Some People? They Love Love.

It is possible I am not one of them. I prefer to call this "The Day After February's Friday the 13th." Now it doesn't roll off the tongue like "Valentine's Day" or anything, but really that is just long for V.D, which is so old fashioned, and so Mr. V.D. Valentino can just take back his day if it is all the same to him. While I am a sharer, some things just don't need to be shared. Like people whose feelings give you emotional whiplash. Like those chalky heart candies. I pulled one at D's that says: In a Fog.

WTF.

The Day After February's Friday the 13th turned out ridiculously fun despite. Got profoundly ass kicked in soccer, got the "gift" of silence from some of those who love me, got to clean some of my own dirty laundry, got to swoon over all manner of crush-worthy musicians busy unrequiting love after pulling a distinctly boy-stereotype-dismissive invite, got Rite Spotted and belted and bruised and also ear pierced by a Bette Boopesque voice... it just kept going.

But, as there is always good even in the not so much, I really want to thank CoCo for turning me on to my current favorite seasonal poem, which somehow reminds me of so much all at once:

LIFE STORY, by Tennessee Williams

After you've been to bed together for the first time,
without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance,
the other party very often says to you,
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do

sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up
a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you
lying together in completely relaxed positions
like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed.

You tell them your story, or as much of your story
as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say,

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,

each time a little more faintly, until the oh
is just an audible breath, and then of course

there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up
with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee
and gaze at himself with the mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror.
And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time
to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story,
they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all along,

and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming
no more than an audible sigh,
as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left,
draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion
and stops breathing forever. Then?

Well, one of you falls asleep
and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth,
and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.

So Many Reasons to Love Craig from Craig's List

Really. I am a fan.



It all started when Craig from Craig's List invited me to dinner.

Someone who said her name too fast called my cell from a blocked number during my prep period.

Hello!

Hello, am I speaking to (insert my name here)?

Yeeeeeeeeeeees? (My suspicious mind.)

Craig would like you to be a guest at his table for Celebrity Waiter.

Huh? Who? (My confusion.)

Craig Newmark.

(OK, actually, at the time I didn't get the name. I was calling him Newmeyersomething for a long time. But I have been corrected.)
And who is that?

You know… Craig Newmark?

(My silence.)

You know… Craig? (Her exasperation.) From Craig’s List Craig? (Distinct sound of her rolling eyes through the phone.)

Oh. Huh. Whacky! Fer shure... (Sound of my synapses catching up with the rest of my body, linking together all the information I clearly do not know.) ...Wait, what's a Celebrity Waiter?

Craig would pay for you to sit at his table. He would pay for a whole table of teachers. He would be your celebrity waiter. He would give you money to tip him. You would use this money to tip him. He will compete with the other celebrity waiters to see who can raise the most tip money from their tables, which all goes to a non-profit that this is a fundraiser for. You would tip him every time he does something outrageous, helpful, or extraordinary. All the money would go to charity. (My unasked question about pocketing the money answered. Check. Just kidding.)

Um, like I would tip him his own money for bringing me soup? Or more like I would have to tip him for a lap dance? Because I don’t actually really want a lap dance.

I assure you, this is not that kind of event. (Sound of her huffy feathers ruffling. Sound of my belief that the need for clarification usually trumps the danger of irritating others.)

So I tip him for bringing me vegetables?

Sure. Right. Fine. Whatever. (Sound of her regret at having to call me.)

And Craig is totally paying for me. I do nothing. (Sound of my genetic lawyer mind at work on overtime.)

Right. For your whole table. A table of teachers and Craig would like you all to be his guests. (Sound of her fingers tapping on her desk.)

(Sound of my synapses falling into place enough for me to understand that though a table of teachers is clearly a charity case here, we are not the actual charity for which Craig is fundraising and so I say:) Well fer shure. Sign me up.

In all this it did not occur to me to ask how this woman got my cell phone number. Details, details, details.

Weirder still is that when I put the word on the street to get some of those details, all the usual suspects denied any knowledge of how I got invited. Actually, many of them expressed surprise – like my boss, who I found out would also be there, but as a minion in the back room, counting money that comes in, because she works for the beneficiary of this particular fundraiser. Which means that I do, too. And yet I am a paid-for guest.

So even weirder still is that another one of the celebrity waiters there is the local head of AT&T (or something like that). So of course I take the occasion to ask him WTF is wrong with AT&T for donating the maximum amount allowed to the Republican Party, thereby causing me to refuse to pay AT&T any more money. He does not have a good answer for me, and I am still waiting. Bad celebrity waiter. He is apparently generous, but for the wrong team. And he is certainly not generous with information.

And even weirder still is that another of the celebrity waiters is MC Hammer, who auctions off both a very fluffy white coat and a private dance lesson (with him, duh) and who allows me to politely address as “Mr. Hammer, no one will believe me, so can I take a picture with you?” Which makes him the most generous Celebrity Waiter so far, but in a good way, not like the bad AT&T man. Because Mr. Hammer dances on stage, sells the coat off his back, and generously agrees to a photo op, even though he cannot figure out who will be taking our picture, since I did not have any enterage in tow. I try to ease his worries by shoving our faces together and holding my arm and camera out in classic chin-enhancing self-portrait taking pose. I mean… I am a self-portrait pro! He STILL looks worried but I do it.
Which apparently is yet more evidence that I am a complete sin verguenza, for it turns out to be common knowledge that you just don’t self-portrait with celebs. (I don’t know how everyone but me knows this, yet everyone groans audibly when I mention this part of the story.) And my point? MC Hammer? Very generous celebrity waiter. In a good way.

And meanwhile back at our own table: Weirder still was how much drunker our celebrity waiter was than our table of mooching teachers. One glass of wine for us, one swig from the bottle for him. Aw. Having said that, Craig still wins my prize for the most generous funny and kind celebrity waiter. Not only did he pay for all of us ragamuffin teachers to invade this shin-dig, he paid us to tip him, let us take whack-ass pictures of him, AND he even bought me an Elmo Doll. Very generous.


And it totally wasn't his fault that Elmo now officially scares the poop outa me. Craig couldn't have known. I mean, Elmo seemed innocent enough at first. I was a bit worse for wear as I stumbled from Union Square onto MUNI towards home. It was frigid out so I wedged Elmo under my armpit. I didn’t understand why I kept hearing voices. But it is MUNI, so not a big surprise there. And it was even colder and more desolate on my street, so with Elmo tucked under my elbow, I clutched my wrap tighter around my flimsy cotton dress. And heard more voices. I spun wobbily around in my 5 inch spiked heels. Saw no one. Clutched and walked. Heard more voices. Really one voice. Teasing. Nasally.

Made it into my apartment, hearing that weird voice as I turned the key to open my door. Hmmm. I detached Elmo from under my armpit and looked him face to face. Placed him on the couch. And he SPOKE. God knows what he was going on about – his annunciation sucks. Turns out Craig gave me a Talking Elmo. Creepy shit. But Craig didn't mean to terrorize me with this addition to my home and really, I am now a die-hard Craig fan. It is possible the feeling is not mutual, but I am a loyal girl, so I dare you to bad mouth my new favorite rich person. Maybe I will even MC him from the event.

On other good news fronts, this event also allows me to check off my “I will say yes to one random thing per week” resolution. For this week anyways.

A Blessing on Your Head, Mazel Tov, Mazel Tov

Much love to the likes of Boothie-Baby and other non-jewie friends, especially all those of you who were kind enough to inform me it was Chanukah, since without you, I would've as usual totally missed the whole thing. The Boothie wrote: I think today is the first day of Hannukah....so just wanted to say HEY and that I am thinking of you. Not sure if you are 'en la escuela' o en casa, o en temple. To which I thought, are we supposed to go to shul on Chanukah even? Hmmmm...

Aaaaaaaaaaaw. Y’all keep me Jewish. More so than my mother, in any case, who true to form dug out her favorite "festive" attire of green/red plaid everything accented by cotton sweaters with appliques of Christmas trees on then and LED lit Santa pins, which she wears before she lights the candles, which is after she set up this year's disturbing version of a creche and decorated the house like a Macy's window display. Isn't assimilation da bomb?

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.

Screw the Ides of March: Truncated Diatribe #2789

Honestly, I don't know why everyone hates March so much. Now, February? I understand that. Even in a leap-year, February has a short-guy complex of Napoleonic proportions. There are some kerjillion potential Holiday Mondays in February that could further chisel away at this Farcockteh February that's farshlepteh krenk, but to no avail. Might as well end of Daylight Savings Time during February while you're at it and take away one more hour of February. S.F. was bone-cold damp, teachers looked like the cast of Shawn of the Dead, whippersnappers were snarkier and more V-Day sugared-up than ever, the honeymoon was over, and poor lunar new year was really just starting to crawl backwards, so it could not defend itself. Thus it is my political position that at least north of the equator, we should make some changes:

1. There should be 11 principal months, all with 33 days in them. No prime numbers, no musical-learner rhymes or knuckle counting to figure out when to manually roll-forward your old watch's date function into the next month, no more variations in answers to extra credit math problems such as, "LeRoy bought 17 oranges to ensure he got the same dose of Vitamin C every day. If he wants the pile of oranges to last three month, how many oranges can he eat each day and how many should he refrigerate until he is ready?" And the system would take care of 363 days of the year.

2. Then there would be 1-2 days of February. Any day that falls in February would be a holiday. February would become Festive February. People would be disappointed if it was a "short" February rather than a "long" one. This change in February's self image would be healthy, despite the unfortunate caveat of "excluding the month of February" from any and all math word problems remotely resembling the aforementioned example.

In the meantime, I wriggle in delight at the balmy sunshine of S.F's March arrival and embrace the Ides with open arms while such a thing still exists.

Post-It Note: My friend Mistry pointed out that I could push my agenda on the various candidates running for particular federal offices and see who will take it on, offering the promise of my vote in return. Why not? Issue focused voters are all the rage these days.

Alert: Washed-Up 60s Icon Still Livin in the Past

Sadder still is when that 60s icon stumbles into class (wearing the G-rated version) and her students:1. Think she is a substitute (which has gotta worry ya about the subs in this district)
and
2. Find out what she is supposed to be and shake their heads, saying in their wise old man worldly ways: "Giiiiirl, I know a mess of folks like that...."
and 3. Tell her: "Dude, you look so much younger like that. You really should always dress that way. Duuuuuuude, seriously. And seriously, you should always do your hair like that." Um, cheers. And, um, WTF?!!