Some are song lyrics, some are quotes...
"I'm going to corrupt him. In a good way. This time."
"I intend to fuck you...like your daddy...owes me money."
"God, why do I do this? Well...maybe it'll be the worst, most awkward date ever, and at least I'll have a good story." (Side note: after I said this, he frantically called and told me, a total stranger, that he must postpone our date an hour because he HAS to get this drug deal done first...and I was so shocked and awed that I SAID OKAY. omg)
"Oh my! Oops, there goes my skirt down to my feet."
Friday, February 3, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
3. Bringing the Playa Home
Final installment of my Burning Man Rites of Passage series
Recently I explained to someone that in the last year, "I had a near-death experience in a car wreck and went to Burning Man, both equally life-changing." And it's true. Burning Man is a transformational journey with long-lasting effects. I see the world differently now.
While I was on the playa, I was constantly reminded of how much I've missed brilliant desert sunrises and sunsets. That's the one thing I long for (besides family and friends, of course) when I think of growing up in Arizona. Yet when I returned to San Diego, it was as if I brought the sunset home with me. The night I got back, I saw the most spectacular sunset I've ever seen in the decade I've lived here. The whole sky blazing with oranges and purples and pinks and greens, and framed by palm trees like the picturesque scenes you see on post cards. I felt like it was meant for me to see.
Though I've always been a freak about recycling and trash, and always carry a reusable travel mug, I am even more aware of waste now. When I was lugging my BPA-free bottle all over Vegas, I must've explained 6 times to various people that it's just water, I'm from California, we're environmentalists...I also try to nix straws and lids when possible. Recently, at a club, I felt huge guilt when I realized that all night I'd been drinking soda cans poured into plastic cups with straws. I'll walk far to throw trash away and I no longer have any qualms about scolding friends for littering.
I've also had a stronger sense of community after getting back. There was a 12-hour power outage during which I ended up at Mission Beach. It felt shady, with all these characters milling about, bored and hungry and unable to order food at the restaurants. Kids looted the 711 on Florida St, for no reason other than to be assholes. Just when I was thinking how much people suck, I got home, where everyone was hanging out in the courtyard. I met more neighbors during the blackout than I have in 5+ yrs living in this building. They came out with cigs, candles, fruit and other perishables, and stories about the Navy and growing up on farms. I learned that the newlyweds I share a wall with have adorable matching names. Having always lived in a big city, it's not often that I feel a sense of community, especially not one so similar to the atmosphere in BRC.
But perhaps the hugest change has been in the people I meet and surround myself with. I recognize burners by their animal hoodies and tails and feathers, and it's like we're instant friends. I find myself purposely mentioning Burning Man to new people to see who's heard of it, what their impressions are, and whether they "get" it. If not, they lose lots of brownie points. Not that all of my friends have to go or understand my reasons for it, but they have to be open-minded and accepting of me as an extremely eclectic, creative, curious, expressive being...all the qualities Burning Man celebrates, and the qualities I hope to foster in the people around me.
Recently I explained to someone that in the last year, "I had a near-death experience in a car wreck and went to Burning Man, both equally life-changing." And it's true. Burning Man is a transformational journey with long-lasting effects. I see the world differently now.
While I was on the playa, I was constantly reminded of how much I've missed brilliant desert sunrises and sunsets. That's the one thing I long for (besides family and friends, of course) when I think of growing up in Arizona. Yet when I returned to San Diego, it was as if I brought the sunset home with me. The night I got back, I saw the most spectacular sunset I've ever seen in the decade I've lived here. The whole sky blazing with oranges and purples and pinks and greens, and framed by palm trees like the picturesque scenes you see on post cards. I felt like it was meant for me to see.
Though I've always been a freak about recycling and trash, and always carry a reusable travel mug, I am even more aware of waste now. When I was lugging my BPA-free bottle all over Vegas, I must've explained 6 times to various people that it's just water, I'm from California, we're environmentalists...I also try to nix straws and lids when possible. Recently, at a club, I felt huge guilt when I realized that all night I'd been drinking soda cans poured into plastic cups with straws. I'll walk far to throw trash away and I no longer have any qualms about scolding friends for littering.
I've also had a stronger sense of community after getting back. There was a 12-hour power outage during which I ended up at Mission Beach. It felt shady, with all these characters milling about, bored and hungry and unable to order food at the restaurants. Kids looted the 711 on Florida St, for no reason other than to be assholes. Just when I was thinking how much people suck, I got home, where everyone was hanging out in the courtyard. I met more neighbors during the blackout than I have in 5+ yrs living in this building. They came out with cigs, candles, fruit and other perishables, and stories about the Navy and growing up on farms. I learned that the newlyweds I share a wall with have adorable matching names. Having always lived in a big city, it's not often that I feel a sense of community, especially not one so similar to the atmosphere in BRC.
But perhaps the hugest change has been in the people I meet and surround myself with. I recognize burners by their animal hoodies and tails and feathers, and it's like we're instant friends. I find myself purposely mentioning Burning Man to new people to see who's heard of it, what their impressions are, and whether they "get" it. If not, they lose lots of brownie points. Not that all of my friends have to go or understand my reasons for it, but they have to be open-minded and accepting of me as an extremely eclectic, creative, curious, expressive being...all the qualities Burning Man celebrates, and the qualities I hope to foster in the people around me.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Love lessons from the cat
Just realized that when my cat is happily purring and kneading something soft on the bed and I pat my lap to get him to come over, that's no different (and no less of an annoyance) than when I'm having an awesome time catching up with the girls and a random guy interrupts our conversation and expects us to be interested in him. Or like when I'm having a blast traveling and going to concerts and interacting with lots of hot poly lovers and someone comes along with a ball and chain wanting me to be all excited about our future 2.5 kids and white picket fence.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Why Occupy Wall Street?
Maybe you're wondering why I've become such a vocal proponent of The Occupation. I ask myself that sometimes, too. I've always had a tendency to take up causes and run with them, from Meals on Wheels to the Drug War, so often that I profess I DON'T NEED ANY MORE CAUSES! But this one is especially important.
It started last week when someone forwarded me a video of NYPD brutalizing Wall Street demonstrators. Several things shocked me about it. For one, the caption read, "Watch this video before youtube takes it down again." Why would it be removed? The uploader claimed that news of the protests is being suppressed. Sounded like a baseless conspiracy theory to me. But as I watched, a respected journalist confirmed that there seems to be a media blackout. Not only is no major U.S. news outlet reporting on it, but some email servers and websites have blocked messages and traffic related to it. All video is coming from amateurs and independent journalists on the ground.
It was the video footage in this report that was most disturbing. I watched in horror as young protesters already contained behind police netting, not bothering anybody, got pepper sprayed point-blank by high-ranking NYPD official Anthony Bologna. He ran off in hopes that no one saw him, but the camera caught it. It also caught police attacking people, dragging them across pavement by their clothes, swarming them, standing on their necks, and bruising their wrists with zip tie cuffs. What was their "crime"? Videotaping the police and dissenting when others were arrested.
Why hadn't I heard about these events when I am on CNN and other news sites literally all day every day? I keep up on the news, people, and there was none to be found here. That's when I turned to social networking to keep updated. (Hey, it worked for Egypt.)
It was through those sources that on Saturday, I started watching a livefeed of protesters on the Brooklyn Bridge and police occasionally struggling with them. This is a nonviolent movement that aims to respect laws, so I couldn't understand why they'd block traffic on a city bridge where they surely weren't allowed. That's when I heard them chanting, "Let us go, let us go!" I saw that they were penned in by a slew of cops and barricades, all the way around. One by one, police randomly picked people, dragged them out of the crowd, and arrested them, sometimes violently. A teenaged girl with braces, old people, young people, union workers, businesspeople, hippies, over 700 citizens--every one of them taken into custody. All for exercising their 1st amendment rights to gather peaceably and express themselves. My hand flew up to my mouth in terror as tensions mounted and police got violent. At times it seemed as though protesters were going to defend their peers from being mistreated at the risk of...well, having all of NYPD draw weapons and seriously injure everyone.
Now, I wasn't around during the equal rights movement of the '60s and '70s, when citizens were beaten and killed by authorities who were supposedly charged with protecting them. But I've seen clips, and this is the closest thing to it I've ever witnessed. NYPD consistently uses unnecessary force with impunity. In the case of the demonstrators who got pepper sprayed, officials have closed the investigation, saying the cop used normal crowd control measures. What? I couldn't help but think, Is this the start of a revolution? Another thought was, Thank god this is being taped and can prove the protesters are being peaceful and the police are not. But the fact that it was live also caused something interesting to happen...
As I sat in front of the computer bawling, unable to look away, I was bombarded with livechat alongside the video. In less than an hour, the number of viewers soared from 9,000 to 20,000. That's 20,000 people from around the world, all watching NYPD behave badly. And these people got PISSED and MOTIVATED. We started sharing links and phone numbers for NYPD, Internal Affairs, Mayor Bloomberg's office. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of us called and left messages and complaints and requests for investigation. We blew up CNN's facebook page asking why the Breaking News was a story about a plane crash in a distant country with no injuries (no joke) with zero mention of the Brooklyn Bridge arrests taking place. People sitting at home who'd otherwise been complacent were forced to confront the truth and take action. And you know what? CNN and Fox have started reporting! I certainly don't expect their coverage to be fair or balanced, but at least we demanded attention for an issue they'd ignored for 3 weeks.
So, why were they demonstrating on the bridge, anyway? Protesters say NYPD split up their march and led half of them onto the bridge. Then, the officers barricaded them, set up police netting, and arrested them for being on the bridge. There is no way I can forget the injustices I witnessed this weekend, nor do I ever want to. That solidified it for me. For the next few weeks, I live, eat, breathe Occupy San Diego, whatever I have to offer, to donate, to do, I will. And I hope one day I can tell my nieces and nephews about how I was an active participant in the reorganization of our country's financial system, how I fought to eradicate corporate greed, how I stood up for my fellow citizens whose civil liberties were being violated, all because, well, it was the right thing to do.
It started last week when someone forwarded me a video of NYPD brutalizing Wall Street demonstrators. Several things shocked me about it. For one, the caption read, "Watch this video before youtube takes it down again." Why would it be removed? The uploader claimed that news of the protests is being suppressed. Sounded like a baseless conspiracy theory to me. But as I watched, a respected journalist confirmed that there seems to be a media blackout. Not only is no major U.S. news outlet reporting on it, but some email servers and websites have blocked messages and traffic related to it. All video is coming from amateurs and independent journalists on the ground.
It was the video footage in this report that was most disturbing. I watched in horror as young protesters already contained behind police netting, not bothering anybody, got pepper sprayed point-blank by high-ranking NYPD official Anthony Bologna. He ran off in hopes that no one saw him, but the camera caught it. It also caught police attacking people, dragging them across pavement by their clothes, swarming them, standing on their necks, and bruising their wrists with zip tie cuffs. What was their "crime"? Videotaping the police and dissenting when others were arrested.
Why hadn't I heard about these events when I am on CNN and other news sites literally all day every day? I keep up on the news, people, and there was none to be found here. That's when I turned to social networking to keep updated. (Hey, it worked for Egypt.)
It was through those sources that on Saturday, I started watching a livefeed of protesters on the Brooklyn Bridge and police occasionally struggling with them. This is a nonviolent movement that aims to respect laws, so I couldn't understand why they'd block traffic on a city bridge where they surely weren't allowed. That's when I heard them chanting, "Let us go, let us go!" I saw that they were penned in by a slew of cops and barricades, all the way around. One by one, police randomly picked people, dragged them out of the crowd, and arrested them, sometimes violently. A teenaged girl with braces, old people, young people, union workers, businesspeople, hippies, over 700 citizens--every one of them taken into custody. All for exercising their 1st amendment rights to gather peaceably and express themselves. My hand flew up to my mouth in terror as tensions mounted and police got violent. At times it seemed as though protesters were going to defend their peers from being mistreated at the risk of...well, having all of NYPD draw weapons and seriously injure everyone.
Now, I wasn't around during the equal rights movement of the '60s and '70s, when citizens were beaten and killed by authorities who were supposedly charged with protecting them. But I've seen clips, and this is the closest thing to it I've ever witnessed. NYPD consistently uses unnecessary force with impunity. In the case of the demonstrators who got pepper sprayed, officials have closed the investigation, saying the cop used normal crowd control measures. What? I couldn't help but think, Is this the start of a revolution? Another thought was, Thank god this is being taped and can prove the protesters are being peaceful and the police are not. But the fact that it was live also caused something interesting to happen...
As I sat in front of the computer bawling, unable to look away, I was bombarded with livechat alongside the video. In less than an hour, the number of viewers soared from 9,000 to 20,000. That's 20,000 people from around the world, all watching NYPD behave badly. And these people got PISSED and MOTIVATED. We started sharing links and phone numbers for NYPD, Internal Affairs, Mayor Bloomberg's office. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of us called and left messages and complaints and requests for investigation. We blew up CNN's facebook page asking why the Breaking News was a story about a plane crash in a distant country with no injuries (no joke) with zero mention of the Brooklyn Bridge arrests taking place. People sitting at home who'd otherwise been complacent were forced to confront the truth and take action. And you know what? CNN and Fox have started reporting! I certainly don't expect their coverage to be fair or balanced, but at least we demanded attention for an issue they'd ignored for 3 weeks.
So, why were they demonstrating on the bridge, anyway? Protesters say NYPD split up their march and led half of them onto the bridge. Then, the officers barricaded them, set up police netting, and arrested them for being on the bridge. There is no way I can forget the injustices I witnessed this weekend, nor do I ever want to. That solidified it for me. For the next few weeks, I live, eat, breathe Occupy San Diego, whatever I have to offer, to donate, to do, I will. And I hope one day I can tell my nieces and nephews about how I was an active participant in the reorganization of our country's financial system, how I fought to eradicate corporate greed, how I stood up for my fellow citizens whose civil liberties were being violated, all because, well, it was the right thing to do.
What YOU Can Do to End Corporate Greed and Congressional Waste
By now you've probably heard about Occupy Wall Street, a nonviolent
demonstration that started in NY 3 weeks ago and is spreading to cities
across the world. Unfortunately, NYPD has been roughing up and arresting peaceful protesters, including over 700 this weekend. Here's what you can do to help.
1. Educate yourself. There's been a media blackout in the U.S. and only independent/foreign journalists have been covering this. Read articles in UK or Canadian publications and watch videos on youtube. The official declaration of the movement:
http://nycga.cc/2011/09/30/declaration-of-the-occupation-of-new-york-city/
disturbing report with footage--links aren't working so copy and paste URL into your browser:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5zmzV5IxpQ
watch the protest live--copy and paste URL:
http://www.livestream.com/globalrevolution
2. Spread the word. Forward this. Post on facebook and twitter.
3. Send supplies to NY. Here's a list of needs, esp blankets:
http://nycga.cc/category/requests/
Send to: The UPS Store/Re: Occupy Wall Street/118A Fulton St. #205/New York, NY 10038.
4. Attend your city's Occupy. Occupy San Diego starts this Friday at 6pm. Let me know if you want to carpool, meet there, or make signs beforehand. It goes indefinitely so I'll be there off and on. Facebook event page here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=104817912961200
News article:
http://www.sandiegoreader.com/weblogs/news-ticker/2011/oct/04/occupy-wall-street-protests-come-to-san-diego/
5. Donate supplies or food for Occupy San Diego. WE DESPERATELY NEED:
DRY ICE
STOVE TOPS
PROPANE 16, 9oz
SERVING UTENSILS
TABLES
BOWLS
6. If you have a car, offer to give rides, run errands, or pick up food/supplies for demonstrators in your city.
7. Donate to the cause. But they really need supplies and bodies, not money.
http://nycga.cc/donate/
Thanks for your interest and support!
1. Educate yourself. There's been a media blackout in the U.S. and only independent/foreign journalists have been covering this. Read articles in UK or Canadian publications and watch videos on youtube. The official declaration of the movement:
http://nycga.cc/2011/09/30/declaration-of-the-occupation-of-new-york-city/
disturbing report with footage--links aren't working so copy and paste URL into your browser:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5zmzV5IxpQ
watch the protest live--copy and paste URL:
http://www.livestream.com/globalrevolution
2. Spread the word. Forward this. Post on facebook and twitter.
3. Send supplies to NY. Here's a list of needs, esp blankets:
http://nycga.cc/category/requests/
Send to: The UPS Store/Re: Occupy Wall Street/118A Fulton St. #205/New York, NY 10038.
4. Attend your city's Occupy. Occupy San Diego starts this Friday at 6pm. Let me know if you want to carpool, meet there, or make signs beforehand. It goes indefinitely so I'll be there off and on. Facebook event page here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=104817912961200
News article:
http://www.sandiegoreader.com/weblogs/news-ticker/2011/oct/04/occupy-wall-street-protests-come-to-san-diego/
5. Donate supplies or food for Occupy San Diego. WE DESPERATELY NEED:
DRY ICE
STOVE TOPS
PROPANE 16, 9oz
SERVING UTENSILS
TABLES
BOWLS
6. If you have a car, offer to give rides, run errands, or pick up food/supplies for demonstrators in your city.
7. Donate to the cause. But they really need supplies and bodies, not money.
http://nycga.cc/donate/
Thanks for your interest and support!
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Burning Man in mainstream news
Amazing things are happening...Burning Man was named as one of TIME Magazine's Great Places of History: Civilization's 100 Most Important Sites.
And it's discussed from an intellectual point of view here:
Ted Talks on Transformational Festivals
Stay tuned for part 3 of my Burning Man series, Taking the Playa Home.
And it's discussed from an intellectual point of view here:
Ted Talks on Transformational Festivals
Stay tuned for part 3 of my Burning Man series, Taking the Playa Home.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
2. There Is No ME in COMMUNITY, But Almost
My 2nd post in a series about the 25th anniversary of Burning Man
a.k.a. my virgin burn. Scroll down for the 1st post if you don't understand how blogs work...haha.
Knowing about Burning Man is like having a personal recommendation from a likeminded friend. It's advertised solely by word of mouth. With yoga, meditation, spirituality workshops, and a focus on environmentalism, BM draws people who are on a spiritual quest of sorts. World-famous DJs and musicians aren’t announced ’til just beforehand, so there aren’t amateurs going just for the rave. It seems almost everyone's there for a higher purpose.
The sense of camaraderie one feels at Burning Man is not just heartwarming but is critical for survival. In the high desert, you're contending with extreme heat, lack of resources, and a 4,000-foot elevation that makes it easy to feel out of breath and lightheaded. (Bonus: you get drunker, faster.) Dehydration and exhaustion are real risks while biking or walking on a thousand degree day. Black Rock City (BRC) is a huge circle 1.5 miles in diameter--and getting stranded far from camp is common. Bikes are “borrowed” and lost, and freewheeling on an art car might land you on the far side. Bikes, golf carts, and cars get stuck or need repair, and people run out of necessities. These issues are dealt with as a community. For the most part, it's ok to burst into someone's campsite and ask for water or a snack. Burners hang signs declaring “out of water” or “need rv service,” and they just might thank their savior with a delicious meal, a bottle of Jack, or a massage. One camp I visited was the Filling Station, a rest stop on long journeys. They hooked me up with lemonade, a quesadilla, and a misting, and offered public tents for anyone who needed to sleep. Working together, everyone gets what they need.
Even the art projects encourage cooperation. My first night out, I noticed a young guy holding a beer and sitting on a wooden contraption. He was so perfectly still that I thought he was part of the installation, waiting to jump out at me or something. Finally, I said, "Hi, do you...what are you...oh, is this a teeter totter?" My participation was required! No ordinary playground toy, it swiveled 360-degrees while also moving up and down. He lit up so happy that he was screaming (hallucinogens probably played a role) and his laughter was totally contagious. No one cared that he spilled beer all over or that he could've gotten hurt when he fell off.
BM's focus on radical self-expression means burners are allowed to do almost anything--climb on structures
or art installations, spin fire, tear off all their clothing, have sex--at any
time. In the Mad Max Thunderdome you can even beat up your
friends, spouse, and anyone who annoys you before a bloodthirsty crowd. Swinging in
harnesses, gladiators battle with foam bats while an MC heckles them. Three things you can’t do in BRC, though, are sell drugs, sleep
on the roadway (Briar discovered this), or lay on top of a moving RV (learned
when police stopped us on entry. Ha).
Everyone I met was enlightened on some level. We talked quantum physics, discussed life-changing books and movies, pulled oracle cards, cried with strangers, fell in and out of love instantly, and told random people they have beautiful souls. The 2nd day, during an orgasmic breathing workshop hosted by the Erotic Rock Star, we attracted an audience of about 30 cheering us on. I had a huge wave of emotions come up that I didn’t feel safe releasing, especially not as some kind of spectacle for bystanders. A woman beelined over to me and said if I needed to move through anything, she’d hold space for me or give me a hug or talk or listen or whatever. I had needed permission and safety, which she’d given. So I let out a startling scream, beat the shit out of someone’s pillow, cried big sobs, yelled at people to stop looking, and it was perfect. A guy sat down, looked at me with these intense blue eyes, and said in a European accent, “You need a hug.” He could’ve tried to hook up with me, an emotionally vulnerable half-naked girl who's into tantra. But he knew not to. He hugged me, and left.
It was because of this sense of community that I felt safe riding to BM with
people I’d never met. I was the only girl in a carful of guys and at no time
did I feel uncomfortable about it. In fact, I was party to our picking up a
hitchhiker on the way home. Our driver had just said that he had wandered on foot down this same desolate road years ago when someone was nice enough to give him a ride. Suddenly, a young hitchhiker appeared. Now was time to repay the favor. The kid was a student from France who was hiking solo through the mountains. He rode with us 3 hours while I slept next to him,
unconcerned about a total stranger in my space.
Since getting home, I’ve found an immediate connection with anyone who’s ever burned, because they get it. Even people who've never been to the playa work on art projects, planning, and fundraising throughout the year because they so love being a part of this community. Burning Man is not just an annual event, it’s a lifestyle, a state of mind, a philosophy, and a club of permanent membership. Burners for life, yo!
Knowing about Burning Man is like having a personal recommendation from a likeminded friend. It's advertised solely by word of mouth. With yoga, meditation, spirituality workshops, and a focus on environmentalism, BM draws people who are on a spiritual quest of sorts. World-famous DJs and musicians aren’t announced ’til just beforehand, so there aren’t amateurs going just for the rave. It seems almost everyone's there for a higher purpose.
 |
| Photo by Hugo Groening |
The sense of camaraderie one feels at Burning Man is not just heartwarming but is critical for survival. In the high desert, you're contending with extreme heat, lack of resources, and a 4,000-foot elevation that makes it easy to feel out of breath and lightheaded. (Bonus: you get drunker, faster.) Dehydration and exhaustion are real risks while biking or walking on a thousand degree day. Black Rock City (BRC) is a huge circle 1.5 miles in diameter--and getting stranded far from camp is common. Bikes are “borrowed” and lost, and freewheeling on an art car might land you on the far side. Bikes, golf carts, and cars get stuck or need repair, and people run out of necessities. These issues are dealt with as a community. For the most part, it's ok to burst into someone's campsite and ask for water or a snack. Burners hang signs declaring “out of water” or “need rv service,” and they just might thank their savior with a delicious meal, a bottle of Jack, or a massage. One camp I visited was the Filling Station, a rest stop on long journeys. They hooked me up with lemonade, a quesadilla, and a misting, and offered public tents for anyone who needed to sleep. Working together, everyone gets what they need.
Even the art projects encourage cooperation. My first night out, I noticed a young guy holding a beer and sitting on a wooden contraption. He was so perfectly still that I thought he was part of the installation, waiting to jump out at me or something. Finally, I said, "Hi, do you...what are you...oh, is this a teeter totter?" My participation was required! No ordinary playground toy, it swiveled 360-degrees while also moving up and down. He lit up so happy that he was screaming (hallucinogens probably played a role) and his laughter was totally contagious. No one cared that he spilled beer all over or that he could've gotten hurt when he fell off.
 |
| Photo by mccullagh.org |
Everyone I met was enlightened on some level. We talked quantum physics, discussed life-changing books and movies, pulled oracle cards, cried with strangers, fell in and out of love instantly, and told random people they have beautiful souls. The 2nd day, during an orgasmic breathing workshop hosted by the Erotic Rock Star, we attracted an audience of about 30 cheering us on. I had a huge wave of emotions come up that I didn’t feel safe releasing, especially not as some kind of spectacle for bystanders. A woman beelined over to me and said if I needed to move through anything, she’d hold space for me or give me a hug or talk or listen or whatever. I had needed permission and safety, which she’d given. So I let out a startling scream, beat the shit out of someone’s pillow, cried big sobs, yelled at people to stop looking, and it was perfect. A guy sat down, looked at me with these intense blue eyes, and said in a European accent, “You need a hug.” He could’ve tried to hook up with me, an emotionally vulnerable half-naked girl who's into tantra. But he knew not to. He hugged me, and left.
 |
| Rad group from San Diego called Super Kids! |
Since getting home, I’ve found an immediate connection with anyone who’s ever burned, because they get it. Even people who've never been to the playa work on art projects, planning, and fundraising throughout the year because they so love being a part of this community. Burning Man is not just an annual event, it’s a lifestyle, a state of mind, a philosophy, and a club of permanent membership. Burners for life, yo!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Weekend at random...
What's going on up in heya? It's 3AM and I'm restless, and lonely. And according to my calendar, it's now Mon morning and nothing cool's happening. So I'm reflecting on my weekend...
Bass overload!! Totally impressed by the Bassnectar/Z-Trip show and its fun-to-watch crowd. Z-Trip was kinda ADD, making surprising switchups, sometimes after only a few seconds. Bassnectar makes interesting song choices too, playing Tool's Sober, Loveshack by B52s, and mashing up Blur's WhooHoo with Don't Call Me Baby. Goth boots rocked but dancing in them 5 hours reminded me yet again why I always wear sneakers.
Saturday I ran into a coworker and we had sage fried chicken benedict at Tractor Room that weighed like 3 pounds. We tried pomegranate and tangerine mimosas, though it was hard to choose among lavender lemon, elderberry, and St. Germaine. Later I had a crazy yummy 2nd breakfast of the day, at Brians'. Since I'd been drinking I got eggs and cheese of course, and tried the chicken and waffles, mmm...
After sleeping maybe 2 hours, I got ready for the Chargers game as usual but couldn't make myself go, also as usual. I missed the last two.
But I was fantastically high on oxytocin hormones, so I brewed a big cup of french vanilla coffee and set out, 40 mins late. First I forgot my glasses. Then I came back for my badge. Then I dropped my coffee and it soaked my porch and doormat and spilled off the balcony all over my neighbor's door and plants. Haha. 50 mins late. Bam.
At the game I gave a million hugs to everyone I hadn't seen since last season, and made good money(!). Hit the wall around 2pm. And when all I wanted to do was go home, the trolley lines were massive and it took an hour to get home. Me=miserable.
But hey, I'm the ultimate sensation seeker. I want to feel. It's why I live my life like I do, and that's ok. People who don't get me don't stick around, and that's ok too.
It confuses and frustrates me when people say I'm going to "settle down" one day. Doesn't living on my own, working, paying off cars, opening retirement accts, and volunteering mean I'm fairly stable? Simply having an active social and travel schedule shouldn't relegate me to the status of eternal partier. And if settling down means marriage and kids, then no, I probably won't. I'm going to be the 65-year-old (who looks 40) heading up the party cruise, hopefully with likeminded companions.
Do you think Chris Brown could whip Lindsay Lohan into shape? Because the internet told me *against my will* that they've been flirting with each other. As supposedly reformed criminals known to lash out at their loved ones, that match might actually work. :o
Bass overload!! Totally impressed by the Bassnectar/Z-Trip show and its fun-to-watch crowd. Z-Trip was kinda ADD, making surprising switchups, sometimes after only a few seconds. Bassnectar makes interesting song choices too, playing Tool's Sober, Loveshack by B52s, and mashing up Blur's WhooHoo with Don't Call Me Baby. Goth boots rocked but dancing in them 5 hours reminded me yet again why I always wear sneakers.
Saturday I ran into a coworker and we had sage fried chicken benedict at Tractor Room that weighed like 3 pounds. We tried pomegranate and tangerine mimosas, though it was hard to choose among lavender lemon, elderberry, and St. Germaine. Later I had a crazy yummy 2nd breakfast of the day, at Brians'. Since I'd been drinking I got eggs and cheese of course, and tried the chicken and waffles, mmm...
After sleeping maybe 2 hours, I got ready for the Chargers game as usual but couldn't make myself go, also as usual. I missed the last two.
But I was fantastically high on oxytocin hormones, so I brewed a big cup of french vanilla coffee and set out, 40 mins late. First I forgot my glasses. Then I came back for my badge. Then I dropped my coffee and it soaked my porch and doormat and spilled off the balcony all over my neighbor's door and plants. Haha. 50 mins late. Bam.
At the game I gave a million hugs to everyone I hadn't seen since last season, and made good money(!). Hit the wall around 2pm. And when all I wanted to do was go home, the trolley lines were massive and it took an hour to get home. Me=miserable.
But hey, I'm the ultimate sensation seeker. I want to feel. It's why I live my life like I do, and that's ok. People who don't get me don't stick around, and that's ok too.
It confuses and frustrates me when people say I'm going to "settle down" one day. Doesn't living on my own, working, paying off cars, opening retirement accts, and volunteering mean I'm fairly stable? Simply having an active social and travel schedule shouldn't relegate me to the status of eternal partier. And if settling down means marriage and kids, then no, I probably won't. I'm going to be the 65-year-old (who looks 40) heading up the party cruise, hopefully with likeminded companions.
Do you think Chris Brown could whip Lindsay Lohan into shape? Because the internet told me *against my will* that they've been flirting with each other. As supposedly reformed criminals known to lash out at their loved ones, that match might actually work. :o
Friday, September 9, 2011
1. The Burning Man Playa, a Place of Instant Manifestation
Burning Man can't be dumbed down into a blog or two, but here's my attempt at a series about the 25th anniversary of BM a.k.a. my virgin burn. Rites of Passage theme was appropriate as I was devirginized and released my past...
Anyone who's had the fortune of visiting the playa in Nevada knows it's a mystical place unlike anywhere else on the planet. It's a flat, dry silt bed devoid of life for hundreds of square miles. No vegetation, no animals, few insects. Days well over 100 degrees and nights down to 40 in summer, snow in winter. Yet for a couple weeks each year, this harsh environment is infused with the energy of loving, beautiful, open-minded people who build a non-commerce community there. Gifting is the spirit of Burning Man.
Something I found immediately observable is that once your attachment to money, competition, and the me-first philosophy is ended--and you start giving from the self--everything you need just gravitates to you. I wanted to pop my BM cherry wholeheartedly and wholebodiedly, through volunteering and donations. I participated in the virgin ritual at the entrance, dropped down in the dust and professed my love for the playa. The playa reciprocated by manifesting what I desired from moment of arrival. At a granny cafe where ladies in grey wigs and nighties poured coffee and tea, I was contemplating why I'd brought 3 packs of bubble gum Orbit and no mint flavors. (It's little things that end up mattering there!) Randomly, a granny opened a can of peppermint sticks, came straight over, and offered me the first before passing the rest around. Another time while rocking out to a young, insane dubstep DJ named Hudson, I wished I had his demo CD. Hudson then got out two CDs, ran them over to me and the hot girl I was dancing with, and jumped back on the decks. Not to mention that whenever I needed water or a misting, I had it, plus root beer floats, s'mores, quesadillas. The only thing I wasn't empowered with was ice. It was too heavy, too far, too long a wait, too often.
The playa plays a huge part of the Burning Man experience and must be respected both energetically and physically. Burning Man isn't advertised and is held the first week of college classes so as not to attract immature partiers. And its Leave No Trace mantra must be followed by all, or the event could damage the habitat and get shut down. You can't pour hand-washing water or spit toothpaste there; you have to save it in buckets. Cig butts, glitter, anything not naturally of the playa is forbidden MOOP, or matter-out-of-place, that must be carried out. Which reminds me why I love burners (this is coming from the girl who founded and ran a neighborhood recycling club at age 9)...several times I found myself chasing a loose feather or wrapper, only to have someone else grab it before I could. =) And one night I picked up a sand-packed lighter that was dead. The last day when I couldn't find mine, the lighter I intended to throw away suddenly worked--another gift!
Consistently, the playa supported me, rejuvenated me, and forced me to consider me and what I needed, be it electrolytes or a bike to borrow or another slathering of sunblock or a siesta. Mad love to all the virgin burners who got it this year, to all those who repped San Diego, and to the teams who help restore the playa...that's how the playa continues to love and restore us.
Anyone who's had the fortune of visiting the playa in Nevada knows it's a mystical place unlike anywhere else on the planet. It's a flat, dry silt bed devoid of life for hundreds of square miles. No vegetation, no animals, few insects. Days well over 100 degrees and nights down to 40 in summer, snow in winter. Yet for a couple weeks each year, this harsh environment is infused with the energy of loving, beautiful, open-minded people who build a non-commerce community there. Gifting is the spirit of Burning Man.
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| Aerial view |
Something I found immediately observable is that once your attachment to money, competition, and the me-first philosophy is ended--and you start giving from the self--everything you need just gravitates to you. I wanted to pop my BM cherry wholeheartedly and wholebodiedly, through volunteering and donations. I participated in the virgin ritual at the entrance, dropped down in the dust and professed my love for the playa. The playa reciprocated by manifesting what I desired from moment of arrival. At a granny cafe where ladies in grey wigs and nighties poured coffee and tea, I was contemplating why I'd brought 3 packs of bubble gum Orbit and no mint flavors. (It's little things that end up mattering there!) Randomly, a granny opened a can of peppermint sticks, came straight over, and offered me the first before passing the rest around. Another time while rocking out to a young, insane dubstep DJ named Hudson, I wished I had his demo CD. Hudson then got out two CDs, ran them over to me and the hot girl I was dancing with, and jumped back on the decks. Not to mention that whenever I needed water or a misting, I had it, plus root beer floats, s'mores, quesadillas. The only thing I wasn't empowered with was ice. It was too heavy, too far, too long a wait, too often.
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| Granny Cafe takes over skate ramps to race their walkers |
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| Photo by Scott Haefner |
Consistently, the playa supported me, rejuvenated me, and forced me to consider me and what I needed, be it electrolytes or a bike to borrow or another slathering of sunblock or a siesta. Mad love to all the virgin burners who got it this year, to all those who repped San Diego, and to the teams who help restore the playa...that's how the playa continues to love and restore us.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Twisted Family Ties
Lmao as we try to explain to my 8-year-old niece Raylee how her dad, Rus, and I are related:
Raylee: “Grandma lives with us now!”
Me: “Oh, I didn’t know that. Is it your mom’s mom?”
Raylee: “Grandma Roxy [Rus’s mom]. You didn’t know that?”
Me: “Nope, I’ve never met her.”
Raylee: “But I thought you guys had the same mom?”
Me: “We have the same dad.”
Raylee: “Oh! Grandpa!”
Me: “No, not that one! Your Grandpa Don.”
(Blank stare)
Me: “You know, your Grandpa Don who met you at the airport the other day.”
Raylee: “But you both have the same sisters, right?”
Me: (Pause) “Yes, I think so…You don’t have other sisters or brothers do you, Rus?” He says no. “Oops, actually, I found out recently I have another sister from my other dad. I haven’t met her but she’s 15 and lives near you guys. She’s not Rus’s sister, though.”
Raylee: “Ummm…Dad, which sister loves you more?”
Rus: “They all love me.”
Raylee: “But which one loves you MOST?”
Me: “What you should really ask is which one does HE love the most?”
Raylee: “Yeah, which one?”
Me: “Yeah, Rus, which one?”
Rus: “I love them all the same!”
Both me and Raylee: “But which one MOST?”
Rus changes subject: “How’s your mom doing? Did she get remarried?”
Me: “Not yet but I think she’s going to.”
Raylee: “You know J.’s mom?”
Me: “Yes, he knew my mom when she was married to Grandpa Don.”
Rus: “Are they still living together?”
Me: “Yes, but they divorced years ago and live in separate areas of the house now.”
Rus: “So is she my…? What relation is she to me now?”
Me (long pause): “When I was adopted that made you and me related. But after they divorced I don’t think she’s related to you anymore.”
Rus: “But you’re still my sister, so wouldn’t she be my stepmom or something?”
Me: “Uhhh, I dunno. Maybe not, unless she had adopted you.”
Raylee, thoroughly confused: “That’s a lot of people…”
Me, caving with the non-PC answer: “Well…your grandmas and grandpas liked to get married a lot. But your parents like to be married only to each other.”
Raylee: “Oh.”
The End.
Raylee: “Grandma lives with us now!”
Me: “Oh, I didn’t know that. Is it your mom’s mom?”
Raylee: “Grandma Roxy [Rus’s mom]. You didn’t know that?”
Me: “Nope, I’ve never met her.”
Raylee: “But I thought you guys had the same mom?”
Me: “We have the same dad.”
Raylee: “Oh! Grandpa!”
Me: “No, not that one! Your Grandpa Don.”
(Blank stare)
Me: “You know, your Grandpa Don who met you at the airport the other day.”
Raylee: “But you both have the same sisters, right?”
Me: (Pause) “Yes, I think so…You don’t have other sisters or brothers do you, Rus?” He says no. “Oops, actually, I found out recently I have another sister from my other dad. I haven’t met her but she’s 15 and lives near you guys. She’s not Rus’s sister, though.”
Raylee: “Ummm…Dad, which sister loves you more?”
Rus: “They all love me.”
Raylee: “But which one loves you MOST?”
Me: “What you should really ask is which one does HE love the most?”
Raylee: “Yeah, which one?”
Me: “Yeah, Rus, which one?”
Rus: “I love them all the same!”
Both me and Raylee: “But which one MOST?”
Rus changes subject: “How’s your mom doing? Did she get remarried?”
Me: “Not yet but I think she’s going to.”
Raylee: “You know J.’s mom?”
Me: “Yes, he knew my mom when she was married to Grandpa Don.”
Rus: “Are they still living together?”
Me: “Yes, but they divorced years ago and live in separate areas of the house now.”
Rus: “So is she my…? What relation is she to me now?”
Me (long pause): “When I was adopted that made you and me related. But after they divorced I don’t think she’s related to you anymore.”
Rus: “But you’re still my sister, so wouldn’t she be my stepmom or something?”
Me: “Uhhh, I dunno. Maybe not, unless she had adopted you.”
Raylee, thoroughly confused: “That’s a lot of people…”
Me, caving with the non-PC answer: “Well…your grandmas and grandpas liked to get married a lot. But your parents like to be married only to each other.”
Raylee: “Oh.”
The End.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
3 things you say while upside down in your car
1. Oh fuck.
2. Nope, I don't feel hurt! Am I bleeding? Do you see me bleeding anywhere? (I'm concerned that I'm in shock and will look down to see my arm or leg in pieces, some crazy complex fracture that I can't feel.)
3. Ohmigod I do not have health insurance. Don't take me to the hospital, I don't need to go!
2. Nope, I don't feel hurt! Am I bleeding? Do you see me bleeding anywhere? (I'm concerned that I'm in shock and will look down to see my arm or leg in pieces, some crazy complex fracture that I can't feel.)
3. Ohmigod I do not have health insurance. Don't take me to the hospital, I don't need to go!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Car with Angel Wings
So you might've heard that I've been going through a rough patch for, um, like two years, and I'm hoping that it finally culminated when I literally hit a rough patch on the 8 freeway. It was Thursday before Christmas and I was headed to Phoenix. It was a high wind warning zone, I was feeling lightheaded and woozy, and I wasn't paying enough attention to the road. Take your pick of excuses. I drifted left into a patch of gravel--there was no shoulder--and immediately did everything you're not supposed to do. What you should do in a gravel skid is go against all your instincts: turn WITH the skid, slow down gradually with the emerg brake, and steer back onto the road once you've regained control. So naturally I yanked the wheel, overcorrected, and spun out to the left. For a second I faced oncoming cars and that was the scariest, because everyone was doing at least 75 and I am still horrified to imagine what tragedies could've ensued if they hit me and other people hit them, and maybe people way back added to the mess...serious injuries, deaths. My fault. I'd dwell on that the rest of my life.
But the hand was dealt perfectly. Once I spun out, I rolled out of the way of traffic into a bushy flat area. As it happened, the ground had been softened by recent rain and therefore wasn't hard enough to cause my untimely demise. I had just passed east through the rocky cliffs, boulders, cacti and other dangers of Alpine, so it was pretty much the only safe place to go off the road.
Though I closed my eyes, I was conscious of every roll--5 times. The car was full of warmth and light. I was calm and peaceful. There was nothing I could do but go along for the ride, like on roller coasters I've been frequenting since I was barely tall enough. With each roll, I checked myself out and didn't feel pain, didn't hit any trees or get impaled, far as I could tell. I glided to a peaceful stop, upside down hanging from my seatbelt, which made my neck, back, and shoulders sore for a few days.
Immediately, EMTs were at my window which I found confusing. By "coincidence," if you still believe in that, a carful of off-duty paramedics was behind me. They pulled me out the window, 'cause the car was smoking and they weren't sure if it would explode. (How awesome is this movie I've created for myself to live?) They had a neck brace in their car which they insisted I use but I didn't need.
Amazingly, we discovered that while glass broke all around me and I had superheavy stuff in the car--a totally unsecured and unsafe tow load as Shawn might say--nothing hit or cut me. There was a hundred pound suitcase in my seat, plus a Cutco knife, metal water bottle, rolled change and numerous other hazards. My glasses fell off my head, everything flew out of the console, my GPS aka Gypsy was flung around, and my Blackberry was found away in the grass. All of these still worked and the only thing scratched was the Gypsy and a couple CDs. All the xmas presents were salvaged except one gift card. An unbroken glass bottle was found wedged in the sunroof along with an unscratched sound transformation CD (thanks John Hill!). And though I'm still picking glass and dirt out of everything I own, there was not a single scratch or bruise on my body.
So I refused to go to the hospital (remember, strep throat cost me over $17,000 earlier this year). By that time the cop, tow truck driver, and other EMTs were telling stories about me and taking pictures. While the truck driver was flipping my car over, the cop told me about a WWII pilot who bailed without a chute, fell 2 miles, and landed in something soft enough to survive. "I'm telling you this because that's you," he said. "You're the pilot who fell out of the sky and lived." Later when the tow truck driver gave me a ride, he said, "Wow, he's sure in a good mood. That cop is always so cranky--you made his day!" Before he put the truck in gear, he said, "Seatbelt," and I said, "Yes!" And we both laughed as I put it on.
So it was a Christmas miracle. Of course, my mom pointed out the crash might not've happened had I taken care of myself as well as I take care of that car. That awesome Mazda6 type S sport hatchback had four new tires, new brakes, and all its maintenance, but a driver who hadn't been sleeping, eating, or caring about life. Sorry, car. And sorry, friends, for giving you a scare and having to hitch rides. Please do pay attention to the road. It's easy to get bored, tired, restless, and distracted, and those are the things that get you killed. Unless your car has angel wings. Love to you all.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Stripping at the airport is tragically comedic. But mostly tragic
Link to NBC article on airport stripdowns
Please feel free to send a copy to airlines, the TSA, and your congresspeople!
Dear Southwest Airlines,
I love, love, love your airline! Your amazing staff, customer service, cancellation policies, and reasonable baggage fees are very much appreciated. As a frequent flier, I enjoyed several free flights on Southwest and it remains my #1 choice.
Unfortunately, because of recent TSA policy changes, which I believe are an unnecessary invasion of privacy, I have not flown this year and will no longer fly until I can do so with dignity. I’m referring to the x-ray body scanners, the groping pat-downs, and the ban on unopened yogurt, toothpaste, and other innocuous liquids.
Of course, I know it’s not Southwest Airlines making these policies, but if all the airlines put pressure on the TSA perhaps it would back down on the redundant and time-consuming screening that has such a negative impact on travelers.
I remember the awful events of September 11 all too well. But in my life no terrorist or other group of people has ever made me feel less secure or less human than the TSA currently does. Also, the new scanners are unsafe for human health, according to renowned scientists at UCSF. Not to mention, their effectiveness in actually catching people who wish to do harm is highly questionable.
I refuse to undergo a strip search as a prerequisite to board an airplane. I implore Southwest and other airlines to ask the TSA to implement common sense policies. For example, the airport in Austria uses a sniffer machine that detects explosives and drugs with incredible accuracy without terribly infringing on passengers’ rights.
I very much hope I feel safe enough to fly with Southwest again soon.
Sincerely,
Jacy
Please feel free to send a copy to airlines, the TSA, and your congresspeople!
Dear Southwest Airlines,
I love, love, love your airline! Your amazing staff, customer service, cancellation policies, and reasonable baggage fees are very much appreciated. As a frequent flier, I enjoyed several free flights on Southwest and it remains my #1 choice.
Unfortunately, because of recent TSA policy changes, which I believe are an unnecessary invasion of privacy, I have not flown this year and will no longer fly until I can do so with dignity. I’m referring to the x-ray body scanners, the groping pat-downs, and the ban on unopened yogurt, toothpaste, and other innocuous liquids.
Of course, I know it’s not Southwest Airlines making these policies, but if all the airlines put pressure on the TSA perhaps it would back down on the redundant and time-consuming screening that has such a negative impact on travelers.
I remember the awful events of September 11 all too well. But in my life no terrorist or other group of people has ever made me feel less secure or less human than the TSA currently does. Also, the new scanners are unsafe for human health, according to renowned scientists at UCSF. Not to mention, their effectiveness in actually catching people who wish to do harm is highly questionable.
I refuse to undergo a strip search as a prerequisite to board an airplane. I implore Southwest and other airlines to ask the TSA to implement common sense policies. For example, the airport in Austria uses a sniffer machine that detects explosives and drugs with incredible accuracy without terribly infringing on passengers’ rights.
I very much hope I feel safe enough to fly with Southwest again soon.
Sincerely,
Jacy
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Magic Show
My best friend Adrienne had told me we weren’t ready to perform in front of an audience yet. As usual, I was blind to reality and deaf to practicality. We had advertised our magic show already, with handdrawn signs on the walls of my family’s hallway and kitchen. There was no backing out now, I informed her. I’ve always felt that putting something into print, even if handwritten, was like stamping it with the word of god. Plus, even at 12 years old, I had that “show must go on!” mentality. Nevermind the fact that we’d spent all day waterskiing on my family’s crappy pea green boat, were tired and sunburned, and hadn’t had time to practice all our tricks.
The grand finale, though, we knew would be perfect. Adrienne and I had both learned each part of the multi-stepped Big Trick carefully and devoutly, like hopeful nuns and priests studying the Bible. Again and again we performed each trick individually, wowing our young classmates at the Magic 101 summer course taught by retired Magician Bob, until our finale combining all of them would be so seamless (I imagined) that even a roomful of experienced illusionists couldn’t figure it out.
Though she hadn’t seen it, my mom didn’t care much for the Big Trick. All she knew of it was that we would waste a deck of cards and an orange with each performance. It involved having a bystander choose a card, cut it up, keep the corner as a “receipt,” and end up holding a handful of ripped up papers instead, which when put together spell out “Look in the orange.” Conveniently, there is a fruit bowl located nearby. Lo and behold, rolled up inside the orange is…the original card, intact except for one missing corner, which the volunteer is still holding!
Ah yes, I was destined to be a magician, paid to perform at birthday parties and bar mitvahs. Or wherever magicians are typically hired to perform. Here I should mention that I’ve always had a tendency to get swept up in new ideas (Cutco knives anyone? The world’s finest cutlery!) and take them to the extreme. I couldn’t just take a magic class for fun, I had to create a business venture and design colorful flyers proclaiming, “Magicians for Hire! Two practiced 12-year-old magicians will liven up any party with their amazing acts…Proof of education/experience available on request.” Magician Bob, I figured, along with our incredibly impressed audience members, would vouch for us. The business was all my idea, by the way, one to which Adrienne only tentatively subscribed, and understandably.
The day of our unveiling, I could finally showcase the skills I’d developed from hours of studying diagrams in magic books and watching videos of the man I was in love with since I was 4 years old, David Copperfield. Our audience consisted of my mom, my stepdad-cum-adopted dad, and my 9-year-old sister Susheela. My sister was excited, I guess, and my mom feigned great interest, but my dad has always been—how would you say?—a total buzzkill. He had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with my magic class (including paying for it, so I saved up my allowance and babysitting money). And now I was so determined to impress him, to make him regret that he’d declared it a total waste of time, money, and effort, that I lost all sight of reality.
You’d think that, with the show being so important to me and all, I would’ve considered postponing it until both my partner and I felt comfortable and prepared. But I insisted that Adrienne and I perform that night. The opening I made into a grand spectacle, promising mysterious illusions, white magic, black magic, and an ooh-and-ahh inspiring finale.
The first few tricks went as planned but my mom and sister-- two thirds of our audience—had already seen me perform them and were therefore unimpressed. My dad had prepared his metrosexual manicure kit and was already clipping his fingernails, which isn’t that odd considering how stubborn he is and also how much he’s incensed by having to watch anyone perform. It has something to do with his having to sit still and endure church services when he was growing up in the Bible Belt, and also the entertainment acts he and the other soldiers drafted into the Vietnam War were forced to watch. Any time he is watching a performance that he didn’t pay to see (including his kids’), he bitterly complains about being a “captive audience.” Movies, though, are a completely different story; he’ll watch anything once. In any case, I decided to let him focus on his nails as long as I could tell he was listening. Adrienne noticed this too, and I could only hope she knew my dad well enough to know not to take it personally.
Then we came to a segment we’d never performed before and in fact had only discussed maybe once. Suddenly it became clear why Adrienne was so hesitant about our show…because when I asked her to go backstage (the bathroom down the hall) while the audience chose an object in the room for her to guess, she started hitting and jimmying the door. “J.! The door’s stuck! I need help!” My dad rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, which at least signaled to me that he was still paying attention.
Trying to maintain composure like a magnificent MC should, I asked Susheela to go help my partner, so as not to give the impression that we were cheating. Of course, in my heart I knew the door wasn’t stuck, it had never gotten stuck before, and this only prolonged Adrienne’s distress and embarrassment. We all heard her talking to Susheela in the hall and she finally shouted, “J., I need to talk to you.” I left the audience hanging as I ran back there and told her how the trick worked. I returned red-faced and feeling like a failure for losing two things every magician strives for: the interest and respect of the audience.
Upon my return, my mom had the same look on her face that she does when she says one of her favorite phrases: “Ho hum, such is life.” As the softer, meeker parent, she was the one who went into hiding while my dad rampaged and shit on Susheela and me. Afterward she’d emerge with a pooper scooper and try to clean up his trail by telling us that we were good kids and we were doing just fine, contradicting everything he’d just yelled. But the look she gave me that night, it was like she was saying, “Well, I thought this could be good and I gave it a chance but…nope.”
By this time my dad had finished his manicure and had moved to his feet. It was clear that he was concentrating solely on his toenails. There was a loud clip and rustle as each nail fell into the bag in the trash can strategically positioned at his feet, between me and my audience. When I confidently asked him not to do that (Magician Bob had taught us to be authoritative with our audience), he said without looking up, “You made me a captive audience. You insisted that I be here even though you know I don’t want to be. So, no.”
Adrienne and I didn’t perform the finale. Mom didn’t want me wasting an orange and I didn’t have the goods to form a makeshift fruit bowl anyway. Plus we hadn’t had time to carefully, like a surgeon, remove the center of the orange, stuff a card inside, and glue it back on. Following the completely anti-climactic ending, I calmly walked to my bedroom at the end of the hall and bawled my eyes out. For a really long time. In front of Adrienne, even. And I didn’t even stop when my mom came to check on us and found us both sobbing.
I had never cried in front of a friend before, or my parents ever since I was old enough to stop crying for a bottle. Stuffing every emotion except excitement was my usual deal. But this, this…was disaster. This was extreme embarrassment and supreme disappointment. This was me, trying to exact respect and admiration from my parents for something other than my innate ability to test well in school, to get recognized for something I actually had to work hard at, and failing miserably.
And on a deeper level, I get that this was also me desperately wishing my dad to be the kind who encourages his daughter to make cash doing side jobs she’s excited about, not one who laughed at my magician flyers and told me not to put them up because no one, and he means no one, no matter how strapped for cash, would ever hire a kid to perform at even a baby’s party. I was trying to turn him into the dad who’s proud that I earned a musical solo part in Bye Bye Birdie, not one who boycotted all four performances because he was mad that the music teacher didn’t keep to her rehearsal schedule. I had hoped that for once he’d be like Adrienne’s dad, who one week after the Big Flop sat excitedly on his couch with her mom, brother, and sister, eagerly awaiting our amazing finale. (Her family, by the way, had all kinds of fruit for us to practice on. They seemed genuinely impressed by our show, and their assurances that we did great didn’t even end with the clause “for a 12-year-old.”)
My bookshelf still holds the Learn Magic and The Klutz Book of Magic that I pored over for so many months and inscribed with my name and phone number. Perhaps I still hope that one day, my confidence will shoot back to that level it was just before our Big Show, and that this time I’ll have the skills and experience to maintain it. Maybe Adrienne will fly out to San Diego, spot our old props, and act the show out again, but this time supersleek and on video, which I can then send to my dad. Perhaps years from now, when he’s old and sick and immobile, I’ll ask if he watched it, and he’ll mumble weakly, “I was so proud of you. An orange! Who would’ve expected…Tell me the secret!” He’ll apologize for not buying fruit and for clipping his nails during one of the most significant performances of my life.
Or, more likely…he’ll have no idea what I’m referring to. I’ll raid his video shelf and find the tape buried somewhere under the copies of Dune and Robocop that I stayed up late watching with him so many times. I’ll dust it off, insert it in one of his three VCRs, and push play. Then, only on his sickbed will my dad truly know what it’s like to be forced to be a captive audience. In that one act, old patterns will magically be rewritten, the strength to deal with my dad in empowered ways will be conjured up, and past hurts will undergo amazing transformation. All will be right in the world of showbiz, and all will be right by me. Ta daaa!
The grand finale, though, we knew would be perfect. Adrienne and I had both learned each part of the multi-stepped Big Trick carefully and devoutly, like hopeful nuns and priests studying the Bible. Again and again we performed each trick individually, wowing our young classmates at the Magic 101 summer course taught by retired Magician Bob, until our finale combining all of them would be so seamless (I imagined) that even a roomful of experienced illusionists couldn’t figure it out.
Though she hadn’t seen it, my mom didn’t care much for the Big Trick. All she knew of it was that we would waste a deck of cards and an orange with each performance. It involved having a bystander choose a card, cut it up, keep the corner as a “receipt,” and end up holding a handful of ripped up papers instead, which when put together spell out “Look in the orange.” Conveniently, there is a fruit bowl located nearby. Lo and behold, rolled up inside the orange is…the original card, intact except for one missing corner, which the volunteer is still holding!
Ah yes, I was destined to be a magician, paid to perform at birthday parties and bar mitvahs. Or wherever magicians are typically hired to perform. Here I should mention that I’ve always had a tendency to get swept up in new ideas (Cutco knives anyone? The world’s finest cutlery!) and take them to the extreme. I couldn’t just take a magic class for fun, I had to create a business venture and design colorful flyers proclaiming, “Magicians for Hire! Two practiced 12-year-old magicians will liven up any party with their amazing acts…Proof of education/experience available on request.” Magician Bob, I figured, along with our incredibly impressed audience members, would vouch for us. The business was all my idea, by the way, one to which Adrienne only tentatively subscribed, and understandably.
The day of our unveiling, I could finally showcase the skills I’d developed from hours of studying diagrams in magic books and watching videos of the man I was in love with since I was 4 years old, David Copperfield. Our audience consisted of my mom, my stepdad-cum-adopted dad, and my 9-year-old sister Susheela. My sister was excited, I guess, and my mom feigned great interest, but my dad has always been—how would you say?—a total buzzkill. He had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with my magic class (including paying for it, so I saved up my allowance and babysitting money). And now I was so determined to impress him, to make him regret that he’d declared it a total waste of time, money, and effort, that I lost all sight of reality.
You’d think that, with the show being so important to me and all, I would’ve considered postponing it until both my partner and I felt comfortable and prepared. But I insisted that Adrienne and I perform that night. The opening I made into a grand spectacle, promising mysterious illusions, white magic, black magic, and an ooh-and-ahh inspiring finale.
The first few tricks went as planned but my mom and sister-- two thirds of our audience—had already seen me perform them and were therefore unimpressed. My dad had prepared his metrosexual manicure kit and was already clipping his fingernails, which isn’t that odd considering how stubborn he is and also how much he’s incensed by having to watch anyone perform. It has something to do with his having to sit still and endure church services when he was growing up in the Bible Belt, and also the entertainment acts he and the other soldiers drafted into the Vietnam War were forced to watch. Any time he is watching a performance that he didn’t pay to see (including his kids’), he bitterly complains about being a “captive audience.” Movies, though, are a completely different story; he’ll watch anything once. In any case, I decided to let him focus on his nails as long as I could tell he was listening. Adrienne noticed this too, and I could only hope she knew my dad well enough to know not to take it personally.
Then we came to a segment we’d never performed before and in fact had only discussed maybe once. Suddenly it became clear why Adrienne was so hesitant about our show…because when I asked her to go backstage (the bathroom down the hall) while the audience chose an object in the room for her to guess, she started hitting and jimmying the door. “J.! The door’s stuck! I need help!” My dad rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, which at least signaled to me that he was still paying attention.
Trying to maintain composure like a magnificent MC should, I asked Susheela to go help my partner, so as not to give the impression that we were cheating. Of course, in my heart I knew the door wasn’t stuck, it had never gotten stuck before, and this only prolonged Adrienne’s distress and embarrassment. We all heard her talking to Susheela in the hall and she finally shouted, “J., I need to talk to you.” I left the audience hanging as I ran back there and told her how the trick worked. I returned red-faced and feeling like a failure for losing two things every magician strives for: the interest and respect of the audience.
Upon my return, my mom had the same look on her face that she does when she says one of her favorite phrases: “Ho hum, such is life.” As the softer, meeker parent, she was the one who went into hiding while my dad rampaged and shit on Susheela and me. Afterward she’d emerge with a pooper scooper and try to clean up his trail by telling us that we were good kids and we were doing just fine, contradicting everything he’d just yelled. But the look she gave me that night, it was like she was saying, “Well, I thought this could be good and I gave it a chance but…nope.”
By this time my dad had finished his manicure and had moved to his feet. It was clear that he was concentrating solely on his toenails. There was a loud clip and rustle as each nail fell into the bag in the trash can strategically positioned at his feet, between me and my audience. When I confidently asked him not to do that (Magician Bob had taught us to be authoritative with our audience), he said without looking up, “You made me a captive audience. You insisted that I be here even though you know I don’t want to be. So, no.”
Adrienne and I didn’t perform the finale. Mom didn’t want me wasting an orange and I didn’t have the goods to form a makeshift fruit bowl anyway. Plus we hadn’t had time to carefully, like a surgeon, remove the center of the orange, stuff a card inside, and glue it back on. Following the completely anti-climactic ending, I calmly walked to my bedroom at the end of the hall and bawled my eyes out. For a really long time. In front of Adrienne, even. And I didn’t even stop when my mom came to check on us and found us both sobbing.
I had never cried in front of a friend before, or my parents ever since I was old enough to stop crying for a bottle. Stuffing every emotion except excitement was my usual deal. But this, this…was disaster. This was extreme embarrassment and supreme disappointment. This was me, trying to exact respect and admiration from my parents for something other than my innate ability to test well in school, to get recognized for something I actually had to work hard at, and failing miserably.
And on a deeper level, I get that this was also me desperately wishing my dad to be the kind who encourages his daughter to make cash doing side jobs she’s excited about, not one who laughed at my magician flyers and told me not to put them up because no one, and he means no one, no matter how strapped for cash, would ever hire a kid to perform at even a baby’s party. I was trying to turn him into the dad who’s proud that I earned a musical solo part in Bye Bye Birdie, not one who boycotted all four performances because he was mad that the music teacher didn’t keep to her rehearsal schedule. I had hoped that for once he’d be like Adrienne’s dad, who one week after the Big Flop sat excitedly on his couch with her mom, brother, and sister, eagerly awaiting our amazing finale. (Her family, by the way, had all kinds of fruit for us to practice on. They seemed genuinely impressed by our show, and their assurances that we did great didn’t even end with the clause “for a 12-year-old.”)
My bookshelf still holds the Learn Magic and The Klutz Book of Magic that I pored over for so many months and inscribed with my name and phone number. Perhaps I still hope that one day, my confidence will shoot back to that level it was just before our Big Show, and that this time I’ll have the skills and experience to maintain it. Maybe Adrienne will fly out to San Diego, spot our old props, and act the show out again, but this time supersleek and on video, which I can then send to my dad. Perhaps years from now, when he’s old and sick and immobile, I’ll ask if he watched it, and he’ll mumble weakly, “I was so proud of you. An orange! Who would’ve expected…Tell me the secret!” He’ll apologize for not buying fruit and for clipping his nails during one of the most significant performances of my life.
Or, more likely…he’ll have no idea what I’m referring to. I’ll raid his video shelf and find the tape buried somewhere under the copies of Dune and Robocop that I stayed up late watching with him so many times. I’ll dust it off, insert it in one of his three VCRs, and push play. Then, only on his sickbed will my dad truly know what it’s like to be forced to be a captive audience. In that one act, old patterns will magically be rewritten, the strength to deal with my dad in empowered ways will be conjured up, and past hurts will undergo amazing transformation. All will be right in the world of showbiz, and all will be right by me. Ta daaa!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
How I accidentally attended a border militia meeting
I was telling a story the other day when it came up that I've sort of been to a Border Militia meeting. Not on purpose, mind you. I went to a meetup group on human trafficking. I thought we were all meeting at this coffee shop to come up with ideas to fight slavery and trafficking, but in reality...everyone was FOR human trafficking. No, no, just kidding. Everyone present agreed that human trafficking should be stopped.
But remember, this is a meetup group so any random yahoo or Yahoo accountholder can show up. I'm there with two friends, so we know each other. This meeting, however, has apparently been infiltrated and dominated by this couple, a man and a woman who each head a different racist group and are married to each other. Strangely enough, the woman is Mexican but she talks about people of her race as though they are, pardon the pun, alien to her. She disparages "the illegals" as though they're the most vile, despicable creatures on earth. And both of them keep steering the conversation to illegal immigration, and how the Border Patrol and federal government are to blame for immigration and slavery, and how "perverted illegals here in America want to import sex slaves from Mexico, and that's what most human trafficking in the States is--Mexican aliens being trafficked to serve the twisted desires of Mexicans already here." And they both pass out their business cards. Suddenly I feel like this is a Border Militia recruitment meeting.
So as they're talking, my friends and I are looking at each other across the table, like, "Uh oh, this is becoming something I don't want to associate with." Then we become aware that other people in the coffee shop are overhearing the racist comments these people are making and they're looking at us like you would look at us if you overheard a bunch of racists having a meeting in public. We try to steer the conversation back to human trafficking, and I talk about slaves coming in from India and Africa and third-world countries where that kind of thing is, sadly, more commonplace than in North America. But the Border Militia people aren't interested in that, they only want to talk about Mexico. And then they go off on the craziest tangent about how the Border Patrol/government is always after them. They complain about how Border Patrol unfairly "targets the militia while ignoring the real criminals, the illegals, and every time we have meetings or try to do anything to fight back against the aliens, the cops always show up." Well lo and behold, while they're talking two police cars pull up and remain in the parking lot for the rest of our meeting.
Obviously we were in a hurry to leave! One of the cops was parked next to me, and I was freaked out that he might record my license plate to add me to the militia shitlist. Since then I haven't noticed any BP surveillance on me or anything, but for a moment, it was pretty scary. Possibly even scarier than if I had been accidentally linked to some crazy leftwing nutjob organization. And this didn't happen in Arizona, it was right here in San Diego. And wow, guys, even Mexicans can be staunchly racist against other Mexicans, who knew?
But remember, this is a meetup group so any random yahoo or Yahoo accountholder can show up. I'm there with two friends, so we know each other. This meeting, however, has apparently been infiltrated and dominated by this couple, a man and a woman who each head a different racist group and are married to each other. Strangely enough, the woman is Mexican but she talks about people of her race as though they are, pardon the pun, alien to her. She disparages "the illegals" as though they're the most vile, despicable creatures on earth. And both of them keep steering the conversation to illegal immigration, and how the Border Patrol and federal government are to blame for immigration and slavery, and how "perverted illegals here in America want to import sex slaves from Mexico, and that's what most human trafficking in the States is--Mexican aliens being trafficked to serve the twisted desires of Mexicans already here." And they both pass out their business cards. Suddenly I feel like this is a Border Militia recruitment meeting.
So as they're talking, my friends and I are looking at each other across the table, like, "Uh oh, this is becoming something I don't want to associate with." Then we become aware that other people in the coffee shop are overhearing the racist comments these people are making and they're looking at us like you would look at us if you overheard a bunch of racists having a meeting in public. We try to steer the conversation back to human trafficking, and I talk about slaves coming in from India and Africa and third-world countries where that kind of thing is, sadly, more commonplace than in North America. But the Border Militia people aren't interested in that, they only want to talk about Mexico. And then they go off on the craziest tangent about how the Border Patrol/government is always after them. They complain about how Border Patrol unfairly "targets the militia while ignoring the real criminals, the illegals, and every time we have meetings or try to do anything to fight back against the aliens, the cops always show up." Well lo and behold, while they're talking two police cars pull up and remain in the parking lot for the rest of our meeting.
Obviously we were in a hurry to leave! One of the cops was parked next to me, and I was freaked out that he might record my license plate to add me to the militia shitlist. Since then I haven't noticed any BP surveillance on me or anything, but for a moment, it was pretty scary. Possibly even scarier than if I had been accidentally linked to some crazy leftwing nutjob organization. And this didn't happen in Arizona, it was right here in San Diego. And wow, guys, even Mexicans can be staunchly racist against other Mexicans, who knew?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Things I'm Not Afraid to Admit I Did Yesterday Because I Did Them Out of Love for My Cat
1. Stuck my bare hand into my cat's used litter box and probed all around searching for pieces of wet litter, which I didn't find.
2. Could not bring myself to use grown-up phrases like "bowel movement" and instead found myself telling the vet, "My cat pooed in his box but peed on the floor."
3. Sniffed each piece of clothing in my dirty laundry pile to see if it smelled dirtier (pissier)than it should have.
4. Offered a sexual favor* in exchange for vet services.
5. Got blasted with a bit of kitty diarrhea when I grabbed Dubs and tried to force him into his carrier for the 3rd time in 2 days. Guess I pressed on the wrong spot.
6. Ran two red lights in Mission Valley because I knew there wasn't a camera at those intersections and there were no cars coming. (# 2954 on my list of why it's ridiculous for cities to buy red light cameras instead of paying police officers.)
7. Held a healing session in my bathroom around the cat and the litter box that involved tranquility candles, waving my hands around, crying a lot, and begging, "Please please please go pee."
* for my boyfriend, not the vet. What kind of girl do you think I am? Wait, don't answer that.
2. Could not bring myself to use grown-up phrases like "bowel movement" and instead found myself telling the vet, "My cat pooed in his box but peed on the floor."
3. Sniffed each piece of clothing in my dirty laundry pile to see if it smelled dirtier (pissier)than it should have.
4. Offered a sexual favor* in exchange for vet services.
5. Got blasted with a bit of kitty diarrhea when I grabbed Dubs and tried to force him into his carrier for the 3rd time in 2 days. Guess I pressed on the wrong spot.
6. Ran two red lights in Mission Valley because I knew there wasn't a camera at those intersections and there were no cars coming. (# 2954 on my list of why it's ridiculous for cities to buy red light cameras instead of paying police officers.)
7. Held a healing session in my bathroom around the cat and the litter box that involved tranquility candles, waving my hands around, crying a lot, and begging, "Please please please go pee."
* for my boyfriend, not the vet. What kind of girl do you think I am? Wait, don't answer that.
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