Neither Here Nor There.

Pros and Cons of On-Line Dating

2011-05-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

Newest fun fun article I wrote for The Hairpin!

Tip #327 (happiness. it's this new thing I'm trying)

2011-05-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

If you want to be happy:

Next time you buy a new pair of shoes, buy a new pair of socks. Or if they're heels, buy a new pair of tights. You know that feeling you get the first time you lovingly take your shoes out of their box and put them on with that outfit that they were straight MADE for? Got it? Okay double that. You put on your your clean white (or striped or little martini-glassed) socks on, AND THEN your new shoes? Fresh. To. Death. Try it, tell me your toes don't tingle like what.

Big Black Dude Heard Everything You Said

2011-04-13T13:02:00.000-07:00

(via someecards)

This is great. So, so great. Can we give the "big black dude" as an adjective a rest, already? I hear it from non-black people, all the time, talking to me and around me, in that tone that at once says, "you know what I'm talking about, right? That scary motherfucker? You know because he's black, and because he was black he was big" and "whatever, I'm just describing him for the story" without stopping to consider that, hey, most of my family members are big black dudes that are not violent and not menacing and not even that big, actually, and when you talk about "them" you talk about me and fuck you regional news, because to this day you're to blame and fuck the griots of prejudice that pass down stereotypes from generation to generation to generation until we have to write notes like this one just to make a point.

OMG WTF IS A FLAVONOID?

2011-04-05T17:04:00.000-07:00

The best part is how they say it all casual, like you're supposed to think to yourself, "oh, totally. Flavonoids." Is this one of those food ruses, like "Natural Flavors"? My other favorite part is how they give zero context to this whatsoever, like the asterisk next to the antioxidants is really all the explanation you need. Nevermind that they don't name the antioxidants, or that we'll just assume that they're good for us because they're protective (we do).

UPDATE: I googled it so that you don't have to. I still don't really get it, but apparently it is good for diarrhea, and has nothing to do with the, um, OTHER noids. Which, truth be told, is a shame.

People I Don't Trust

2011-03-30T22:34:00.000-07:00

(Hollywood Edition)
Publicists who wear too much make-up
Producers who talk too fast
Agents who talk to loud
Directors who talk to much
Writers who don't talk at all
Actors

(Goods and Services Edition)
Optometrists that don't wear glasses
Skinny Chefs
Cabbies that are younger than me
Flight Attendants with bad hair
Doctors that don't smoke or drink
Da Po-Lice

(Romance Edition)
Men with long fingernails that are not classical guitarists
Only Children
Heavy Winkers
Rappers, especially those that socially go by their rap names

We just learned the twitter!

2011-03-17T09:26:00.001-07:00

And it is so delightful! Follow theMidwhere here.

How to Handle Yourself in a Club in the Hood (and elsewhere)

2011-03-16T23:46:00.000-07:00

Because the life you save may be your motherfuckin' own-----> Check the article after the jump

The Pros and Cons of Dating Old Money

2011-02-22T20:20:00.000-08:00

ain't sayin' you a gold digger...but maybe you should be.

What is it with old people, anyway?

2011-01-30T23:33:00.000-08:00

-Why can't they bcc?
Every spam e-mail my father sends me, from “Don't open any email that tells you not to open it—it's a virus!” to Civil Rights quotes, contains a loooooong list of sent to's. And the person who sent it to him has a long ass list of sent tos. And the person before that person. And so on. I eventually have to scroll down until my index finger is numb to get to whatever petition I'm supposed to sign or amazing 3-D chalk picture! I'm expected to jaw-drop over.
It's odd that, during this age of non-privacy, when people are getting fired for tagging themselves bonging a beer on Facebook and our people are actually posting a live journal on the internet, they have no problem putting everyone they know and everyone THEY know, on front street. Maybe they don't know what bcc stands for?

-Why do their movies suck?
Young people are doing weird shit in the backyard with their friends on weekends and and turning it into the Blair Witch Project and making Amores Perros and Black Swan out of crazy acid trips. Guess who's bringing us unnecessary sequels, shitty 3-D everything, and 70's tv show remakes? Old. People.

-What is it with them and pot?
Wait, so pot was pretty much perfected when you came of pot smoking age, right? Completely represented counter-culture? United races? Opened doors? Gave birth to the psychedelic funk, beat poetry, Star Wars, and Dennis Hopper? Why are you still spitting out the word “reefer” like it tastes like shit and acting like it matters if I smoke it? You know, you'd probably chill out if you smoked it. Property taxes really aren't that big a deal.

-Why are you ruining my life?
“Oh, hey, I'm 64 and I was radically liberal when I marched against Vietnam but then I got knocked up and went back to school and had a shit ton of loans so I became a corporate lawyer for 40 years and now I'm a republican and fuck your social security. Sorry. I need that shit for my vacation home.” -- a baby boomer

-Why are you trying to get me to ruin my life?
Whenever I see a picture of my parents, pre-me and my brothers, they look genuinely happy. Like blissed out, long hair, lensflare, peace sign happy. Completely in-love and chock full of dreams coming true. Then they went and knocked themselves up and didn't sleep for 5 years and worried themselves sick for 10 and fought for 20 about money and now they live on opposite sides of the country, passive-aggresively asking how the other is doing when I talk to them on the phone. Can you get off my back about grandkids please? You're not really leading by example here and besides, I like eating cereal for dinner and showing up to work still a little drunk, thanks.

-Smooth Jazz?
Really?! Seriously though, really?! Huh. Okay.

But then again:

-They do have eccentric fashion choices:
I have an aunt who moved as far away from her working-class upbringing as soon as she could, and actually started a few successful businesses with her business-savvy husband. He passed, she inherited, and now she has an elevator in her house, wears animal print everything, and never, I mean NEVER lets anyone see her without make-up. I have another aunt who stayed in said working class town, has a different wig for every day of the week (we're talking red bob Tuesday, blonde ponytail Wednesday) and has sent me a new barbie doll every year since I was 9 (I'm 30). God bless them both, and I cannot WAIT to give this little of a fuck.

-They do have the best stories:
Old people are living history. They diss the books and keep it real by telling crazy stories about that time Martin Luther the King called Jesse Jackson “one ashy negro”, or how he were supposed to get in Ted Kennedy's car one night in Chappaquiddick, but declined because he was trying to get with your Mom. Crazy times, man. Crazy times.

-They did (kinda) invent the internet:
Thank you! (Even though you were young when you thought of it).

This last one may be moot, since they're currently trying to regulate it and make money off of it and ruin it. But yeah, old people. Can't say I totally get 'em.

The Goodness of Brown, Now in White!

2011-01-27T21:32:00.000-08:00

The homie The Mad Blacktress alerted me to this ricist commercial that, despite it's central message, did not come out in 1962:

Huh? The goodness of brown, now in white? Really? That sounds like a 1950's record label slogan. Or an argument against affirmative action. And hahaha whatever, it would be funny if this societal whitewashing thing weren't all over the place.

A recently released version of Huckleberry Finn, the Mark Twain classic adored nationwide by the same white people who have "Birth of a Nation" on blu-ray, loses its nigger. Possibly because "n-word" looks silly in print, and they've replaced it with the word "slave". Now, I felt just as squemish as the next only-black-person-in-my-class during the Huck Finn unit, but I don't agree with literary genocide. There is no such thing as a kinder, gentler racism. That shit happened, that shit was real, and to evoke the old adage, to pretend it didn't is to risk it happening all over again. We cool, 19th-century literature. But we ain't that cool. The word "nigger" appears upwards of 200 times in the novel, and not, I would argue, because Twain hated niggers, but because that was en vogue at the time. That is how casually fucked up and demeaningly people spoke to one another. And no modern political correctness --or underhanded whitewashing -- should change any past.

"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past." -- O'Brien in 1984 (George Orwell)

And then, you have longtime Representative Michelle Bachmann of MN straight making up shit:

I'm not sure if she sincerely thinks that this is what happened, or if she is going with the "we hold these truths, to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...huh? niggers? no, not them, they're only 3/5 of a man. I'm talking about white people, here" early patriot school of thought. But she represents people. As a job. Every day. She has found a podium, and people are listening to her, and nodding in agreement. Is anyone else concerned about this? Fortunately, Anderson Cooper is all over it like white on brown rice. Get 'er, Andy!

It would be easy to brush off any one of these things. The rice, sure, the book, the founding policies of our country and the House Reps that confuse them with children's stories. But the proximity of these events, coupled with the overall casual sentiment that we've somehow arrived at a post-racial society because the President is black, well, it puts my bullshit sensors on high alert. The legacy of slavery and oppression is alive, not just in the United States but in every ghetto, favela, and refugee camp all over the world. And to deny the injustice of our past is to deny the justice for anyone in the future.

Be careful out there ya'll. Blue-eyed peas are next.

An Open Letter to the New Fashion Company that’s just moved across the hall from my Non-Profit Organization.

2011-01-25T20:29:00.000-08:00

Dear New Fashion Company that’s just moved across the hall from my Non-Profit Organization,

When I heard that we were getting neighbors, I was so excited! For the past year it’s been like a ghost town across the hall. It will be nice to have new cute boys to flirt with, and maybe even expand my social circle. When HR told us that the tenants would be an on-line fashion and clothing design company, albeit one I’d never heard of, we were thrilled! Oh, the possibilities! Surely we’d get free clothes, and invites to tragically hip parties with open martini bars!

Even though the construction across the hall ruined more than a few conference calls, and doubled the elevator wait, it was exciting to see the space change and grow. We’d creep in after the workers had gone home, and check out the beautiful view of downtown San Francisco —which was much more appealing than our view of Highway 280 — and ooh and ahh over the sleek, minimal design. Tre chic, new Fashion Company!

And then you moved in. An entire gaggle of unbelievably overdressed, giggly, under 25 year-old girls and a smattering of gay men. Look, New Fashion Company, I understand you are a fashion company, but honestly, it’s Tuesday morning! You look like a Laker girl in that spangly jacket and short shorts over lace tights and stiletto booties. And my outfit, that I thought was kicky and smart and maybe even made me look a little British when I picked it out this morning, now seems frumpy and foppish. I know it’s rude, but sometimes in the elevator I hurriedly press the >close door< button when I hear you coming, just so that I can have my 4 floors of dignified peace. Oh, so, I guess you guys have an it’s-cool-to-bring-your-dog-to-the-office office? Is there a policy that the dog has to be less than 10 pounds? Or is it just coincidence that everyone has a small, nervous dog that always looks like it might pee on my shoes any second? And won’t. Stop. Yapping. I don’t know if you know this, but I can see you guys playing ping-pong from our conference room, while we have blue-sky brainstorming presentations on make workflow processes more efficient. It looks fun. It’s also pretty cool that you have a whole room dedicated to, and decorated for, playing ping-pong. >sigh<

But I guess the biggest disappointment, New Fashion Company, is the impact on the bathroom situation. No longer is the stall my own private think cell. It has become a place of tortured anxiety as I wait for you to primp, pose, and pout in the mirror while I wait, buttocks clenched, for you to leave so that I may do my business. Isn’t the office number 2 bad enough? Now with the bathroom population doubled, there is always sure to be an audience. Each bathroom break is met with the dread of having to make small talk after or worse, during (!) the business.

I guess what I’m trying to say, New Fashion Company that moved across the hall, is that while it’s nice to have a new buddy, the pluses haven’t outnumbered the minuses nearly as much as I’d hoped. In fact, I feel like your grumpy, fat, flatulent, middle-aged sister that’s taking a look at your high-faultin’ city life and wondering how I got saddled with these kids in my quaint yet drab gated community. It would be nice if you could tone the hipness down a little, maybe a couple times a week? Until then, I’ll be walking down four flights to use the nearly always just-cleaned lobby bathroom.

Sincerely,

The Non-Profit Organization across the hall that could really use a facelift.

Beef a.k.a. The Ill Dungeon Dragon Nana

2011-01-19T14:16:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, I had a bully thing going on. It didn’t last long, and it was only against one girl, but still. Back then I thought I hated her because she ended every sentence with a question mark and was thus, “fake”, but 15 years later, I realize that I was really just jealous of the other pretty black girl in my grade, and feel slightly shitty about it to this day (although that, “you knoooow?” thing still grates on me).

This same scenario is what I see playing out in the “beef” between Lil' Kim and her younger, bubblier, more relevant, possibly (I said possibly!) more lyrically deft successor, Nicki Minaj. The similarities are uncanny, right down to Kim mocking (and I have to say, nailing) Nicki's voice on Hot '97. The only differences are that I cannot make a Sprite can disappear in my mouth and I WAS A FRESHMAN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND KIM IS A GROWN ASS BITCH. Seriously, what in the world is Kim's problem? Oh wait, I know, the “Fuck the World, don't ask me for shit” mentality that makes for a good hook but a ridiculous lifestyle, and the same reason that black people don't OWN shit except Oprah, who just created a network

comprised solely of people she put on...and she unofficially rules the world. You think she's sweating weather girls in Duluth who's unique first name sounds as good backwards as it does forwards? The last thing America, Women, and Black Women need is to be bashing on one another, when there are so few of us in the game. I mean any game. Black female accountants shouldn't bash black female accountants. Black female meter maids shouldn't hate on other black female meter maids coming up. But jealousy is a hell of a drug, and Kim is hooked on it like the finest, crackiest, crack cocaine.

I have a feeling that Kim's biggest beef is the whole black Barbie thing that Minaj has taken the persona of, without having to surgically alter herself nearly as hard to get to (booty pad rumors be damned!). Never mind the acute social ill this highlights of black women wanting to look like white dolls, or the confusion that black girls who look up to Kim and Nicki must feel when they realize that Nicki and Kim look up to piece of fucking plastic. A long blond-haired, blue-eyed, 22-inch waisted piece of plastic. Sure, one could argue that the "I'm Barbie!" proclamation is Kim's idea, but look where that got us.

Oh. Oh oh wait. I'm getting something in over the transom. This just in: Foxy Brown just dropped a Christmas dis' on Lil' Kim? Two weeks after Christmas? Oh lawd.

Just look at this.

"The bullshit, all this Black Friday shit is garbage/How the fuck you love Big and shit on his status?"

Hot damn ho here we go again. Bringing up old shit. We loved the same dude blah blah Brooklyn. Foxy sounds like she's been smoking Newports and eating pork sandwiches for the past 5 years. The look on dude's face in the background says it all. Foxy sit DOWN. It's a sad, albeit slightly confusing day when one irrelevant broke artist gets the idea to take pot shots at the another irrelevant broke artist, who herself is taking potshots at the hottest new platinum selling hot fyah ingénue. And the worst part is...Foxy and Kim were actually friends in high school. They came up together, Kim went with Big, Foxy went with Jay; they both got their lyrics written for them, had hits, and time marched on. The whole thing is a big fat cautionary tale about selling sex instead of brains, not paying your bills, and the lonely life of a bitter mean girl. Nicki girl, shake it off. They can't hurt you on the top ten when they're swiping from the bottom of the charts. They're just jealous of the other pretty black girl on campus.

The Pros and Cons of Dating Someone You Went to High School With

2011-01-18T12:28:00.000-08:00

Better the devil you know? Or a step back into the 90's? The Midwhere is on The Hairpin today, ya'll.

Point/Counterpoint: Over/Under

2011-01-11T13:22:00.000-08:00

As anyone living with, or who has lived with a significant other knows, it is not always domestic bliss. Sometimes small disagreements, if left unchecked, can evolve into full-blown freak-the-fuck-outs and threaten the entire balance of your relationship. It’s important, however, to hear both sides of an argument, before making a decision on which way makes the most sense for your household.

Thus, the Midwhere brings you point/counterpoint. (I’ll let you guess The Midwhere’s stance).

Point: Over

I imagine that there is an older woman somewhere in a developing country that I have never been to, perhaps Indonesia, who wakes up every morning and sips tea and looks out over the barren rural landscape dotted with skeletal cows and dying palm trees, and thinks to herself, ‘some flowers would be nice. Perhaps Jasmine, known for it’s sweet aroma, and strength.’ Noticing the time, she grabs her rucksack and heads out to the side of the dirt road to wait for the bus. It is a 3-hour ride each way to the factory. They stop often, and she shares the cramped vehicle with chickens, dogs, and the children that at times, sit on her lap. The entire way she traces the pattern of a Jasmine flower on her hand. Four petals or five? A stem, or just the face? By the time she arrives at Charmin Products, Inc., she is sure of her design.

As she uses the cold, industrial machines to etch her masterpiece, she thinks of the man or woman in a far away land for whom she is able to grant a small moment of aesthetic pleasure approximately 3-4 times a day.

On the other side of the world, I think of this woman, who I’m fully aware may or may not exist, when I replace each roll of toilet paper. The design has been printed, and thus is always placed, on the OVER side of the roll. This is where it is meant to be, for this is how the pattern is printed. And right before I wipe, I say to this woman, wherever you are, “I love the flowers. Thank you”.

Counterpoint: Under

Because it comes out easier that way. You can pull it, and it won’t get stuck like it does in the other direction. It just doesn’t pull down that well. It’s physics really. And then you have to tug it and sometimes it just keeps going until it’s in a pile on the floor, and you can never get it to wrap over itself the same way again.

Point: Is that it?

Couterpoint: Well, yeah.

Point: Hmph.

There you have folks. You be the judge.

Pros and Cons of Dating Someone You Work With...

2011-01-05T14:15:00.000-08:00

...is over here! Or wait, there. You get the idea, theMidwhere is guestbloggin', yall. Anyway, "Pros and Cons of Dating" will be a regular column over there, but I'll continue to link to it here, so be on the lookout!

The First Week in January

2011-01-03T14:13:00.000-08:00

The week in resolutions, as predicted by myself, about myself:

January 1st: Oooooh, I am so hungover. I am SO hungover. I AM so hungover. I am so HUNGOVER. Resolution number 1: Next New Years I will spend it quietly surrounded by people I love, perhaps wearing a sweater in a cabin in the forest, in front of the fire, sipping unspiked cocoa. Yes, that will be nice. And adultish. Since the only thing I can do today is sit on the couch and watch a Jersey Shore Marathon, I make resolution number 2: To get more culture this year. Maybe a MOMA membership? Yeah! And...and more independent films watching! And author readings, and poetry nights! This year I’m going to feed my brain, starting right after Sammi dumps Ronnie again (when will she learn?)

January 2nd: Ugh, there’s nothing to eat in this house but moldy Christmas leftovers (what is that, Turkey? Ham? It looks pinkish but I think I see wings.) and cakes and cookies (does cake go bad? It smells fine. I’m eating cake for breakfast. This is a really good look for me.) Resolution number 3: Eat healthier. I go to Safeway—no, Whole Foods! And spend $200 on all organic, fair-trade, not-tested-on-Animals, freshly-picked by Americans fruits and veggies and whole grains. While $6 for a Tomato seems a bit expensive, I ask you, er, myself, can you/I put a price on health? No, no you can't. When I get home I spend 30 minutes looking up and cataloguing recipes to cook, and then another 45 minutes making a recipe holder out of popsicle sticks and a comb (I am so creative!), then wander over to Facebook to see if maybe my friends have some healthy recipe suggestions...then spend an hour seeing what all my exes did for New Years (and more importantly, with whom). My boyfriend calls and asks if I want to go out to dinner. Seeing as it’s way too late to start a decent meal, I accept.

January 3rd: If I’m going to eat healthy, I might as well make resolution number 4: Exercise more. I will finally bust out the Bar Method home DVD I bought 4 months ago but plan on telling everyone I got for Christmas. Somewhere during the bicep curl and abdominal pulse, I make resolution number 5: Stop smoking. Seriously. I can barely breathe up in this piece. I think my lungs are going to hurl. I may be bleeding inside my chest. Since I only really smoke when I drink, resolution number 6 emerges: I should stop drinking (so much) as well.

January 4th: I will absolutely meet you guys at the bar. Give me 20, I need to stop and pick up a pack of cigarettes on the way there. What? I’m pretty proud of myself for creating and thusly keeping the ‘so much’ caveat in that drinking resolution, I’m clear to give myself a break and make resolution number 7: Stop smoking tomorrow. Seriously though.

January 5th: Turns out a MOMA membership is a cool hundo. A hundo I don’t have because I spent the last month shopping for my family, my boyfriend’s family, my office white elephant gift, my boss, the ugly sweater Christmas party gift exchange in which everyone goes over the $15 limit every frickin' year, giving to charity because it’s shitty to get something for Pam in accounting, but be all, “sorry, at-risk inner-city youth, I just don’t have it this year” oh, and a $200 health-food shopping spree. And now I’m broke. Resolution number 8: Fuck everybody.

January 6th: How are these Tomatoes moldy already? I JUST BOUGHT THEM. They were $6! Each! What is the point of buying food if it goes bad in 4 days? Guess it’s just whole grains and water for me today. Better not exercise, or else I might pass out and hit my head on the side of the coffee table. What if nobody finds my until I'd already bled to death, and was dead? Remember that lady in France whose dog ate her face off? Much, much safer to watch TV. Ooh! Animal Hoarders!

January 7th: I am using the Bar Method DVD as a coaster for my beer and licking a stick of butter while I smoke a cigarette and watch a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon. NeNe really is cray-cray, you guys. Refusing to wallow in guilt, I make resolution number 9: Resolutions are stupid. I am never making one again. Happy 2011, everybody.

I Am What I Am.

2010-12-30T02:39:00.000-08:00

Remember this guy?

You can't see towards the end there, but he's wearing a t-shirt that says "I Am a Motherfucker" which prompted this short documentary on him...

...which completely proves his t-shirt's theory.

Motherfuckers are hard to come by these days. At their height in the 70s blaxploitation era, many went insane after Vietnam later that decade, were killed with the infusion of crack in the 80s, and otherwise tamed by bleeding heart liberals and their slow and steady political correctness movement of the 90s. This guy is basically the snow leopard of the inner-city, which itself barely exists anymore. And if we're not careful, they'll go the way of the dodo bird, sumumabitch, and jive turkey. Motherfuckers are endangered, and we need to save them.

Why? This guy, like all motherfuckers, has obviously had a hard life. He's been fighting anyone and everyone since he was a child, passed around from reform school to juvenile hall to military barracks, and nobody probably gave much of a shit in-between. The world is full of wishy-washy sycophants who don't take a stand on injustice, or have anyone's back, or see anger for what it usually is: soul-crushing hurt. His attitude is FUCK EVERYBODY, because our attitude was fuck him. That's our, society's, fault, and we need to acknowledge the phoenix that's risen from the ashes and gets his revenge by keeping it realer than most of us could ever imagine. Here are six reasons why motherfuckers are necessary to the survival of the human race, and why the bus video should be taught in schools:

1. Motherfuckers, like Bone Crusher and Psalm 23:4, are never scared. You think you're the biggest dude this motherfuckers ever seen? Or do you think that was achieved while fighting fucking Charlie in '72 after sitting in a rancid foxhole for 3 days, watching 4 of his buddies get their heads blown off one after the other? You think you hold a candle to this motherfucker's psyche? Think again. A real motherfucker has seen God and danced with the devil and fears no man. You're just a mild inconvenience and will be dealt with accordingly.

2. Motherfuckers run shit. You know who is entirely comprised of motherfuckers? The Republican party. You know who gets people fired, damn near impeached, controls most media, makes the most money, and starts wars to make even more money because they just don't give a fuck? Thaaaaaat's right. Motherfuckin' right wing motherfuckers. If Democrats could stop being such reasonable gentlemen for a second, they could learn a thing or two from a motherfucker.

3. Gentlemen don't give a damn. Motherfuckers don't give a fuck. Guess who will win in a fight?

4. Motherfuckers prove that it doesn't matter how big or strong you are in a fight, it's how crazy a motherfucker is that wins. Like James Brown, one of the original and greatest motherfuckers of modern time, once said, "I don't know Ka-rate...BUT I KNOW CA-RAZAY!" You think anyone on that bus thought grandpa with the fannypack was gonna kick dudes ass? I didn't. But motherfucker had 60 years of hard knocks behind him, and that other dude just happened to be listening to 50 Cent on his ipod and own a pair of wrap-around sunglasses.

5. Motherfuckers are loyal as hell, and will kill another motherfucker for you. You do a motherfucker a solid, a real solid, like kick whatever guy's ass that was stupid enough to hit on their woman while they were off to war, or loan him $4,000 to pay off the bookie, that motherfucker will never forget it. You get in any sort of trouble, you just need to make the phone call. Be careful with this one, because he. will. literally. kill a motherfucker for you. And that court case may not really be what you need right now.

6. Motherfuck me? NO, MOTHERFUCK YOU! Motherfuckers are completely irrational, never apologize for who they are, and won't let anyone tell them that how they are living is wrong. This motherfucker sits, smokes, and fights wherever he deems appropriate. Just the mere mention of a "whatever man" as you turn and walk away will get you very, very schooled in the ways of motherfuckerism.

Most importantly, never forget that there is always a bigger, badder, uglier motherfucker than you who's having a bad day. Conduct yourself accordingly.

May the best motherfucker win.

(Everything I needed to know about staying strong I learned from a motherfucker).

Mafia Monkeys Don't Play

2010-12-28T16:39:00.000-08:00

I was in South Africa with my boyfriend a couple of years ago, at which time I was at once both nervous about (apartheid!) and delighted by (monkeys!). The delight really took over as I anticipated being in a country that had monkeys like NYC has pigeons. Only these were clean and fun and did tricks for you!

For the most part, you don’t see monkeys in the African forest, but you hear them. They watch you and occasionally throw shit, not unlike the zoo experience, only without the bars. We had taken a trip out of the city to the countryside and this was my first experience really seeing the little dudes. They were everywhere. But they weren’t cute and wish granting. They were BABOONS. What’s the problem with Baboons you ask? Listen; if you ever roll up on a gang, and one of those dudes is nicknamed Baboon, I assure you that dude is the craziest motherfucker in the bunch. Baboons are the Jamaican Gangster that’s been high on cocaine and hasn’t slept in 3 days of the Monkey world. Other monkeys don’t even fuck with them. Have you ever seen a real baboon ass? It’s not all red and shiny like in the cartoons. It’s like mottled and discolored and scary. Only a monkey that won’t hesitate to rip your arms off faster than you can say, “why?” has an ass like that. Anyway, if you don’t believe me, believe the signs that were posted EVERYWHERE that said in all types of different languages, and no uncertain terms “Baboons: not to be fucked with”.

So when we arrived at the country house we’d rented for the week, the first thing we noticed were signs in every room of our two story house telling us to close all doors and windows every time we left, because the baboons will get in and…I don’t know to be honest. Play poker? Steal the TV? Either way, it didn’t sound like anything we wanted.

After dumping our stuff, the first thing I wanted to do was go to the beach and dip my toe in the Indian Ocean. The first thing my boyfriend wanted to do was take a shower. I told him to meet me down there and grabbed my stuff, reminding him to close all the doors and windows on the way out.

Despite my natural melanin force field, I was roasted and close to burning by the time my boyfriend made it down (they don’t say ‘Africa Hot’ for nuttin, ya’ll). The first question out of my mouth was,” did you close the windows?” He didn’t miss a beat in replying,
“I closed the bottom ones. It was too hot to close the top ones”. I stared at him in frustration.
“Dude. Baboons.”
“Whatever. What are they gonna do, climb up to the second floor?
"Yes. They are Monkeys. That's EXACTLY what they are going to do."

Giving him my patented "thanks for nothing, I'm annoyed, this is going in the file" look that only a decade of serial monogamy will perfect, I hightailed it back.

When the house came into view I slowed down to a cautious gait. I was a little nervous, and a little ashamed that I was a little nervous. I think I even laughed nervously, out loud, to no one. “It’s all good”, I thought. “I’m just gonna go in there, close the windows, and go back to the beach. They’re more scared of me then I am of them. No big deal.”

So I shook it off, walked in like a champion, closed the windows, grabbed some water and that was –SPLAT! OH. EM. GEE. Is that what I think it is? I looked down at my flip flop in horror. Yup. Shit. Not little doggy turds, or chipmunk droppings. Monkey. Shit. This remains, by far, the grossest thing that’s ever happened to me. My entire flip-flop and the bottom half of my foot was covered in the excrement of flies, and, uh…crazy jungle tree leaves I’ve never heard of and…nits from other monkey’s backs, and whatever else they eat. And it stank to high heaven. It was while balancing on one foot and trying to remove my flip-flop with out touching poop that I saw him.

A single, solitary, alpha baboon. He was staring right at me. This mafia motherfucker took a shit on my doorstep, and then watched me step in it. It went from the grossest moment of my life to one of the eeriest.

I averted my eyes because I didn’t want him to think I was challenging him, but kept him in my peripheral as he strut away on all fours. It was a baboon warning, I’m sure of it. But for what? Invading their territory? Not closing all of the windows? Closing some of the windows? Pinning the AIDS thing on them? Schadenfreude? We will never know.

(And that’s the time I almost broke up with my boyfriend for receiving the monkey equivalent of a decapitated horse head in my bed for no reason other than he’s lazy.)

The Best Worst Idea Ever

2010-12-27T09:14:00.000-08:00

Coming back from vacation in Big Sur a couple of weeks ago, my boyfriend suggested hitting the famous Monterey Bay Aquarium to check out the sea otter exhibit. Walking up Cannery Row up I plucked a brouchure for the Monterey Mirror Maze Lazer Challenege: Get Lost in the Fun! thinking maybe we'd hit it on the way back. It seemed exciting enough, advertising the "newest entertainment craze" "awesome sound and light show" and "guaranteed fun for ALL ages" but a quick perusal revealed otherwise:

"A high quality, creatively designed mirror maze walk-through is the feature attraction at this brand new family attraction. No matter what your age you will love getting lost in our psychedelic setting complete with high tech lighting and pumping music...The perfect symmetry allows you to see infinite reflections of yourself in every direction…which way is the right way to go? Just when you think you found your way out, you realize you have gone in a complete circle and are back where you started. Encounter surprising corners, dead ends and continuous circles! The maze will entice and confuse leaving you utterly lost. But find your way and become a maze master!"

Uhm, does this sound like a fucking NIGHTMARE to anyone else? Maybe because I was little high in preparation for the jellyfish exhibit, or I don't know what fun is anymore, but dead ends and continuous circles isn't my idea of a good time. Who is copyediting this, Marilyn Manson? This sounds like the welfare system. This sounds like watching a montage about all my fears about my career and relationship going coming true and ending up homeless with 17 cats to a techno soundtrack. When did children's games become a literally a bad acid trip? Are they actually trying to prepare kids for bad acid trips? Because every high school has that one kid who doesn't come back Sophomore year. In which case maybe it's brilliant?

(SIDENOTE: With the thought of being enticed and confused leaving me utterly lost still playing in my mind, we checked out the sea otter exhibit along with about 47 screaming 4-8 year olds and their parents. Man those little dudes are cute. We were there just in time for the feeding and to hear the guide tell us that sometimes the otters sneak seashell shards in their little flipper armpits from the holding tank (where they chill) to the viewing tank (where we oooh and ahhhh) and bang them against the glass to try and break out/send a message/shank our eyeballs. So now they frisk them on the way in and out to make sure they're not carrying any contraband. She literally used the words frisk and contraband. The fact that they weren't even trying to play off that the otters were political prisoners and NOT having a blast getting regular rubdowns and all the already shelled scallops they could eat made me so fucking depressed I had to leave Moterey Bay altogether.)

Pros and Cons of banging (a) 23 year-old dude(s).

2010-12-22T22:02:00.000-08:00

Look at 'em. All young, dumb, and full of cum. With their agile limbs, zero obligations, and nubile bodies, it's pretty hard not to be somewhat attracted to a 23 year-old boy. And don't let them be a skater or have impeccable urban street style. (Lawd 'a mercy).

But something we learned in our twenties is that all that glitters is not gold. Sometimes it has STDs. Here are the pros and cons of giving into temptation.

Pro: c'mon, he's 23. It's like having an intern.

Con: his patchy 6 day masquerading as a 5 'oclock shadow screams jailbait.

Pro: Wow, you're just...smooth everywhere, aren't ya?

Con: Quiet sex on the floor because his mom's room is right next door and the walls are super thin. What? Oh, you thought he stays at his own place? Oh nonono. He stay at his Momma house. If it doesn't hit you when she mentally notes that no one under thirty could or would care to afford those shoes and judges the shit out of you for fucking her son, it will hit you when you're flat on your back on beber carpet staring up at the Bob Marley tapestry that's been pinned over the ceiling light for "ambience".

Pro: If you get lucky and he DOES have his own spot, it's probably in a converted warehouse with 6 other people and they have surprisingly awesome parties.

Con: He's definitely had sex with all of his female roommates and most of his good looking female friends. If it's a really old friend, he's probably in an extended booty call situation and best believe that she was here before you, and she'll be there after you.

Pro: He thinks you are the most well-traveled, smartest, networked, ambitious, capable woman he's ever met and completely looks up to you.

Con: His friends think you're old.

Pro: New Music! Have you looked at your itunes lately? I bet it's all your favsies from high school (Wu-Tang is here 4EVA!) and that one top ten R&B jam that you hate to love to hate to love, some obscure shit that your one DJ friend sends you, too much Jay-Z and Kanye West and a bunch of bands that kinda make you feel nostalgic for the good ol' days (MGMT). But let's keep it real, you're not going to shows of bands you've never heard of on a tuesday night and discovering shit like this kid is. You're still refreshing your Limewire page while the under 30 set is hacking directly into Universal's database and copping demos. Pay attention, you might learn something.

Con: One day you will wake up and there will be stickers of aforementioned obscure bands in the damndest places.

Pro: He can still get drugs fairly cheaply and easily for the music festival, no problem.

Con: The 80s had coke, we had ecstacy, the millineals had Oxycotin and NOW they have some new shit that you've never heard of which is the most amazing high in the world and has no shitty feeling attached after you come down. But awwwww, you're 30 and if you did it you would probably sit in a corner thinking about your taxes and that big presentation on Monday and really bring everybody down. Better off being the designated driver.

Pro: He is pretty much available whenever you call him, and up for whatever.

Con: That's because he ain't got no job! I hope you're down to make it rain, because dinner, and the movie, and drinks, and the cab are on you tonight.

Pro: he is willing to try all sorts of experiments in bed to impress you, and will do whatever. you. tell him.

Con: he will probably leave his socks on.

Pro: he has 23 year-old friends, so you can drag your sluttiest best friend along with you on your on the cougar tour.

Con: he has 23 year-old friends. Expect at least one of them to get too drunk and vomit in your kitchen sink, or an otherwise place that's not the toilet, wake up to one of them on the couch (how did he even get in here?) and run into one of them at a completely awkward place and inappropriate time, such as lunch with your boss.

Pro: Remember 40s? and blunts? and video games? and "hanging out"? and pranks? and fast food? and limited edition sneakers? and knowing the names of graffiti artists? and futons?

Con: All of these things get real, real old in about two weeks. Like, real old.

The End of the Innocence

2010-12-22T11:19:00.000-08:00

Every year around the holidays, getting together with family (unless it's someone else's) usually means guilt trips, booze, and embarrassing childhood stories. Since I want you to actually come back and visit I'll spare you the guilt trip, pour us a glass and tell the one about me that gets circulated every year.

I was probably 4 or 5 and my mom was taking me to the doctor for the check-up you have to get before you are allowed to go to school. Previous to this, every doctor visit had been fairly pleasant and ended with a lollipop and or a sticker, so I was all, sure mom, just give me a sec to figure out which shoe goes on which foot and strap my velcro straps! (I was so naive then, and didn't yet know that my mother was not to be trusted).

When we got there, everything was all good and routine until the nurse looking over my charts mentioned that I needed a shot. I was still like "okay-dokey!" because I didn't know what a shot was. But then she pulled out a needle that I distinctly remember looking like a thumbtack. I have not seen a medical instrument like it since and still don't know what kind of house of horrors this particular county was running. I immediately scooted to the safety of my mom's underarm. 'This bitch is crazy', I thought. 'Go ahead mom. Punch her in the face for even stepping to us like that'.

But then my mom did something that irrecovably fractured our relationship forever, and I still haven't forgiven her for to this day: she held me down, and nodded at the nurse to proceed.

Again, I'm 4 or 5. This is some serious et tu, Brute? shit. My mother was my best friend, protectant, teacher, food source. How could she...TURN on me like this? MY WHOLE WORLD IS UPSIDE DOWN!

So I broke out.

I took off as fast as my 11 inch legs would take me, dodging nurses and patients and orderlies. In my memory I was jumping over women in labor and knocking over stacks of bedpans, but my mother assures me I just ran into the supply closet across the hall and crawled into the smallest space I could find.

It was no good. They came after me. They had me surrounded. The nurse still had the weapon in her hand, and my Mom was softly cooing that everything would be okay. Yeah, right lady. I'll deal with you later. My back was against the wall. I did the only thing that I could think to do in that situation. I raised myself to my full height and in my arms held an imaginary sword, and bellowed,

"BY THE POWER OF SHE-RA INVESTED IN ME, I COMMAND YOU TO STEP BACK! YOU ARE POWERLESS IN MY SIGHT!"

This is the part of the story when my mom starts crying from laughter. Every. Time.

At that moment I really believed what I said. No one moved for a second, and I'm sure out of sheer stunned surprise and computing just how they're going to relay this one at the dinner table tonight. But in my mind, I was thinking, 'Holy fucking shit. It. Worked.' In that second I saw my opportunity (before the force field expired) and took off again.

They were hip to me though. Someone grabbed me by the collar and, literally kicking and screaming, I was held down, and given a smallpox vaccination.

I didn't say a word to my mother the entire way home.

I consider this moment the end of my innocence. This began my long career as a skeptic to the nth degree, since both Shera and my mother had let me down on the same day. I would never put my faith in a cartoon superhero again, no matter how empowered she was or how rad a white pony she used to get around. Everything I need to know I learned in kindergarten; and if anyone says anything about getting a free lollipop at the end, watch your back.

Turtlenecks Shouldn't Show Cleavage.

2010-12-21T16:43:00.000-08:00

I grew up the youngest of 3 children with two older brothers. Much to my delight and my mother’s dismay I didn’t have to deal with hand-me-downs, but Moms was NOT about to spend actual money on a ten year-old. So I grew up following her around the holy three of the middle-class: Marshalls, Ross, and dittiditdit- dittiditdit TJ Maxx.

When I started making actual money, and let my friends convince me to buy actual clothes, I realized why expensive items are such: they fit. They are made out of material that hugs, not clings, and are tailored, not…square. I ‘m still price conscious (Gap,) but I now know that it’s worth the extra $25 (Banana Republic) for an item that flatters and will get way more mileage and doesn’t look cheap (Old Navy).

This is especially pertinent as I just turned 30, and my body is doing, shall we say, interesting things. I believe the term is saddlebags? While my instinct is to sausage stuff my ass into the clothes that fit >gasp< last >suck< week, common sense and my boyfriend tell me that this is not the answer. Plus, being in denial about your body shape is pretty unattractive, and it makes guys think you’ll be huge after a couple of kids (and they’re right). I wish I could say the same for all my sisters. But because mouthing “nothing wrong with a size 8” from across the BART aisle is frowned upon, here’s a few tips on how to know it’s time to save those pennies and hit the mall: If your jeans crease cuts into your coochie crinkle, they are too tight.

If you have to gather up all your titties to fit into your shirt, it is too tight.

If your ribcage looks like it’s baking fresh bread, and they’ll be done when they pop through the sides of your shirt, your shirt is too small.

If you look down at your button and it looks back at you, gasping, “must…hold…on…to my precious…mustn’t…let go…” then you may want to get that wrap dress a size up.

If at any point you think to yourself, “huh. Maybe I AM pregnant” the Empire waist may not be for you.

If you can feel your big toenail scratching the toe of your shoe, or flapping over the side of your open toe, your shoes are too small. Also, you could probably use a pedicure.

If I can see the outline of your nipples, you’re cold. If I can see the outline of your areolas, your shirt’s too tight.

I know, I know, we can’t actually SEE your booty hole, but we CAN see the muscles whose only function is to support the booty and the booty hole. Your skirt is too short.

Big girls: big clothes make you look bigger. Wear what fits. Don’t curtains that drape sound nicer than curtains that hang?

No matter the footwear choice, the most common way to walk is heel-toe, heel-toe. Not clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp. If you are imagining that you are a supermodel fiercely storming the runway while a photographer screams, “YOU BETTA WERK!” you probably look like a newborn giraffe and it’s time for new shoes that don’t hurt.

If a straight guy, any straight guy compliments you on your shirt, he is actually saying, “nice bod”. It has absolutely nothing to do with your shirt, but is a compliment nonetheless and you should say thank you. Men don’t give a shit about patterns.

If a straight guy, any straight guy compliments you on a skirt they are really thinking, “the coochie…is right…there…” and you may want to keep your eye on him.

Questionable FB Status Updates From Exes (or whatever)

2010-12-20T17:22:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what this says about me, but most of the guys I have actually had real relationships with, including my current boyfriend of nearly 3 years, are not on Facebook. This is actually pretty awesome, because I get to go on thinking that the old ones got fat and live in a ditch as opposed seeing all the tagged photos that our mutual friends are in and 'oh, he IS fucking the girl he told me he was just friends with after all' and 'wow, he looks WAY happier without me'. As for my current relationship, we all have that friend who regularly stalks her bf's page and will cut any pretty bitch that so much as leaves a throwaway comment in his happy birthday stream and I'm psyched to say that element is just taken out of my equation.

Every once in a while I go through the pages of relationships that could have been; summer-long hook-ups that should've been one-night stands, sext flirtations that really never got off the ground, and coulda but didn'tas because someone was already wifed up. More often than not, a quick visit to their profile page reassures me that I actually dodged THAT bullet, and the Universe made the right choice when sending our paths asunder. Or, uh, dudes I just crushed on that never liked me back and I drank too much Jameson and fell down the stairs at a party for. Tomahto. Here's a smattering of what could have been, as referenced by facebook status:

8pm class tomorrow night will be serenaded by an amazing flamenco guitar player! Yoga, live acoustic guitar, and candle light. Sounds divine!

I sweat the shit out of this guy when we first met because he had big old muscles, something that I'd never much cared about and therefore never really had before. He was also all types of smooth-talkin'. Turns out he was obsessed with his body, and building it, and all of his updates have to do with the yoga class he now teaches up the street from my house, or the flamenco he's been taking for 10 years (Look, I know, okay? I know.) This guy personifies the shirtless, necklace from bali airport wearing, cultural cherry-picking, downward dog position correcting skeezeball that bangs all of his students and/or dance partners, guaranteed.

‎"It's true what they say: Cops and women don't mix. It's like eating a spoonful of Drano; sure, it'll clean you out, but it'll leave you hollow inside."

This was my first love and we're still besties to this day. I have no clue what this status update means but I kinda like it, which is an absolute metaphor for our entire relationship; we almost but not quite get each other and just weren't meant to be. His mom has been in this country for 30 years yet still manages to rock that FOB chopped English with a machete, and I swear that she used to follow us around talking shit about me in Korean whenever I was at his house.
"Ah-nee-oh Mee-gook-een Meeuh-nuuh-ree!"
"Huh?"
"Oh, she just said she likes you."

I can't seam to grow up either...

Yup, pretty definitive. While the self-admittedly immature behavior was an obvious monkey-wrench, it's really the poor grammar that evokes a sigh of relief out of me. Flash forward to Christmas dinner, 2021:

*as the Bing Crosby Christmas album quietly plays in the background, mingling with the smell of eggnog, a short, plump figure is silhouetted against the crackling fire with a carving knife to her husband's throat.

Mother-In-Law: Dear GOD, what are you DOING!?

Me: What in the fuck is an intensive purpose? Huh? Not one of you, nor anyone you know has ever had an intensive purpose! IT'S INTENTS! AND! PURPOSES! GAAAAHHHHHH!!!

(note: I spelled silhouetted right on the first try. Oh, nah-nah. What's my name?)

is headed to NYC for a fun loving, four day, Fela (Broadway Musical), Freakin Weekend!! You betta bring it Ms. Pattie Labelle!

He was gay when we went to prom together, and he's gay now. But shiiiiiit we had some good ol' times over the years! And it's very likely he'll be the only one around to talk shit with and tell my old ass that my wig is on backwards when whomever I marry is dead.

I call bullshit on Altoids being 200 years old; they just made that shit up in 1998.

I still crush on this one sometimes. So sue me, the game doesn't always work.

9 Things to Do Drunk After the Jump

2010-12-16T16:44:00.000-08:00

Today's blog is not here, it's actually over there.

Bigups to thehairpin and Edith and Liz and all the snarky women out there that drink too much and laugh too loud and don't care what you think of either one of those facts.

Oh, I didn't know that was a Vitamin. My bad.

2010-12-01T12:55:00.000-08:00

Remember when Vitamin Water came out? And everybody was like “whoooooa, it’s just healthy ol’ water with a hint of flava so I don’t get bored? Brilliant!” And this was when bottled water was becoming a big deal and systematically convinced everyone at the same time that the free water that we’d been drinking for 100 years gave you cancer and water that was expensive to make and expensive to transport and was stored in a carcinogen harboring plastic bottle was waaaay better, like some elaborate Orson Wells hoax? Remember?

Flash forward to nowish and everybody’s scratching their heads and going, “wait a sec…” but somehow Vitamin Water, even though it has evolved into non-carbonated soda, is still a top seller. I haven’t drank one in years, but a couple weeks ago I was pretty stoned and had cottonmouth like a mug and it looked all perfect and precious gem-like under the am/pm fluorescents. I NEEDED it.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT HAVE YOU READ THE INGREDIENTS LABEL LATELY? No? Let’s go through it together, one at a time. This will be especially mind-blowing if you take a bong hit. Go on, I’ll wait.

… Okay, let’s go.

Reverse Osmosis Water: Uhm, what is this? I guess you start with water, and then Osmosis it, which if 10th grade chemistry/Wikipedia serves me correctly, means diffuse it down to its concentration (oxygen?) then reverse it, like...filtration. Isn't that just water? Why don't they just say that? VW is trying to sound smarter than me and I don't like that shit. That's for Smart Water. Hey, remember Osmosis Jones? That movie was awesome.

Crystalline Fructose: Somebody gave some sugar steroids and now it's all hopped up and crystallized and ready to beat some fuckin' ass.

Cane Sugar: Vitamin Water is starting to remind me of the time when Madeline Gallagher, a senior when I was a sophomore who taught me how to cut class, nonchalantly asked, “want some coffee?” and wanting to be half as classy as her said “sure” then proceeded to put about 2 cups of sugar in the thing rending the coffee part useless and looking retarded in the meantime.

Less than 0.5% of: Choline Bitartrate: WTF? I have no idea what Choline Bitartrate is but my guess is that at one point they had like 0.8% in the trial versions and the FDA was all, “are you MAD? That’s enough to kill a pony!” and VW was like, “okay okay, jeez, well how about 0.6%?” and the FDA was like, “Dude. NO”. and VW was all, “Fucking—fine. There’s less than 0.5% in there, okay? Okay?” And the FDA was like, “whatever, you guys want some birth control samples? We can’t sell these, they grow hair on your chest.”

Natural Flavor: Guess what. There is nothing natural about natural flavor. This is right up there with Watergate and Car Insurance. According to the US code of Federal regulations, ‘"The term natural flavor or natural flavoring means the essential oil, oleoresin, essence or extractive, protein hydrolysate, distillate, or any product of roasting, heating or enzymolysis, which contains the flavoring constituents derived from a spice, fruit or fruit juice, vegetable or vegetable juice, edible yeast, herb, bark, bud, root, leaf or similar plant material, meat, seafood, poultry, eggs, dairy products, or fermentation products thereof, whose significant function in food is flavoring rather than nutritional."
In other words, natural flavors can be pretty much anything approved for use in food that is not necessarily food.

Vitamin C (Ascorbic Acid): Oh, good, a vitamin.

Citric Acid: This is kinda vitaminy, right?

Fruit and Vegetable Juice (Color): Why would they even bother using fruit and vegetables for color? Why not just use more chemicals? Are they making fun of me? “Want some nutrition? Here ya go. PSYCHE! It’s just for color. We squeezed a carrot, but only cuz it’s orange. Here’s some more vitamins. Last but not least, right?”

Vitamin E (Alpha-Tocopheryl Acetate), Magnesium Lactate (Electrolyte), Vitamin B3 (Niacinamide), Vitamin B5 (Calcium Pantothenate), Calcium Lactate (Electrolyte), Potassium Phosphate (Electrolyte), Vitamin B6 (Pyridoxine Hydrochloride), Vitamin B12.

In conclusion: Vitamin Water is stupid and unless you’re stoned, hungover, or 12 so are you if you drink it.

Get Dumped Gracefully

2010-11-29T18:07:00.000-08:00

A friend of ours recently dumped her loser boyfriend and he started a blog about their break-up. That's right. He didn't blog about them breaking up, he STARTED A BLOG ABOUT THEIR BREAK UP. Goes without saying that this is the kind of shit that got his ass dumped in the first place, and now there is negative hope of them getting back together (well done, dummy!) AND clearly all of her girlfriends are delightfully looking forward to cussing him out next time we see him on the street.

Shit, I've been dumped. And Lord knows I had my 10 minutes of crazy (everyone gets this. It can result in anything from a really angry e-mail to burning down your ex's house. Par for the course). But there are things you can do to keep your dignity and reputation intact for when the mention of his name becomes a mere eye-roll. And it will.

It occurred to me that some folks don't know how to get dumped with style. Hence, the guide.

-For fuck's sake do NOT start a blog: Dear lord, that's what diaries and bartenders are for. You're really gonna recount every time you felt hurt, which at the time was no big deal but now is amplified times a gazillion to...only you. Everyone else is like "move on".

-Don't tell them, "You'll never find anyone else like me again!": doi, that's why they dumped yo ass. They don't WANT to find anyone else like you again. Save the dramatic exits for someone who cares.

-Don't Fuck his Good Friends: Fact: At least one of them will try to get with you completely inappropriately when he's not around. Don't do it. Although it seems logical to make him jealous (and for a 10 minutes of crazy, it will) but in the long run, they'll BOTH just think you're a ho and never call you again.

-Do Fuck someone that he vaguely knows from the outer circle, and will probably run into at a party in 6 months or so: Revenge is a dish best served cold. He'll hear about it through the grapevine, and will undoubtedly scratch his head, going "that guy? Steve? She fucked STEVE?" and wondering if you two are in love and if his dick was bigger. If you're lucky they'll get into a fight over you when they run into each other at said party and if you're really lucky you'll get to see the whole thing go down, fuck the winner (again) and then ignore his calls.

-Do tell him, somehow, someway, that you always thought he had a small dick (but only if you're sure it's over, bc this is the point of no return): Even if that shit was huge. Even if he KNOWS you know it's huge. Even if Magnums didn't fit and you had to rule out 3 positions because he stabbed your uterus that way. Doesn't matter. The male ego is fragile, and this will give him a complex well into his next relationship.

-Do wear your skankiest outfit when you know you're going to run into him: Yeah, you know that he knows that you know that his friends know that he knows that you spent 3 hours getting ready and bought a new dress just to piss him off when you completely ignore him. Who cares? That shit WORKS. Also, if you look hot during your 10 minutes of crazy, then it divides itself by its square root and equals sexy as hell.

-Don't apologize for your 10 minutes of crazy: Inevitably you'll do something you regret, call him names, talk about his Momma, shit, even accuse him of having a small dick. DO NOT APOLOGIZE. I don't care if you are sorry, he pissed you off and you meant it and he deserved it. End of story. Apologizing will only weaken your game and swing the power pendulum back in his direction.

-Don't Get Facebook Involved: I mean, if you think hard enough about it, it's already fairly lame that you're as involved in this "virtual world" as you are. We're not 15. So quit it with the defriending his friends and leaving wrist-cutting status updates. Take a break, and come back when you're ready to post pictures of you taking shots again.

-Do Bow Out Gracefully: You got dumped. Ok. It happens. All the time. Deal with it. Remember that you're the only one who *really* cares. I don't.

Good luck!

Baraka vs. Waka

2010-11-19T13:01:00.000-08:00

It sucks when you see something hilarious, and then you do a Google search to show your friends and you read a couple of articles and then you're like "oooohh, right. What will the white people think?" And feel kinda bad for laughing because most people aren't smart enough to get the joke (but it's still pretty funny).

Fuck what they think. It's funny BECAUSE it's a parody. Because of course the President doesn't smoke weed. (Well, at least not anymore). But there are some folks out there that really think that this is how black people actually act, and that this video supports that. And people who think we shouldn't portray the President G'd up, or worse, shouting "nigga" every other word. And I guess if I really stop to think about it, to a certain extent I agree. But I'm not going to get offended that someone made something that might make the wrong kind of white person think less of my entire race. IT'S A BLACK THANG YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND. Who cares what the white people think? It's unfortunate that so often we're portrayed as thugs and ho's, when portrayed at all, that we can't even tell a joke without the actual thug rapper's (Waka Flocka Flame) mother protesting to get the video pulled, because, as she states, “That’s not a positive image for us, period, as African-Americans, where we came from, where we’re going today”. Can we talk about how your son's actual video is WAAAAY scarier than the parody you tried to get pulled? I mean, it bangs, but this dude might really shoot someone.

And as far as black folk getting the wrong impression, shiiiiit. This only makes Obama even MORE endearing. I always knew Obama was a G! Ya cotdamn right he's on the senate floor with his SK. That's how we riggity roll, son! (Also, that's not the real Obama. It's an actor, with pancake make-up and a suit on, pretending to be Obama. So, you know, it's not like serious.)

I'm way more concerned about the influence that actual hip-hop has on the younger generation than a parody of hip hop. This video makes us laugh at the comedy so that we don't cry at the reality.

Lastly, it's hilarious.

In Defense of the Post Office

2010-11-18T12:26:00.001-08:00

I got a postcard in the mail the other day. It was notification that now mailing packages have gotten easier than ever with the 40,000 electronic mailing kiosks installed around the country. This made me sad as hell. What I read was, “we’ve just fired 40,000 postal workers, because it’s 2010 and machines can do all the work with minimum scheduled maintenance and they don’t need lunch breaks!”

Fuck this. The post office is awesome. Thanks to the republican battle cry of de-regulation, somehow FedEx and UPS has gained a stronghold in shipping, which is weird to me because they’re super expensive and they steal shit. (An ex-boyfriend worked for brown. Trust me on this one: if you are shipping a laptop, it is in your best interest to do everything in your power to make it look like anything but a laptop). There are a lot of reasons to love the post-office. In the interest of brevity, here are just 10.

10. Does anyone you know know anyone that has ever lost a package? Me neither. It might be kinda late, it might be a little banged up, but your shit will get there.

9. My postman’s name is Marvin. He has had my route for 20 years. USPS isn’t a pit stop for stoners and paying off student loans, it’s a career. The post people keep the community together. They walk the streets and they know everything that’s going down on the block, and wave and say hi. Who else smiles and waves in the city? No one, because we don’t know each other like that.

8. Two words: Media Mail.

7. If an ambulance, a fireman, a police officer, and a postal truck all come to a four-way stop at the same time, who has the right of way? That’s right, the postman. Theys federal, bitches!

6. P.O. Boxes. Which stanky FedEx won’t deliver to.

5. They have tracking numbers too, you know. And registered mail, and certified mail, and signature confirmation, and I don’t know the difference between all of them but I’m sure there is one and I’m glad they exist.

4. All of these services are still cheaper than FedEx or UPS.

3. Black Heritage Month Stamps!…or The Simpsons Stamps? OR you can make your own stamps, with your own pictures and everything! (Did you know this? It’s true).

2. Free mail forwarding and out of will hold mail for out of town. Thanks, guys!

1. Those little Safari hats! Yes! Tre chic!

My Favorite San Francisco Game

2010-11-11T16:21:00.000-08:00

Bougie Fromage or Hi-Grade Indoor?

Caveman

Humboldt Fog

Blue Cheese (this one's tricky)

Midnight Moon

Lamb's Bread

White Widow

(either way, you pay by the ounce and I got 5 on it)

...with sexy consequences.

2010-11-10T15:01:00.000-08:00

I have a boyfriend now, that's nice. Having sex sober again. The other day we went to Good Vibrations to stock up on some lube, and you know, I'm thinking lube-it's slippery, it's clear, it's smooth. In and out, right? Of the store. In and out of the store. Anyway, there is an entire wall of lube products. And they're all tailored to different markets, which tells you how out of control branding has gotten in our society. There's your standards-”Pleasure Potion”, “AstroGlide”, whatever. But my favorite ones, I think were the ones aimed at men. And I'm not certain, but I think they were aimed towards Gay Men. “Boy Butter”. “Swiss Navy”, and “Gun Oil”. That's my favorite. I want to be the person who gets to name these. I just have this image of me at the factory in assless leather chaps, thinking about all the dick I'm gonna be getting at the Folsom Street Fair, and just how it's gonna get in me. “Gonna need some Gun Oil”.

People get freaky in San Francisco. It' doesn't stop at the Rainbow. And they're proud of it. Perople are proud of getting down in new and facsinating ways. There's a flag for everything. If you're a pudgy hairy man and you like the sweet caress of other pudgy hairy men, there's a flag for that. If you find wearing a ball gag and being suspended from the ceiling by hooks meditative, there's a flag for that. San Francisco is like the iphone app store of sexual devience. “Yeah, I like squirrels runnin' round my uterus on tuesdays and right when I climax, I want someone to spank me with a spatula, but softly?” “Oh, you're gonna want the green striped flag with a bloody squirrel in the right hand corner. Here's a bumper sticker”.

Print this. Who cares? Not me.

2010-11-09T23:23:00.000-08:00

P Please consider the environment before printing.

This is the signature of my e-mail at work. When I first started, one of my co-workers had it, and I was like, "cool, that makes sense, I love trees!" Also, I had been coming off of a year of unemployment and I was all for anything that made me look responsible after so many months of wearing yoga pants 4 days in a row (but not doing any yoga) and clicking through Master's programs (but not applying).

But recently, okay today, I realize how fucking SMUG this is. Who prints e-mails? I have your e-mail on my PHONE. It's in my hand at all times. I could recall it right now if I wanted to, which is actually way more convenient than a crumpled up piece of paper that is floating around the bottom of my purse along with loose tobacco and lipgloss I've convinced myself isn't yet empty. And, in the off chance I do need to print out your e-mail, chances are slim that a signature is going to sway me on the subject. I need it. Enviromentalists have yet to stop me from eating meat, wearing leather (oooh! warm and stylish) or driving around for 20 minutes looking for a parking place and your, or wait, my little tag for damn sure isn't going to stop me from printing this thing I need to know.

This is especially painful because it reminds me just how acclimated to San Francisco I've become. Sending passive-agressive digital messages as a tag to what I am actually telling people? It doesn't get any more Bay Area than that. It's right up there with "hella", and those stupid furry boots that burners wear. San Francisco was built on sailors, digital culture, and passive aggrresivnes. I'm doing my damndest to eradicate all three of those things (this just in: digital isn't a culture, nor is hyphy a movement) but until I do, the first step will be deleteing that inane statement from my signature. Otherwise, where does it stop?

""Please consider the environment and turn off the computer and go for a walk. Please consider the economy and buy something while you're out, preferably from a small business. Please consider your Mom and buy her something nice.""