Harvey Milk Milks My Freedom Decade

Well, if it were ever my life long dream to wave an American Flag as the first “Gay Day” Pride March of San Francisco passed by, I would now be able to check that off my list. Pheuw.

I strolled into the Civic Center wearing clothing that I've been known to wear since 6th grade, clothing that belonged to others a decade before me. Corduroy vest, stunner shades, platform clogs, Levi’s… Every six weeks during the school year I love going back to 1978 or so, not because of my latent hippy ways, but because at that time I was a kindergartener, not a teacher, which means that as long as I stay in that era, I couldn’t possibly have homework or grading to do. So rather than work this particular day, I transformed myself into the picture perfect unpaid crowd extra for Van Sant’s Sean-Penn-as-Harvey-Milk movie - not to be famous, but because my grading avoidance is really leading to all new heights.



A stage hand elevator eyes me two blocks out and says, "Hey, um, could you do us a favor? Could you be an extra in a '70s film, because you could pass." So... lemme get this right; you cannot tell if I am dressed up? OK, that's cool; this is San Francisco after all. Actually, on the set it was ridiculously really hard to tell who is dressed up and who is just around, because people have not changed much. Particularly the gay boys and the cops (imagine overlapping Venn Diagram here). Without the cars to clue me in, I wouldn’t have been able to tell Pride 70s from Pride 00s.


And I got to watch two strutting bare chested gay boys do a push up contest. Yawn. Testosterone. It never changes.

In Keeping With My Love of All Whisperers

I did appreciate the v-day post to Craig's List by the self-titled Dude Whisperer, who wrote in that he deeply understood "men," w(eva)tf that means. Judge for yourself:
The Dear Abby of Dude Whispering "explains" all here.

Sometimes Feeling Bonded with Others?

Not all it is cracked up to be.

It turns out that my mind-body connection is solid to the point of being unhelpful ... because my mind has a strong "collective response system," acting in response to things that happen not to me but to those I know. And my body? My body is hugely self-protective against extreme abstinence. Even others' abstinence.

So it was bad enough last year when D. and J. stopped drinking for the 40 days of Lent because my normally-sober-self? I drank every single day of it, and I drank a lot every one of those days. Like I was drinking for everyone. For every minute they were gonna miss. Seriously. I was as happy when Lent ended as a person swimming in depressants could be. Really, this mind-body collective spirit thing was not good for me.

So that was bad enough, but it was basically an extended version of what happens to me at the beginning of each school year, when I drink like a fish for a week straight before moving back to my usual sobriety for the rest of the year. But then last week Kieferrific and her friends all went on that extreme Master Cleanse [which La Mystery informs me Beyonce and Oprah just “adore.”] OK, fer real, thank god I knew neither what it was nor the Beyonce connection when the Kieferrific approached me to do it, too. I figured I would try it, because I like the concept of trying new things, even if not the actuality of it.

Now it has been five days later and here are the results:

Kieferrific and her dear girlfriends? Went on the Master Cleanse. Purged toxins, became glowy and effervescent, lost weight, felt ethereal. They are all happy, shimmery, going to the gym, peaceful, svelted, and devoid of any and all old gunky junk clinging to their insides to poop out. Anywhere. They are so very happy with themselves.

Meanwhile I? My brain even hearing about the possibility of doing a Master Cleanse overwhelmed it, causing it to quake to its core.

And so my body? My body went into full-on Fight or Flight symptoms, craving and downing every veggie burger/dog/fry basket for miles, gorging on all manner of baked chocolate treat, downing beer and liquor every single night since we even talked about doing it. [Never mind that under normal circumstances I am attached at the hip to green leafy veggie soups, rarely drink, and totally dislike chocolate.] End result? I probably gained weight, fer shure gained an intense feeling of grossness, and mos def added extensive major toxin internal coatings to my innards... all on THEIR master cleanse. Go me!

And so I beg of you, if you are in my community, please do not cut deny yourself things in such a potent way. As a member of your community, I just cannot handle it. I thank you.

Kieferrific, My Human Anti-Twin

Kieferrific happens upon my kitchen, a veritable half-way house for all strange appliances and kitchen accoutrements passed on by my increasingly purging nonagenarian neighbors. And she sees the '50s sandwich maker and remarks:

'Giiiiiiirl, you don’t need to get married – you already have the appliances you could ever want.'

Aaaaaaaaaw. Cute Kieferrific moment, a rather interesting commentary on marriage as an institution, and yet another indication that our cranial paths personify “Opposite Day.”

On being a Pig

Well, well... Welcome, 2008.

"Daily Chinese: January 19, 2008

This could be a positive day for initiating a necessary change in your life. A domestic crisis may occur, but with your patient and obliging nature you should have no problem diffusing it. You might want to seek medical guidance on ways to improve your overall lifestyle and fitness." Brought to you by the same folks who predicted surgery, travelling mayhem, etc. Hmmmmmmm.

So... 'positive'? Does that mean standing (puffy eyed and despondent again, post-domestic crisis) on the sidewalk shaking my pro-choice fist and chanting alongside just 200 local other pro-choicers at the THOUSANDS of bussed-in Anti-Choicers marching through the Embarcadero to Pier 39 (presumably so they could do some sight seeing)?

Or does it mean catching the farewell lip syncing tour at Balazo's?

Because I found all parts of my day equally disturbing.

So I'm just checking. I guess that's the power of the word, 'could' eh?

The Mouthwash Wars

Last week my dad and I went for a stroll. Our conversation strolled along, too:

Me: Ooooooooh, I love my new mouthwash. It's not at all overspicy or sugary at all. You add as much peppermint oil as you want. It is awesome!

Dad: Ooooh, really? Oooooooooh, I have a favorite mouthwash, too. I make it myself!


Dad: First you take some lemon juice.
Then you add some water.
And finally, you mix in some Campari!

It is my favorite mouthwash. It is delicious.

Me: Er, isn't that called a Campari with lemon?

Dad: Yes! It's my favorite mouthwash! It's also my favorite drink and my favorite dessert!

Me: Um....

I Can't Quite Put My Finger On It...

But leave it to the ever-litigious, territorial Bikram to get my proverbial panties in a twist.

Could it be that they have taken to crowning reigning yoga masters?


Yep, it's the San Jose Bikram-hosted Fifth Annual Northern California Regional Yoga Championship

The line that really most encapsulates the true spirit of yoga principles: "Look for Poornima, Lauren, Jennifer, Roshan and others to perform the requisite seven postures in three minutes! Contestants throughout Northern California from Carmel to Sacramento will be competing." Nice.

I'm sooooooooooo over 2007, Take II

Close your eyes and imagine the waft of burning hair, a.k.a. my hard drive. Yum. Bye bye hard drive, grades, photos, emails, calendar, brain. Hello, the peace of a vacation totally unplugged and unavailable.

I’m sooooo over 2007…*

As if it weren’t enough to fall into someone who was into someone else and not so much ready for/into me until I was no longer ready for them so my heart could get stomped into apple sauce... As though it wasn’t enough to up and nearly die in the hands of inept UCSF interns... so it wasn’t enough to have to repair a month’s 'worth' of substitutes setting the tone for my classroom for the year... like it wasn’t enough that everyone I know is having a crazy hard year and it is 48 degrees daytime in San Francisco and I am freezing despite Michelin Manning myself in a North Face puffy jacket... I gotta get full-body groped, jumped, and nearly carried off into the night by a wild eyed, alcohol breathed one-legged man in a wheelchair. In view of ten bystanders looking at me like I’m the only crazy ranty one for miles on 14th and Mission when I unleash a screechy pent up rage-a-thonic diatribe on his surprisingly fast-wheeling ass.

Did you get the part where I got jumped by a guy in a wheelchair?! I mean, WTF?!!!

Well, F#$% you, 2007. I am so over you.



*And as a bet-hedger, I would also like to point out that I am also over the Year of the Pig, the school year, the fiscal year, and even the Jew Year 5768.

2008: A Spaced Oddity

Up until Aprilish, I was steeling for one of my 2008 themes to evolve into: 2008 – Year of Relationships, Gulp. But now circumstances have led to an alternate plan, one that is less novel and more wordy. 2008: Year of Speed ‘Nating’ (non-dating) for Potential Therapists. A little more awkward to say, but I don’t exactly control these things. And true to form, I am of course engaging in a preview run of the year’s theme a month early. My screening process is quite simple. I even skip the Craig’s Listings, going straight (or gayly forward, whatever) to recommendations. Me: Talk to potential therapists by phone. Say things like, “I am sure four sessions will cure whatever is wrong with me.” If they noncommittally “hmmm, that is interesting and something we can explore” me? Rejected. If they laugh, they win a face-to-face Nate with me. What with the Hollywood writers’ strike, I sense 2008: A Reality Nating Show in my near future.

Again, My Suspicion that My World is Secretly a Musical About to Happen?

Was Almost Affirmed.

Never content to allow me a moment of normalcy, today the J Church found me literally surrounded by the lyrical mutterings of seven chanting nuns with rosaries and one street fella with a poorly sewn up nose. Do you think it is pheromonal or just my perfume that leaves me OK-choralled in an otherwise empty train?

A Reality Check for All the Insanity Questioners

I was reminded that despite all recent indications, my sanity is actually fairly intact.

My upstairs neighbor was recently basically forced to move out of her $300 a month, two bedroom, wood floors, view of the bridge and bay, sunny sunny sunny, top floor apartment to shuttle herself into assisted living. Choice A: $1000 for an Assisted Living large studio in New Mexico or Choice B: A SHARED one ROOM, i.e. a twin bed and one closet, Assisted Living in San Francisco for almost $3000/month. Um, duh, hello New Mexico.

So, she wrote to say we really need to start keeping an eye on our downstairs neighbor, who has sent her two packages since she left on Thankstakin' weekend. The first contained essential “old mail” – i.e. three catalogues that arrived for Assisted Living ex-neighbor at the building. OK, kinda silly but that’s cool, because lord knows my neighbors they love their catalogues. Some might even say, a little eccentric, but very thoughtful to forward such shiny things.

The second package? Well, that one consisted of a “whole tub of country crock margarine and half a stick of butter which she decided to ship here in a padded envelop.” Um… Yeeeeeeees, that is clearly a package sent with much thought, but those thoughts are a little concerning. Oh dear.

On the up side, since this blog is all about me me me, I feel comparatively healthy simply by living in the vicinity of the dairy shipper.

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?

Let's Make First Dates Final

In the same vein as “never take different lovers to the same vacation location within one month of each other,” I would like to add a “never do the exact same activity on two first dates.” Even if the activity is fun. Even if the activity has ‘80s music crooning in the background. It is just too weird and we don’t live in a one-Denny’s kinda town for that to have to happen. That is all I am gonna say about that.

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.

Little British Wizards Got NOTHIN' on Me...

Wow, go back to work a month earlier than recommended + lack of bad classes to live through = stop blogging. Once again proving that work gets in the way of life. So, yes, I have lost some of my innards, including my mind, but I have GAINED a cool Harry Potter scar! So that is something. My scar is akin to a mood ring, with stress being my own personal Voldomor, setting off twitches and pain at the most opportune moments. The abdominal grippage and grimaces are followed by me saying such things as, “Oh, I cannot talk about that anymore; my scar says you are stressing me out, man. Bye bye.” Click. Milissa pointed out that Voldomor [ALERT: impending SPOILER] was reduced to some sort of sniveling baby-like gelatinous mass at the end. I don’t know how that connects or what that all means, but I am sure it is important and related. As an avid therapy avoider, I cannot deconstruct this, but y'all feel free.