Some pictures I took last week of

W o o d s t o c k


(actually, from the archives of LIFE)

Homelessness and hobos, then and now

It's a fairly obvious elephant in the room: homelessness among working people is rising at an alarming rate in the US.

The Nation magazine published a list of things of "Ten Things You Need to Know to Live on the Streets" the other day. Which is telling of our times, I suppose. Although you wouldn't know it due to the lack of media coverage.

I actually found an interesting story on Foxnews of all places:

"Campgrounds all over the country are seeing an alarming number of people pulling up with tents, campers and RV's with nowhere else to go. What once was a symbol of American fun in the sun has now become an affordable refuge for those with no place to live."

At any rate, FYI, brought to you by The Nation magazine, here's a fun guide to being homeless!


1 Be prepared to be blamed for your circumstances, no matter how much they may be beyond your control. Think of ways to disabuse the public of common misconceptions. Don't internalize cruelty or condescension. Let go of your pride--but hold on to your dignity.

 2 There is no private space to which you may retreat. You are on display 24/7. Learn to travel light. Store valuables in a safe place, only carrying around what you really need: ID and documents for accessing services, a pen, etc. You can check e-mail and read at the library. You can get a post office box for a fee or use general delivery (free).

 3 Learn the best bathroom options, where you won't be rushed, turned away or harassed. Find restrooms where it's clean enough to put your stuff down, the stalls are big enough to change in and there's hot water so you can wash up. If you're in New York City go to Restrooms in New York.

 4 It's difficult to have much control over when, where and what you eat, so learn soup kitchen schedules and menus. Carry with you nuts, peanut butter or other foods high in protein. Click here to find a list of soup kitchens by state.

 5 Food and clothing are easier to find than a safe place to sleep--the first truth of homelessness is sleep deprivation. Always have a blanket. Whenever possible, sleep in groups with staggered schedules, so you can look out for one another, prioritizing children's needs over those of adults.

 6 Know your rights! Knowing constitutional amendments, legal precedents and human rights provisions can help you, even if they're routinely violated. In New York, for example, a 2003 court-ordered settlement strictly forbids selective enforcement of the law against the homeless. The Malcolm X Grassroots Movement offers another resource, and the ACLU has cards, brochures, fact sheets and films.

 7 Learn police patterns and practices. Be polite and calm to cops, even when they don't give the same respect. Support initiatives demanding independent police accountability. Link with groups from overlapping populations of nonhomeless and homeless people (i.e., black, Latino, LGBT groups) that are fighting police brutality and building nonpolice safety projects, like the Audre Lorde Project's Safe OUTside the System in Brooklyn. Organize your own CopWatch--and photograph, videotape and publicize instances of police abuse. Consider and support models like the Los Angeles Community Action Network or the People's Self Defense Campaign of the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement in Brooklyn.

 8 The First Amendment protects your right to solicit aid (panhandling), especially if your pitch or sign is a statement rather than a request. To succeed, be creative, funny, engaging ("I didn't get a bailout!"). Find good, high-traffic spots where the police won't bother you.

 9 Housing is a human right! Squat. Forge coalitions with nonhomeless but potentially displaced people in this era of mass foreclosures. Support United Workers in Baltimore, the Coalition on Homelessness in San Francisco, the Nashville Homeless Power Project. Learn about campaigns against homelessness in other nations, including the Landless Workers' Movement in Brazil and the Anti-Eviction Campaign in South Africa.

10 Don't go it alone! Always be part of an informal network of trust and mutual aid. Start your own organization, with homeless people themselves shaping the fight for a better life and world. Check out the Picture the Homeless Blog for news, updates and reports on homelessness in NY.

Thinking about the #1 tip: "Be prepared to be blamed for your circumstances..." really made me internalize the stigmas and misconceptions that come with living on the streets. I've been giving more money to panhandlers recently, trying to put things into perspective by realizing that, while many of the homeless in San Francisco do choose to this lifestyle, several do not. And for them, I hope to build more compassion.

On a lighter note, here is a mock PBS documentary about hobo history as told by John Hodgman:

Poems about riding my bike yesterday

I was scared to ride the bike at that moment
There are just some things you're not supposed to do with a full stomach,
like swimming and jumping jacks and all things fun.
Mothers like to threaten us with promises of cramps
making us think about our stomach and its needs.
In the same way, friends now threaten me
re: my helmetless ways.
But I don't want to see the point in it.
Wearing a helmet steals my freedom.
Nothing but a death grip.

I left the grocery store with a plastic bag hanging on handlebars
In it a pint of milk, bread and strawberries.
I made my exit and the Hare Krishnas were chanting
but it only clashed against the white noise of a bustling city street.
I wanted them to stop, they made me nervous with their stares
and unsolicited public demonstration of faith.
A friend was mugged by a Hare Krishna in DC years ago.
I made my getaway, and the bag got caught in the spokes.
The carton sprung a leak, and the milk sprayed at 360 degrees.
I stopped in the street, took it out, and left it leaking next to the Krishnas.
Their stares now directed towards the milk, they went silent.
I win.

I've had a beer, at a pub, alone and with a book.
I've hopped on the bicycle, a little more confident than I should be.
The wind feels cooler through my hair, I have more strength to charge the hills.
I'll be home soon, and the journey will be more of a blur than usual.
I'm on my street, just one block away.
And a car door swings open, blocking my path.
In a flash, I am filled with terror and let out a scream.
The woman in the Honda is Asian.
She must be, because when she yells
it's like a Bruce Lee scream.
I've swerved well, and I think: boy is she lucky.
My hospital bill would've been huge.

Robert Frank: Cafe in Beaufort, South Carolina

A slice of Americana

"That crazy feeling in America when the sun is hot on the streets and music comes out of the jukebox or from a nearby funeral, that’s what Robert Frank has captured in tremendous photographs taken as he traveled on the road around practically forty-eight states in an old used car (on Guggenheim Fellowship) and with the agility, mystery, genius, sadness and strange secrecy of a shadow photographed scenes that have never been seen before on film. For this he will definitely be hailed as a great artist in his field. After seeing these pictures you end up finally not knowing any more whether a jukebox is sadder than a coffin. That’s because he’s always taking pictures of jukeboxes and coffins—and intermediary mysteries like the Negro priest swatting underneath the bright liquid belly mer of the Mississippi at Baton Rouge for some reason at dusk or early dawn with a white snowy cross and secret incantations never known outside the bayou—Or the picture of a chair in some café with the sun coming in the window and setting on the chair in a holy halo I never thought could be caught on film much less described in its beautiful visual entirety in words."

--Jack Kerouac, from the introduction to the Robert Frank book of photographs entitled The Americans, published in 1959.

Failing celebrity pop quizzes, predicting the president

Two years ago, I was applying for a job with a blog site. The site was geared towards women: the gossipy, Cosmo-loving, Lifetime Network-watching types of women. Mainstream women, that wanted to read fluffy infotainment. But the blog was supposed to cover topical, political news (the Presidential elections were swiftly approaching). So I thought, 'Brilliant! Perhaps I can break through the apathy and boredom these types of women feel towards politics. I will make women smarter, through the brilliance of my writing!'

Alas. I was interviewed but did not get the job, as I failed a pop quiz on recent celebrity news.

Interviewer: So, do you stay up to date on celebrity news too?

Me: Yeah, you mean like Britney Spears and Angelina Jolie?

Interviewer: Yeah.

Me: Oh yeah, like, I read Britney Spears is kinda going crazy, like more so than usual. And, yeah, Brad and Angelina just adopted a kid from a third world nation. Again!

Interviewer: I didn't hear about that.

Me: Oh, yeah I think they did. Or maybe they had one of their own, yeah, I think that was it, yeah I was just confused there for a second. Sorry.

So anyways. Before I scored and bombed the interview, I had to write a substantial writing sample based on several prompts that the blog people provided. One of which was to predict the top three presidential contenders. Mind you, this was written to be fun and goofy, and it was written in September of 2007:

1. Hillary Clinton: Ahead of high-profile challengers Barack Obama and John Edwards, Clinton is the Democrat to beat, and the GOP knows it. Even President Bush and Newt Gingrich think she’ll get her party’s nomination. Polls claiming voters don’t like her personality still haven’t stopped her from beating out the competition. Fun facts: she’s a Scorpio and her favorite color is Yellow. We could assume this is one passionate lady that looks to the sunny side of life.

2. Barack Obama: Barack Hussein Obama has arguably been attacked more than any other presidential candidate, but has still managed to trail Clinton by no more than 25 percentage points since January. Fellow candidates claim he lacks experience, conservatives question his Muslim background, and African American critics claim he isn’t “black enough”. But despite it all, his powerful speeches sometimes carry the news of the day. Fun fact: Currently a smoker, Obama claims he’ll quit when elected President since smoking is not allowed in the White House. Note to Barack: nicotine gum is sooo unpresidential.

3. Rudolph Giuliani: Although he started off in the race neck and neck with John McCain, and is now closely running against Fred Thompson, Giuliani has steadily held the lead among fellow Republican competitors since February. And even though many have criticized him for capitalizing on his 9/11 experience (the Onion’s article about the “President of 9/11” has been referenced by pundits), his favorability rating among voters is higher than any other candidate—including Democrats—at 59% according to Gallup. Fun facts: His favorite movie is the Godfather. Let’s hope the film hasn’t influenced his political career.

Two out of three ain't bad.

My new favorite song, and album

Well for the time being anyways: Cass McCombs' "You Saved My Life" from the album Catacombs, which came out a week ago. The video below was actually directed by Eric Fensler of "Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job!" It's a far cry from the late night bizarro sketch comedy that is the "Awesome" show, but captures the emotional pull well, and especially proves moving at the end:

Hard Times

My new favorite way to waste time, Zefrank's "Hard Times":

On worshiping false idols

I really don't feel any sense of loss with the death of Michael Jackson. Not because I was never a fan of his music, or was never able see the cultural impact of his work. I mean, what would the world of pop music be without the sonic mastery of Britney Spears or Justin Timberlake!

You cannot convince me, however, that the man behind the star: the father, "babysitter" or general "friend of children," the man that had nicknamed his child "blanket" and nearly threw the infant off of a balcony as a cute publicity stunt, will leave his family any less off as he shuffles off the 'ole mortal coil. The same man who was tried on multiple counts of child molestation and conspicuously settled for outrageous sums of money, who readily admitted to sleeping with children and showed not one ounce of remorse or fear of judegment; the same man who even named his daughter after himself and, by all accounts, did not have a sexual relationship with his children's mother and most likely was gay and attracted to young boys. I am sorry to those who want to indulge in '80s nostalgia and listen to his songs now made bittersweet, but I will never accept the notion that an artist's place in the course of pop history could ever cancel out gross abuse of children in any way, shape or form. And it is no less than absurd that, when I bring these issues with Jackson up to any of my friends, they feel the need to point out his "loss of childhood" as a prepubescent superstar. As if it were an adequate excuse to molest children as an adult.

And the Reverend Al Sharpton, the nerve of this cretin to latch on to the sensitivity of the fans and family that seiged downtown Los Angeles by inventing a half-baked conspiracy that the media was out to tarnish his dear saint's image! What a show! What an act of pure revisionist drivel! Sharpton has a fabulous flair for the dramatic--they don't call him a reverned for nothing:

"I am here because of the disgraceful and the despicable way some elements of the media have tried to destroy the legacy and image of Michael Jackson. You have had other entertainers that have had issues in their life. But you [the media] did not degrade and denigrate them...Show the same respect for Michael and Michael's family that you showed Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. I don't think the media understand who Michael was. I don't think they have any cultural significance."

Right. Because we all know that Elvis and Sinatra also slept with children at their ranch full of roller coasters and chimpanzees.

And how does the media respond? In typical fashion, by hearing no evil and speaking no evil. They reap his childhood for accounts of child labor and exploitation, swoon over his steady rise in the world of pop music, and quickly tip toe over a few "controversies" here and there. The day MJ died, the MSM died yet another death. Here we have it, folks, CNN reduced to playing this "E! True Hollywood Story" on repeat.

NYT columnist Bob Herbert wrote a brilliant peice on how the media's treatment of MJ's death is a fair analogy or reflection of this age of denial, the one in which American prefers the reality of "reality" television--that is, fiction masquerading as reality, to that of, well, actual reality.

Reality is unforgiving. There is no escape. Behind the Jackson facade was the horror of child abuse. Court records and reams of well-documented media accounts contain a stream of serious allegations of child sex abuse and other inappropriate behavior with very young boys. Jackson, a multimillionaire megastar, was excused as an eccentric. Small children were delivered into his company, to spend the night in his bed, often by their parents.

One case of alleged pedophilia against Jackson, the details of which would make your hair stand on end, was settled for a reported $25 million. He beat another case in court.

The Michael-mania that has erupted since Jackson’s death — not just an appreciation of his music, but a giddy celebration of his life — is yet another spasm of the culture opting for fantasy over reality. We don’t want to look under the rock that was Jackson’s real life.

As with so many other things, we don’t want to know.

And if you think I'm out of line here, consider this: seven US troops died in Afghanistan on the same day that Michael Jackson overdosed on pills. Seven men went through significant pain in the line of duty, while a neurotic pop star overdosed on pills. But who cares about those guys right? None them could moonwalk, or dated Lisa Marie Presley, or hold any Guinness Book of World Records titles in cosmetic surgery.

Off into obscurity go the sacrificial lambs...

Here's a thought: try being less of an asshole

I think I may have to add a new feature to the old blog and chain, entitled "Here's a thought: try being less of an asshole." The other day I decided I really wanted a job I had applied for, and passed on, two years ago. I don't want to name names, but this would have been a kickass publication to work for. The person who had this position left because she got hired for Wired magazine. So I very sweetly, and oh-so-cordially, decided to check in to see how the editor who almost hired me was doing, and to let him know that I would like to be kept in mind for future job positions. Here is his response:


Amity-

Thanks for checking in. We don’t have any openings. In fact, we had to lay off the associate editor earlier this year because of budget cuts at Stanford. I don’t anticipate any changes to our economic condition for at least a year.

Good luck,

(name withheld)

It's not really that rude. But, if you can imagine the font size twice as large as shown here, you can see that it was toooootally unnecessary.

Hangovers

Besides your standard alcohol-induced day-after illness of headache and nausea, there are so many other types that I have been pondering as of late (as I write this with aforementioned, standard hangover). There is a food hangover (which in my case typically follows another medical condition known as "burrito regret"), there is the love hangover (that is, when the unflattering lens of rationality takes hold to reveal irritating idiosyncrasies), there is a movie called "The Hangover" which I haven't heard anything good about so it's probably crappy, and then there's the economic hangover. The economic hangover can take on many forms, and, if one is looking for it, one cannot escape it...it is especially inescapable these days.

The picture at the bottom of this post should provide the perfect symbol of an economic hangover. It is of the failing construction project of the Echelon resort in Las Vegas, an ambitious $4 billion plan to build a casino the size of two football fields, four hotels with 5,300 rooms, and 25 restaurants. Construction was postponed last August for 3 to 4 fiscal quarters (yeah, I'm sure the project will be up and running any day now), and was supposedly set to finish in 2010. The developers fancied it a grand, classy affair, with the hopes of giving the Venetian a run for its money. But before they could get to work, they had a little celebratory destruction, doing it up all-American style, they set some fireworks and decimated the historic Stardust Casino, as it was impeding on their now ill-fated vision.

I shall not shed a tear if the grand plans for the Echelon never come to fruition. Especially not after discovering the following footage of the Stardust's implosion at the hands of the Echelon developers in March of 2007. When it opened in 1958, the Stardust was the largest casino in Las Vegas history, it launched the careers Siegfried and Roy and was a major venue for Andrew Dice Clay and Wayne Newton for years. It's sign became an icon of the strip itself, and of the jazzy '50s Rat Pack-influenced era of Las Vegas itself.

First, witness the excitement of the Stardust's untimely death:




And now, the ultimate hangover, coming to the Las Vegas strip in the form of a completely abandoned construction site:





Hangovers can be a real bitch.

Happy Independence Day!

Emilio Gutierrez Soto (R) meets with reporters following his release in January

Heroes of Mexico

I've been trying to read a lot about what's going on with America's neighbors to the south recently. I feel that most Americans, disturbingly, are completely unaware of just how quickly things are spiraling out of control. Tijuana is no longer a haven for frat boys on Spring Break, Swine Flu is not what's killing most citizens at an alarming rate; the chilling onslaught of disappeared women in Juarez is probably the least of the country's worries.

Quick facts:

-- In 2008, more than 6,000 Mexicans died from drug violence, a larger loss than the total number of American troops that were killed in Iraq. Some estimates are higher (by some 1,000 Mexican lives).

--Since 2000, two dozen reporters have been officially reported as murdered, and at least seven have been recorded missing. An unknown number have fled to the U.S.

--More than 150 people from Mexico, including police officers, businessmen and at least one prosecutor, have sought asylum since October 2007, according to U.S. Customs and Border Protection officials in El Paso.

Just this month, Mother Jones magazine published--rather admirably under the circumstances--the grizzly story of Emilio Gutierrez Soto, a former reporter for El Diario in northern Chihuahua state, who's head is wanted by nearly everyone in his home country: the Mexican Government, the Army and the drug cartels (all of whose members are practically interchangeable anyhow). While he has successfully filed for political asylum and now lives in the U.S., his head is no less being hunted.

I say MoJo is admirable here, as scant news outlets have told this very symbolic, very prescient tale of Mexico and its base human rights abuses towards this poor journalist. Gutierrez Soto has kept his head down; his eyes and ears shut when it comes to the gross corruption and barbarism that he has witnessed. He isn't an insatiable muckraker, he knows the stakes, and besides, he has a young son to think about. His only misstep may have been the fact that he never accepted any bribes from anyone, and he refused to publish "corrections" to his stories when certain authorities threatened or bribed him to do so.

Stories that got him in trouble included one in which he reported that the mayor had peed in a gutter after leaving a club (intentionally leaving out the fact that the mayor was exiting the club with known drug pin leaders), and one in which he reported that a drug counselor was fired from the local school district. At that point, Gutierrez Soto was a wanted man. But what really tipped the scales, and what sent hordes of henchman after the journalist and single father, was a story involving the Army. One day, six Mexican soldiers stormed a run down boarding house, looting and stealing food and jewelry from migrant workers. The citizen reporter could not resist the urge to help in any way he could. After he broke the story, there was no turning back. Gutierrez Soto quickly went into hiding, and soon realized that his only option, should he want to live, was to get out of the country and seek asylum in the U.S.

Seven months later, Gutierrez was released from a Texas detention center run by Deco, Inc. And it is not speculative to say that if Obama was not elected into office, it never would have happened since the Bush administration's policies were such that all those from Mexico seeking political asylum be detained immediately; many indefinitely.

Gutierrez Soto's attorney, Carlos Spector, told the Washington Post:

"I think that once the Obama administration came in and laid out their policies and their vision, that we were going back to what America is all about, due process...The Bush administration was characterized by silence, non-accountability and inhumane treatment of detainees."

The story by Mother Jones is highly illuminating, and at times feels very personal. The following quote is haunting, and completely saddened me (the reporter describes Gutierrez Soto):

"He sees Mexico as genetically corrupt. A corrupt Aztec ruling class fused with the trash of Spain, the conquistadors. This thesis helps him face the reality around him.

'In Mexico,' he says, 'we operate in disguise. There is one face and under that is another mask. Nothing is up-front.'"

I feel for this man, and the many brave, honest Mexican citizens that make this journey to the north and succeed. They should be celebrated as heroes--not detained, for they know that staying in their homeland is tantamount to a death sentence; yet they move forward, and tell their stories anyhow.

San Francisco's Ocean Beach, with the Cliff House on the right.

The Woman, the Myth, the Legend

This morning I educated myself on life and times of "San Francisco Carol," a 75-year-old woman that is living Ocean Beach. It's hard to say "next to" or "near" Ocean Beach, as SF Carol is more "of" the beach, and of the elements, than most Bay Area natives could ever dream.

According to the Surfer's Journal article I read this morning, Carol Shuldt has been body surfing naked since the ripe old age of 10, and has since become something of a local legend in her own right. An extreme case of naturalist tendencies has seen Carol, in decades both past and present, sleeping on the beach despite owning a beach house, recycling to the point of composting her own waste, and becoming a staunch anti-drug advocate (she was even said to have battled it out with Timothy Leary in the '60s).

Her OB digs, a peachy A-frame bungalow, comes replete with wild cactus and other greenery obscuring the front windows, and a psychedelic mural on the side featuring Saint Francis of Assisi at it's center. Over the years it has provided shelter for many well-known surfers, as well as drug addicts she has taken under her wing in the hopes of rehabilitation. Oftentimes, according to the article, she has accommodated so many house guests that she sleeps in her kitchen.

The pictures in the feature story are both revelatory and inspiring (unfortunately I do not own a scanner), and there is a portrait of Carol laughing that I would love to describe: her shoulder-length, wavy orange-red hair is pinned into a '50s era bouffant, and her fuchsia pink lipstick provides a perfect frame for the generous rack of fierce, slightly-yellowed pearlies. What appears to be a kitchen hand rag is tied at her neck and draped over her back like a cape, and her pastel-colored, daisy bikini top completes the retro look. But it is her skin that is most striking: it's braved the elements for so long that it appears to have resembled the elements themselves.

Carol recalls the times she spent with her first husband in her twenties and thirties:

"It was like a family...Your generation has such a hard time understanding because you're into technology. But people didn't just drive to the beach, call their friends on their cell phones, surf, and drive away. We lived on the beach and lived with the beach. There was a community around the fire. We needed the fire. We had to live with the elements. We had to feel."

Her skin, now shriveled, coarse; and with deeply marked grooves, is lightly speckled brown to create an overall brownish tone. While I am sure that many a pale San Franciscan has spotted Carol on the beach and shuddered at what may be viewed as unsightly skin damage, her unorthodox flesh could also be seen as an evolution of sorts, for I am sure it has shielded and camouflaged her against the rough sands of many a Northern California beach.

Even her demeanor appears rooted in the elements. Jaimal Yogis, who authored the article (in addition to Saltwater Buddha: A Surfer's Quest to Find Zen on the Sea), and also happens to be Carol's neighbor, writes:

"She speaks in a stream of consciousness that is akin to watching sea foam change into multiple patterns--connecting, separating, reconnecting--in the ebb and flow of the tides."

It just struck me as such a revolutionary concept: become more connected to the elements, and you can not only understand them--you can become them.

John Wayne

Second installment of fiction, well--this one is semi-fiction. I did in fact once have a collection of John Wayne portraits on my wall as a teenager.

Not many people know this, but I was once enamored with the Duke. John Wayne. That hard-bit all-American hero with the sour look of a cowboy that can smoke a half dozen cigarettes in his mouth at one time; in the blazing desert sun while lassoing a buffalo the size of Oklahoma to the ground at breakneck speeds. I know not of his many films, his real-life amours, nor the temperament and tenacity that, I am sure, made him a force to be reckoned with on the set. I do know one thing however: I did not follow the Duke. The Duke followed me.

In pawnshops, thrift stores, garage sales and flea markets is where he found me. On deep velvet, hazy canvas, in dark oily strokes, and sometimes even gentle breezes of delicate pastel. His eyes looked steely/his eyes looked faded/his eyes looked upon me through artist renderings that could shake a young girl to the core. Why did I find ways to take him home with me every time our eyes locked? How could I not?

How did he know to be here as I casually perused fine vinyl selections, weather-beaten tennis rackets, Chia Pets, and scintillating 1950s Playboys?

I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in the Duke. Ours was a connection that no generational gap could tarnish. At one point I dedicated an entire wall of my bedroom to this man of majesty. With intricate, brassy gold frames clustered like patchwork between lesser ones of faded black and imposter wood, Mr. Wayne’s many faces nestled snuggly.

In smoky gatherings of marijuana-infused revelry rested the Duke, persevering and staring blankly onwards. Crowds evaporated, atmospheric college rock died and morphed into Nina Simone soul and Sam Cooke molasses. The air thinning and the moon glow cooing through the blinds, and a boy on my arm that I wish were as great as my one-dimensional cowboy.

Sugar and Spice

And all things nice...it's what little girls are made of, right? Wrong. May I present as evidence the following video, brought to you by Sarah Haskins at Current TV, which proves that this classic rhyme could use an update. How about "Deodorant and cream cheese and canned croissants, that's what..." Naw. Sorry. That doesn't rhyme at all! But that's all I got.



Credit to Sean for the hot vid.

Sparkles!

Iranian press totally punked

Big shout-out to one of my favorite local sketch comedy groups, the San Francisco-based Kasper Hauser, who successfully made Iranian headlines today with their spoof book Obama's Blackberry.

This new work of satire makes obviously bogus claims that Kasper Hauser, a group most likely named after the famous 19th century wolf boy, have hacked into the President's personal phone service. And now, the Iranian government-funded "Press TV" has come out with the story as a legitimate news item, referring to the comedy troup as "cyber hackers" and "terrorists." Somebody, anybody, please destroy their uranium enrichment plants--I don't trust rogue states that don't have a sense of humor.

Interview questions?



So I may end up interviewing this fine chap for an arts magazine some time this week. Trying to come up with some good questions. So far all I want to know is where he learned to dance, and what music--other than his own--inspires him to dance.

Archie and Veronica Wed

I don't know what disturbs me more: that Archie chose Veronica over Betty, or that I am actually really mad about a 60-something year old comic book character proposing to his fictitious teenage girlfriend. It is rather depressing though. I mean, this Archie character had to choose between two girls that look exactly alike, only one is blond and the other brunette. Other distinguishing character traits? The blond has a heart of gold and the other one is a total bitch. But then again, the bitch had all the money to inherit, so there you go. If the comics are meant to reflect reality, I guess it isn't entirely unlikely that this would happen--especially during an economic downturn.

It was really interesting to see the kinds of news items that came out of this comic book development. Jezebel, the women's Gawker site that sometimes lamely poses as a feminist response to popular culture (it's no feministing.com), decided to open up a debate about blonds v brunettes. You go, you pro-woman culture vultures!

"...in addition to surveys that indicate more billionaires have brown-haired wives, and most men would rather marry a brunette, a look back through the annals of pop culture shows that the sassy, dark-haired girl is more likely to come out on top than the boring, blonde girl-next-door..."

Wow. Why read Cosmo when I've got Jezebel to tell me what men really want.

I got a real kick out of The Atlantic's break down of the major comic book event:

"Veronica is the girl Archie worships, and accepts abuse from, the girl for whom he is only sometimes good enough, polished enough, or rich enough to escort. If Veronica’s fortune ever withers, and when her looks inevitably decline, it isn’t clear what she and Archie will have left. The recession—or any edition of Bravo’s Real Housewives—provides all too many examples of what happens to a marriage when one partner’s financial expectations, whether of opulence or simple security, are disappointed...

If Archie wanted a life partner, a wife who knows how to work on a relationship through decades of disappointment and joy, Betty Cooper would have been an easy choice. She could have helped him figure out what he wants to do with his life, because she has dreams and ambitions of her own: She wants to be a journalist—a potentially quixotic goal as the industry crumbles in 2009, but then, she has plenty of practice chasing lost causes."

Insightful? yes. Great rhetoric wasted on cheeseball 1950s Era comic book characters? Totally.

Oh, and of course The Onion had to do a Man on the Street regarding the Betty v Veronica debate:

Noah Magee,
Systems Analyst
"I'd pick Veronica. I’ve picked Veronica every day since puberty, as a matter of fact."

Elaine Tekle,
City Auditor
"If that guy knows the first thing about anything, he'll choose Betty. Or Veronica would be pretty great, too. Actually, he can't really go wrong.”

Theo Brotman,
Lehr Operator
“Married? Oh, no! This is totally going to break up The Archies."

But leave it to the NYT to reveal one little tidibit that can shed light on this travesty: Michael E. Uslan wrote this Archie issue, a man credited with writing and producing The Dark Knight.

So if this story gets all dark and bleak and extreme terrorism is involved, you better bet I'm gonna start buying up issues, only this time with a zeal not felt as a preteen bored in the register line at the grocery store.

Were You Aware of It?

"Jack Ruby owned seventeen dachshunds, whom he referred to as 'his children.' In an astonishing coincidence, all of his dogs were named either Lincoln, Kennedy, or Oswald, except one, which was named 'Li'l Grassy Knoll.'

Meanwhile, Jaqueline Kennedy kept seventeen cats. She disliked the animals, but kept a pack of trained felines for the hunting of voles. This was an ancient European pastime akin to fox hunting, but replacing the dogs with cats, the fox with voles and/or shrews (moles and mice are disqualifiers), and the horses with single-speed bicycles. Her passion for the sport, which bordered on addiction, was considered a potential liability by some within the White House, who feared that many in mainstream America, who rarely eat vole, would perceive the sport as an aristocratic European fancy. Still, it was practiced on the sly, and as a result, most of Washington, D.C., is still voleless. "

--John Hodgman, The Areas of My Expertise

Shepherding becomes eclectic

"I know you wanna herd sheep so bad it's like acid your my mouth, Johnny." --Patrick Swayze, Point Break.

(The following is one of several flash fiction pieces I've written recently)


The Bench

He was kicking the pebbles with the toe of his sneaker. With furrowed brow weighing heavy as shoulders, he felt the sagging despair of words lost in the thunderclap. She breathed and waited for something to happen, anything; a hurdle to slow the steady beat of her heart. Her teeth began to chatter seconds past the first chilled drop of rain hit the back of her neck now arched to the sky.

Moments alone together were as fleeting as the clouds overhead, and they both knew it. But teenage pride was hard to shake, every word muttered too ripe for the mocking. She felt invisible to him as he took the Swiss Army knife to the seat of the bench, piercing the space that separated him from the warm flesh he felt helpless before. A last act of faith, he thought, a faith that she wouldn’t forget him as the seasons waltzed along and left them both adrift. School’s out for summer, as the Top 40 song went—school’s out forever.

The fog was too thick to see whales. The rest of the class had vanished towards the bus. He removed his hand from the wooden bench and revealed the markings he had carved, “Tim and Anna ’73.”

"From Burger It Came"

People who do not believe in sex education in the schools should watch this animated short film by Dominic Bisignano. Children should not live in fear that they may one day contract HIV/AIDS from eating a hamburger--it just isn't right.

Oh Snap!



For my third installment of Oh Snap! I'd like to do something a little different. Instead of recounting some heated argument from long ago and then writing down a major burn that I just thought of as I sat at my computer several months or years later, I will recount a total burn that I blurted out in public just yesterday as a man attempted to steal my wallet from my purse.

Today's Snap finds our hero (me) uncomfortably shuffling towards the center of a sardine tin bus on her way to the Upper Haight district of the city of San Francisco. Her left arm is raised to grasp the bar well above her head for support. Her right is extended along the front of a medium-sized black satchel that has been left open, due to the fact that a large San Francisco magazine with Barack Obama on the cover is jutting out. She looks over towards the purse, thinking of checking the time on her phone, when she notices a heavy-set man of African American descent with a black Raider's jacket. He is holding his jacket over his hand which is slowly hovering above her purse, disabling her from looking inside.

Amity: Are you trying to steal something from my purse?

Pickpocket: (In authoritave tone of indignation) EXCUSE ME?!

Amity: You're trying to get into my purse. GEEE-SUS!

She moves further back in the bus, away from him, covering the top of her bag. A few stops down, her eyes move hawkish and she carefully studies the hands of the pickpocket as he walks towards the back of the bus as well. She is cushioned by a few men of medium height, but can still see the pickpocket's every move.

She notices that the pickpocket is now dangerously close to a short girl of college age who is carrying a messenger bag. As the bus pushes forward from its last stop, the pickpocket suddenly adjusts himself and moves away from her, putting his sports jacket on. The girl zips the side pocket of her bag, and scowls up at the pickpocket.

Girl: Hey, come on.

Amity: (yelling so that her voice carries across entire bus) IS HE TRYING TO STEAL FROM YOU TOO?

Everyone stares at our hero as if she were certifiable.

Girl nods. A soft-spoken Asian man to our hero's right asks who stole from her.

Amity: (pointing) THAT MAN! BLACK...JACKET! BLACK JACKET!

Random black man from the back of the bus: SURE, BLAME THE BLACK MAN!

Amity: BLACK JACKET I SAID BLACK JACKET! DON'T BE A RACIST!

Random: You know our president's a black man!

Amity: DON'T BE A RACIST!

The pickpocket is now hurriedly moving out the door of the bus, with the random man trailing him. Our hero looks down at her magazine, saddened that our president's name has been used in vain.


Fin.

Doogie Howser Orchestra

I never even really liked this show, but now I am caught up in both nostalgia and want in equal measure.

Endurance and the American Way

“Here in the half-light they lie, these sprawling, unconscious forms, their cots side by side, their clothing hung in listless disarray ... a girl is sprawled, her lips moving in pain, as she moans incoherently, and jerks her hands. Bending over her is a man, her ‘trainer’ apparently, who massages her swollen feet with some ointment. Beside her, another girl is lying, her mouth open to reveal her gold-crowned molars, while flies crawl across her closed eyes and buzz against her chin.” (Alice Elinor, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, August 8, 1928).

The above passage is from a news article on Depression Era dance marathons. Marathons which involved depraved, poverty-striken American couples dancing for an average of 40 days straight with 15 minute breaks every hour. Dancers were motivated by the 12 meals (hardly square) they received each day, as well as a grand prize of--in some cases--roughly a thousand dollars cash. Meanwhile, motivation for the organizers consisted of all the income to be made from wealthy onlookers with nothing better to do. June Havoc, a former child actor and participant in such dances in the 30s as a teenager, explained to Time magazine in 1959:

“Our degradation was entertainment; sadism was sexy; masochism was talent.”

My interest on the subject was aroused as I sat through my third viewing of the 1969 Sydney Pollack film They Shoot Horses, Don't They? starring Jane Fonda. And my interest in watching this film yet again came from being introduced to "Dancing with the Stars"--a far cry from the brutal marathon style; nevertheless, degrading and strange on some level.

What strikes me about dance show entertainment--whether it is performed to garner attention to professional performers, or to degrade average Americans competing for sustenance, is that it is a perversion of dance--pure and simple. When I think of dancing couples I want to think of old-timey romance; innocent encounters with first loves. I don't want to think of C-list celebrities in gaudy ice skating outfits smiling until their faces are sore. And I sure as hell don't want to think of men and women on the brink of collapse, swaying back and forth like circus animals in a Depression Era scheudenfraude.

Here are some fun archival pics of dance marathons I found upon investigation:






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This is the death of dance and romance. This is the American Way.

Tupac is Dead

I don't care what TMZ reports. I know that Tupac Shakur is dead because rap music is dead. I fortuitously discovered one of his songs long forgotten on ye 'ole iPod shuffle the other day, "Keep Ya Head Up." The lyrics are provocative, catchy; overwhelmingly positive and pro-woman. I'd never paid attention to them before--I just liked the song's melody and danciness. Got a nice bounce to it. Anyhew, if only more rappers followed this brave man's lead into writing intelligible, respectful songs about women, I do believe rap would not be dead...like Tupac.

And since we all came from a woman
Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman
I wonder why we take from our women
Why we rape our women, do we hate our women?
I think it's time to kill for our women
Time to heal our women, be real to our women
And if we don't we'll have a race of babies
That will hate the ladies, that make the babies
And since a man can't make one
He has no right to tell a woman when and where to create one
So will the real men get up
I know you're fed up ladies, but keep your head up

(Sigh)

Golden Gate Park totally dissed

Last month's issue of California Home and Design listed Mission Bay Park as the Number One park in San Francisco. That park looks like this:


Ah, California Home and Design: catering to folks who really don't know much about anything outside of the home. Remarkably, although one of my favorites, Dolores Park, made the cut at #2, Golden Gate Park wasn't even mentioned. Golden Gate Park! Where botanical gardens abound, two major museums of the Arts and Sciences await, playing fields and tennis courts run aplenty, windmills...like, sit there...and buffaloes roam! Yes buffaloes!

This caused a major sensation at my workplace a week ago, as our office windows overlook the little slice of the Mission Bay Park, with its imported greenery wedged between a toxic inlet off the Bay and the industrial no man's land that is the outskirts of the UCSF Mission Bay Campus.

Hey California Home and Design, why don't you make lists about stuff you know, like all things domestic and inside of the home!

Jamie Lidell, From the Basement

Just started watching this amazing DVD of live performances, brought to audiophiles fresh from the hands of epic rock producer Nigel Godrich. The DVD, entitled"From the Basement," came out in March but is new to me. There are some particularly amazing performances by Radiohead, The White Stripes and Sonic Youth. But someone who really blew me away--this funk singer I had never heard of and probably wouldn't be interested in if I had--gave a highly impressive performance. Ladies and gentleman, Jamie Lidell:

A Great Guide to Wellness*

Today marks the millionth billionth time that Amity has found herself in bed and sick from a cold or flu when she should be a good little busy bee, out there in the real world of productivity, weather-related small talk and overwhelming coffee intake.

But in the fake world, the one where only me and some type of unidentifiable, untreatable soul-sucking leach of an illness contracted hither or thither via subway train, public restroom, unwashed bowl; loved one's mouth...life can be good. Life can be great! Below, please find a list of FAQs for the sickly and doomed. PLEASE NOTE: If you have swine flu...boy have I got a joke for you that I just totally made up:


A: Knock, knock
B: Who's there?
A: Oink oink.
B: Oink oink who?
A: Oink oink I've got that pig flu!
B: ..uh...you mean "swine flu"?
A: Yeah! Same thing! And I'm a gonna kill you!
B: This is really awkward, er, why did you come to my door?
A: Uh...this is just a classic joke format and not meant to be taken literally?
B: Right. I am slamming this door! Good day sir!


Q: Amity, how do I combat the bitter loneliness plaguing my soul?

A: I'm glad you asked. A common side effect of the common cold and/or flu.

Q: So what's the answer?

A: Sleep more! That way there's no loneliness, just dreams.

Q: Isn't that a Steve Bruele quote?

A: Shhhnext question!

Q: How do I find the strength to go on? There are so many things that people want to sell me to get better and I have no idea what to ingest!

A: I strongly advise flushing all Airborne products down the toilet. They are a sham! Film flam! You're like the elephant in that Disney cartoon movie with the "magic feather," trying to fly. Just drop the feather, Dumbo, you will fly if you believe! Also, fruits that make your throat scratch are good. Think oranges and pineapples, I have no idea why but they help.

Q: This general malaise: why?

A: Your body hates you right now, in turn, you are hating life. Copious amounts of Nyquil and Theraflu are commonly accepted as legitimate medical treatment for this condition among the glitterati of the medical community. Drink and be merry!

Q: Speaking of drinking and being merry, can I do that whilst sickly? I want some booze!

A: Ah, quite the controversial topic. Fact: hot toddies are soothing to the throat, as well as soul. Fact: all you need is 4 parts whiskey to 1 part hot water, fresh lemon, and honey. Cheers to your health!

Q: I feel more confused than when I started asking these questions.

A: Let me put it this way: if two hands clapping make noise, then what is the sound of one? I.e., if your bowl is already full, how am I to help you fill it?



* Not written under the influence of Nyquil.

The Best Parable for Relationships

Can be found in Shel Silverstein's children's book "The Missing Piece Meets the Big O." What could be more simple, profound, and true than this charming little tale?

Enjoy this little film version found on the youtubes: