Weezine

2011-01-31T18:05:00.000-08:00

My husband says this represents my fertility strength, or something like that. I thought it was more like an androgynous martyr.

2010-12-20T13:14:00.000-08:00

Some drawings inspired by the movie, The Red Shoes.

2010-12-01T06:54:00.000-08:00

What You Expect

From the moment of your first positive test, you’re a mother. The moment that faint little line turns the minus to a plus, you are filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions - from glee to fear, and thousands in between.

You take your daily vitamin with orange or even prune juice plus fish oil pills because you’re a mother now. These after the soon-as-you-open-your-eyes saltine, of course, because the nausea kicks in like a sonofabitch if you skip it. Each morning you wake feeling hungover - nauseous, achy, and totally out of it. It would seem unfair, considering your clean living, but you're happy all the time. Maybe it's the hormones.

You will pull out your copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and read with new fervor.

What to expect at 5 weeks.

You tell family, but keep from sharing the news with friends. They say to wait for three months. So you wait.

You visit the midwives, and are thrilled to have them on board. They tell you take your vitamins and don't worry about the rest. Your body knows what it's doing.

What to expect at 6 weeks

You’re tired. All the time. Also, you worry about what kind of mother you’ll be. Will you be loving, no matter what? Will you remember to pick your kid up every day after school? And what will your daughter be like, or your son? Will she be healthy? Will he be autistic? Will she/he be gender-confused?

You begin talking to her inside your head, and in a journal. You’re bonding.

What to expect at 7 weeks

You go to the Bodies exhibit and spend half your time in the baby section – peering through the jars of tiny specimens. You point out the rice-sized baby to your husband, crying. Isn’t she beautiful? Maybe it’s the hormones.

You have two sips of wine in Montreal and feel guilty. What kind of a mother are you? You’ve already cut out deli meat, chevre, brie, hot dogs… how is it that every one of your favorite food or beverages is now outlawed? You eat spinach, kale, chard… and still those damn fish pills.

What to expect at 8 weeks

You go for a routine teeth cleaning and tell the dentist, hygeinist, even the secretary that you’re expecting. You pretend to have to tell them, in case they wanted x-rays. They smile. Pay special attention to your gums now, they say. You won’t have time to brush your teeth once the baby is here.

At work people are starting to stare at your chest, almost a full cup size larger. You know they suspect, and smile, giving nothing away. A few more weeks, and you’ll tell them. Not quite yet.

What to expect at 9 weeks

You have to drop out of photography class; you’re so tired these days. Work is about the most strenuous thing you can handle. But there are important things happening inside you. Cartilage is turning into bone, the book tells you. Fingers and toes are just beginning to form.

What to expect at 10 weeks

You have to set certain bras aside because suddenly your nipples are hard all day. This wasn’t in the book, but you find it wonderfully ridiculous.

You set an ultrasound appointment for the following week.

What to expect at 11 weeks

You start spotting. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all – this is totally expected at times. But you keep spotting, or no now it’s actually bleeding. You must look pale because your coworker offers to drive you home and you gratefully accept, strategically slipping your jacket between your bum and their seat cushion for the ride.

You get home just in time. The bleeding caries clots with it, and you’re starting to cramp. You call the clinic and – to the horror of the woman who answers – begin sobbing over the phone. She makes an appointment for the next day and tells you if it’s happening, it’s happening. There’s nothing to do about it now.

After hours of bleeding and cramping, you expel what could only be one thing. You place it gently in a jar to show the doctor – a tip from the chapter on miscarriages. You cry yourself to sleep.

What to expect the next day

The cramps are over, though some bleeding continues. You buck up and go to work. Nobody is the wiser, and it's a relief. Work is work.

The ultrasound confirms what you already know, but you still cry. The doctor waves away your jar of baby. These things happen he says. Nothing to worry about.

You bury the baby in the yard.

What to expect the next day

You inform the family, and everyone is is kind.

You cry during your morning shower, so hard you have to sit down in the tub. You used to talk-think to the baby in there, and now it feels so alone. You can expect this for the next 1 – 2 weeks.

What to expect in the months to come

You feel shame, guilt, fear - that you won’t get pregnant again. That you will.

You continue to grieve for the child you never met but already loved. You feel isolated from the friends you never told.

You begin to talk. You go in for a bikini wax and tell the waxer. Turns out – she’s had two miscarriages (and two healthy little girls). You tell friends over wine (wine again!) and one of them has had three.

You visit your family. Turns out your mother has had two as well. Your Grandmother doesn’t say, but her unexpected gentleness makes you wonder.

You eat lots of unpasteurized cheese, deli sandwiches, and sushi. You drink good wine.

You hike with your sister through the Point Reyes wilderness, eat too many mushrooms, and have your first bad trip since high school. You are afraid of everything.

You wrap yourself around a boulder and listen to the waves until you come down a little. You huddle with your sister under a gigantic eucalyptus tree and talk about the meaning of life. The inevitibility, and inevitible sadness, of death. The two of you drink brown rice tea on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; the stars are amazing, which you hadn’t expected, so close to the city. You should have skipped the shrooms earlier – this place is magical on its own.

You fly home on mother’s day, expecting to feel sad.

But you don’t. At least, not too much.

You are grateful. You write a final letter to your baby, thanking her for the lesson she left behind. That death and fear are inevitable; and living, talking, loving… these are your choice.

And time goes on.

2010-10-14T07:02:00.000-07:00

Stuff I'd post on Facebook if I were brave enough:

can't believe how evil my boss is. Fortunately, she's also an idiot.

thinks that it doesn't count as a whole bottle of wine, if you opened it to cook with.

is tired of posts like "baby Charity just turned 3 and a half months today!" and "my cat turned nine today!". This is not news. Not even on Facebook.

thinks that too many people wear too much perfume. If I can smell you from two feet away - that's too much. And if I can smell you from my car as I drive by - that's way too much.

doesn't get Glee.

wouldn't mind some sex, but isn't up for shaving her legs.

just saw the news about a ten year old girl being offed by her parents. Is is weird that I worry about becoming the person capable of such an act?

does not like joggers. Oh, sure - there are exceptions here and there. But for the most part I don't like them.

just realized I've been using my coworker's toothbrush for the last 3 months. (I actually did post this one. But I'm not sure that was wise).

is tired of people complaining on Facebook. Get a life, for chrissakes.

has a box of thank you notes from 3 birthdays ago that never got posted and sent. (actually - I will post this one. It might relieve my guilt).

has had to pee for like ten minutes, but feeling too lazy to get up.

wonders if going batshit crazy and getting committed would be that bad, really. Free room and board, arts & crafts, outdoor time. Sounds a hell of a lot better than work. Not to mention laundry.

2010-10-11T13:06:00.000-07:00

Liking this one.

2010-09-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

Anna and Prudence, acrylic on canvas, 16X20

2010-09-04T06:59:00.000-07:00

I've been working on my artist website (Noel Clark art) and haven't had a lot of time to contribute to Weezine. But I'm back! Grace (Weeziner) and I go way back - how could I have neglected our love child? No more, Pacey, no more.

2010-08-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

Losing It

Obsequious red roses drip limpid perfume
across the wet sidewalk and
in through my window

where I’d planned to smell nothing,
feel nothing today.

Wet hair soaks my pillow
from the morning shower
- a chore.

Just as everything is harder, sharper,
flat as formica

without you.

2010-08-06T14:46:00.001-07:00

Look at his Big Fat Belly!

For Mindi, with Love from Grace

2010-07-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

Buck Up

You wear your sex like a weapon, but look, I ain't afraid

I'm a trisexual Californian - I've been every kind of laid

You say in almost fifty years you've never felt so fried

but your words are cancelled out by the crazy in your eyes

You try and front like you're a victim, but hon I know your type

You think past trauma gives you license, but I don't believe the hype

It wasn't me who hurt you

No - I didn't cause those wounds

Your anger is too old for me,

and frankly you're way too old too.

You need to grow up and stop acting like a fool

I haven't seen these kinds of antics since my elementary school.

And at the end of the day

despite the games you play?

Your bed

is made.

You're mental ministrations may be fucking with my life

But bring it on

It's been too long

since I've had this much to write

You call foul 'cause you're sad; because you're going through hard times.

Well my life is shitty too - but I don't have an axe to grind.

You lost your daddy and that's sad - but I lost my baby, too

and I keep on living life because that's just what people do.

So buck up,

Shut the fuck up,

and suck up.

2010-05-20T17:24:00.000-07:00

The Launch

I pulled the hand-trailer across the hardened sand, then dropped it about 20 yards from the sea lions. It was early yet and they were still asleep, but with their pups around I wanted to give them a wide berth. Slipping the red boat off the trailer and carrying it a ways till reaching the boggy, puddly stuff, I looked out toward the hook, toward the sun peeking up beyond the hills, and the slice of Pacific just beyond. Light glinted off the water, but I didn’t see any whitecaps. Amazing.

The seals seemed perfectly at peace. In fact, aside from a few downed eucalyptus trees, you could almost believe that everything was normal. I tossed the boat into the shallows, checked the drybag one more time, then climbed in.

Once out on open water, the waves were indeed quite calm, but my heart began to race. This stretch of the Pacific, between Point Reyes, the Faralons, and San Francisco, is called the Dead Zone for good reason. Great Whites frequent the area, drawn by the cool currents and abundant seal colonies. From below, I knew I looked exactly like a fat seal. I scanned the periphery for fins constantly, but kept a steady pace, letting my thoughts return to the day before.

We’d been expecting it for years, but still somehow – these things always come as a shock. I’d just kissed John and Ethel goodbye for the day, and they rode off on John’s bike, Ethel waving bye from the little seat in the back. Raina, now quite the big girl in kindergarten and all, was painstaikingly finishing the laces on her right shoe. I was looking down at her, trying to maintain my patience when it happened. The earth began moving.

Almost immediately, we heard glass breaking. Raina’s face turned up to mine, her mouth a silent “0” and I grabbed her and began to run. The ground was shaking so violently that I stumbled, bringing both of us to the lawn several times, before reaching the open street. I folded my body around her, not hearing her cry, no longer hearing anything around us. Only wondering, praying, beseeching any God or Gods that existed to please save my other baby, to please save my husband.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped.

2010-03-15T20:06:00.000-07:00

Nearly finished and still wet from a coat of Mod Podge finish.

2010-03-03T17:01:00.000-08:00

Precarious

Washing dishes just now, stacking things high in the drainer, I was startled when they suddenly shuddered and then collapsed down into a new position. I stopped my scrubbing for a moment, prepared to rescue the hand-blown glasses (a gift from our realtor - we would never buy anything so breakable ourselves), but then realized that no - the dishes had already worked themselves out. Now that they'd tumbled against eachother a bit - unbroken, thank goodness - they had reached an agreement and were now in a more stable position.

And then, as is usual around our house these days, my thoughts turned to death. Or, rather, dying. Both John and I are in the process of losing our last maternal grandparents. My grandmother Ethel - his grandfather Robert (a.k.a. Bum). Both of whom served larged roles in our childhoods.

My grandmother picked me up after school every day when I was young. My mother worked;my dad wasn't around; but I had my grandmother all to myself. She helped me with my homework, took me on long walks downtown, taught me to bake, to jump rope, and how to hold a decent conversation. She took me to Yosemite for my birthday every year, listening to my poems about mustard and lupine as we drove the long way there. She thought I was brilliant.

Now, at 97 years old, she is slowly letting go. After three knee replacements she walks - amazingly - through a combination of cane, walker, and pure will. She hosts my uncle for scrabble and salmon each Monday, and she still maintains her own home - but only with a lot of help from my mother. She's had her share of falls, and her heart is not good. Last week, a scare with pneumonia brought it all into focus, and for a few days I was an absolute mess. It didn't look like she was going to make it and I wasn't sure that I would, either.

But the over-thinker in me had to wonder - why? She's 97, after all. I know she won't last forever, and we don't even talk all that regularly. A phone call every month or so, letters back and forth. I see her once a year. But - when I see her I am still her little girl. And when she leaves, I will be saying goodbye to her from the perspective of my smallest, most vulnerable self.

How is it that parents and grandparents, when they go, have the power to turn us back into children? As the recent flurry of worried emails passed among my family members, it was everywhere between the lines: my uncle Jim railing against the emergency room, my aunt offering expensive and unnecessary equipment, disagreements around treatment and subtly barbed thank yous among the siblings... and barely concealed behind their words were their child-selves rocking back and forth, whispering, "Mama. Mama. Please don't go."

I feel it too. I know my grandma's long since made her peace with leaving earth, so why can't I? It's fear - that's all I can figure. It's scary to lose a parent figure, though their absence may play no real part in our current day-to-day existence. But loss or the threat of loss transports us back - to a time that somehow stands still somewhere inside us.

As children, our parents and some of our grandparents were the absolute centers of our lives. Or - actually - we perceived ourselves as the centers of theirs. Perhaps that's what we mourn - the idea (no matter how real it is, no matter how far we've come since) that we are losing the one person whose life revolves around our own.

As John said the other night - trying to sort through his own grief - it's selfish, isn't it? The pain is not about what the dying are feeling - what they will miss - it's all about ourselves. We may think "they'll never see our first child, or attend our wedding, or see this or that dream of ours realized" but it isn't about them. It's about us. It's about losing that feeling of a person wholly devoted to you - who revels in your smallest and largest accomplishments like nobody else in the world. They saw you born, they saw you crawl, they clapped when you pooped in the potty. It is, in a way, losing the last vestiges of our superego - our claim to the center of the universe. And even if it is irrational; even if it comes from a very childish place, it's real and it hurts like hell.

I take comfort though, in my dishes. They rattle against each-other and slip closer to the sink. But when they come to a rest, they rest softly. And meanwhile, I've got my grandmother's cupcakes in the oven.

Thank you Grandma, and thank you Bum. You do what you have to do. We'll be okay.

2010-03-02T04:39:00.000-08:00

working...

2010-02-28T07:54:00.000-08:00

2010-02-15T05:50:00.000-08:00

progressing

2010-02-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

The Curds of Love

It's in the laundry folded

and the dishes put away

in the arms I know are waiting

at the end of a long day

in your downy hair and skin

in your scratchy stubborn chin

and the way, when I begin to sing,

you always jump right in

it's your lips on mine each morning,

and your hands on me at night

it's in your gentle nature

but especially in your fight

in your freckles and red hair

and your lack of underwear

the scent of bike grease on your neck and ears

the way you fill a chair

from how you look in glasses

to how you've learned to cook tofu

There's something monumental

in the smallest things you do.

2010-02-08T11:21:00.000-08:00

Some works in progress..

2010-01-24T19:27:00.000-08:00

It's been a while. My art appears to be stacks of laundry at this moment in time. Actually, I have a few paintings going in the basement right now, but I don't want to post anything until I've got a finished product. Maybe a show is in order. With Jesse's help, perhaps I'll get my art out there again. (He's my biggest fan.)

But first, Puerto Rico...

2009-12-28T05:56:00.001-08:00

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

We were supposed to have prime rib for Christmas dinner, but instead we went to Waffle House. It was one of a series of holiday surprises - like our first flight from Vermont to North Carolina getting canceled, our second and third flights getting canceled (but not till we'd made it to JFK), and then learning that the next available flights to Raleigh would not depart till after the holiday.

One very expensive "economy" car rental and 30 hours later, we managed to crunch/slide/will our way up the un-plowed mountain road to our cabin in the woods. The sun was just starting to glow from behind the mountains, and my family awoke to meet us. It was almost like a Folgers commercial except that we went immediately to bed, and when we woke up there was much better coffee.

It was a wonderful week of playing in snow with my five-year-old nephew, sitting in the hot tub watching the waterfall, and playing board games with my fantastically wacky family. Then on Christmas morning we all awoke to find that... the power was out! Although Santa had visited us and left plenty of presents, he did not find it necessary to leave us a generator or any means for cooking, flushing the toilet, or otherwise maintaining civil society.

We hit the road. And about a half hour down the mountain, we understood the reason for the outage. For about a hundred miles of our drive, everything was encased in ice. The trees - bent over tapping at each-other, collapsed into the snow, or splintered into a thousand pieces across the road, and power lines of course - drooping and swaying with the weight of the frozen rain. It was a scary, but magical ride.

And that's how, three hours later, we ended up at the Waffle House outside of Greensboro. If you've never been, then imagine a Denny's - but more casual. We had to split up into groups as the House was apparently quite popular on Christmas Eve. Not with Jewish waffle-lovers as you might think, but with teenagers who'd just escaped from familial festivities, weary travelers like us, and even a few families wearing their finest, obviously out for their traditional and much anticipated Waffle House dinner.

Our waitress couldn't have been more than 19, but she yelled our orders for waffles, hamburgers, and hashbrowns out with the authority of a thirty-year-old. She made sure my nephew got his waffle within five minutes of sitting down, entertained his requests for ice in his water and ketchup for his waffle "when I was a kid, all I ate was ketchup, just straight out of the bottle, and I turned out fine," and chatted with us about children - she had 2 of her own. She didn't seem bothered to be working on Christmas, or the fact that she was just starting her life, had two kids, and a job at the Waffle House.

She just did her job, and did it very well. I imagined her going home late that night (she told us she was on till 3 a.m.), checking on her sleeping babies, counting her tip money out and placing it carefully in a jar. Then she would clean up the dinner dishes, perhaps do some laundry, slide into bed for a few hours and wake up the next day to do it all over again. It sounds kind of depressing as I write it all out, but she had one of the nicest smiles you've ever seen.

Here's my holiday wish: that our Waffle House waitress gets everything she hopes for. And as for me: I hope that in the coming year I can be more like her. Taking what life gives me and making the best out of it. Doing my job well, listening to the stories of the people I meet, taking care of my family, and loving that I get another day to do it all.

2009-12-17T19:48:00.000-08:00

The Night Before Friday

Twas the night before Friday,
And all through the place,

Not a creature was stirring –

At least not John or Grace.

The squirrels were all scuttling through their wall-nests with care

And as John pointed out Grace had lured them all there.

Well, I'm sorry, she said gruffly

I stopped feeding them last fall.

And I think it’s your smell that they like best of all.

The two were all snuggled quite warm in their loveseat,

And one (you guess who) had the stinkiest stank-feet.

When they spied the table, filled with notes from their friends

With photos and tales of the places they’d been.

So what should we write? Was the question at hand

Compared with new babies, our life’s pretty bland.

You got a new bike – said Grace to McMurry

Plus you shaved, so your face isn’t quite so very furry.

Hey - you shaved your legs – he replied – that’s momentous;

Four months ago, though. Hey - is that brittle they sent us?

And quick as a flash, the task was forgotten

As the two stuffed their maws with the candy they’d gotten

I wrote this last year, but it still fits just right.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

2009-12-14T18:50:00.000-08:00

2009-12-06T19:00:00.000-08:00

Something new.

2009-11-30T19:13:00.000-08:00

Summer

is a laughing child in a small plastic pool

on wet grass that will soon scorch to yellow,

too long to be cut with the push mower.

A shrieking kid standing by

bandaid flapping in the damp breeze

sunburn pulling lips down,

hot tears evaporating into the bright cloudless day.

Summer is the smell of banana boat lotion and the warmth

of my hair against the back of my neck.

Cheap white wine mingling with ice cubes,

sweating it out in a jelly jar with Fred Flinstone's face.

running across wet grass

falling, slipping, laughing then screeching because

summer means not holding it in

summer is the beginning of all things.

Summer is a rash from the lifejacket that rides up with the strap

and pancakes for dinner and sleeping without blankets

towels that never quite dry

and living on sun.

Summer is made of days that don't end.

Hours made of minutes made of seconds that

tick tick tick between blades of grass

standing upright and tall

Fragile, transparent and so green.

2009-11-29T06:40:00.000-08:00

This is a simple drawing I did of my daughter by the baby pool in our backyard.

2009-11-23T15:39:00.000-08:00

The Understanding

It wasn't the first time the plate had been empty, but by god it would be the last.

Harold surveyed the empty expanse of tin, then glanced up, cocking his right eye toward the big house. They were in there all right. All four of them. It was their morning feeding time. They like to sleep well past the rise of the sun, then awake with a rousing hubbub, all their wired items ringing, shouting, and clanging at the same time.

Now they were seated in the large glass area, around the communal platter. Eating gargantuan amounts of mushed up something-or-other. Well, wasn't that nice?

Harold bent his knees, and lifted up off the plate, off the pedestal, and with a few flaps landed on the railing outside the glass. They didn't notice. They rarely did, so consumed were they with the cacophany of their own lives. The small ones banged metal instruments on the wood, singing their terrible, mocking song. The older ones chittered to their young, cutting their feed into small pieces, but allowing them - grotesquely - to digest it all on their own.

Harold hopped a bit closer down the railing, tilted his head so that the other eye now glared in toward the large female. It was she who was in charge of his plate.

Every few days or so, she could (usually) be counted on to bang open the hatch to their dwelling, carrying sacks full of food which she placed into metal cannisters, then stopping by Harold's plate with a handful of seed.

In return, it had been established that Harold would live out the winter in the giant oak tree nearby. He often sang for the family, when they ventured outdoors. Complicated songs that he spent hours composing, melodies which bespoke the coldness of the season, the beauty of the dying sun, and - GODDAMN IT! Was it so hard to remember his seed?

Harold hopped up and down on the railing a few more times, fluffing his feathers a bit, but they did not turn to look. Desperate, he launched at the glass,managing to get several good beak taps in, his toes scratching for purchase on the cold, smooth surface, till he landed in a heap at the bottom.

Harold stared up at the blue sky, unable to move. His heart beat loudly in his chest, causing his whole body to quiver.

Bang! The hatch had been opened, and soon, Harold saw the family's faces, hovering over him. Harold lay prone, waiting. Gathering strength. The adults twittered to each other, while the fledglings leaned in closer. Harold grew nervous.

But then the youngest, a male, gently laid a flat object near Harold, nearly as big as the bird. It was food. It smelled of seeds, and grains, and berries. It was round and flat, and Harold nibbled at it. It was delicious. Like a million perfect seeds had been regurgitated into a fluffy cake by his own mother herself, god rest her soul. Harold ate.

That afternoon, as Harold sang his sunset concerto toward the family's wooden nest, his metal tray full to overflowing with seeds, he wished he had another of those lovely foodcakes.

But he never did.

2009-11-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

Here is an old drawing that I did when I lived in Chicago.

2009-11-22T06:45:00.000-08:00

It's November

again.

Bare branches stare through windows and

outside people walk; footsteps on cold concrete

so loud without leaves or sun.

The furnace is on but cold seems to linger

in corners and just under the floor

I run a bath.

The sound of water as it rushes

luxury of pulling out salts, oils, trashy book.

Heat envelops

I dip my head under

feeling it all the way to my follicles, to the insides of my ears

then emerge, breathing in steam,

drape the washcloth over my heart

and escape to a mystery not my own.

Too soon, drafts of the house draw warmth from the bath

water turns tepid

and I'm left shivering, knees to chest

cold wetness dripping down

Not ready to get out yet,

and still so cold.

2009-11-20T08:02:00.000-08:00

Well here it is. The first art post to our old zine, Wee. My husband and I recently lost our baby in utero during the eighth month of pregnancy. This was a drawing that came out of our sadness.

Noel

2009-10-14T08:49:00.000-07:00

Inscentsced

My nose tingles, my lips are turning numb, and my whole body itches. No, I’m not coming down from some awesome party drug, or battling the swine flu… I’m dealing with perfume at work.

You see, I’m one of those people who can’t tolerate many chemicals, including cleansers, cosmetics, glues, and especially — especially — including perfume.

My coworkers know this. I’ve had to “come out” to them in a mass email. So why do they continue to torment me?

Are they just heartless? Do they really think that their need to “smell nice” is more important than my well-being? Or do they just not believe that their liberal dosing of Jean Nate causes my eyes to swell and throat to close up? Do they think I’m making this crap up, so that I can send out emails about myself — do they imagine that I get a charge out of that?

As I’ve written this, a slow ache has started behind my nose, crept up over my face, and is now traveling down into my shoulders where I know, from experience, it will settle for the rest of the day — or perhaps even week.

But let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about her. Sitting over there, ten feet away, radiating scent-waves throughout the entire room. Why is it that so many people literally bathe themselves with scent? It’s not at all uncommon that one can walk into an empty room, and still smell the past occupant. That isn’t how it’s supposed to work, people. Your scent is supposed to be a surprise that someone picks up on as they lean in for a kiss, not a trumpet announcing your arrival.

And here I am, the canals in my ears swelling uncomfortably, my neck and chest turning red, and I’m expected to suffer through this for eight hours while this woman reeks me out from ten paces away. Except that even after eight hours, my pain won’t end. The headache doesn’t end, the skin reaction doesn’t end, and the muscle aches — as I’ve mentioned — can last for days. Surely, this isn’t fair. But what to do?

2006-06-08T07:06:00.000-07:00

Al-Zarqawi Shot Dead in "Iraq War"

One of Al Quaida's main honchos has been eliminated in yet another publicity ploy to get us behind the president. Bush's people have really put a lot of eggs in this basket, occupying not one but two headlines on the Yahoo homepage alone.

Of course I would feel slightly more impressed if I actually believed any of this war.

It's time I share with the masses what I've known in my gut for a long time now - that the Iraq War is a sham. I don't just mean we were led into an unjust war for made-up reasons - no - I mean it's 100% completely staged.

Think about it people - when was the last time you went to "Iraq"? Exactly. That's because it doesn't exist. "Iraq" exists only in the backlots of Los Angeles studios. It is the brainchild of a joint venture between the White House, Fox Media and Kentucky Fried Chicken, and it's purpose is to bolster support for the president, put us into a state of fear so that our civil rights can be eroded and just to generally spice up prime time news. (The KFC link is still being proven at this point, so I'll just leave that bit out)

Why do you think they chose a desert state, people? Why are there so many deaths there all the time? It's gang warfare, alright. But they ain't "Arabs".

Here is an exlusive photo, taken by one of Weezine's crack sources.
According to that source, the green man featured, "Al Greenfada"
was to play the villain role which ended up going to Ari
Shmechdel, whom you may know as "Al Zarquawi". Wise
choice, I think. Puppets are just too loveable to play villains.

Of course, now that Ari's character has been written off, we may be seeing more of Greenfada after all.

One of the outcomes of this whole bamboozle has been the upsurgence of money in Hollywood. With thousands of out-of-work actors finally bringing home steady pay, the studios being paid millions in hush money, and just the general "trickle-down" economics of the area, the whole film industry has been thriving.

While this was initially thought to be a bonus, (romantic comedies being the number one method of oppression in America), an unexpected result has been the ability for some of the studios to take some bigger risks. Like Brokeback Mountain. George Bush was recently overheard complaining to Cheney, "But Uncle Dick, you didn't never say they'd be 'lowed to make homo movies!" Cheney then bitch-slapped the president and sent him to bed.

Okay, I know that for some of you this is going to be a lot to digest. Undoubtedly, you've already been completely taken in by the whole media blitz, much like the original "Moon Landing" or "Baby Jessica in the Well".

And to those of you, I say simply - You're welcome!

2006-06-07T06:46:00.000-07:00

UMMMMM . . .

Has anyone ever read the label on a bottle of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap?

I did.

We're going camping soon and I think you can use it for dishsoap but just wanted to make sure. Instead of instructions though, there's a bunch of stuff about God and how we should all follow the Moral ABCs, which apparently include using a lot of soap.

Here all this time I thought my camp soap was non-denominational but no, Dr. Bronner's is very passionate about the "All-One", which sounds suspiciously like the diety worshipped in Walter Kirn's latest book, Mission to America.*

And it isn't just a little mention either. The entire label is filled with this teeny-tiny print that I bet most of us have never bothered to read before, and I'd say 90% of it is spiritual. Here is just a little sampling:

"Who else but God gave man Love that can spark mere dust to life! If you can teach each unforgiving minute, the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free, come hell, hate, ban, you'll enjoy God's spaceship Earth and do great work within it, and which is more my son you'll be a Man! A Man! All-One!"

I mean, this isn't just your regular loopy Christian stuff, this is like some Tom Cruise shit. Which is why I like it.

Stop by the comments section and wash your hands - we're giving out free samples of Dr. Bronner's Hemp Almond today.

* Walter Kirn is a gifted writer and I am not saying he stole this idea from the soap. Though it would be funny if he had. You should read his books, and decide for yourself.

2006-06-05T04:50:00.000-07:00

A BEAUTIFUL MESS

What the hell is up with all these copycats lately? I'm not just talking about fashion (though obviously that bitch on the left should've gone home and changed). No, I'm referring to something much closer to my heart - plagiarism. It's becoming a national phenomenon, like avian-flu anxiety or those pink Uggs from last winter. And I'm beginning to find it just as disturbing.

At first I thought it was funny, with that spoiled Harvard brat getting caught and then trying to lie her way out of it. I mean, it's "chick lit" after all - one of the main requirements is to be as generic and redundant as possible.

And I just found it sad when this guy at school stole several poems to compete in our dinky little school poetry slam. (Taking second place and walking away with a candy bar - which should have been MY candy bar!)

But then it happened to me.

It was unintentional, and the guilty party didn't even attribute the work to herself, (which as it was my writing obviously was a wise move), but to someone else. Who knows how she got mixed up - I'm sure there was no malice intended whatsoever, and in some ways this makes it a pretty mild case of plagiarism, though still, it hurts that I get no credit for the work whatsoever.

Incredibly, the woman who did this is an author herself.

Then Friday at work I open up a letter accusing one of our contributors (I work at a small literary magazine) of plagiarism. It was just a few lines of a poem,

Like a party dress
the night
fell at her feet
in a beautiful mess . . .

Or something like that. And I don't even remember who the authors' were, so in a way I'm plagiarising right now. (Except that nobody reads this).
Could this have been accidental? Maybe.
Maybe not.
Could several people have had the exact same image take form in their heads? Why not? Or, more likely, could one of the authors have gotten the line so embedded in his or her head they started believing it was their own?

Plagiarism, upon closer inspection, is no black and white issue. Like when I did my study on censorship, I'm finding it can be a very small, very personal act. Like repeating a joke, getting a laugh, and then forgetting to credit who it came from. No big deal, right?

What about describing something a certain way, like "She's as dirty as Paris Hilton"? Does this warrant a footnote? Or what if you're one of those really annoying people that quotes whole passages of things when the mood hits you?
Like maybe you're sitting out on the deck, sipping your pink Zima on ice and suddenly you're all

"So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay"

And then everyone else is like "wow, that's really beautiful man". And maybe one of them knows you're quoting Frost but two of them don't. Is this plagiarism?

It's a slippery slope, you know? I'd love to know what you all think - any personal experience here? Any ideas?

2006-06-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the delay - I wandered into the comments section of The Daily Header and lost a couple days. The last thing I remember Smellrat was asking if I wanted a Helen Keller. Anyways, here's the poem that won 3rd place in the highly prestigious Vermont College Poetry Slam.

It's So Easy

feeling superior when
you live in this house.

The haze of strong pot
grown in closets, with love,
fills our livingroom where I know
loose-jeaned boys will sit through the night.

Moose barks at one who knocks at our door.
Shaggy hair will not hide
his mediocre dreams.
Condescending, I know.
But it's true.

They laugh too loudly at Caddy Shack
and at all the wrong times.
Cypress Hill fills the background
and they mistakenly think,
you can tell by the way that they sit,
that by listening they have become cool.

It's so easy to sit here
silently mocking
their narrow lives that fit
so nicely
down the mouth of a bong.

And here I sit
with my own friend
this screen.

We whisper like gossips over coffee
me in my ratty pink slippers and she
in her plastic and glass
who always understands me
and always laughs.

2006-05-18T13:54:00.000-07:00

PARODY? PASTICHE? OR PERHAPS JUST PLAIN PASTIES . . .

I woke up Saturday morning not feeling so great. No, it wasn't the booze, though the lime-pink lemonade-rum punch did leave me feeling a little icky, more from the sugar I think than anything.

No, this was a Perky Boob Hangover. Too many perky boobs seen in rapid succession on an empty stomach, (theirs, not mine), is never a good idea.

We'd gone to Spielpalast Cabaret, and I have to say it was not what I'd expected.
In some ways it exceeded my hopes: a juggling act approaching genius more than clownishness, an operatic song and ballet worthy of the Met, and some satirical numbers that were original, funny, and thought-provoking.

Unfortunately, these moments were interspersed between long and not always well-edited numbers seemed designed solely to highlight the lovely assets of the women of the cabaret. Now, a certain amount of tits and ass is to be expected here, and indeed welcomed. I'm no prude - I appreciate the beauty of a woman's body. In fact, I appreciate the beauty of all different sorts of bodies, and would have welcomed a much wider range than was presented.

As perfectly-toned asses were wiggled in the audiences faces, high-heel sculpted legs were paraded around without benefit of heads or indeed torsos, and most all speaking roles were performed by men, I found myself wondering, where is the parody here? Where is the satire? Exploitation by any other name still smells as foul.

In one particularly tired repartee of sexist folly, a skit in which a sexy female robot is presented to a couple, much to the wife's chagrin and the husbands just plain grin, a skit which started out quite funny I might add, in the end dissolved into a girl-fight and then, of course, girl-love.

I'm tired of the cliche of girl on girl for the amusement of men. I'm tired of women being used as amusement, period.

Looking around at the faces of women nearby, I gathered I wasn't alone.

From what I hear this tending towards misogyny is a new trend; Spielpalast used to offer a larger variety of body types and even skin-tones. They used to provide more satire and political humor, less titty-waggling and unabashed wriggling.

It's interesting that they've slid into the mold of societal expectations that they're supposedly rebelling against, isn't it? Is it a conscious choice; are they trying to be more traditional and less innovative? Or is it the subconscious pressures of society working small scale?

In any case, I hope they are noticing it. I hope they noticed the faces of the women in the audience, when they pulled their chairs around and stared, in a Dada-ist move, at the audience that they then mocked, both openly and maybe not so. I hope they noticed the women's faces then, in the yellow glow of light bouncing off the stage, confused and somewhat hurt at the parody of their bodies, their minds, their role in society.

I hope that they looked then, and not just when the house lights went up later, and we women in the audience gathered up our purses and our two dollar matches and did our best to, as society tells us, put on a happy face.

2006-05-16T06:39:00.000-07:00

GET THEE UNDER 120 -
WHEN IT MIGHT BE TIME FOR AN EATING DISORDER

Okay - so you've heard again and again that anorexia and bulimia just aren't worth all the life-long body damage they can cause. But what do you do if you have tried all the dieting and excercise you can and you just can't get your shoulder blades to pop?

Sure, some beauty blogs will tell you it isn't worth it blah blah blah but let's face it, they're just covering their well-insured arses. As any girl over ten can tell you, there isn't much you're going to accomplish in life as a fat chick - and sometimes you gotta lose that weight by any means necessary.

One good option is lipo. Unfortunately, a lot of the more reputable doctors refuse to perform it on girls under eighteen (again with the insurance). This is so unfair because honestly, the older you are, the more elasticity you lose - better to get those unwanted pounds off now! If your mother is a patient, you may have better luck with this.

Another option is to contract an intestinal worm. Yes, this may sound yucky, but boy is it efficient. And low maintenance too! All you need to do is sign up for one of those "alternative spring break" weeks in Mexico or Guatemala and then walk around in your bare feet a lot. You never saw a fat native, now did you? Think about it!

Of course, these options aren't available to everyone, and that's when you have to consider extreme means. I want to stress here that this is not for everybody - girls who are already taller than 6 foot 1 and weigh less than a hundred pounds should really stick with diet and excercise.

Bulimia - this is a great way to go. You still get the fun of the pig-out, but with none of the pounds! All you gotta do is get intimate with that finger and just watch those unwanted calories pour out of you.

People may warn you about damage to your esophogus and bones, but they're probably old and have forgotten what it's like to be young and un-slender. And just remember, if you're fat, your never going to amount to anything anyways - so what the heck? Right?

Anorexia is really the more taxing way to go, as it involves really psyching yourself up, or down, actually. A good way to start is by reading this blog daily and really just digesting everything (no pun intended!) we have to say. Also, try going into poorly lit dressing rooms, trying on panties that are too small for you, and berating yourself in the mirror. Just see if you feel like eating after that!!

So there it is, girls. You heard it here. Sure, you may have psycological and esophogal scars to deal with later on, but if you're hot enough don't you think you'll have the health plan to deal?
Live large, eat little, and stay Totally Hot!

2006-05-09T17:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Totally Hot,
I think I might be unlikeable. My boyfriends' friends always say hi to him when we go places but it's like they ignore me or something - almost like they don't know I'm there. What do I do?
Invisible in Indiana

Dear Invisible,
Haha. Men. Can't live with 'em, can't possibly live any sort of meaningful existence without them. Invisible, you are in the interesting position of having a man and yet being unhappy. This does happen sometimes, but the good news is the answer lies within you.
If you want his friends to notice you, you're going to have to walk that line between girl next door who's already dating my buddy and hot vixen I cannot resist. To do this well you need several things - a hot body, a demure yet fetching personality, and of course the right products. Have you thought of trying Lipsmacker Just Smacked Lipilluminaters? They lend a girl that pouty, I need to be punished look. Or how about a dab of Britney Spears' new scent, Bitch in Heat?
With a little help and the right attitude, you'll have his friends noticing you in no time! And that means you'll be Totally Hot!
TH

2006-05-06T07:04:00.000-07:00

For Christmas this year my sister gave me a Joel Osteen Live Your Best Life Now desk calendar. I don't love the responsibility of tearing a new page off every day, but when I remember to do it there's always a little piece of Joe's wisdom to help me on my way. He likes to accompany these tidbits with passages from the Bible

See, now this is just plain bad advice. And did you read the Bible bit? It's like he's saying you're wretched if you don't smile. And yeah, yeah, I've heard that thing about the chemicals before but I've tried it and it doesn't work and the truth is there are few things in life more wretched than a fake grin.
I like this page though, because it's a good peek into what goes on in the minds of these fake grinners. It helps me to have compassion, which is never a bad thing. I'm going to take this opportunity to add my own piece of advice.
When you come upon a person who obviously has no joy but is smiling like a fool anyways, don't feel scorn, feel pity. They are doing this to escape God's wrath. If possible, do a little dance or tell a dirty joke, anything to help them smile for real.

2006-05-05T05:03:00.000-07:00

Long Live the Bee!

How come we don't honor the bee more? I'm pretty sure that without bees, we wouldn't have blossoms. Or fruit, or flowers, or vegetables and lots of other beautiful things. They go around all day, busy like nobody's business, just to make everything happen in this totally poetic way.
I guess maybe as far as they know they're just collecting pollen for their hive, for their queen, who if you hear some people tell it they really worship and serve but you have to wonder how begrudgingly.
Do they even know what they leave behind?
What if humans are doing the same? In our mad dash to grow up, eat, shit, work, drive a car and all the rest, are we leaving behind beauty, without even realizing it?

2006-05-04T17:51:00.000-07:00

by Noel Fricke

This is one of the last drawings Noel sent my way. Isn't it awesome? I love how with every new thing she creates I can see her life in it's lines. She is so honest as an artist, and I really love that.
Hopefully she will be sending more artwork for us to use on this site; maybe you could post some comments here encouraging her . . . .

2006-05-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

Self-Righteous Manifesto of the day:

Cinco de Mayo is tomorrow, a favorite day for barbeques and margaritas. Here is my request: before you eat your fabulous burger and corn on the cob or your potato salad or perhaps your salmon with steamed spinach and paella with goat cheese and grapes, take just a moment to thank those immigrant hands that helped feed you.
Whether you are for immigration reform or not, please accept and appreciate the fact that much of what we eat is made possible by sun-darkened brown hands.

They are the cowboys that herd the beef, the pickers who load tomatoes and cucumbers into fifty pound baskets on their backs, they package beans and rinse turnips and they do it all for very very little pay, just so they can try and make a better life for their children.
Some citizens think they are stealing these jobs away, but would they like to slave all day in the hot sun, would they like to spend twelve hour days in a dank-smelling factory with no health benefits, making less than minimum wage? No? Well then shush.

Or perhaps work towards immigrant rights, and agree that it would be nice for these human beings, actually it is the only decent possible thing for these hard workers to have the same rights as any citizen working in our system.
Our economic system is a giant pyramid scheme and these people are at the bottom. Actually, we have put their relatives back home at the bottom by exploiting workers in other countries more that we can begin to imagine. or maybe we just don't want to. And then those that reap the benefits of the upper tiers have the idiocy to complain? Please.
I'm not saying not to enjoy your Cinco de Mayo fiesta, because god knows we all need a good time now and then. But maybe before you take a bite, before you take a sip, think about the immigrants, living in shacks (yes, shacks) who made your meal possible.

Now how does that taste?

2006-05-04T04:28:00.000-07:00

Dream of the day:
I was a princess. I was pooping in front of everybody to show them how it was done.
Then, the boy all the kingdom called "Beaver" came up and told me how because I was given preferential treatment he had to do all the crappy jobs. So I said I would help, because I was just that kind of princess.
He took me to a ladder and pointed up and said, "that paint needs to be chipped away". I went up the ladder and started. It was topply, and I didn't have any tools. I had an idea that a big part of the reason Beaver was being asked to do this job had to do with his dramatically protruding upper teeth. He had braces on them, but they were still a fine tool for stripping paint.
Then my sister, who wasn't my real life sister came over.
She was flirting with the chef in a rather unappealing manner and I got the feeling it wasn't going to last much longer between them. I don't know where the chef came from.
Later, I went to the bar. I don't think I was still a princess, but I definitely still felt out of my element. I drank too much (which would never happen in real life, ha ha) trying to feel at ease, and instead woke up the next day with a vague feeling I had either really made a fantastic impression on people or really made a fool out of myself. There was a fuzzy memory of starting an impromptu jam session with a bunch of people, where I was stomping and humming while the waitresses were trying to clean up around us and I remember it seemed really awesome at the time but found myself wondering the next morning (still dreaming here) if in fact I had any rhythm or melody whatsoever. And also I had accepted a job and had to be ready for it immediately.
The job was given to me by one of the guys at the bar and involved a pregnant suit and the ability to dance. Other than that, he said we would just have to see how it went. He took me to the mall.
That's where it kind of fades out, though I remember I was never quite sure if I was doing a good job in my new position. The guy who was my boss, who was Mexican (random), said I would be okay, but he seemed distracted. I wasn't sure if I was working on commission, or what.
Then I woke up.
Post your dream below!!

2006-05-03T14:51:00.000-07:00

Travel Tip of the Day:
If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to put a heavy-duty conditioner in your hair. Sometimes I think the air there is almost as bad as LA. That's a huge overstatement of course. A huge compliment completely undeserved by LA. At least San Francisco has some ventilation - the fog is like a big scrub brush every day.
See, the problem with this blog thing is that even when I write crap like the above paragraph I'm likely to press Publish Post, simply because it's right there. Quality control is tough when you're impatient and the button to be done with this is right in front of you.
Also, if you go to SF, go to Good Vibrations, the best vibrator store you will ever see. It's woman-owned and a mix of very nice women and men operate it. I once got some latex
Okay. That paragraph is over.
One last travel tip for SF: People will try to sell you on the idea of renting roller blades. This is insane. I'm wary of driving my car down some of those hills, thinking that maybe the back end will reach that perfect angle and finally flip me over forwards so that I'm careening upside down through China Town and towards Fisherman's Wharf. And you know, I can't afford to park there.
So don't do the rollerblade thing.

2006-05-03T11:44:00.000-07:00

Photo of the day:
Here I am!

2006-05-03T10:52:00.000-07:00

Lament of the day:
I sure wish I had packed a cheese sandwich instead of the peanut butter and jelly. You know, they always say it's the things you don't do you come to regret, and in a way that's so. In that I regret not making a cheese sandwich.

2006-05-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Tip of the day:

Never begin a short story (or a long story for that matter) with the line,
"God I was angry with Mother".
If you disagree, then post it here because I just don't see how it could work.

2006-05-03T09:46:00.000-07:00

Ron's joke of the day:
There was a little boy in the shower with his Grandma.
"What's that, Grandma?" he asked.
"Why, that's my beaver", she replied.
Several days later he was in the shower with his Mom.
"What's that, Mom?", he asked.
"My Beaver", she replied.
"Oh, I get it," said the little boy. "Grandma has one, too, except hers must be dead 'cause it's tongue is hanging out."

Har har har.