctive similarities. I mean, it is hard to explain, but they all look, though, like they could maybe play Scout in a stage adaptation of Harper Lee's classic, To Kill a Mockingbird. As a bonus, they tend to talk like it, too. When one little girl showed up today in a skirt, the other girls started to tell her, "You're not supposed to wear a skirt to camp."
To which she replied, after a heady sigh, "Oh, go call the cops." It was coupled with an eye roll, and it was about the cutest thing upon which I have ever seen. This same girl also informed me that she watches The Daily Show and The Colbert Report with her mom and dad every night because, "If you stay up late, you gotta watch parent shows."
Here's the thing, though - they're all kind of self-limiting in weird ways. They don't act like Scout - they are not adventerous in that way. Like, they've been coddled a lot, and it shows. They would rather spend all day on what they call the, "play structure," because it is safe. Not because it is fun. Because it is safe.
Weird.
Now, back home, when I take my girls out into the outdoors, I get annoyed when they start getting scared. However, if you think about it, there are things to be scared of there. Florida is ripe with snakes and the water does have gators in it and, hell, even the mosquitos can get you. However, the likelihood of you actually getting injured by these things? Slim to none. I mean, they are there, but you're not going to get hurt if you're not being dumb . . . usually.
There California girls were scared to go swimming (well, wading) in the man-made lake of which you can see the bottom. We're at a park, and, though it has a lake, it feels very city park-like. I mean, there's sod. Fucking sod! No wildlife, really, save for pigeons and bugs and fish . . . fish that were stocked in the lake. The fish were too freaked out even come near us. so I don't know what the big deal was.
I am glad I met these little people; they are pretty interesting.
The adults, though, well, I am glad I met them, but more in an 'experiencing the world," kind of way. Maybe if I have more energy after the last day of camp tomorrow, I'll give you a run down.
Right now, though, I think it's lights out, campers.

Baby, when I met you there was peace unknown / I set out to get you with a fine tooth comb

2011-07-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

HOLY FUCKING SHIT. I was going to write about Girl Scout Camp - I really was. Now, now . . . I am going to see Dolly Parton on Sunday! Dolly. Fucking. Parton.
Holy fucking shit.
I can't believe it. Dolly Parton is someone who I have admired for a long, long time. I love her.
Why do I love Dolly?
1.) She is an amazing fucking songwriter. Show me someone who can listen to Jolene and not fucking feel something. Show me that mother fucker right now. While you are at it, bring me that goddamn Easter Bunny and Father Christmas.
2.) She is southern and country and not an asshole. She openly supports gay people. In fact, she said once that if she hadn't been born female, she'd be a big ol' drag queen. I love that frankness about her.
3.) She says shit that just makes me smile, like, "It takes a lot of money to look this cheap." How fucking cute it that? It's fucking cute.
4.) She is living proof that age is just a fucking number. She is sixty-fucking-five and still living it. That's bad ass. I love that.
5.) She made that ass-clown Kenny Rogers look good. I mean it. That asshole has been married five times and gave the world mouth-scabies with Kenny Rogers Roasters, but Islands in the Stream? Fucking magic.
I could go on and on about her (reason number 6 - She's an honorary Girl Scout), but I won't. I'll save some of it for the all-out crazy fest that will happen after I see her perform live.
I can't fucking believe that this is happening less than twelve months after seeing my favorite band. Holy fucking shit.

#77 Haiku about Dolly Parton's Talent
She's Backwoods Barbie,
Who can play her fingernails,
Like an instrument.

#78 Haiku about Dolly Parton's Look
Hourglass figure,
Painted face and sequin dress,
And those fucking tits!

#79 Haiku about Dolly Parton's Upbringing
One room house, dirt floor,
Bunch of sisters and brothers,
Didn't have much at all.

#80 Haiku about Dolly Parton's Talent
Voice of an angel,
Oh, man, she can surely sing,
Jolene makes me cry.

You made me cry when we said good-bye / Ain't that a shame, my tears fall like rain / Ain't that a shame, you're the one to blame

2011-07-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

Canada tried to kill Cheap Trick?!?! I always thought it would be the other way around, quite frankly.
Anyway, what has happened the last couple of days? Um, booze and small children - not together, but in that order with a responsible amount of lag time in between. Well, responsible enough.
On Sunday (the Lord's day - the best day for drinking, ask the Catholics), we went and did a tour of the St. George Spirits Distillery. I love the word distillery, by the way; think about it, it's a great fucking word. St. George Spirits Distillery is probably most famous for their Hangar One Vodka.
Basically, my first impression of St. George Spirits Distillery boils down (get it, it is a fucking distillery) to this: Steampunk kid's wet dream. You walk in and are greeted by a large, mostly empty room. The centerpiece of the room? Two huge, copper, steam-fueled still pots complete with levers and port holes and all that shit steampunk kids love.
It helped that our tour guide was pretty funny. I turned to my friend at one point, and said, "This guy is an asshole who knows about Science - I could be him."
I think saying he was an asshole was a little harsh on him, maybe, and saying I know about Science was a little generous on myself, but it mostly fit. He had a little of that side-ways smile type of humor that I like. He said a lot of inappropriate jokes in that I'm-joking-but-I'm-not-kidding way.
After we went on the tour - which was brief - we were guided into a tasting room to which we had already paid our admissions. A very nice young man who looked like he was probably from the Midwest stood behind the bar. He had on a t-shirt that showed a cartoon group of zombies lusting after brains, while one oddball zombie that dreamed of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a large, Super Mario Bros. mushroom belt buckle. He expressed to us that he was proud of his Corvette in the parking lot, but a little bit ashamed of the amount of credit card debt he was buried under. I really feel like that is all you need to know about him.
Thimble-sized portions of vodka were served up at a glacial pace. The people at our drinking table wanted to ask all kinds of questions about hooch - I just wanted to drink more.
When we were done with the tasting, I wasn't drunk at all. Not even tipsy. My first-rate friend who went with me was totally snookered. She was giggly and fun and ready to enjoy the picnic we brought while she dried out. I wouldn't say she was drunk. I would say she was maybe two toes past tipsy is all. Not drivable.
We ate our lunch with friends who met us there. It was very nice. I bought her a bottle of absinthe for her birthday (it isn't until November, but we have started celebrating our birthdays together when we see each other). I bought myself a absinthe spoon (even though the tour guide told me that you shouldn't put sugar in their absinthe) because the spoon looked liked a skull and crossbones and I love skull and crossbones themed things. Who doesn't?
It was a lovely day.
Today, I went to Girl Scout day camp for the first day. It's all week long. I have tiny children in my unit - they are kindergarteners going into grade one. They are cute - for sure - but I don't know what I am going to do with them all week long. They have the attention spans of gnats.
There are so, so many things that I could tell you about this right now, but I think I need to let the experience sink in at least one more day.
Besides, tomorrow we are going swimming. You know you want to hear about that.
I will leave you with this one exchange that occured while a child was making a mud pie on the playground:
Me: What are you making?
Kid: It's a birthday cake.
Me: For who? Who's birthday is it?
Kid: Sigh. For Oakland, duh.
Me: How old is Oakland?
Kid: Ugh - 154 years old.
The kid was close - the Internet say 159.
Fuck me.
P.S. I am glad you liked your early birthday present, Kemo Sabe. I saw and knew it had to be yours.

It’s always Christmas / Dumbledore, me, and Sirius Black / In my Room of Requirement / I have all that I need

2011-07-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

Enough of this sad sack stuff. Let's talk about wizards and witches. Currently, I am watching Elvira: Mistress of the Dark. Do you remember that movie? It's one of my favorites from that era of ultimate cheese that occurred during the eighties. I once read that during the filming of the scene where Elvira is being burned at the stake, the flames were so hot that Elvira's wig melted. Bad ass, huh?
Anyway, I went to see a different type of wizard and witch last night. I went to the final Harry Potter movie, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, Part 2 - - a.k.a. Muggle Tween Math/Drama Club Squealfest.
Here are some haiku on the subject:

#69 Haiku about Hogwarts Uniforms
Hey, thanks, Hogwarts School
For taking the school girl look
Back from Britney Spears

#70 Haiku about Harry Potter Fans
Never have I seen
Such devotion and true love
Holding magic wands

#71 Haiku about Voldemort
Dude what's your problem?
Why are you such an asshole?
Horcruxes?!? Really!??!

#72 Haiku about Ron Weasley
You got Hermione?
Not bad for a ginger kid
You cheeky bastard

#73 Haiku about Harry Potter's Forehead
Don't you think sometimes
You should have put Maderma
On that fucking scar?

#74 Haiku about Snape
Hey its that weird guy
The archangel from Dogma
He plays creepy well

#75 Haiku about the Malfoys
Woah that is some hair
Billy Idol is jealous
Of those bleach white locks

#76 Haiku about a SPOILER ALERT! and audience reaction
When Mrs. Weasley
says, "Not my daughter, you bitch!"
The fans went bonkers

I'm not a Harry Potter fan, but my first-rate friend is so into it. I am into how passionate she is about it. It's fucking charming is what it is - endearing.
So, we went to the "midnight" showing this morning at 12:06 a.m.
Now, this is not the type of event that people just go to. They prepare. We were no exception. My friend, naturally, had a costume already. She has this very large Hogwarts scarf that a friend of ours made her. She also has a Prefect badge that I got for her (at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando, no less), and the general school girl outfit needed to look like a Hogwarts student. Oh, yeah, and a giant fucking gorgeous beet red cape. She looks the part.

I could never pull anything like that off, so, instead, I decided to go the more cartoonish / silly route, and turn myself into the newspaper featured in Harry's magical world. (By the way, that might be the single queerest statement I have ever written, and I mean that in the best possible way.) I took an apron and used Slick fabric paint (yes, they still make that stuff), and wrote in articles. I attached a mirror to the front because in this magical periodical, the pictures move.

Another girl went with us, and she had drawn an owl on a white t-shirt. So, basically, we were nerded up and ready to go costume-wise.
However, I don't do anything half-assed, so we also had to make treats to pass out. I made a little over a hundred cookies and forty-two cupcakes. These weren't just any cookies and cupcakes, though. These were magical cookies and cupcakes. Well, at least they were made to look like magical things.
First, there were the pygmy puff cupcakes. These are just regular cupcakes with a simple sugar frosting coated in coconut shreds that have been dyed pink. We bought the eyes from a baking supply store called Spun Sugar. I ran out of eyes, though, part way through decorating them, so I cut up Good n' Plenty candies and made them into eyes. Note to future wizard bakes: Good n' Plenty candies cut in half make pretty good eyes for confectionary creatures.
Now, let's get to the cookies. There were four types of cookies, all based on Harry Potter things: chocolate frogs, sorting hats, owls, and pumpkins (which my friend kept referring to as 'pumpkin pasties'). Oh, and there was one Snape. It looked like a pile of shit, so I referred to it as 'shit Snape,' because I am creative and awesome. I decided that this one would have to go to a special Potter fan.
The cookies were packaged in cellophane, and I wrote the Anarchist Girl Scout web address on the outside of each bag with a fat permanent marker. The black ink went on very easily, and once they were all packaged, they even managed to look semi-professional.
I enjoyed looking at the multitudes of cookies all stacked together with the plastic gleaming. They looked like they wanted to be given away. Abundance in a box - ripe for sharing. We put the cookies in my friend's bag, and filled a couple of Tupperwares with the pygmy puff cupcakes.

Once at the theatre, we were met with large, snaking lines of eager Potter fans. I felt a little bit disingenuous because everyone here was a true fan (or a parent of a true fan who needed to give their little muggle a ride . . . or a child of a true fan who couldn't be left alone while mommy got her Potter on). I was here more for the spectacle than the

show. The spectacle was definitely worth viewing. Maroon and mustard scarves flowed as far as the eye could see. There were a lot of genuinely happy people out. I mean, there were big smiles on pretty much everyone's face, and everyone was so, so, so excited. They were waving their little plastic wands with so much anticipation, so much pure joy . . . it was a sight to see.

We started handing out the cookies and cupcakes. Some people seemed a little suspicious of the free food, some people asked how much they were. I expected that. This isn't my first time giving away food in mass. People are taught that everyone is out to get them - either razor-blade-in-the-Halloween-candy style or Exlax-in-the-brownies way. I knew we'd find some takers, though.
And we did! We gave away almost all of the cookies - save for a few that we ate ourselves.
I gave the one Snape to this kid who was pretty funny, and his reaction was fucking priceless. I am fairly certain he did a move that can only a described as 'whiplash split-second Cabbage Patch.' We got a lot of positive reactions, but that one was fucking precious.
Our theatre number was called in, so we went inside and found seats in the front row. We had an hour still until the movie was to start. Some kids came in an did a live rendition of an Internet video, Harry Potter Puppet Pals and the Mysterious Ticking Noise. I decided that I was going to need some Diet Coke at this point, so I made my way to the concession stands. I was standing in line, and this little girl and her friend were kind of staring at me. They were both dressed up in Hogwart's attire, and one of them had a large, floppy witch's hat. I hear the one with the hat say, "What's that symbol on her shirt? I don't remember it from the books or the movies." She points to me. I was wearing my St. Billie shirt. I had since taken the apron off, since, you know, I didn't want to sit through an entire movie with a hunk of glass on my chest.
The one without the hat looks at her friend, rolls her eyes, and says, "That's not a Harry Potter symbol. It's from that Green Day musical thing."
Her friend replies, "Wow, what a dork."
That was fucking precious. I was feeling very surreal at this point. There were a gaggle of girls by the napkins and such that were singing Wizard Wrock tunes barber shop style. Things were festive, but in kind of a shanty-town way.
Suddenly, I got snatched from behind. I was a little freaked out at first, but then I was met with a squeal, "You're the cupcake lady!" It was a small band of sugared-up teenagers to whom we had given cookies and cupcakes. They were very cute and very grateful.
When I finally got up to the front, ordered my drinks from a girl who had a fierce intensity about her. I am assuming that she was on an all-adrenaline rush from being met with so many Potterites hungry for popcorn and Sno-caps.
I went back in to the theatre, and we waited some more. Right before the show, I went to the restroom because I was pretty sure that I would have been killed if I had gotten up in the middle of the movie. The excitement in the room was tangible.
I am not going to talk about the movie too much. I mean we paid $11.00 each to see it - - you can, too, goddamn it. Besides, I don't think that I have the wizarding knowledge to properly explain everything that went down.
I will tell you that there was much gasping, some pretty precious giggling, and a general feeling of contentment.
We walked out into the night air, and you got a general feeling that the night would be a lot colder without the company in the theatre square. We got in out car and drove home, and all was well.

Basic Cupcake Recipe

Stuff:
* Two and a quarter cups of flour
* Two-thirds cups of agave nectar
* Two-thirds cups of almond milk
* One half cup of coconut oil
* Two teaspoons of vanilla extract
* Two teaspoons of baking soda
* Two teaspoons of baking powder
* Coconut shreds, pink food dye, and confectioner's sugar for decorating
How-to:
* Pre-heat oven to three-hundred-and-fifty degrees.
* Combine all ingredients except for the flour.
* Add the flour one half cup at a time until fully incorporated.
* Line a muffin pan with paper cupcake liners.
* Fill each liner half way with batter.
* If you are making mini-cupcakes, bake for seven minutes and then turn the tray one hundred and eighty degrees and bake for an additional eight minutes (fifteen minutes total). If you are baking regular sized cupcakes, bake for fifteen minutes and rotate the tray and bake for an additional fifteen minutes (thirty minutes total). Cupcakes will bounce back when touched if done.
* Let cool completely before decorating.
* If you want to make them into pygmy puffs, just mix the confectioner's sugar with water until pastey. Mix the coconut shreds with pink dye. Invert and dip the cupcakes in the sugar mixture first and then in the coconut. Affix candy eyes if you have them, or use candies as eyes.

Basic Sugar Cookie Recipe

Stuff:

* Three and a half cups of flour
* One and a half cups of confectioner's sugar
* Two sticks of vegan margarine
* Two teaspoons of baking soda
* Two teaspoons of baking powder
* One teaspoon cream of tartar
* Two teaspoons of vanilla extract

How-to:

* Pre-heat oven to four hundred degrees.
* Cream the sugar and margarine together until fluffy.
* Mix in all other ingredients.
* Mix in the flour, a half a cup at a time.
* At this point, you could add six tablespoons and one teaspoon oil to make the cookies chocolate, or, if making pumpkin cookies, orange dye.
* Chill the dough - covered - for thirty minutes.
* Roll the dough out to quarter-inch thickness.
* Cut out and place on an ungreased cookie sheet.
* Bake for ten minutes or until just slightly brown around the edges.
* Let cook for twenty minutes before decorating.

Fields wasted growing tobacco / Could be used to feed the third world countries / This is the Age of Hypocrisy / Everybody's saying "Vote for me! Vote for me!"

2011-07-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

You know, I like to tell myself that I don't come from The South sometimes. Like, my home state is a southern state, but it's not The South. At least, the coastal region - where I am from - isn't. It doesn't feel that way. Most of the time. The South just seems . . . so backwards and wrong and hateful. When you hear about The South on the television, its always some bunch of asshole, idiot rednecks making anyone with a certain latitudinal residence seem like a knuckle-dragging, fuckwad, wastes of skin and spunk. We're not all like that - I swear. So, why am I thinking about this right now? Well, a couple of reasons. Being so far away from home has made me kind of homesick. It is weird some of the things that you randomly miss. Like, it is starting to get to me to hear so much English - and only English. Back home, I heard Spanish a good thirty to forty percent of the time. Also, I miss the license plates. I mean, out here in California, you only see California license plates. In Florida, there's an insane variety of license plates - people love to come see that fucking rat in Orlando and visit our amazing beaches (best sand in the world and a gulf that feels like fucking bathwater). It is weird because when I am stuck in traffic, cursing the name of every goddamn snowbird that ever flew down from the frozen north, I certainly wouldn't say the license plates from out-of-towners brought me any fucking joy at all, but now I find myself missing them. It's just missing the familiarity, I guess. However, the reason I am mostly thinking about all of this is not out of some rosy and temporary homesickness. No, the reason I am thinking about all this spurns from two different sources: one of them is Netflix and one of them is deep, personal pain.
Let's start with the Netflix, shall we? I mean, I feel like that will be easier to get through.
Yesterday, the girl I am staying with left her Netflix account up. Now, I am the first to admit that I am technology retarded when it comes to televisions. I don't know why. I can help you with computer stuff, but if you want a DVD player (I almost typed VCR, like I had already typed the 'V' - that's how lost I am) to be displayed on the screen, you're gonna need to call a different girl. I will fuck it up so badly that you will need to spend ten to fifteen minutes wondering how to get that shitty "snow" a la Poltergeist off of your screen because I have sent your picture and reception into a region of non-existence.
However, this was already up, and I had some experience. It was left up the other day, and I watched an episode of The Riches and felt pretty bad ass about being able to do that.
So, I figured, I could give it another shot without too much damage. I mean, what harm could I cause?
I was successful. Very successful. I was rolling out cookies and decorating them, so I had no reason to leave and lots of need to have background noise. I chose to watch Howard the Duck, you know for old time's sake, until I watched some of it and remembered it sucked even as a joke. So, then I decided to watch this thing called Fagbug. Basically, it is about this girl who gets her car vandalized with the words, "Fag," and, "U R Gay." Instead of washing it off, she decides to drive across the country with it like that and get people's reactions.
During the trip, people kept warning her about the dangerous South. And, despite what I said earlier, I was getting a little offended. I mean, it is okay for me to talk about The South - I mean, it is like if you say, "Man, my sister is being such a bitch!" Then the person next to you says, "Yeah, she's a real bitch." You want to punch them in the fucking mouth, right? So, like, that's how I feel about The South - kind of. (For what it is worth, my sister is not a bitch.) I found myself being defensive - I mean, her car was damaged in Albany, New York, you mother-fucking Yankees. Fuck you. Albany. Last time I checked, Albany wasn't in the mother-fucking South, assholes.
And, actually, they weren't that bad in the South. I mean, one redneck in Texas told her - in the politest way that one can - that she was an abomination. All in all, though, I was starting to think, "Well, lookie, lookie, The South ain't that bad, and we made the best friend green tomatoes on God's green Earth here, and our accents and word choice are charming and lovely . . . "
. . . and then she went to my home town. My hometown - the place that I love, that I think of as the place where I always want to return to, the place that I want to be buried in once it's my time.
She went to my hometown, and someone threw rocks through the window of her house and car.
In my hometown.
In my birthplace.
I recognized the homes in the background while she was interviewing people. Hell, I recognized the very home she was renting. I'd been down that street a million times myself. I grew up in a little house not too far from there.
This really got to me. Out of all the places on this magic mystery tour of gay-fitti, the only place that really posed a threat - a real threat - was my hometown?!?
I am not really embarrassed to say that this made me tear up a little bit. I mean, I know what it is like to come from there. Most of the time, you'll have no problem at all. Most of the time, people will just say something behind your back. Most of the time the old ladies you see at street corners and stuff will just shake their heads out of worry for your salvation. It is a real hate the sin, not the sinner kind of a town. Which, I can respect a little bit more than just blanket hatred. I mean, I can understand someone who has been taught that their brothers and sisters on Earth will burn in eternal Hellfire if they commit certain acts or have certain thoughts believing - out of love - that they have a duty to change what they believe is just behavior and, in effect, save people from a, literally, damned future. I find, most of these people, when talked to, have an honest - albeit dangerous - fear and concern for others. They want to help. I guess it's true that we're nothing if not gracious in The South. Furthermore, if pressed, most of them admit that they don't really believe their loving God would send their brother to Hell forever for loving another man, but it is just that it scares them to death that He might.
Anyway, this sort of confusing combination of discomfort and concern coupled with pockets of fairly large and vocal hamlets of gay communities within has allowed me to live a somewhat comfortable queer life. Even the church I attend - a Catholic church (yeah, we can get into that some other time) - doesn't speak negatively of gays.
Are there assholes? Sure, but they seem so in the minority. They are the joke rednecks. They are dangerous, but avoidable.
Though, in my comfortable life, I have been just continually aware of things you don't do, like don't be open at work. There's always this layer, though, of somewhat painful oppression. It doesn't hurt most of the time, but it is always kind of nagging at me. It is a little bit like an internal injury, though, that festers and builds up bile until there's a rupture.
Seeing that broken glass in my hometown was somewhat of a rupture for me. It happened years ago, but I'm just seeing it flicker on the screen.
To be fair, in the area of town where she was, someone would have thrown a rock through any car window - especially a fairly nice, new one. However, the fact that it had the word 'fag' on it, if I am honest with myself, is probably why not only the car got it, but the window of her home.
I told you there was a second, more personal reason to be thinking about my hometown, though, right?
There's a girl who I like back home. She says that she might like me, too, actually, but she can't really explore this option because her family won't accept a same-sex relationship.
I am upset by this for two reasons. I think about her. A lot. I want to date her, I want to get to know her, I want to see if there is anything there. I can't. Even if I could, there's all this pressure. I mean, it's either she has to defy her family, leave everything she's known behind, and start over . . . for a date. Or, we have to date in secret and slink around and make the whole seem thing dirty and pathetic and, well, wrong, and only be out about it if things have any promise after all.
Do either of those seem like the types of foundations which lasting, loving relationships are built?
I am a bisexual, and I am open with my family and my friends. However, I know she can't be, and its devastating.
Furthermore, let's say fuck to her family, fuck to the fact that the entire situation sets up this false, cart-before-the-horse urgency and importance, there's still the fact that even if everything else were rosy, the who set up where I am from doesn't allow budding relationships to aim at a goal that so many take for granted, marriage.
It is sickening. It makes me feel bad for being interested in this girl in the first place - - I feel like I have put her in a world of pain and hurt and confusion. I wish it weren't this way. I think the fact that our legal system won't acknowledge that there's no way to pretend non-heterosexual people are treated as equals has a lot to do with this entire problem I am having. I think, maybe, if our nation recognized that it was okay for adults to decide who was acceptable to love, then maybe our co-workers and family members would, too. Maybe then everything wouldn't seem so big and stressful. Maybe then I could just have some fun with a girl I like and see where that leads.
All of this lead me to write my first serious haiku:

#68 Haiku About Disappointment
Please make it legal
For me to decide my love
Because this just hurts.

I miss my hometown. It's been easier here. I mean, I don't ever feel any threat - social or otherwise - from being myself. However, I don't want to go back home eventually because it's fucking perfect there. I want to go back because I want to help fix it.
I just wish I had any idea how.

Running back to me / Telling me your dream / I never wanted it to be this way

2011-07-13T10:24:00.000-07:00

I just read about the Berry family's tragedy in Texas. Three children, all under the age of ten, have lost both their parents. The two older children, ages eight and nine, have been paralyzed below the waist. I know that times are tough, but there will be a tremendous burden upon this family for years to come - the financial aspect of which will be enormous, though probably insignificant to the emotional and physical pain. Unfortunately, no one can volunteer to take on some of their suffering for them, and helping ease their financial needs is the only thing strangers can do.
I don't have a lot, but I gave some of what I have today, and I thought some people out there in the digital universe might want to do the same.
You can read more about the family at the Huffington Post. You can donate to the family - either by check or online - by clicking here.

At the center of the Earth / In the parking lot / Of the 7-11 where I was taught / The motto was just a lie

2011-07-12T13:29:00.000-07:00

Guess what? I had a Slurpee today. A free Slurpee. Oh, yeah, I know. I am living the goddamn high life. It was Wild Cherry. Perfect icy texture. Perfect brain freeze. Perfect and free. It's July 11th, so it's 7-11 Day - get it?
Man, I have been eating a lot while here. There are a lot of good things to eat in California. Just tonight, my friend turned to me and said, "If you asked me to take you to a chain restaurant, I wouldn't know where to take you. I mean, there's a Denny's. That's all I can think of." So, lots of good things to eat - an unfortunate number of good things to eat. Sinful, you know?
I feel like you need to know about some of them. I gotta warn you ahead of time that this is going to be pretty listy, because I don't know any other way to do it, and there will be a lot of rambling that's not useful. Also, everything will be all out of order to how I visited them. Ready? Here we go:
First off, there's Bakesale Betty's. Now, to be honest, the only thing that I purchased at Bakesale Betty's was a Diet Coke. When you walk up to the place, there's really nothing remarkable. It's a shot-out little hole in the wall that's been given a scrappy coat of fresh paint, albeit uneven and applied with what appears to have been a combination of perhaps steel wool and squirt guns. There are brightly spray painted ironing boards on the sidewalk that serve as tables. It looks as though someone's grandmother who owned a laundry died and left the family business to a slightly industrious but very unskilled handyman who decided she would fix the place up and make it into a luncheonette because, frankly, owning a corner wash-fold-dry-and-press laundry until the day you die is one of the most depressing things someone can do.
There was a huge line snaking out of the place and around the corner. We waited patiently to see what was being served for the day, and we came up to find tofu sandwich and chicken sandwich scribbled on parchment paper that had been taped to the window. The run-down, impermanence of this place is definitely part of its shtick. As far as I know, it might be all of its shtick.
My friend got a congratulations from the girl behind the counter for ordering incorrectly, while I just jammed everything up by asking if the tofu sandwich was vegan. Turns out it is not - they dip the tofu in egg to fry it up. Bizarre. She apologized - a lot. I think she was thinking someone who waited in such a long line would be madder that there was nothing for them at the end. I wasn't. I just wanted to diet soda.
Though it is a second-hand account, I can tell you that my friend enjoyed her sandwich. In fact, she said, "It's good - not mind-blowingly good, but good. I am glad we went." The lemonade she ordered, however, sent her into somewhat of a fucking rave, and it did have very even and delightful ice distribution. I enjoyed my sip.
Bakesale Betty's renewed my ability to think, though, that with the right amount of hype and kitch, anything can be cool. Two sandwich choices? No comfortable seats? Fucking long lines? Why wasn't I more disappointed? Oh, yeah, it was so fucking cute.
Next, let me tell you about Trattoria Laurellinos. You know how in Italian restaurants there's that homey feeling where you could linger for hours while drinking wine and talking about bullshit that no one would care about if you weren't so carb-drunk and booze-high? It's what I love most about Italian restaurants, and it is notably absent here. When you first walk in, the world's most passive-aggressive cell phone policy greets you. It starts with, "CELL PHONE POLICY (Didn't know I needed one . . .) It continues to kind of berate you for being a dick that would pull out their cell phone in a restaurant before you've even done anything. Because I can be a bit of an asshole, I really had the sudden desire to make some calls. Because I am not a complete asshole, I didn't. Instead, I did what I always do when asked to turn off my phone. I turned it off, and put it on the table in front of me. Someone taught me this trick because I always would turn my phone off, then forget it was off, and then miss, like, a million calls. If you turn it off and leave it out, then when you are putting it away, you think, "Oh, yeah, I should turn this back on now." It is a very handy trick, but it got me some strange looks from the server who kept eyeing my phone as it sat - off - not bothering a soul.
The food was good, and the quantity was a little unreal. Like all good Italians, they didn't want you to leave hungry. The staff, albeit awkward, was very attentive. It was a little annoying and endearing at the same time how this boy working there kept coming up, interrupting the conversation, and asking if he could refill our glasses with water. I think I drank about a gallon and a half there.
The restaurant was cute and homey, but the weird rules and the strange staff made it a place you wouldn't linger for hours. I can see it as being much more satisfying as takeaway.
The Full House Cafe is also a pretty impressive place. They have this Red Flannel Hash that's got beets in it. Hash, with mother-fucking beets. I couldn't eat it because it has meat in it (and you cannot order it without the meat), but I made my own version at home. I gotta respect any place that inspires home cooking. Especially when that home cooking turns out well. The mushroom has hash I had was pretty amazing, too. The staff is attentive without being annoying, and there's generally a good feel about the place. The coffee is served not too hot, either, which is nice and somewhat rare in this town. The place looks clean enough to eat in by my standards, but that's pretty much all that can be said for the decoration.
Now, I don't want you to think that every place out here is either all style or all substance but not both. The Blackberry Bistro is very adorable and it has good eats. You walk in, and there's a really comfortable fucking atmosphere. Like, there's kids and shit, but you don't feel guilty ordering up a drink or two. It's just mighty inviting. The potatoes there were amazing, too - they had a wonderful buttery texture to them that was soft but not overdone. It was a goddamn feat of physical science is what is was, you know? Like, how'd they get them so flakey and spongey without being saturated with grease?
My only complaint about this place? There was a surprising lack of blackberries on the menu.
I got gut rot at Messob, too, this little Ethiopian cafe that has adorablely chintzy decorations that might include some calendars that have been sut apart to provide the, "art." The gut rot wasn't from the poor quality of the food - just the opposite. It was so fucking good that I inhaled that shit, and my poor digestive track couldn't fucking handle the velocity with which it was being met. It was dining turbulance in the best possible way. The server was so nice, too, and they left us alone to talk and enjoy each other's company. I loved it and would go back and get gut rot all over again.
Ben and Nick's fed me one of the best tofu sandwiches I've ever had coupled with some of the coldest beers. (I find the coffee and the beer to both be warmer than back home. Maybe its because the climate is so damn cold they feel they need to make up for it.) The place was a little loud for a place with piped-in music (though their choices were pretty good - Surrender by Cheap Trick was playing when we walked in the door) even if it was a bar.
The last place I think I wanna tell you about it a place we went to just yesterday: The Montclair Egg Shop. Now, admittedly, there's not much for vegans on the menu. I had some potatoes and sourdough toast with a Bloody Mary chased by a Mimosa. The waitress asked us how old we were, and kind of joked about seeing id's. Then, she nervously came back, apologized, and asked to really see them. She explained that they had a, "really big meeting," and she didn't want to get in trouble. She was so damn sweet. She looked like she was in her fourties or early fifties. She was wearing an Oaklandish shirt that was brown and had orange script on it that reminded me of the old Ybor cigar boxes my grandmother used to give me to store my crayons when I was a little bit. There was an upstairs loft with junk inside, and the decor was sparce but charming. I was instantly fond of it. Instantly.
My favorite thing about this place, though, was somthing I knew before I even got there - it calls itself an egg shop as if egg shops were a common thing - like shoe shops or butcher shops. Egg shop. What a funny fucking term. I don't know why, but that really tickled me. I mean, they just play it off like it is an established thing.
So, that's my food tour so far of Oakland. I am sure I will be eating (and writing) more while here.

I met her at the 7-11 / Now I am in 7th Heaven / Tell me, tell me / Can this be true / I never thought I'd ever / Meet a girl like you

2011-07-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

So, I made a pie tonight.

The night before last, I went to The Uptown to see The Rumble Strippers. The Rumble Strippers are a Rockabilly band, and Rockabilly isn't really my scene, but that's because Rockabilly generally sucks. I mean, the musicians spend nine to ten hours making their pompadours look like they were crafted by the mother-fucking hand of God with the help of Superman's barber. How can they possibly have time to, you know, learn to play their instruments or sing well? Or write songs that don't sound exactly the same to each other? I mean, really. Are these cuffs going to roll themselves? Fuck, no. Fuck, no, they are not.

However, The Rumble Strippers proved to be an exception. They are pretty damn good. Their bass player - a very cute Canadian - is a acquaintance, too. She actually used to date a friend of mine - that's how I met her, and I wish they had dated longer so I would have had time to work on becoming her friend rather than acquaintance, because she's pretty fucking awesome.

I am getting ahead of myself, though. The first band was The Meat Strippers, and they were pretty boss. I mean, their lyrics kind of shook my little vegan soul a little, but they had a really wonderful sound. I was several beers deep at this point, so I can't comment on whether or not they were really good, but I had a fucking great time listening to them. I didn't really move at all, which is fucking lame. When did I get to be so fucking lame? However, I liked hearing the vibrations kind of rip through me. It's goddamn mesmerizing. Live punk fucking rock is like sex for me. When it's good, it's great. When it's bad, it's still pretty fucking good. I get a real adrenaline high off of it.

I know that makes me sound like an asshole probably, but fuck you, it's my goddamn story.

Their bassist looked like one of the other consultants that I had worked with for many years. It clearly wasn't here, but it tickled my brain to think about her shedding her pearls and sweater set for a denim jumpsuit. The lead singer was a little slip of a thing, too, but the lead guitar and drummer were definitely on the heavy side. The drummer was basically the happiest person I have ever seen on stage. She had a huge, radiant smile on her face the entire show. Her pigtails bounced with the beat, and her whole body seemed sort of electrified - in a good way - by the music. I liked her. I liked her a lot.

I turned around at one point, I turned around and realized that my companions for the evening had left me. I was pretty sure that I was left alone for a reason that I wasn't too comfortable with, but I decided to fuck my hang-ups and listen. I was getting the belly rumbles for another beer, though.

Actually, when they returned, I started to realize that I was getting tipsy. That's not an easy feat for me - I hold my booze pretty well. However, I was starting to feel it a little. Well, maybe a lottle. Yeah, I was kind of tanked.

So, naturally, I left. I went up to the bar, and ordered another beer. Well, I went up to the bar and waited for like what seemed an eternity for the bar tender to come my way. By the time she did, my friend was standing next to me, and she asked me something about her entanglements with the other person with us.

I don't remember what the fuck she said, but my combination of not being able to lie and a fucking fishtank worth of booze in my belly made what I said next pour outta me like some sort of vile, vicious lava. I told her I didn't think it was a good idea to be messing with this person, I got a bad feeling about her, and then . . . I called the girl in question, "cunt for money."

I feel badly about that for two reasons. The first reason? Well, what the fuck do you think the first reason is? It's a horrible thing to say about someone. I mean, it's worse than calling someone a prostitute. Prostitutes have clear, business exchanges. Prostitutes, however, are capable of having sex and being with other people in a non-barter-system way on occasion, though. Cunt for money, though - - shit. Prostitution is a choice - either one you make for yourself, or one that some fucking asshole piece of shit makes for you, but cunt for money ain't a choice. Cunt for money means that there's something so fucked up about you that you consider your pussy to be your ticket to everything you need - - and only your ticket to everything you need. Cunt for money might have fun having sex, but it's always a means to a goal with them - - even if it doesn't seem that way at first. It's sad because all the cunt for money I've know has been manipulative as fuck without even really being aware of it themselves. It's like part of the cunt for money anima, you know? I find them to be depressed, shitty, bitter people when they are not cuddling up to a mark.

So, it is a fucked-up thing to call someone, and, even though it feels true, I shouldn't have said it.

The second reason I wish I hadn't said it has to do more with context. I wish I hadn't said it - if I was going to say it - then. I wish I had been sober. Or slightly sober. I hate it with mother-fucking drunks start running mouth, and here I was, a mother-fucking drunk, running mouth. Shit.

I went back to the show and a surf band called The Tomorrowmen was on stage. Did you see Bad Teacher? Well, if you didn't, I'm going to ruin a little bit of it for you now. There's an all-teacher band called Period Five in the movie. The Tomorrowmen might owe that fake band some bread for copyright infringement on their look. They were the lamest looking group of squares I've ever seen. Take Weezer and Wilco and mate them, and only have the pretentious and boring genes pass through. Now, give it a splash of Beach Boys without any fun, catchy guitar riffs or Charles Mason links of mystery and intrigue. You've got the mother-fucking Tomorrowmen.

Now, surf rock I do like - just not this band. They were very boring. Maybe they were just having a bad night - they seemed to have some people there just to see them.

I looked down at my beer and realized that someone must of put some magic disappearing potion in it, because I was one tip back from it being gone. I was out of money (well, I thought I was - there was a heap of ones in a pocket of my purse I didn't find), and the ATM was broken, so this would end my night of drinking. I needed to take a piss.

I went to the ladies' room. I lingered after pulling up my panties a bit. I started to feel like I might ralph. I got a really wicked feeling in my mid-chest and started to feel unstable. I just sort of leaned my head up against the red wall of the stall for a moment. The Rumble Strippers were getting ready in there and looking really cute. I didn't want to be in their way, and I didn't want to block anyone else from being able to get to the toilet, so I walked out into the hallway. There is this little passage at The Uptown that has these chairs and a sofa. I plopped in the sofa. I wanted to curl up in a ball, and the slight sound of the languid surf rock from the other room made me feel like slipping into a coma was the only possible option at this point.

So, I started texting people. I was drunk enough to forget about time zones, and, you know, people needing sleep. There's someone on the East Coast now who is still probably cursing my fucking name for being such an inconsiderate bitch. Again, that's another thing I hate about drunks, and here I was doing it. Fuck me.

My friend actually came to find me, while I was text apologizing. (I'm such an asshole sometimes, I swear.) I, again, blurted out the truth all over the floor, saying I was feeling anxious about things. We went outside to talk, and I reveled to her - and somewhat to myself - that I didn't like this chick mostly because she talked shit about my friend, who'd done so much for her, behind her back. To me. Who just traveled three thousand miles to visit.

Plus, this girl tricked me into buying a colander, now that I think about it, and I think its weird that I haven't been out here very long and I've made friends, but she hasn't really.

Oh, shit. From what I remember, it all came out. Like a nasty, ugly sore, it was exposed and exchanging its bitter toxins for the delicate oxygen floating around the patio, eating up the fresh air and leaving only poisonous venom in its wake. It didn't feel good to say these things, but it felt necessary. It felt pretty fucking shitty actually. I can't lie, but I can sometimes use most of myself to keep something in, and I was a little disappointed that I wasn't able to extend my efforts to keep all of this to myself. Again, my friend is no dummy - she would know if this girl were shit. Who am I to say anything? I felt super guilty for saying anything - I still do. If anything, I made the evening awkward a little, and that made me feel shitty. Why couldn't I have just rode the Tomorrowmen's lame-ass fucking wave of hardbore and forget about things that aren't my goddamn business anyway?

We went back inside, and The Tomorrowmen were - thankfully - finishing up their snoozefest.

The Rumble Strippers came on stage, and it was a relief. They all looked so cute. The bassist I know was in a red dress that can only be described as fit for a floosie. The lead singer had on this slinky little blue dress that looked like someone had inked the night sky around her. The guitarist and drummers were macho and cute in that Rockabilly way that makes you want to put your head on their shoulder because, you know, summer-lovin'-happened-so-fast and all that shit.

They started playing, and though they obviously spend time beautifying themselves, they had clearly carved sometime out of their schedule to be good musicians, too.

Luckily, there weren't that many Rockabilly kids in the audience, jamming their brand of very pointed and restrictive dance moves on the rest of us. They are almost as bad as the goddamn swing kids, I swear.

The Rumble Strippers played this one song about zombies that was fucking amazing.

We sang Happy Birthday to the bassist - her fortieth. I think at one point during the show, when someone pointed out she was forty, I may have screamed, "Fuck Youth!" I realize now it probably sounded like, "Fuck you!" I apologize, Rumble Strippers. You're too classy for that shit.

I fell asleep with the thunk of upright bass in my head still.

The front is like a car / The back is like a truck / The front is where we kiss / The back is where we el camino, el, el camino

2011-07-10T22:54:00.000-07:00

Today I went to Renagade Craft Fair with my first-rate friend. You know, just when you think you have seen every combination of used Keds paired with thrift store cartigans there is on Earth, a hipster craft fair will show you that there are so, so many more. The craft fair was at the marina in San Francisco. I met a new brand of people here - marina people. Marina people are idiots. They ride bicycles with splash guards and walk around being bitchy and arrogant.
Fuck marina people.
I had limited interactions with them, but I did overhear some conversations that were fucking lame.
We walked into the fair, and we were greeted by booths and meandering hipsters and friends of hipsters. We walked up and down the aisles. I bought many things.
First off, I got two small buttons with pictures of cats wearing eye patches on them. They came from this vending machine that was a little hard to load with quarters, but kind of exciting in a very tactile way to use.
Next, I got a set of small - five by seven - inch prints depicting several animals on transportation devices. The guy looked up at me and said, "You know, we have the bigger versions of these prints for ten dollars each." I told him that was okay, and that I was going to have to mail them to Florida. He said, "It's okay - look you don't have to make up a story."
That made me regret buying shit from him until I asked if he was the artist, and he said no. Everyone's got an asshole friend. Clearly, this douche cake was the asshole friend of the artist - the artist who was probably just in the bathroom or something while this caustic asshole was driving away all his business.
My next purchase was some dye-cut series of little iron-ons: two hearts, one bear, and one squirrel. The squirrel and bear and hearts were for other people - I figured they would be easy to mail. I bought a cupcake monster sticker for my sister, and some 'no-nut' brittle for my friend. It had fennel seeds in it. I know, fucking crazy, right? I love materialism sometimes, I fucking swear.
I got some notecards to send to other people, too, and I have already got them filled and stamped for post tomorrow.
However, the best was yet to come mother-fuckers. My friend spied these scarves that had letters cut out of them. Turns out they were lyrics, and she bought me a two-month early birthday present: a Welcome to Paradise scarf. The people who sold it to her were completely nice and wonderful people - which made recieving it an even better experience. They took great care in putting the scarf very gingerly into a box. It took a very long time, but the box was cute, so it was worth it. (Though I kind of feel like, "the box was cute," is something someone says right before they fully commit to becoming a hoarder, you know?)

This is the box in which
my scarf was packaged.
Motherfuckers, I know.

The last purchase i made was pretty amazing, too. It was a knitted grenade. That's right - - a knitted grenade. Knitted. Grenade.
Holy cow. What a useful and necessary item. I mean, imagine all the use I will get out of it when really pussy armies that don't like having soft objects thrown at them invade. Fuck, I will be a goddamn General Patton for Christ's sake. Seriously. My friend also bought me this cuff that is made from an old book. It looks bad ass, which is good. I feel like someone who is bad ass awesome can only give badass awesome gifts. Now, when I look down at it on my wrist, I can accurately think, "Hmm, this reminds me of the total badass who gave it to me because it is so goddamn badass."
We left the city after much turning down streets and getting stuck in traffic and being frustrated. Really, really frustrated.
Renegade Craft Fair? Success. San Francisco shit traffic? Kind of a failure, but it makes me only appreciate more the sunny side of the bay - Oakland.
Oh! While I am feeling in a craft appreciation mood, I wanted to mention that you might want to check out this Etsy.com site, Undies. It is a friend-of-a-friend's Etsy site where you can buy underpants. Screen-printed underpants. Also, I hear that she has sold some of her unmentionables to Ricki Lake. If that doesn't make you want some, what will? Probably nothing.

My mom gave me a five / She said to stay alive / But I didn't stay alive / Instead I choked on Bubblegum

2011-07-09T19:27:00.000-07:00

So, I have taken to volunteering with the Girl Scouts out here. A few weeks ago, I e-mailed the main office to see if they could use any help, and it turns out their day camp needed another unit leader. Things are fucking different here.
First off, I had to come up with a "camp name." You know what my camp name is back home? Ms. Mankato. We don't do this shit in the Sunshine State. I came up with one, but not before my new Girl Scout friends came up with one for me: Cat.
I know, I know.
Anyway, the new name is the least little bit of culture shock I am dealing with. The camp director is a very nice, some-what scattered woman who goes by Professor. It's hard to say how old she is. She has really beautiful, thick, long hair that shines in the light. It is all grey, but it seems like it could have been that way forever. I mean, my hair started to go grey at twelve. She seems to be perpetually planted in a pair of ratty old New Balance hiking shoes. Her favorite books are the Harry Potter series, and college doesn't seem to be too distant a memory for her. She very passionately does not shave her armpits, and she is perpetually late for everything.
I attended a training yesterday about being a unit leader. The camp itself isn't until the 18th, but they want us to be prepared, you know?
We arrived about five minutes before the training was to begin, and only one other Girl Scout volunteer was there: a delightful woman who went by Sugarbear. Her skin was the color of Jell-o chocolate pudding - the kind you make with the milk over a stove, not the instant shit - warm, lovely, and very inviting. She had a broad, sparkling smile that seemed even whiter against her dark skin. She was dressed head-to-toe in Raiders gear. I liked her instantly.
We got our unit assignments, and I thought to myself, "Well, shit."
First graders.
No, children going into first grade.
Babies.
This is not what I am used to dealing with, and I had let that be known before they gave me this assignment. It is gonna be a tough week. A really tough week.
We made journals, sporadically checked in on our binders, received limited and sometimes way-ward information, and generally muddled around for a while.
I was feeling a lot of anxiety because I was told we were going for a hike, and I am used to the nice, flat lands of Florida. There was a very steep mud hill jutting up the side of the mountain near our picnic tables where we were being trained. I was worried I would be the huffing, fat ass while all these Californians were jolting up the hillside.
Um, I had nothing to fear. We were not going up that, or any hill. Their idea of a hike consisted of walking around a completely flat foot path . . . that was paved.
Totally wasted anxiety.
Totally wasted.
We got back to camp and were greeted by another leader who was a co-director (of sorts) of the day camp. She was very, very bossy. She yelled - yelled - at one of the other adults for not doing her craft correctly. And, by, "not doing her craft correctly," I mean, "not doing her craft exactly as bossy pants had described with no creativity or personal expression."
I've met this type before. Actually, a lot of leaders fall into this. Their hearts are in the right place, but their methods are a hot fucking mess in my opinion.
Overall, I guess the training was good. I mean, I don't feel much more trained, but I got the feeling that I am a little more experienced a leader than most of these ladies. Also, I think I got a ride to camp each day, which is pretty fucking sweet.

Don't be afraid / To be who you are / Just be who you are / You're a shining star

2011-07-06T07:50:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to the sound of a mother-fucking chicken. I dunno where it was coming from. I went outside, no chickens. I have no idea still where the sound is coming from, but I keep hearing it. I hope I am not going fucking crackers, though, that wouldn't be that surprising.
So, I get this e-mail from the Girl Scouts I will be volunteering with out here. Apparently, I need a camp name if I am going to volunteer at Girl Scout camp. My "camp name" back home was just Ms. Mankato to the kids, and, more often than not, just Mankato when addressed by adults. Camp name? I have no idea.
Here are some of their camp names I was given as examples:
* Google
* Snookie
* Professor
* Pinecone
Oh, shit. I am in trouble. I mean, what would my name be? I have no idea. I'm from Florida, so something like Gator would make sense, but it kinda makes me sound like a redneck asshole.
I was thinking about it last night, and all I could come up with were faux-Navajo names. You know, the kind of names that Native Americans have in movies made by honkies starring John Wayne or some shit.
* Dances with Almond Milk
* Dirty Mouth
* Must Wear Bra
* Sleeps with Drugs (I'm an insomniac.)
* Cooks Without Killing
* Walks without Map (this is actually something that I read was used to describe Aaron Cometbus, but, trust me, it's apt)
I am totally at a loss on this one. I mean, I've been called a lot of names, but none of them are really appropriate for Girl Scout camp, you know?

You know that talk is cheap, and those rumors ain't nice. / And when I fall asleep I don't think I'll survive the night, the night.

2011-07-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't really talked too much about my volunteer work while out here. I've been volunteering at an animal rescue center in Emeryville. How can I describe Emeryville? Well, part of me thinks that all you need to know about Emeryville is that there's a gigantic Pixar complex there. The whole place feels like its some kind of backdrop for some movie starring Mary Kate and Ashley or some shit.
The office for the animal rescue that I have been working at looks like it is even fake from the outside. The sign looks like it was bolted to the door of the old warehouse where the rescue center is based moments ago. It doesn't fit. When you walk inside, the entire place has kind of a Rick-Moranis-movie feel to it, maybe with a dash of Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
There's actually a wooden yellow arrow with stenciled red letters suspended by a rusty old chain in the loading dock area that says, "TRAP DOOR." Very Acme.
As an organization, they help a lot of animals that would otherwise be put down. Most of their animals are in foster homes, but some are on premises. The area I guess I have worked in the most is the, "cat room." Guess what's in there?
The cats and kittens are mostly kept in these large cages. The cages have towels in the bottom that need cleaning daily. I don't mind cleaning up cat shit. It's an easy job, there isn't a lot you can fuck up, and the cats seem oddly grateful. There are two permanent residents - older cats that won't be adopted. Then there's the kittens. The kittens come and go like migrant worker children through rural public schools. You see them one week, but you can bet your ass they'll be gone the next.
I never quite feel like I am doing very much as a volunteer there, but I guess any help is better than none. I think they don't want to take advantage of me too much, so they are being a little skittish with their requests. Hey, whatever floats their fucking boats. I'm just glad I get to be around animals.
I am going to be picked up by a fellow Girl Scout leader tomorrow to go to a party to make things to get ready for camp. I am going to be volunteering at a day camp soon, too. I am actually really excited about this. And, perhaps, a little nervous. I mean, I don't really know how Scouts out here operate. I hope I'm more help than hinderance.

I am a huge fan of Bad Religion / I even bought a brown Fender Precision

2011-07-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

You know what Martha Stewart? Suck it. Pineapple Upsidedown Cupcakes
Ingredients:
* two and one-fourth cups of all-purpose flour
* half a cup of coconut oil
* two-third of a cup of agave nectar
* half a cup of soy milk
* one-fourth of a brown sugar (packed)
* two teaspoons vanilla
* two teaspoons baking soda
* two teaspoons baking powder
* one twenty ounce can of crushed pineapple
* two cups of confectioner's sugar (for frosting)
Directions:
* Pre-heat the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees.
* Drain the pineapple juice into a large bowl and set aside.
* In a large skillet, combine the drained, crushed pineapple with the brown sugar.
* Heat the pineapple and brown sugar until the sugar is fully incorporated and the mixture has a pastey consistancy.
* Line a muffin tin with cupcake liners and place one table spoon of the brown sugar and pineapple in each liner. There should be some of the pineapple mixture left over. Set muffin tin aside.
* In the pan with the leftover pineapple mixture, stir in powdered sugar until you get a desired consistancy for frosting. You may need to add some water, but be very careful not to add too much.
* Cover the frosting and put aside.
* With the pineapple juice, combine all other ingredients except for the flour. Stir until ingredients are completely incorportated.
* One fourth of a cup at a time, add in the flour.
* Once the batter is completely mixed, place one-fourth of a cup of the batter atop the pineapple mixture in the cupcake liners.
* Bake on the center rack for fifteen minutes.
* After fifteen minutes, turn the muffin tin one hundred and eighty degrees and bake another additional ten to fifteen minutes.
* Muffins will spring back to when touched if done baking.
* If you want more of a glaze, frost muffins while still warm. Otherwise, wair twenty minutes before frosting,
* Enjoy!

Do you want to dance and hold my hand? / Tell me baby, I'm your lover man / Oh, Baby, Do you wanna dance?

2011-07-02T13:04:00.000-07:00

Me: I don't know how to write about this without sounding all old and weird.
My little sister: You are old and weird.
Me: Point taken. Thanks.
So, I went to see Emily's Army a couple of nights ago. Good fucking Christ - there were so many cute little bambinos there! We were way early because we misjudged the amount of traffic on the way there. As we pulled up to the bar, the Green Day song Brain Stew came on the radio. That song came out when Joey Armstrong - the drummer for Emily's Army - was a for-real bambino in 1995, the year I got my learner's permit.
Now I was going to see him perform in a band.
Let that sink in, mother fuckers.
I was feeling kind of bad because I had the sinking suspicion that my fellow concert goer was going to have a miserable time. She works in the city, and she is on her feet all day long. When we got there, we saw them taking all the tables and chairs and shit out. Not really a good sign.
Anyway, we were way early, and so we just kind of stood by the entrance. A little later a pair of girls who look like someone had dipped them in Hot Topic sauce came walking up. They were quite the cute little pair. One had very sculpted, dyed black and blue hair that was angular and messy at the same time. It clearly took her hours to look like she spent no time on her hair at all. She was wearing black-and-white plaid pegged pants, and her clothing was insanely form-fitting. She looked like she might snap if you bent any part of her too fast. The other little muffin with her was on the chubby tip - her hair a mass of kinky, crazy tight waves. It looked like she had tried to straighten her bangs to make the overall appearance of her hair seem calmer. All it really did, though, was make the rest of her hair seem like more of a hot mess. She had on a Skully shirt from Adeline Records (I have the same shirt - besties!), and a too short skirt that rested really awkwardly on her hips. Her shirt was mostly covered by an ill-fitting vest with lots of buttons on it.
Fucking precious. I just wanted to hug them. And have them in my Girl Scout troop. And make them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crust on because that's where the fucking vitamins are, god dammit. I was instantly in love with these little ones.
They looked around for a little while before the gutsier of the two shyly asked, "Are you guys here for Emily's Army?"
Aw, shucks. They were confused I think because the two of us probably looked more like their moms than anyone they were used to throwing elbows with at a show, you know? I mean, I dress like a thirteen-year-old boy, but my fat-ass, thirty-year-old body is a dead give away that I am not of the teenage set anymore. (Thank fucking Christ for that.) I was wearing a green t-shirt with flocked letters that said, "Anarchist Girl Scout," but it was constantly covered by my Girl Scout jacket that the troop from last year made me. It was so fucking cold. No one else seemed to recognize that. (I never thought I'd miss the alligator-ridden swamp lands of mosquitoes and infinite humidity, but as my toes numbed outside in fucking June, I was starting to think that the marshy wasteland I was spawned from might have the perfect climate after all.)
I also had on my trusty K-Mart (blue light special, bitches!) jeans, and, of course, my chucks. My hair was in a ponytail with a black ribbon (feminine!) that had skulls on it (sort of!). Sometimes I think the ponytail is the only hint that I am a girl, then I remember I have huge boobs.
My friend who was with me always dresses better than me, and is naturally cuter. She and I are so opposite sometimes it's amazing. She doesn't own t-shirts. Like. for real. She banished them from her wardrobe. If I did that, I'd be fucking naked.
She had on this sparkly tank top and a hoodie with jeans. She was also wearing these Sketchers that were hightops with a dragon embroidered on them. It was her nod to punk fucking rock, and, whereas I don't think it met that mark quite, it was fucking adorable.
A sliver van pulled up, and Emily's Army got out, along with an aunt and some small children.
Woah.
I mean, serious, woah.
You think you are all young and shit? You think thirty is the new twenty and blah-fucking-blah? You're wrong. Stand next to some real teenagers; you'll feel like the goddamn crypt keeper.
I don't mind getting older. I actually kind of like it, but this was getting to be kind of strange. I am used to being one of the oldest people in the room at a show (why does punk rock seem to have an expiration date for most people?), but not the oldest person. Other than the EA auntie, and maybe some of the bar workers, I was definitely fitting that bill. Mother of God.
They let us in, and it was slightly less cold. We got some tater tots (yes, there was junk food there - bad ass!), and I got a beer. I also ordered a gin and tonic for my friend, and the barkeep was all twenty questions with me about it. Did I want a specific brand of gin? What shelf? How much soda water? Do I want a lime?
Jesus Christ, if there's gonna be that many questions, just let me on the other side of the bar, and I'll do it myself. I think we'd both be kidding ourselves if we entertained the notion that she had more experience pouring a drink than me.
I tipped her still, because she seemed really flustered and overwhelmed. She was probably in her early twenties, and cute as a bug, too. I just don't think tending bar was her thing. Maybe she'll get better with time.
After all that, my friend said the drink was pretty much just tonic water with the very smallest hint of gin.
I, of course, instantly burned my mouth on the tater tots, so I downed my first beer in no time. I don't think the cold beer made my mouth feel that much better, but alcohol usually helps with these things.
Some people who were older than me - much older - came in finally, but they all seemed to be relatives of the band. Tias and tios and all that shit.
Then I bought two shirts - one for me and one for a Girl Scout that used to be in my troop - and shoved them in my pockets. The kids that were working the merch booth were fucking adorable, too. One of them had this felt handlebar mustache on. He looked like he was going to a Mario Brothers costume party, but didn't want to put too much effort into his costume.
I commented to my friend how I felt pretty grown up being able to pay for merch with paper money and not rolled quarters. Hey, I've come a long way.
They didn't really fit in my pockets, so I had to keep my hands in the pockets the whole time. This was really awkward and made me look fucking creepy, you know?
We watched several girls get pretty handsy with the band and other boys there. Teenagers are so fucking great. Seriously, I love them. The girls all did this little all-above-the-waist, touchy-touchy dance were they'd laugh at something one of the boys said and, you know, just casually and playfully touch them on the shoulder or chest. It was such a precious mating dance. I mean, I felt like I was watching Wild America or some shit at one point, and you could fucking cut the hormones in the air with a goddamn knife.
Oh, youth.
Right before Emily's Army went on, the boys in the band took off their jackets and there was something in their faces that made me just melt with adorable . . . nervousness. Each of them seemed to have this kind of palpable anxiety. I really enjoyed that, and it made me excited for the show to come. Lord help me, I just wanted to pinch their cheeks! So cute.
They took that stage, and after much adjusting and tuning and checking and bouncing in place for no reason, they ripped into their first song, Broadcast This.
I was expecting all the little bunnies that had come to see the show to start a-bouncing, but the room was still as stone. Save for one guy who looked like he was my age, or at least in the fleeting stages of his twenties, no one was moving. At all.
I turned to my friend and said, "What the fuck is wrong with kids today? No one's moving! What - too much Nintendo?"
She just kind of smiled back at me.
The thing is, as cute and young and adorable as the members of Emily's Army are, the band is no joke. They are fucking good - - and, by that, I don't mean good in that, well-for-teenagers-they-are-pretty-good way. I mean they are good for people that play in a band, period.
The nervousness that was detected before seemed to have been buried by the looks of pure fucking joy on their faces - you can tell they were just eating this shit up, loving being on stage and making music. That always makes for the best sound, you know? I mean, even if the vocals were turned down a little too low. (Which, by the way, if going to be my only criticism of their performance - they did amazing!)
By now, I am three beers deep, and very into it. Three beers isn't a lot for me - one of the perks to being a fat ass is that you can hold your liquor pretty well. However, music always makes me drunk. Like, I know that sounds like some real bullshit, but I get wasted off of a good show.
We're a few songs in, and I am loving the faces that the bass player throws. They covered Bobby Freeman's Do You Wanna Dance? (you know, The Ramones covered it on Rocket to Russia). I remember seeing Joey Ramone, who Joey Armstrong is named for, perform in the early nineties.
I was a little bit when that happened - like nine or ten - but it wasn't nearly as fun or impressive as these kids. I mean, its definitely one of the things I think that helped form my personality, but I couldn't help but tie comparisons between that performance and the one currently going on in front of me. Emily's Army came out on top, frankly. (That said, I often wonder if there's ever been more perfect a song than Blitzkrieg Bop.)
Several songs in they played Statutory Brain Rape, and a pit broke out of nothing! Finally! Kids were going crazy.
I didn't get into the pit, but I did like having kid occasionally slam into the wall of people barricading the action. I don't know why, but that feeling has always been very appealing to me. Going to a show is such a tactile thing. I mean, I think most people think about the hearing aspect of a show, but there's so much feeling going on. I love how the sound waves wrap around you spine and rattle your bones. I love the bumps and jabs. I love it.
They plowed through their songs - never stopping to comment on how they need to tune or complain about being on the road or blah-fucking-blah. I hate it when bands give the its-so-hard-to-be-in-a-band-let-me-show-off-what-a-good-musician-I-am-by-interrupting-to-talk-about-technical-shit speech.
Fuck that.
I was grateful for its absence.
After they played their supposedly last song, the crowd started chanting, "One more song! One more song!" To be honest, the last song didn't feel very final, and I kind of thought this whole call-for-an-encore thing felt a little oddly planned, but I still enjoyed it.
They obliged with Loch Lomond, and tore the place apart! Good old-fashioned punk rock silliness reigned as two kilted audience members bounced on stage and capped two band members with their plaid Glengarry hats.
My friend had to work the next day - early (hey, she's a good friend), so we left right after I hit the head. There was this cute little slip of a girl in the line for the bathroom behind me wearing nothing but a white tank top and zebra print shorts. Around her neck there was a key necklace that I complimented. She called me ma'am when she thanked me for the compliment, and told me it was from Atomic Garden. She was very cute about it. I kept thinking she needed a jacket.
We went out onto the street, and my friend admonished me for being so loud, but I was still I little punch drunk from the show and, holy God, it's too fucking cold when you walk about in San Francisco at night not to be loud.
I mailed the shirt I bought to my former Girl Scout the next day - - songs from the night before still stuck in my head.

Hang ten in East Berlin / Hang ten in East Berlin / Hang ten, hang ten, in East Berlin

2011-06-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

#64 Haiku About Shirts
I am insecure
Because my chest is so big
Do you really fit?

#65 Haiku About Plans for Tonight
I am excited
Going to a punk rock show
Emily's Army

#66 Haiku About a Hipster on BART
Who are you kidding
With that thrift store sweater set
And Cartier watch

#67 Haiku About Eating Lunch at the Counter
One veggie burger
And endless diet sodas
Now that's good eating

Oh my goodness, am I glad to be back at my friend's house. I dunno why, but I am fucking exhausted.
I didn't do that much today. I went to this little bookshop to buy a card for a friend back home. While I was at the bookstore, I made the most amazing discovery - a copy of The Young Ones complete series for only $20.00. Best $20.00 I have spent in a long time! Have you ever seen The Young Ones? Oh, it's wonderful. Youtube it. Right now.
Then, I went to the corner market and got an apricot and some chocolate. Woah, second good decision of the day. I felt like a fat ass for eating the chocolate, but it had these hazelnuts in it that were amazing.
I got back on BART, when to Berkeley just to walk around and see what I could see. Not much. I hopped back on the next train and went to Emeryville to go to Target and Michael's. Those both proved to be disappointing as well, since I didn't find what I was looking for.
I tried the farmer's market there just to waste some time, but it was dead, too. So I walked to this diner and had lunch. Delightful. I was also pleased to see that all the Anarchist Girl Scout stickers I left there last time were gone. I like to think of people taking and enjoying them. I left another small pile.
I took the bus back to my friend's house, and cleaned the kitchen and the floors. I took a shower.
Now I am dog-tired, and I don't know why. Not like sleepy tired, but like run-down. This is not good because I am going to a show tonight at Thee Parkside - Emily's Army. I am so psyched! I hope I can get over whatever the fuck is wrong with me before then.