Shhhhhhh, someone is eating cereal somewhere in Iceland...

I called my dad the other day just to holla at him. And I mean that in the most friendly and literal way, since he is pretty hard of hearing. He answers his phone in a whisper.

Dad: Hello?

Me: Dad? Are you in a concert, a movie, a lecture, a play?

D: No.

M: (Mind you, I am not even putting down all the "Whats" I asked him). Where are you?

D: I’m at home, why?

M: Is mom asleep next to you?

D: No.

M: Is the cat sitting on your face?

D: No.

M: Are you sick?

D: No.

M: Why are you whispering?

D: Am I? I got my hearing aids yesterday!

M: Hmmm.... and how’s that going?

D: Everything is so … LOUD! I woke myself up snoring last night.

M: Um, dad, ya know you can take those off when you go to sleep.

D: Oh yeah. Huh. Good idea. I am so loud, I can hear myself swallow. I can hear myself chew. Did I always chew so loudly? But it is worse. I can hear people across the room swallow. I can hear people chewing from last week.”

M: (recognizing that this line of conversation could go on indefinitely) Hey, mom must be excited that you don’t yell, "WHAT?" to her every thirty seconds anymore, eh?

My mom, who is profoundly stone deaf in one ear and doesn’t love conversation anyways has for years been getting mad at my dad each and every time he says, ‘What?’ after her sentence, which is pretty much every time she speaks. She responds by getting exasperated and refusing to repeat herself, so I figure she must be happy.

D: Oh you mom and me? (Extended but fairly quiet sigh)

D: Yes, that is a problem.

M: Eh?

D: She says I am whispering now. She is mad she has to keep saying ‘What?’ to me.


Well, it is comforting that even with technological advances, my parents at their core never really change.

Jen is 35 Peeps!

Shout out to the Jen on her 35th. Her Saturn shift should start screwing with her any day now. Welcome! The real question: Can you tell Jen from her niece? Can you tell D and me from lunatics? Can you tell gay from metrosexual? Cree-Pee.

Oh Red Vic, Shield My Eyes: Witness to “Cornibalism”

Accompanied by Gabby PM ("Egg") and the patrons of the Red Vic Movie House, I saw two Kings in November on Haight Street. One, King of Kong, was mos def my pick for Best Documentary I Saw in a Theater this Year. And the Egg and I even won a poster. Oooooooooo.

But despite my love of all things choclo and my name in Quechua meaning 'corn,' the Disappointing Documentary of the Year "Award" is hereby handed to the film King of Corn for being both somehow weirdly non-political and just downright mediocre for all 100+ minutes. The highlight turned out to be the pre-game entertainment, which consisted of the following:

Down the aisles strolled a lovely damsel squishing a concertina accompanied by a tweed-vested fella strumming through a folk guitar. They parked next to the Red Vic's movie screen to teach us the chorus of an important sing-along song: Everybody Grab a Hoe (Get a Hoe? Have a Hoe? Take a Hoe? Whatever, I blocked out the lyrics, but you get the point). Yep, I and 60ish other people sang 'Imperative Verb a Hoe' with gusto and confused facial expressions for at least the following five minutes. They led us lurching into singing alongside a frightening ‘70s farming-americana video, complete with a bouncing ball icon above each word to focus our warbling.

As if that weren’t torture enough, halfway through the song appeared in the theatre a human-sized ear of corn with green tights who came to shimmy around in front of us. What? You point out you are from San Francisco and therefore not easily spooked? Fine, fine, I feel ya. Because most disturbing of all, the dancing corn cob carried in and then ate a bowl of Red Vic popcorn. Now, I know that Red Vic popcorn is all Brewster's Yeasty hippy and all, but you will allow that things have taken a marked turn for the worse when a rather tall Corn Cob can eat the popped, dried remains of its own kind in public, right?

Take Your Stuffed Animals to Breakfast Day

Twice a year, the Ti Couz staff dons their finest flannel two piecers and offers all pajama clad customers free drinks or desert crepes, all to celebrate Urban World’s OG throwback akin to the concept of inches… aka Daylight Savings.
I think my fuchsia hippo, vulva-focused Sunil Bunny, Smurf, and I weathered our first experience of a waiter saying the word “jammies”to me with grace and aplomb.

All Hallow’s Eve... Morn... Eve...

I notice that when I explain Halloween to younger people, it sounds confusing. “One time a year, child, you can dress up at anything, ring people’s doorbells, and they will smile while chucking showering sprays of candy at you. In many areas, you could do this anywhere. In San Francisco, you have to get a Map of Halloween Houses… or go to the rich areas. Now remember, you don’t get to pick the day, so mark your calendar. Because, child, please note that any other time of year, if you show up at a person’s house with a mask, particularly at these same houses, you will be arrested. This means no candy for you. And lastly, child, when you grow up, you can once again suck the sweetness from others on this particular eve by dressing up as the severely sexed up, short-skirted, cleavage/package enhancing, tight-suited versions of any of the following: Uniformed Professionals (cop, nurse, paramilitary personnel, firefighter, mechanic, etc.), Childhood Book characters (Dorothy, Mermaid, Harry Potter or friend, etc.), or Very Particular Unwritten But Well-Delineated Acceptable Feral and Domesticated Animals (Kitty, Mouse, Rabbit [versus NO Llama, bear, horse, gerbil]). Got it, child?”

So I have whipped up my own recipe for making this bizarre Halloween situation last just a little longer:




1. At least four days prior to the actual holiday, dress up like a burnt out 70s icon, complete with full vodka bottle. Put on mascara and blue eye shadow, then cry and rub your eyes for maximum drippage effect. Don strappy shoes you can twist your ankle in at least twice an hour.


Stumble towards a party on Geary/Polk, where it will be impossible to tell who on the street is in costume. Be questioned by a pirate as to whether you are wearing a costume. Question them back. Begin to question yourself. Open the vodka bottle to sustain you until you arrive at a party in which Captain Impossible (er, I mean Incredible) will greet you at the door with vegan jell-o shots.



2. Having marinated in your own fermented juices overnight, chill in the Fruitvale the next day for the Día de los Muertos festival, which, despite being overtaken by people selling EZLN shirts and mass produced tourist crap from Guatemala, is still a good time. Coat your intestines with all manner of fried hangover food - papusas, tacos, churros, etc, shake, and stir.

3. Two days later, having congealed enough to be determined human, dress up as a non-descript person using only clothing from your actual life and one small wig. Allow students to identify and name you. For example, 'Lola,' 'Sheniqua,''a soccer mom,' 'one of those country singers'. Get told by students that you look better, younger, fitter, prettier, etc. in that hair with those clothes. Make a mental note to feed your self-esteem when you get home before it starves to death.

4. That evening, release into the public one 5 year old boy with sugar comaed eyes and a bloated lizard belly under his iguana head and watch him stagger punchdrunk through Sno-e Valley while his mom Blackberry’s him to all the best candy destinations, biting her lip as she tugs his scaly hand, saying such things as, “OK, Kevlar, I hear the candy is good on Fair Oaks, and after that we should head up to Church and 28th before the block closes and from there…” Note that the name Kevlar on a little blond sprig of a kid induces your Harry-Potter-esque scar to flare up. Now sprinkle hundreds of little Kevlar-and-mom combos all over certain blocks.


5. Finish that evening watching Shaun of the Dead after mixing together different strains of cops. First, plant one actual cop on a motorcycle of every corner near the Castro in order to intimidate folks away from gathering there. Then introduce groups of 4-5 men wearing tight fitting cop uniforms and have them keep approaching the motorcycle cops, saying things like, “Oh honey, I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE your ride. And your biceps are so large. Wanna compare muscles?” Note the frothiness of the motorcycle cops as they grimace behind their glasses in their wonder over whether they get paid enough to be flirted with by fake cops all night.
6. Stir.