Despite the G.reat W.eenie, DC Teems With Activist Spirit

But they are a little clumpy in the summer.

So I was informed by reliable PD sources that for ten hours a day, seven days a week, any sick person can experience the true blue jubilation of being subjected to the workings of a full-scale police station without actually getting beat down and then booked for (blink) “resisting arrest.” Yep, DC’s got a Museum of Crime and Punishment, which apparently includes all sundry items from a lie detector you can try to pass to the “artifacts" of "criminal consequences": guillotine, gas chamber, electric chair, lethal injection machine, self-created devices for injury and escape [eh? now that is a criminal consequence? you have to fashion your own weapons? nice], and Al Capone’s jail cell.” Wait a sec – aren’t some of these things certain states still like to use at 12:01 a.m? And are things “artifacts” if they are still in use? I know, details, details.

The museum, it turns out, belongs to the school of Realism. You pay hella dough to get into and out of the system, and, with seemingly no irony, the museum charges 12-59 year olds as adults. Huh. Couldn’t have predicted that. It is almost like this museum is guiding national policy.

Getting ready to move to (or from) DC yet? If that doesn’t get you to turn on your printing press and crack open your Realities of the Prison Industrialist Complex Statistics Manual, it turns out the museum employs (?) black men in orange jumpsuits to desiccate as they pound the muggy summer sidewalk, "inviting" folks in. Now, that shit is just plain ol' FUCKED UP. Unbelievably, no locals are becoming summer sweat puddles next to these fellas fliering AGAINST the museum or contents thereof – or at least handing out accurate pro-dignified-life literature. I mean, where the hell ARE the skinny white anarchist crews when ya need ‘em? Is there a Franti show somewhere I don’t know about? Shit, if folks were down to organize I’d crank out the fliers. Shit, I’ll make the MyFace group. Send me word.

However, lest you believe that G. Whiz’s DC has become apolitical cesspool waiting for salvation from the beautiful Obama, right close to this museic atrocity, I caught up with the sign waving “Stop Bird Pornography: Save Our Feathered Friends” contingent. This is one passionate group who are probably perfectly normal pervy folks and perhaps not even vegetarians. But they are definitely down to yuck the yum of Birdy Porn watchers everywhere. Feel free to read more here:



I, for one, ask: Wait, are these people for or against it? Let the elderly and binocular-toting have some fun! And, fer realz, the problem is that there are sexy birds to be peered at everywhere. I, for one, have a lifetime goal of trying to avoid too much eye-feather contact, especially after one pooped on my head and then another (one minute later) pooped on my self-righteously-upturned-in-horrified-mid-gesticulation palm (ruuuuuuuuuude) on 16th Street back in the day.

But in DC, Bird Blindness simply wasn't possible. Birds are EVERYWHERE. Some are quite fetching, too. There, I admit it. Now, I am no virgin bird watcher but I am a fully awful bird identifier, and even as I type here in DCA's airport boarding area, there are chickadees of some sort looking at me cock headed and flying around the room. Seriously. In the airport. Now, I don’t wanna sound like a victim blamer, but these DC birds? Believe me, they WANT to be looked at. I'm just sayin'.

Better Red Than Dead in Colorado?

Though we were guideless, the ever-fabulous PQ still expresses her gratitude for such Sage-like Colorado Signage:

Colorado Mountain High

Ah John Denver in Vail. The atmosphere up here? A little thin. So thin that I have witnessed not one, not two, but THREE hummingbirds SIT DOWN and pant quietly, slowing their heartrate, for over a minute. Is this news to anyone besides me? So either I am imagining things, or hummingbirds have legs. Which they use. To sit very still. Quietly. For substantial periods of time. Pretty much until I point and scream, "Seated Hummingbird! Seated Hummingbird!" Weird.

What Do All the Ex-Pat Swissies Do to Celebrate Indie Day?

I know you have all been asking yourselves just this question when you find yourself unexpectedly awake at 3:49 a.m.

Answer: They apparently stuff their trim, fit, muscle-only selves carb-silly at the nearest Swiss bakery.

On August 1st I had yet to learn this. So when I walked out of Avon's Columbine Bakery and into my bro that day, I remarked:

"There's a shitload of very festive Swiss people in that random little bakery. You'd think not so many Swiss people would hang around Vail, since it is like some creepy "Disneyland Swiss Chalet" set. But I swear they are all in there. Weird."
Really, I am guessing every Swiss in the region was there. The place was packed.

Now, as some of you know, in addition to my usual attracting of hovering hummingbirds, I am currently attracting all things Swiss and have consequently become the most recent convert to the League of How Do the French-Swiss Do It? Appreciaters, even if it does irk me that people like Smiley Smiles-a-lot and his countryfolx somehow manage to appear clean and well pressed even when their white clothing has been worn for days, even in the saunas of Colombian jungles. [Note: This is yet another sign demonstrating my non-Swiss origins, as I have a genetic tendency to appear dirty and recently Cuisineart blended/chopped even when I am recently showered and wearing fresh clothing. If you'd like to test yourself, use the ending picture to identify which one's the unshowered suiss wearing a three day old trekked in shirt who looks like they got off an industrial ironing board/steam clean versus who's a recently blended looking double-showered estadounidense? Bet you can't tell.] Oh, tangent, tangent. Where was I? Oh yes, talking to the bro.

And my bro, who is only vaguely listening to my pronouncements and opinions anyways, looks at me and says, "What ARE you yabbling about?" But then the next day he points out this picture and caption in the Vail Daily Newspaper and all is revealed.

Well, happy jour d'indépendance, ya neatniks.

Another picture worth a thousand very telling words:

"I Wiped My Butt with a Beetle," and other snippets from Colombia travels

("Under construction?" I swear I will get back to this soon as I take a moment to condense a crazy crazy trip)

I heart Deserts!

I heart deserts. OK, I also heart desserts, but only really sour ones involving the words: lemon, rhubarb, pie, square, berry, or mango. Oh and occasionally involving the words cheesecake, caramel, or mini madeline. Oh and that never involve the words float, chocolate, ice cream, cold, or high fructose corn syrup. But this is not about that.

This about deserts. I heart getting cold when it dips to 80 degrees at night. I heart coyotes at night. I heart funny looking trees and technicolor glowing sunsets and warm sunrises. I heart feeling vaguely dusty all day. I heart drinking water that goes in but never seems to come out.

I heart funnily decorated diners and fake cherries and whipped cream on margaritas and neighboring tables who between bites tell graphic stories about accidentally slicing off parts of their fingers while working in yards. I heart finding hidden fabulous Korean food and videostore personnel who've never heard of Shortbus and lifelong local trailer-community dwellers who live 25 miles from Joshua Tree and wonder if that is another trailer-community when asked for direction clarification.

I heart waking up to wind rattling everything and complaining about the heat and reading lazily all day. I heart that I still have to squint to see what is meant by "blooming."

I heart Joshua Tree wanderings, oasis findings, rock climbings, boulder sittings, dust nappying, accompanied by youth and adults I adore. And after some of that,

I heart clothing optional "resorts" (read: medium tepid and small hot pool, both warmed with minerals, and I don't mean the pee kind) accompanied by just adults (thanks) that I adore.

[I am less thrilled with the preponderance of mini-peni that hang out at the clothing option resorts, even tiny establishments, but this is not about tepid reality. This is about heart.]

And ten days of all that? I heart it. And it simply is not enough. Bless you, Spring Break.

Largest Urban Farm in the Country: Barred+Trashed

But still cactus is coming back to bloom inside its bulldozed space. That is some deeply disturbing shit. Check it out and then holla about it to whoever will listen (thanks Roberta for the first photo) http://www.southcentralfarmers.com







A shout out to the ever-fabulous Jorge, his ridiculously cute niece, and Hijos de la Tierra for puttin on a good show (ok, shameless promotion moment, but these folks are family, their sound is tight, and they are trying to help the farm, so check their shit out on myspace while you're at it). And that cute band of folks from Oaxaca were dope, too, but I don't remember their name...




And a special shoutout to the borracho waiter at "Skinny's", as Amber likes to call it, who made our day with some serious comfort food. Their menu even has a "everybody's mother's yellow cake with chocolate frosting" option, for those of you who are anti-Auntie Flossie's Floating Sweet Potato Pie.

where have I gone?

create your own visited countries map

Mi Lindo Peru

Missin' mountains to la playa
when everything's long-haired tight and orange with elevators only goin' to every several floors,
Inkan crop circles abound 'round altiplano nopales
winter silence screams hushed with the sound of waterways
mist it's streaming
over my hair in high sun
steaming,
dancing til 6:30 a.m sunrises,
Boulder seams masks music magic surprises
quinhoa lisas calabaza maiz grow heavenly,
blue eyed pigeons side-ball me suspiciously,
picaflores condores connecting god and (hu)man
masked men run me through fire and put me down again
little boys duck hiding behind my legs from whips
while reggaeton and Shakira run off my lips,
breath-keeping altitude scenes with che selling everything,
crazy Violeta Luna plunges nails into cow hearts, bites down in the name of Frida's art,
sacras quake at Virgin dolls in green petticoat layers,
an entire country of knitters and weavers and titeres makers,
and it is fuckin freezin in July and
I am holding everyone's hand and kissing your cheeks right and left hello and goodbye.

Les quiero Ericka, Jacki, Jorge, Doris, Mauricio, Gabby, y mi little tiny tattooista-piercer chiquillo. Una locura completa era en 2006.

Spring Is Here

When Seattle is in bloom you know it (hi Meem).



When San Francisco is in bloom you know it.



When the desert is in bloom, you seriously have to search for it.