• The Evil Eye and Wanderings

    Yeah, yeah, yeah.  People always tell you how great it is for you to move outside your comfort zone.  They tell you something like “it will really make you grow” to do things that make you oh-so-uncomfy.  While I get it intellectually, I think it just plain sucks.  I think I heard we humans are always neglecting our true gut feelings—instincts—if you will.  Because we are idiotic.  Anyhow, I’m done with my complaining for the day.  Moving was a lot for me to take.  Yeah, I get it, it’s fully something I should have done many years ago, but that’s an irrelevant argument.  I’m me living now and dealing with my NOW-FEELINGS.  And my now-feelings are, for the most part, manageable.  Every now and then I do get a pang of homesickness.  I miss lying in bed with my boyfriend and my dog.  It’s such a simple joy to have a dog rest his little soft gullet on your ankle.

    So, left to my own devices, I do one of two things:  wander around aimlessly or set up in my room and watch Netflix.  The Office is amazingly soothing…even though I’ve seen every episode at least twice.  Maybe…maybe even thrice.  But back to my wanderings.  They were, of course, waylaid by the HURRICANE (wtf…an earthquake and a hurricane in the same week?) but I have managed to get out and see stuff.  I stopped at the Magic Gardens—a public mosaic installation.  That’s how they describe it on the website anyhow.  It is one of those very rare trippy and magical places where you feel all tickled from the inside out.  I am not even being facetious—it makes you feel good.  There is an outdoor sort of labyrinth full of wacko doll heads, mirrors, tiles and mermaids.  There is also gallery space—and an outsider art show.  My favorite artist bio read as follows:

    “Renee (pronounced Reenie) Leshner attended Fleisher Art Memorial as a young woman, but stopped when she began to have visions of an ‘evil eye’ following her and threatening her.  She continued to be plagued by visions of other-worldly beings throughout her many years working as a bookkeeper in Philadelphia.  Gradually, her interest in drawing became her refuge, as her artwork evolved into an important method of expression – even a kind of ‘defense mechanism’ – against her supernatural visions.”

    Jeez.  I mean, after I got over my knee-jerk reaction—holy cow I love how bizarre this is (of course)—I began to feel a little freaked out.  Because sometimes these scary feelings just come over people and then they have to exorcise their demons.  I get that.  Art as defense.

    I flew over from San Francisco sitting right next to the Bay Area sculptor who was responsible for fabricating a HUGE paintbrush (complete with paint glob) created by Claes Oldenburg.  HUGE sculptures of common everyday objects can be kind of fun, but…I don’t know.  Somehow it’s a bit overdone.  Know what’s cool?  Anything big.  Hmmmm, that’s what she said?

  • Letting Letters Lay Fallow

    Well dang.  This certainly sucks.  I haven’t been to update this blog of mine.  I believe this has much to do with my belief (true or not) that I had nothing to say.  I guess I know on some level that isn’t really true.  I’ve become a sort of different person even.  I feel leaps and bounds and miles and far and wide away from the earlier blogs of mine but I wonder…did I lose my voice?  Because, shooooot, that would be kind of terrible.  It took some doing, but I did kind of develop some sort of voice.  Whiny though it may be.

    At any rate.  Some things do not change.  Weird things still happen to me.  Uncomfortable situations still do find me everywhere.

    I was in a stinky bar in New York not so long ago and I had (just HAD) to visit the even stinkier bathroom in the dark and unsafe basement.  I tried to imagine what I’d do if I got mugged.  I went to open a stall but walked in on a drunk blond girl sort of hanging off the seat in some inebriated contortion.  I didn’t see her face because I was confused by what she was doing, but I apologized and shut the door (which, she should have locked anyhow) and she said over and over again “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”  I do not know why she was apologizing to me.  I found my way to the other stall and hovered and held the door shut since the lock was broken.  Drunkie finished her wee and exited her stall only to come over to mine to try to pull the door open, managing to super-smash my fingers in the process.  “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”  I think the worst part of that story was that it made me scream the word “O-U-C-H!!”  I felt dumb about that.  Passive aggressive drunks are awful jerks.

    Aggressive people in general are jerks I guess.  Hey yeah–I got cyber-bullied earlier this summer (well, sorta).  I was away at a two-week letterpress intensive workshop in the Smokey Mountains of North Carolina (rocking my ass on the porch drinking beer and watching fireflies) and I got a strange email from some lame lying cyber-bully.  It read:

    Katherine
    I just read your bio on friendster and I must say I am shocked!
    I wonder if John, who happens to be a friend of mine, knows you consider his law office a “weak-ass law firm” and you are “really bored working in this horrible office”, quotes taken directly from your page.
    I happen to be looking for a job and I am thinking of sending a copy of your friendster page to John in hopes that he may replace a seemingly ungrateful employee with someone who would really benefit him, his office, and his cause.
    By the way, when will you generation X kids realize that you are not the only group capable of navigating the world wide web in search of dirt!
    Hope you have a GREAT day.

    This a-hole was clearly confused.  Rude, even.  Not to sound like a brat but who is even ON Friendster anymore?  That was a profile I hadn’t updated since…2004?  When my job DID kind of suck.  Oh yeah, I’m not really a Gen X “kid” either–I think I might be a Y-er, but that’s besides the point.  I had to write to my boss and clear the air and he told me he had no idea who this person could be.  So, some random person who has half a brain cell, a computer, and is need of a job.  I tried to Geek Tools the IP address to prove how truly capable I am of navigating the world wide web in search of dirt, but no freakin dice.  I actually wrote a super decent email back politely telling that person to piss up a rope.  And that ended the bullying.  Knock on wood.  I could go back to rocking in that rocking chair and killing country roaches.

    North Carolina was very beautiful.  It’s actually very jungly which I was not expecting.  Lush.  Snakes.  Bunnies.  Bugs.  I felt good and clean even if I was always filthy and nothing was ever quite dry.  Back in San Francisco I had to adjust.  I realized how much I hate the neighborhood I work in.  Wading through jerky city folk and yelling derelicts and navigating ’round random people’s bodily fluids is no hobby of mine.  The earthy simplicity I experienced for two weeks totally ruined me in the right way.  I resensitized.  So, I found my “center” again and maybe the writing will pick up and maybe all the weirdo stories I sling might at least amuse.  We’ll see.
  • San Francisco: A Town Without Pity, A Town for Penguin Love Triangles

    I have been reading all about this panhandling 4-year-old and his mother and had the crummy fortune of seeing them on my way to BART.  I hate being enraged (it’s bad for wrinkles) and there I was, spitting mad that this woman had her 4-year-old out there tugging at our heartstrings, emotionally manipulating even the hardest of us by panhandling.  Don’t do that.  And the trouble is apparently, there is nothing anyone can do to stop this.  People have tried.  The authorities have been contacted but they say they cannot remove a child from a parent unless it can be proven that they are being abused and/or neglected.  And the kid does look clean and healthy.  His mother is clean, healthy and fairly well-dressed for a lady hobo.  I guess making a 4-year-old beg for loose change isn’t considered abuse or something.  I read a follow-up story about some Good Samaritans who took up a collection to buy plane tickets for the family to move back east this past winter.  By April, they were back to begging in San Francisco.  I know that kids think the weirdest things are fun, but this seems to push it a bit too far.  And to think, we were just ranked one of the meanest cities when it comes our handling of the homeless.

    Recently, my grandfather’s brother had to have some kind of emergency surgery.  My grandfather is one of four brothers.  He’s the oldest, and the healthiest.  The other three are always almost dying.  I’m glad I got some kind of tough genes because these tough, grumpy old kooks have been holding on for years.  My dad asked my grandfather why his uncle was in the hospital this time.  “His iris fell out.”  This boggles the mind.  “What do you mean his iris…that’s impossible.  You mean his cornea got detached?”  “No, like I said, his iris fell out.”  On top of having tough genes, evidently, I also come from a long line of freakshows.

    In case you’ve missed the tragic love triangle that’s been playing out at the San Francisco Zoo…I shall regale you with a tale of deception and intrigue.  So, of course, San Francisco has a pair of gay penguins called Harry and Pepper.  Some years back, they just hunkered down and decided to give it a go and make a life for themselves.  They nested together.  Sulky Pepper finally had a companion.  The two were given an egg to care for and apparently were very good and vigilant egg-sitters.  When their chicky was born, the zookeepers said the two were the best dads ever.  Well, fast-forward SIX years.  Their neighbor, a male named Fig, died and left behind a poor floozy widow named Linda.  Linda, suddenly alone and in need of male attention, turned to Harry.  You can imagine how this ends.  Not well for our friend Pepper.  This sudden split caused a lot of drama and heartache and Pepper had to be sent away for a little while.  I realize that humanizing these animals is just plain babyish, weird and maybe just a little lame, but it is pretty amazing too.

    Also amazing:

    [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUJ4es4cYIU]

  • Motorcycle Diaries and Mortal Sins

    “I saw something I never saw before,” said Michelle, my friend, the autopsy technician.  When someone with a steel constitution who works on and around dead bodies says these words to you, you know you’re in for some real nastiness.

    Late the other night some poor reckless guy was doing about 90 mph on a pretty dangerous stretch of freeway just south of San Francisco.  He unfortunately rear ended the guy ahead of him and flew up over the car.  His helmet came off, and his head was run over at least twice.  “Is that what killed him?” I asked.  “Hard to tell…his left leg was almost severed clear off.”  Looking at Michelle, you wouldn’t think she’d be doing this kind of work.  She’s very big eyed and innocent looking.  She loves karaoke and cute stuff and Bath & Body Works lotions and so to hear her talk about this so matter-of-factly is just plain weird.  “And the weird thing was his kidney popped out on to the road.”  Wow.  “That is crazy.”  “But that’s not the crazy part.  I haven’t gotten to it yet.”  Apparently in gnarly-ass accidents like this one, the body’s muscles will suddenly and very powerfully contract.  “Okay, so the Dr. looks at me and says, ‘Michelle, do you see a penis?’”  Nu-uh.  Okay, the guy’s penis was missing.  MISSING!  It wasn’t severed; it had been pulled clean into his body.  She finally located what she said looked like a second belly button.  “I tried to pull it out but it wasn’t budging.”  Wow.  Sick.  I am still so disturbed by this charming after-dinner conversation.

    The other day Steven and I were comparing early childhood traumas suffered at the hands of religious organizations.  I was telling him about how the nuns told me my mom probably wouldn’t be going to the same heaven as me since she was a Buddhist.  He told me about being forced to watch films on the diseases of Africa in Lutheran sleep away camp.  This is apparently where he first laid eyes on a man with elephantiasis.  That just ain’t right.  I think I bested him though with my tales of watching raw Nazi death camp footage in the 3rd grade.

    We then got onto the topic of different kinds of sins.  I am not very handy with my sin trivia, so I looked up “mortal sins.”  I think these are basically sins that you have to confess and be absolved of, or you go straight to HELL.  They are called “mortal” sins because they essentially kill your soul.  I had to look up these definitions so I could seem somewhat smart.  So, check it.  Following is a list (courtesy of churchdoors.com) of what is considered to be a mortal sin:

    • Abortion
    • Anger
    • Adulterers
    • Amending the words of the Holy Bible
    • Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit, (Eternal sin)
    • Carousing
    • Cowards
    • Defrauders
    • Dissensions
    • Disrespect towards parents
    • Drunkenness
    • Enmities
    • Envy
    • Factions
    • Faithless
    • False witness (liars)
    • Fornicators
    • Greed
    • Holy communion while received in a state of mortal sin
    • Idolatry
    • Impurity
    • Jealousy
    • Licentiousness
    • Love and practice falsehoods
    • Male prostitution
    • Murderers
    • Polluted
    • Quarrelling
    • Sodomites
    • Sorcery
    • Strife
    • Thieves (steal/robbers)

    That is actually a verbatim list.  I don’t fully get this list.  And it is not only because of the strange way some of the things listed are nouns while others are verbs.  I know what thieves are, so to clarify by writing “steal/robbers” next to thieves seems silly.  “Love and practice falsehoods” also seems strange.  Does that mean you have to love lying?  Because a lot of people just lie without loving it.  And “male prostitution”?  Not prostitution in general?  “Polluted”?  “Strife?”  A lot of things on this list seem to need greater definition.

    Looking at this handy-dandy list (and I have inserted bullet-points so you can easily print this out and check-off the sins you’ve committed) I can say that I’ve committed like 19 of these.  On Friday night.  And I’m not even bragging.  I do not believe I have atoned for maybe half of those infractions.  So, I think I might be boned.  But wait.  Did you know – and this is a very handy thing about being a Catholic – that you can atone even at the very last minute?  As in:  when you die, and you’re being dangled over Hell with a view to the Pearly Gates you can say you are sorry and you will most likely be spared eternal damnation.  That’s freakin’ sweet if you ask me.

  • Killing Facebook or, How I Survive a Month Unplugged

    So a group of friends and I were sitting in some craptastic bar last night and I was the only one NOT Facebooking at the table. I felt disturbed. Because really? Has it finally come to this? We are actually NOT shut-ins who stay at home wishing they could be out on a Saturday night having fun and mingling with people. We actually were out and there was some potential for fun. But no. We sat there trying to find the video of Adam Savage spreading his butt cheeks and commenting on people’s Facebooks. I guess at least we were together. I suppose it might be similar to the concept of mutual J-O buddies—at least you’re not really alone. But does it make it any less sad? Part of me wants desperately to deactivate Facebook because I think it’s actually detrimental to life, love, happiness and connectedness. But can I unplug myself? Will I feel like I’m missing out on a whole social scene everyone (even my own father) subscribes to? These are all very good questions.

    I’m not sure why I’m feeling so misanthropic these days—just a short while ago I was partying it up in Morro Bay, CA, making sausage and dedicating 12 hours to drinking and meeting local eccentrics. And now…this. It might have started when my eye doctor told me that despite my believing that my vision has gotten worse, I was fine and that my blurred sight was “subjective.” I knew hysterical blindness would strike me sooner or later.

    Or I guess my general grouchiness could have begun Friday. After hours of waiting in lines and hearing and experiencing people’s complaints and woes and aggravations, I finally managed to hail a cab in front of the Hall of Justice. A pretty African lady cab driver stopped and I asked her to take me to Polk and Golden Gate—a seemingly well-recognized intersection in this small, small city of ours. She immediately zoomed off in the wrong direction and as soon as I noticed, she turned around to ask me if I could tell her how to get there. I managed to navigate her in at least the right direction. We were speeding recklessly through the Tenderloin when we came to a light and some black dude in an Audi asked her to roll down her window and so she did. “When you gonna let me ride you?” he asked romantically. She giggled and sped off and turned around to tell me she thought he was cute. At the next stoplight he said, “It’s not too late.” Over the next two stoplights she managed to give him her phone number and basically set up a date. I asked her to let me out early. I was disappointed in my pretty lady cab driver—that was entirely too easy. For whatever reason it put me in a terrible mood.

    Wait no…maybe this jerky rage in me began a couple weeks ago with that temp they hired to replace Esteban who had fallen off his bike and broke his crown. He really did. So, we called up our usual go-to guy, the Temp. A corpulent man, he came in wearing different colored sweats everyday. He did, however, manage to wear the same Indiana Jones-type hat and satchel. Anyhow, the usual course of events: get in on time, take off shoes, root around in bag looking for book, walk in stocking feet to the bathroom down the hall and be gone for about 20 minutes. I could set my clock to the rumblings of this man’s tummy. This was pretty disturbing to have to live through. The last day he was there, he apologized for not seeming himself—he had eaten too much sugar the day before. This might explain his moans and groans. But the sucking sound? I turned around when I heard some sucking sounds and he explained he had cut himself with his own fingernail while peeling an orange. He came over to my desk and squeezed his finger to show me that he was, in fact, bleeding. I don’t know. He entertained me and was nice enough, so maybe he didn’t contribute to my miserly condition. Need answers.

    I like to think I’m generally upbeat and a lover of life. So why this newfound dread? Could it be because my brother just told me I could get a job in Vegas as a cocktail waitress—in OLD Town? Nah, I have no clue but I just heard a story that cheered me up some. Wow that sounds a little manic. My grandparents recently made a trip out to visit their house in Mexico. My grandmother has funky feet that hurt her all the time. It is possibly due to her severe high heel habit. The orthotics salesman told her she needed to see a doctor for her issues. “You seem like an honest man,” said my grandpa, “who do you recommend?” So the man told my ever-trusting grandparents that most of his clients go see some nuns in some sanitarium. The line to see the sanitarium’s doctor was far too long and my grandfather, not blessed with patience, decided to bypass that altogether and instead go straight to the farmacia. After listening to my grandmother’s foot-related woes, the nun recommended a bottle of holy water. “How much?” “Depends on which size you want.” “We’ll take the biggest size you have.” I guess my granny dunked her feet in this water when they got home and my grandfather beheld some kind of miracle because there she was—walking without pain. I think she plans on going back there to visit the doctor who will give her some special blessed oil. This oil promises to turn it all around for her. I might ask her to bring me a large sized bottle.

    In the meantime, I’ve dumped Facebook for 1 month as a sort of test of my will. Imm’a do it.

  • A Bad October and How I Cope

    Ok so…I figure I’ve taken enough of a vacation from my writing. The month of October was sickening and strange. I didn’t think I’d have to submit an obit or sit in a pew at my mother’s memorial service for at least another few months maybe. Never, I had hoped, since I was a little girl. I tried to meditate one night when I was maybe 7 and all I could think about was how horrible it’d be when my parents die. I don’t think I slept at all that night and I never did meditate again. You never think about these things until they happen. And then you have to do things like make funeral arrangements and shop for a black dress that you wish you could wear someplace else.

    I’m kind of handling things much better than I had anticipated. When I thought about it happening, I thought I might fall on the floor and maybe faint. Maybe I’d sink into a depression and maybe I’d rip at my clothes and want to cut my hair off with some dull blade. You seriously think strange things like this. But no. I did not do any of those things. I was still able to laugh at things and cheer people up. I was able to organize my thoughts and take care of business and cook. I guess my rational side sort of stepped it up. Not to say I didn’t cry my guts out or that I don’t still break down. But I feel like I need to honor my mom by doing what she would want me to do: be strong. And besides that, I feel her around me which I realize sounds corny and super cliché, but it’s the dang old truth.

    And so, I’ve decided to pick up the writing which sort of makes me happy and complete and less loserly.

    And besides, I need a creative outlet. A low-brow means of communicating the raunchy and crappy things I see or (unfortunately) experience. For example. Today as I was walking down Bush Street, this crazy cat lady passed me by with a veritable stroller full of cat with ribbons and bells ‘round their necks and she actually said, “Fuck you” right in my face. I was way too amused to be mad. Cat people are a crazy ass lot. I love Mr. Kiki Jones with all my heart, but I do not think this love is unhealthy.

    My best good pal Jim is a kitty foster mommy these days and I wish she’d rethink this since one of them almost literally killed her. I got to visit the bastard cat when she dragged me to some kitty adoption-a-thon they have at her local pet shop. It was much cuter than I had imagined and slightly less fierce. I guess one day the cat in question was acting kinda funny and smartly, Jim decided to try to pick her up to give her some love. The cat chomped down with all its might and Jimbo thought some antibacterial soap and some sweet TLC would nurse the nasty-ass wound back to health. No. It wasn’t until she got the sweats and her hand swelled to three times the size of a normal human hand and two red streaks of infection made a run for her heart that she deemed it worth a visit to the ER. They wanted to keep her overnight but she refused. She is rugged.

    I am not so much. I feel broken sometimes. I burned the roof of my mouth chomping on a hot garlic brussel sprout and I guess it was worse than I thought because a piece of my palate actually fell off. As in…it shed. As in, that is so damn gross but I just had to tell that story real quick. Do things like that happen? Do pieces just fall off sometimes? Because if so, I need to be prepared. I am no leper so far as I know and I plan on retaining all my necessary body parts. We already know the mind is not safe.

  • Thoughts on Love and Cats on Toast

    Yesterday, the cat jumped on my toast. I think this may be why they tell you not to eat in the bedroom and not to put food on the bed. I put it down for a hot minute and SHAZAAMMM! He decided to jump on the bed and on the toast. He was covered in honey and my toast was covered in cat hair. It was a bad way to start the day but he was at least able to lick himself off. Cats are nonchalant jerks sometimes. I recently read that dogs will yawn sympathetically. I keep fake-yawning in front of Mr. Nichi but he doesn’t yawn back. Either he’s dumb, or unsympathetic….or else, he’s way smart and knows I’m a faker. I have no way of knowing.

    My brother’s best-good friend recently got married. I love me a good wedding, so when I got the invitation, I got really excited. When I heard about the requisite pre-wedding drama with the dresses and the lazy bridesmaids and the fact that someone called DJ Happy was spinning, I knew I had to go. A week before the wedding, I drove my brother all the way out to the outlying ghetto of San Pablo for the bachelor party. Apparently, it was amazing. Strippers know how to get a party going. It’s in their nature. This one came all the way from Santa Cruz to shake it. Getting her out there = $200. Having her remove her tiny thong = $100. The “Bachelor Special” = pretty effing priceless. For a cool $190, the bachelor received a trifecta of (sorta) sexy services. First was the baby oil bath. Then, she grabbed one of those tall holy candles my grandma would burn in the sink on weekends—the kind with a Virgin de Guadalupe or a special saint on it. She unsexily poured like a pint of hot wax on the bachelor’s chest. I guess he screamed like a girl. The finale was strange. She whipped out the shaving cream and shaved the top of his ass. She squirted extra in the crack, pulled his pants up, and spanked him hard so the cream flew across the room. She gets an A+ for creativity.

    The wedding was awesome. The mass was slightly tedious and the priest did everything out of order. He probably should have shown up to the rehearsal. They kissed before they were actually “man and wife” and then were kept up there for quite a while to sign all the paperwork right on the altar. I think I was in the restroom when they became man and wife. I needed to take a break. I used to be able to sit through an entire Sunday Mass but I think my heathendom has—among other things—rendered me weak, unfocused, and easily bored. I reverted back to my time-tested and highly reliable grammar school coping skills. I began studying the backs of people’s heads. I flipped through the missal. I began to day dream and tried to calculate the number of hours I had spent in this very dreary place and then attempted to convert that to days and then years. Much of my young life was spent in this very church and the only thing I really enjoyed was confession.

    My pop was nice and got me a room within easy stumbling distance from the reception. Dinner was a scream, to be sure. I got seated with old family friends. The man fanned himself with a ladies fan the entire time. He doesn’t say too much. His wife said he had to conserve his energy “for later.” Yikes. This cute chubby girl at the table offered me some feta from a napkin she had taken from the wine and cheese reception. She talked to me for a little while about how much she loves feta. She was a peach. DJ Happy was spinning all the Latin jams. I asked him to play “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa but that didn’t happen. I think I went back to ask for “Laffy Taffy” but that didn’t happen either. I danced just the same and impressed my brother and his girlfriend with my versatile dancing skills. For example, I wasn’t aware I knew how to dance to banda music. Or bachatas. But apparently, I have missed my calling. Sadly, this is a talent I can only access when drinking.

    Ohhh well. In an attempt to master various talents/skills—think my failed tap career—I have decided to take a book binding class. That tap snafu really got to me. It made me feel like a loser and a quitter and someone with no tap capabilities. The last thing is true. Book binding might be more my speed. The first class was a bit of a doozy—the teacher told us we could go early but some especially bored individuals thought it’d be better to stand around and ask the teacher a lot of inappropriate questions. “Are you married?”, “do you have kids?”, and “want to adopt some?” were my faves. Closely followed by “what kind of car do you drive?” Man…6-hours every Saturday is going to be well-worth it.

  • A Boy and His Fancy Dog, A Carload of Dead Guys, Creeps Part 2, and A Great Modern Hero

     

    I saw a very depressing commercial the other day.  A mama polar bear and her baby bear were boogie boarding on a small ice sheet the size of…well a boogie board.  Damn global warming.  It sucked the air out of me to watch the poor bears on pathetically small ice floes and so I figure, hell, I gave money to save the honeybees, I should give some money to save the bears as well.  My cousin is dealing with global warming anxiety in a much different way.  He’s being sent to a therapist, firstly.  Seeing as he’s still a little kid, the therapist told his parents to let it play out.  And so he’s decided to build a boat so he can float on once the waters rise.  It would be just big enough for him and his fancy long-haired dog.  Which might be telling since he obviously has no plans for mami y papi.

     

    My friend walked by a car of two dead guys the other day while eating some bacon from the cafeteria.  She looked at the car and thought to herself now, that looks like a car of dead guys and she was right.  The police took a long time moving these dead guys and even left them in the car and towed them in the car back to the crime lab.  I wonder if they covered them.  The SF Chron online featured a pic of one of the dead guys.  He was just looking right at the camera.  Not creepy at all.

     

    Speaking of creepy, my co-worker handed me a list of creepy women (see my last post).  I don’t think he understood the assignment fully.  Here is the list:

     

    1.  Woman who had 10 abortions.
    2.  Woman who had her breasts removed and male genitals surgically attached.
    3.  Queen who bathed in the blood of young virgins for youthful skin (Eastern Europe, middle ages)
    4.  Gertrude Stein
    5.  My ex-girlfriend when she had PMS, a bad day at work, no pot and ran out of Prozac.
    6.  The older girl who hit me in the head with a muddy club with nails in it when I was 5 or 6 (no warning – I had several stitches in my ear) – my first encounter with a feminist.
    7.  Punk girl, singer in the Mutants (late 1970’s) who put raw liver in her coochi and went to work.
    8.  Joan Crawford (“Mommie Dearest“); Anne Sexton (drunk and masturbating in front of her young daughter); Lydia Lunch (used to be with Teenage Jesus and the Jerks)
    9.  Hillary Clinton and Janet Reno with respect to suicide of Vincent Foster and the Waco massacre (authorized by Reno).
    10.  Lorena Bobbit
    11.  Helen Gurley Brown – editor of Cosmopolitan, a “social x-ray”, refers to young womenas mouseburgers.
    12. Woman with Munchhausen syndrome (makes her kid sick because she likes the attention and the drama at the hospital)
    13.  Big Nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; head prison guard in a woman’s prison in a film I saw (1950’s).
    14.  Emily Dickinson – lived alone, liked to go to funerals, called a “lesbian vampire” by Camille Paglia.

     

    It is a very valiant effort demonstrating how well-read he is.  I was asking for creepy qualities, but I suppose some concrete examples can be helpful.  Most of these women aren’t really creepy according to my own highly complex and private definition of creepy.  They sound distressed.  Misunderstood.  Except for maybe that queen who bathed in the blood of virgins. 

     

     

    My newest hero is that crazy chick who had her beloved pit bull cloned.  Okay, that alone might make you crazy.  I think she sold her house for the money to have this procedure done in Korea.  I half-read a lot of news stories, so this might be all off.  Well, it so happens that this is a lady with a past.  A shady lady.  A lady who, along with some male accomplice, kidnapped some young Mormon missionary in London in the 60s, ties him to a bed, bound his hands with fur-lined handcuffs and forced him to be her dirty little love slave.  Hats off.  Well, you know…she’s also wanted in Tennessee of all places.  She got some 15-year-old kid to break into a house to get money for a fake leg for her beloved horse.  Could you make this story up?  Does she qualify as creepy?  Because if that’s what it takes, count me in. 

     

     

    Oh yeah…for your viewing pleasure (those who haven’t experienced visual and rhythmic greatness)…I give you…

    [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-aGTNS13SDU]

  • In the News, Bacon Lollys, and Creepy Girls

    In the news…

    There are times you can stumble across a news story that’ll sort of elate you. I’m not easily elated by anything I read in the paper, but last week was a doozy. I mean, the weirder, the better. It reminds me that this world is random and trippy and really, pretty unbelievable. The free version of our San Francisco paper has a crime page—“Crime and Punishment”—that lists various tales of mayhem, depravity and general weirdness. For example: “A convicted sexual predator who changed his name [from Michael Zasimovitch to Ava Zinlu—a marked improvement] at the request of the devil will be in court today for a trial on whether to keep him locked up in a state hospital.” His new name really does sound devil-given.

    Right beneath that story is a notice that the trial date was set in the case of Eric Munoz, an interesting man who robbed some crummy bank in crummy Foster City while wearing a yellow hardhat. Fairly ordinary stuff until the note he handed the teller: “Bank Robbery, I Have A Gon.” Dude, he spelled robbery right and gun phonetically? Well, sort of phonetically. Another story further down recounts the dramatic police chase of some drug-selling parolee who ran into a random house and was found sitting on the toilet.

    My best gal pal, Jim, used to live in some lean-to in the Mission full of very diverse and wacky characters. She took over a room that had been occupied by a guy who had gotten put away for attempting to rob a bank. His name was Rob, which seemed fitting. Anyhow, Rob eventually got out and developed some crush on Jim. He tried to woo her with his sexy bank robbery story and even took her for a ride in the country on his bad-ass motorcycle. Sad for him, it was all for naught—he was just too damn crazy. Filthy too, apparently, because all she had to remember him by was a holey mattress full of mouse babies.

    In other news…my funny-renewal project is taking hold slowly. It’s hard to get that back sometimes. And so sue me if I’m lazy and decide to steal from real, authentic chat logs. Funny happens when you’re not trying. The other day Kristin and I were discussing the wonderfulness of hugging chubby guys. But we did have to hash out whether all-over chub beats out the pot-belly and we decided general chub wins by a landslide. This was about a 10-minute conversation. We then talked about our favorite soggy, smelly shoes that we each love and how we need to replace them. This was then followed by a lively discussion about ordering a box of maple-bacon lollypops. We have 4 of those babies en route as we speak. My friend Romeo sent me this link for baconphiles: www.royalbaconsociety.com. I told Kristin I think I might need the bacon panties—stat!—but she misinterpreted this and wrote: “OMG you need to date a chef or a fat guy to have bacon panties…oh wait, we are not talking edible.” Yes, as tempting as that sounds, it might just lead to some strange infection. We sound very crass, but I swear, we’re good gals. She saw a rickshaw for sale on craigslist. We’re thinking about making some extra cash on the weekends.

    I have been considering the concept of creepiness for about a week now. As we all know, creepy girls are slightly more difficult to come by than creepy guys. And why is that? I polled some of my male friends for examples of things a normal girl could do to make them seem ‘creepy’. Following are some of their answers:

    1) Making a voodoo figure out of a guy’s hair.

    2) Arranging a meeting with his parents.

    3) Making a fake character on Facebook or MySpace to befriend a guy’s girlfriend.

    4) Taking something that belongs to you when she leaves your apartment—like your toothbrush. Or a picture of your family.

    5) Going through the trash to see whether the guy has purchased any prophylactics.

    6) Looking at you with no emotion.

    7) Driving by a guy’s house to see if he’s there.

    Well…it was partially what I was looking for. Certainly not as creative as I would have liked. I may just have to post this question on craigslist (yes, 2nd plug for craigslist) to see what the wack-jobs in these parts have to say about that. Stay tuned…

  • TRAUMA in HANDCUFFS and on BLIND DATES

    Pac-Man makes me nervous. My dad loaded it onto his computer and was playing it for like an hour yesterday. He was sweating. There is something inherently freaky about being chased—doesn’t matter if it’s ghosties or some dirty little kid playing tag. When I was a kid I would hide in very lame places every day at 5:30 when I heard my pop make his way up the steps. He would always pretend I was a very good hider, but most of the time I’d be either under the table or standing super still in a corner. Not so bright. Even now, I often have the urge to run away when I hear approaching footsteps. I must have been traumatized.

    Many fears and gnarly issues often stem from trauma. Childhood trauma. Of course, for some, trauma is an every day occurrence. My friend recently decided to be a dirty little freak and lock herself in handcuffs around a beam on her wrought-iron bed. Of course the time came to unlock the cuffs, and of course the key was nowhere to be found. Her man-friend decided he’d be really gentlemanly and help her rip one hand free before going to work. She was still half-shackled, so she really had to wrack her brain for a great solution. “That’s when it dawned on me to go to the fire station.” I am so sure. She rang the doorbell and waited as a small butch lesbian answered the door. Right as my friend (who now had a scrape on one hand from the yanking) was asking if this whole thing could be handled discreetly, a big burly sexy fire fighter came to the door, saw the handcuffs and called the whole firehouse over for a look. I guess they bolt-cut that baby off and she was set for her walk of shame past the now-open firehouse door.

    Adult trauma can be just as bad, if not worse than playground teasing for having peed your pants again. Several reliable sources tell me so. Recently, a friend of mine went on the worst date I think you could dream up. I mean wow. A friend of hers told her about www.crazyblinddate.com. Do not, I mean really don’t go there and torture yourself. Unless you want a horrible adventure with some jerk and maybe you like psychological / spiritual pain and heartache. So, you sign up and they hook you up with some unknown person who you meet at some previously agreed-upon location. They send some blurred out picture of this date of yours via email. So my friend shows up to meet this self-proclaimed EMO guy he is visibly disappointed. He may have even let out a sigh. He was wearing a Baby Gap-sized sweatshirt for Christ’s sake and he was the one who was disappointed.

    Then the awkward silence. Then the awkward conversation about nothing. About how he doesn’t work and he has no free time because he works. What? He cancelled his meal order, slammed down his credit card and said he thought she might have had some redeeming qualities, but alas…no. The kicker though—and seriously, I cringe when I think about it—is that after this terrible date, he tells her, “I have some super-duper Band-Aids for you.” Confused, she took them. “They should help cover your wounded heart.” He ran away down the street and she looked down and realized they were just ordinary Band-Aids. Jeeez. Like, I want to give him an award. That was by far the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard. And bizarre. Who are these people?  If you want to read the detailed story:  www.cupcakeg.blogspot.com

    This is for the birds…I saw a woman catch a sickly old pigeon the other day. I felt like a weirdo watching her stalk her prey from inside a local copy shop. This was before I realized everyone in the shop was watching her. “She works next door at the bank!” one of the guys shouted, “I think she’s a security guard.” Why, why, why. It’s a pigeon. And it’s a sick one to boot.

    Back at a Southern California State Penitentiary, the attorney I work for was busy visiting one of our dearest clients—that ALLEGED cop-killing paraplegic I’ve mentioned in blogs-past. Well, the attorney told him all about the sea gull we’d named after him and he got all excited and amused and started screaming and banging the table with his fists. I have now been commissioned to take a picture of our pathetic, single-footed mascot so the prisoner can see his namesake.