"Unfortunately, the people of Louisiana are not racists. "

-- Dan Quayle, VP and Founder of the 'foot in mouth in a majorly public way' club

I remember when leg warmers were in, Dan Quayle was VP to a certain George Bush, and we wore our sunglasses at night out of sheer embarrassment. This was also the time of a Vermont organization whose sole life purpose centered on following Quayle around, capturing the myriad of crap that would emerge from his vocal cords, and broadcasting it through a monthly newsletter. Meaning that he spoke in a cringe-worthy manner enough to fill a monthly newsletter. Which he did... and then some. Amazingly, the whole time he was in office, their monthly newsletter remained thick enough to moonlight as insulation. You perhaps remember:

"Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."

"I am not part of the problem. I am a Republican."

"I love California, I practically grew up in Phoenix."

"A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls."

"Mars is essentially in the same orbit . . . Mars is somewhat the same distance from the Sun, which is very important. We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and water. If there is water, that means there is oxygen. If oxygen, that means we can breathe."

"The Holocaust was an obscene period in our nation's history. I mean in this century's history. But we all lived in this century. I didn't live in this century."

"I was recently on a tour of Latin America, and the only regret I have was that I didn't study Latin harder in school so I could converse with those people. "

"Republicans have been accused of abandoning the poor. It's the other way around. They never vote for us."

"What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is."

Ah yes, Danny Boy, truer words were never more confusing, how wonderful that the pipes, the political pipes, are calling...

Anyways, just a few highlights for you there on Memory Lane. But let us pull ourselves into this century, the century in which we all live, minus perhaps the DQ. The way things are going these days, a person need not a monthly newsletter; one could instead modernize to a daily "WTF" blog of bigoted, ignorant, hateful things that public people say.

I for the sake of not totally wasting my mind, like to limit my public bloggy WTF rantings to the sporatic. Like a suddenly bitter wedge of tangerine. But today is definitely one of those days, because Education Secretary Duncan? I wish he had been lawsuit-provokingly misquoted by last week's The Washington Post article:

Education Secretary Arne Duncan called Hurricane Katrina "the best thing that happened to the education system in New Orleans" because it forced the community to take steps to improve low-performing public schools, according to excerpts from a television interview made public Friday.

So let us just be clear. And in honor of the start of Standardized Testing Season and my colleague Alita, let's do this in SAT terms (Lord knows that shit is clear):

Hurricane Katrina :(IS TO) New Orleans Schools AS
War : Urban Renewal
The Plague : Medical Research

Or, in the words of the DQ, "We're going to have the best-educated American people in the world."

WTF.

Smart-ish .... and Dumber

Somehow, the juxtaposition between two pieces of news struck me, and not because I was hit by a flying newspaper, and only perhaps because this is why I don't read the paper:

(1) The Associated Press reported today: "The Obama administration joined a federal judge Wednesday in urging Congress to end a racial disparity by equalizing prison sentences for dealing and using crack versus powdered cocaine." About f-bombing time (see below).

VERSUS

(2) The Supreme Court hearing and UPHOLDING the FCC v. Fox Network case about networks getting fined for the utterance of one prime-time "expletive," which some of these f$#%ing celebrities -- aka Scalia's

"foul-mouthed glitterati,"

-- accidentally let slip during whatever live this-or-that they are doing.

Really, federal courts have NOTHING better to do than split-vote along wing lines about one slipping f-bomb? But really, it isn't even that so much as what Scalia saying that the FCC is right to worry about this so that networks could be expected to continue to "give conscientious parents a relatively safe haven for their children." To learn no expletives, just racist, heterocentric, ableist, sizeist, sexist stereotyping. Cool.

And yet even more but really, it isn't even that so much as this all goes back to the FCC's decision in 2006 that found "News Corp’s Fox TV network violated decency rules when singer Cher blurted out an expletive during the 2002 Billboard Music Awards broadcast and actress Nicole Richie used two expletives during the 2003 awards." Like THAT is what makes Fox News completely and utterly indecent and violating. Puh-leeze.

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 Pebble in Palin's Shoe

Not that I want to be anywhere near Palin's feet, but if I had to be, I would like to act as a mild irritant.

So when I first heard Palin’s GOP speech, I thought the chanters were chanting, "Kill, baby, kill," at the VP nominee. Which both reminded me of some horror movie moment and confused me, considering she is so anti-choice and therefore theoretically sooooooooo not an embryo killer, unless you happen to be an embryonic baby polar bear or wolflette, which luckily I am not, or any embryo happening to be conceived in a country she wants to keep bombing. But then I realized that they were chanting, “Drill, baby, drill,” which kinda cleared things up for me, although I am not sure took away the horror genre feeling for me.

Now, I am not even going to bother waxing poetic on the scariness that is Palin and the surrounding US media coverage - I will leave that the brilliance of the The Onion Daily Show Steven Colbert et al (and may I say they their writers/researchers have found their apex with this figure) and besides we've all gotten 7 million blasts about her and this - but I do want to point out that, if Palin gets elected, we will, of course, trip even more quickly into a world in which, at least within the US, Burners are the best prepared people to survive. And that in and of itself should scare everyone in this country I live in.

However, I was excited that I could enact my own little act of resistance, which I did shortly after the horrifying moment in which I realized that people like her... like they like her the way they think GWB is an "affable" guy even though they "don't agree with all his policies" and therefore would somehow continue to vote for his holistically destructive political existence... that kind of like her.

No, I did not donate to some "Pentathol for Palin" cure-for-lying fund (a fantasy fund offered to me from the mind of a Mr. R. Gordon, thanks). Instead I got online and clicked a fatty donation to Planned Parenthood (or you could send it as a memorial donation, which might feel better... I mean the crowd maybe was saying 'kill baby kill,' right?). And then, because I don't have her home addy, I put in some version of the following address:


Failin/McLame Campaign HQ
1235 S. Clark Street
1st Floor
Arlington , VA 22202

And they sent her a nice thank you card on my behalf. Pebbles - 1, Palin - 0.

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'.

Like Laughing? Tune in to our Local Politics

Remember that CA Special Election circus of "Gravis" vs. the 129 candidates who could raise the loot to pay their way onto the ballot [including Schwarzenegger, Gary Coleman, the porn star, the guy who hates plumber's crack, and the boy who never won a student government seat in his high school, and oh I could go on]? It really set a precedent for weird, not that we needed it in San Francisco.

But in the interest of keeping things... well.... interesting, San Francisco has somehow retained its ability to head right over the top of sweetly funny. This year it's Chicken John Vs. Ken-Doll Newsom. WHAT?! Celebrity Fight Night? SNL spoof on the WWF? Not yet, it's just your run-of-the-mill mayoral race around here. My favorite was this FULL PAGE ad in last week's Guardian.

Outcome? Though I've seen no indication that his plea fell on anything but deaf Ken Doll ears, Chicken John did come up with the money somehow, meaning he will now be on the ballot. And you thought this fall's reality series lineup would be dull.

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.

Oh, The Bay

As you may recall, last semester I learned (or was at least informed) that I AM an artist, I AM a healer. And now I receive such lov-e-ly emails:

"If you are a healer and interested in the campaign of Barak Obama
please read on.

I've just started a "Healers For Obama" group because I believe that
it's time for people who care about change on the most fundamental
level to get involved in shaping the political future of this country.
Like many others in Marin I worked very hard on the Howard Dean
campaign and was heartbroken to see how difficult it was for a person
of his moral convictions to get the Democratic nomination. This time
I'm determined to do better.

In this great so-called service economy of ours, it is we healers who
have the services that people most want and need. I believe that this
can make us a force for transformation not just on the personal level
but on the political as well. If you agree - or or just curious about
the possibility of this - please go up on the Obama website
(http://www.barackobama.com/) and join the Healers For Obama group. I
look forward to hearing from you, meeting with you and helping you
change the world - one president at a time."

Gotta heart the Bay; now go warm up those silkscreening machines...

In case your head has been in a hole...

I figured everyone was already all up in the US and Mexican Governments' faces to stop the absolute insanity.... from before last summer even when the protests against the insane brutality against Oaxacan teachers started. But it turns out folks still aren't getting informed. Come on, people. What does it take?


http://www.indymedia.org/en/index.shtml or http://www.indybay.org/ to find out when to put your voice out there at the Mexican Embassy next (in SF, anyways)

Love It Or Hate It, Ya Can't Stop the Depth of Sucka Free Propositions

(Note the middle square there.) A thousand reasons to vote, plus several reasons to roll one's eyes while doing it...

I Heart T4SJ... Even though we are always roping me into stuff I don't wanna do....

Now normally, my T4SJ compadres do what any good grass-roots organizing force would do... wait for someone to miss a meeting and use the opportunity to sign that someone up to do stuff. That is standard and therefore margninally acceptable. But in a flip-script, this year we apparently took on the spirit of "one, two, three, not me!" organizing, which resulted in me being informed I was running a workshop at the conference (Saturday) as we stuffed folders for the conference (Thursday night). I should be grateful I was told. Their punishment was that they had to come up with a topic (um.... games, games, games.... a.k.a. teambuilders-for-social-justice) that I could do in my sleep. So here is THE FLAVA of an SB workshop for teachers off the cuff and after 7 hours of sleep spread over 4 nights.




But I really must give a shout out to T4SJ because this was the biggest, tightest conference yet, with a dope after-party and all (and not just because I had some delicious nibbles and drinks). Which is (one of so many reasons) why Karen Z. is the damned bomb.

That's no Disney Small World Either

http://www.miniature-earth.com/

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.

Sing Out Sisters

Raising money for breast cancer in the midst of boytown Castro@18th the night before the Castro Street Faire in San Francisco seems like, well, a bad idea, but somehow shit always works out, especially when the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence get 'hold of it, ya know..








































































And We Heart Harvey's in the Castro for always keepin it real with what's going down around town raisin' moneywise. Twas lovely drag show, although of course we were all there secretly to whoop'n'holla at the absolutely fabulous and ever-tasteful Louise Evans, complete with her vodka filled airline attendant attache case. Now, I am not a shallow person, but y'all know I am a suckah for a fella in a dress and, well, she IS dreamy, isn't she? I am especially impressed with her ability to put on that glam gal face and shake up some mean drinks for the audience even after some little nitwit stole her clutch (and cell and cards and cash.... that she was busily giving away all night to the CAUSE and all) while she was shaking her very firm (but unfortunately not hers) parts on the dance floor with G and me.

Oh the Places I Would Rather Be ....

create your own visited countries map

.... Sigh. Rather than sit in this class without a clock with a professor with wild hair but no sense of time, I daydream of how much there would be for me to smell and taste and watch and hear and learn and share in all these countries which I haven't spent more than three weeks in(just stepping in and out of a country really doesn't count). And I would rather be in any of these places than stuck in this airless closet of a graduate seminar, which I am currently blogging from. This semester's personal challenge? De-wrap my fist from this pencil that is unfortunately not nearly sharp enough to effectively poke my eye out and instead blog myself into successful anger management despite my class consisting of only five students. Personal challenge #2? Continue to breathe while writing a multi-page paper on "my relationship to academic writing." Line one: I wasn't aware I was even in a relationship with academic writing. {Begin diatribe against the academic lust for omphaloskepsis (um... navel-gazing.... see how the dirty ivory tower of sfsu has ruined me?). Six pages later, end rant, print, turn in. Glower.}

Oh grad school you'z a nasty little beast.

May Day Madness

I'm up to one's ears in sunshine surrounded by that crazy sea of white (but not the usual kind) downtown (did ya ever think I would use Downtown and some form of happy in the same sentence?) and it didn’t once feel like drowning (although I have certainly had my fill of US flags, thanks.) Happy May Day - siguiendo la lucha contra HR 4437!!!!