collate.

we play with the words we hate,
make lists of them in meetings,
when the fluorescent lights
turn our skin a zombie blue,
when the voice of the sales director
starts sounding like a Charlie Brown adult.

moist
collate
ginger
macaroon

we list the words that make us feel funny inside
words that make us laugh like 11 year old boys.

tender
benevolent
tip

we are all of a sudden in fourth grade
us thirty and forty somethings
filling in spread sheets
mapping out plans for the next five seasons of books.

nub
moist
reconcile

words that make our skin crawl
then it’s onto phrases, the ones we hear over and over,
the things we should pay attention to

“don’t drop the ball”
“this books really got legs”
“lets think outside the box”

we sit at the oversized table,
our legs crossed and shirts tucked
eyes darting across the room
we smirk,
adjust in our chairs,
look away.
and I think about a bed of words,
how some days I would like to fall into one
lift my arms,
kick off my shoes,
and drop,
back first
onto

bittersweet
pomegranate
wave

I wonder if the words
would feel like their meanings,
would water be soft and silky,
rippling across itself as I touch it?
or would they all be sharp, black, pointy things?
the T’s poking my back,
the S’s pushing against my ass
little black and white lumpy pillows.

some days I wish I had more edit buttons
you really put your foot in your mouth
always the next day it’s,
was it something I said?
was I too honest?
did I say too much?
because words are always falling out of my mouth like awkward craters,
proving every time that they are not my friends.
I wish they would hurt more on the way out
like gravel
like rocks
like boulder
cut my tongue to shreds
so all that could fall from my lips was blood.
maybe I would learn then,
keep that story to myself,
the one that’s always on repeat,
the one about my brother and jersey,
the beat up blue car and the dog we never let inside.

bluespace!

I could be a fashion 'don't' today. This is what happens when none of your roommates are home or awake to ask them what they think of your big cuffs. These aren't designer jeans that come with the big thick cuffs sewn up to the knee. These are cheap Forever 21 jeans, I think they're men's, 'cause lord knows my ass wouldn't fit into any of the pants they have for girls there. I cut these jeans and folded them up and I'm just not sure I'm pulling it off. On the way to work I swear people were laughing at me, the weird dirty neighbor I always see drinking at the corner bar past two, the high school kids in their white white shirts and black jeans falling off their asses. And once I got downtown forget it, but I guess I always feel like a some sort of 'don't' down here, my hair a little greasy (it's fucking product), my shoes a little too worn (I bought new ones this week-end, they just hurt my feet), my jeans cuffed all wrong. But I sort of know fashion, right? I mean I design things. I watch Project Runway, I page through Cosmo (for work, I swear). I have at least one very fashionable friend, maybe even three, that's got to rub off a little on me, right?

In other news, last night I went to a great new space on Guerrero and 18th called Bluespace. It's owned by Cliff Leonardi and Daniel DiPasquo. They call it a flexible community space and it's a nice addition to the neighborhood, nice to not have another coffee shop, restaurant or bar there. These guys aren't doing this to make money. You can't rent out bluespace, but if you have an idea for an event, be it an art show or political discussion you can bring it to them, sounds like they're pretty open to most things right now. They also work out of the space, and last night they had a little viewing of an art show that's on the walls right now. The show is called the Passport Project and it's worth at least walking by and peering your head in to take a peek at the art on the walls. The project involved 30 people who sent xeroxed copies of their passport photos to one another. The participants where all over the country and didn't all know each other, the pictures would get sent around and each time a person received one they would do something to it, draw, sew, paint on it. This project was started by Michael McConnell and all the pieces eventually got sent back to him. He has over 300, which are on the walls of bluespace. I loved hearing how 200 never came back to him. Another great show in bluespace right now is called Return to Sender, which follows a similar idea as the Passport Project, except with diaries, which one person held onto for longer stretches of time.
Election night bluespace will host a viewing party where everyone can watch the results roll in and collectively pray that another republican doesn't get elected. That's where the 'blue' part comes in, the owners are dedicated to keeping San Francisco a progressive city. Cliff owns a real estate company called Blue Real Estate, where a portion of every sale gets donated to a progressive cause of the buyers choice. A pretty noble act in a city where property is treated like gold and very few can actually afford to establish roots here. Bluespace is small, but the white walls and dark hard wood floors leave you feeling clean and open and the idea alone behind bluespace will have your head buzzing with creative possibility.

go america.

In case you didn't see this already, the same Newsweek that hit stands all over the world this week, with a different, less disturbing cover just for America!


I found this over at http://rising-hegemon.blogspot.com

my best advice...

No matter how in love you think you are, it’s never a good idea to open up a cell phone plan with your boyfriend. Wait until you are married and the lawyers can work out all your financial knots when you get divorced.
It’s phone bill day, my least favorite day of the month.

1990.

So far, the best response I've gotten after telling someone I started a blog has been, "Do you remember when Doogie Howser was the only person with a diary on a computer?" Which is what Cathy said to me after I told her I wanted to post her drawings (below) on my blog. Doogie started this all didn't he? And has anyone really paid tribute to the little guy? I had a really hard time deciding between the clip of Vinnie and Doogie 'dancing' and the clip with David Chapelle, but in the end I had to go with Vinnie Delpino. It just doesn't feel right to think of David Chapelle playing a bit part in an episode of Doogie Howser.





I don't know what you were doing in 1990, but the commercial below really made me nostalgic for the days when I was working at Skipper Dipper, and losing my virginity on the jersey shore. Back then we had no idea what reality TV was, back then we were perfectly content with bad sets and Balki Bartokomous. Well at least I was. I mean look at this line up, Twin Peaks, Growing Pains, Thirty Something, The Wonder Years... they don't make TV like that anymore. Warning, this is pretty awful, and the damn song may get stuck in your head for days, but I bet it will make you laugh, or cry...

The Gideons.

Because my head is still foggy from equal parts shame & hangover yesterday, I'm posting a part of a story I wrote a couple of years ago. Cathy, who tops my list of people I wish would move back to San Francisco, has been working on illustrating this story. It may be a ways off until it's completed, but I thought I would share some drawings she's been working on too.

We never drive through the night. In addition to both of us having bad night vision, Jake and I also have a strange obsession with motels. Before leaving for our drive across country it was silently understood that there would be no need for tents on this trip. No pulling into rest stops and crashing in our cars. No sleeping in KOA caps. It would be motels and only motels. No splurging for a nice hotel with a clean pool. Just musty, dark motel rooms with comforters we would be afraid to touch and showers we would want to wear our socks in.
In every town it’s the same. We drive around a bit and find the cheapest looking place to rent a room. We always ask for two beds. We always get funny looks. Especially here, in Utah. I don’t know why, as far as I can tell we look like two normal kids, maybe a little road weary, but we shower and seem to smell all right. And for the most part we are two normal kids, if you can call a couple of twenty-two year olds kids and if you can look past our face ticks, obsessive tendencies and general awkwardness and still call us normal. Maybe its better to say we’re two fairly average adults, moving out west to find something we couldn’t dig up in the suburbs. Jake’s had his heart set on Vegas but I’ve chosen the foggy more romantic, San Francisco.
In every room it’s the same. Jake unlocks the door and heads straight for the nightstand, he checks the top drawer, picks up the bible, holds it in his palm and then thumbs through it for exactly 17 seconds. He’s had a thing for bibles ever since we were young. He started stealing them from church when he was twelve. The Pastor caught him one day as he patted his back and felt the hard square tucked into the back of his pants hidden behind his baggy sweater. He didn’t get in too much trouble, Jake made up some bullshit story about stealing it for his great grandmother who was bed ridden and too poor to buy her own bible. That’s when Jake found out about the Gideons, the group of people that have made it their mission to supply every corner of the world with their bibles. He got a long lecture on the Gideons from Pastor Dan that day and he’s hated them ever since. He says I should hate them too as they treat women pretty bad. For all the bibles they drop off it always has to be a man doing the dropping. I don’t really give a shit, there are too many crazy groups of people to start worrying about and once I start hating one group what’s to stop me from hating all of them? I’m far too critical already and I figure some day its bound to catch up with me so it’s probably better to remain neutral about religious groups. Just in case.
Once Jake found a note tucked inside one of the bibles, it had a phone number and someone's chocolatey finger prints. It smelled like red wine and the salt of someone’s tears. It was pretty wrinkled and worn but Jake left the note in the drawer after he took the bible, just in case it was meant for someone who hadn’t discovered it yet. I had begged him to let me keep the note, but he said it just wouldn’t be right considering the circumstances that seemed to go with it.
Jake’s back seat is filling up with bibles. I don’t understand why he’s taking them but I understand the comfort he finds in them. How they’re always there, in every single room from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Salt Lake City, Utah. They’re like strip malls or gas station bathrooms, something you can count on. Having found such a deep comfort in their presence, I don’t know why he takes the bibles. Even if he has it out for those Gideons, he’s got to understand how he’d be fucking with someone else somewhere down the line. Some lonely man just like himself who, having driven ten hours on Route 80, wants nothing more then to get a room somewhere, throw himself on the hard bed and feel the weight of that bedside bible in his hands.

it's just fly larva.

I like my new roommate, you know why, because she's not afraid of maggots. I know this because tonight right after she got home someone rang our bell. Unless I'm expecting someone, I don't answer the door. And if someone rings my bell at 11:30 at night and I haven't invited anyone over, well then I just don't even hear the bell. I mean in my neighborhood I figure it's just a drunk or some prostitute who lost her way or maybe just someone looking for my neighbor. Either way, I want nothing to do with it. My new roommate hasn't even been here a month and I was just assuming it was a friend of hers, but she popped her head in and I told her I just ignore the bell when I don't know who it is. She kind of looked at me like I was weird. Then there was knocking and we both agreed someone should deal with the door. I wasn't really moving and she managed to walk down the stairs to the door before me. I assured her that I would be right there, all the way at the top of the three flights of stairs, just in case it was some crazy rapist and she needed me. What's great is that she opened the door to a girl standing there and before she even said hello to the girl she looked up at me and asked, "Do you know this person?" It was my neighbor, looking a little freaked out and pale. She started in on a story about how she and her friend were on the back porch smoking, and I thought for sure she was going to launch in on how some guy with a gun jumped our fence and robbed her or something, but no, she looks over at her friend and sees a maggot has just dropped onto her shoulder. To give you some perspective here, she lives on the first floor and I'm on the third. She told me that she knocked on our middle neighbors door since she was certain the maggots were coming from his porch. But no, you guessed it- we were the lucky ones. I looked at her, kind of unphased and a little confused by the whole thing and then I remembered the three bags of garbage on our back porch we hadn't brought down last night. I told her we had garbage there and that must be it and she actually asked me, "So you knew you had maggots on your porch?" I don't really know this neighbor well, and she seems like a really nice person, but what kind of question is that? I mean, I know I don't always look as clean as I could, sometimes I don't shower and I'm sure she's seen me leave the house looking a little haggard some mornings, but this girl really thought I was so fucking filthy that I would let maggots just hang out on my back porch. Come to think of it now she was eyeing me real weird the whole time, like she always knew I had a dark secret and she just discovered it. I apologized for our slothfulness and assured her maggots would be dealt with right away. ewwww. My roommate was great, really, I mean we were both a little grossed out and panicked for a minute and it was very clear neither one of us wanted to deal with any maggots tonight. I was proud of both of us in the end, we cleaned up the garbage, (I will spare you from the nasty maggot details) we had a little dilemma about what to do with the bags, I mean if we put them in our trash cans wouldn't the things breed and start a little maggot colony? We'll find out next garbage night I guess.
Maggots are pretty fucking disgusting and I won't lie and say I don't feel like I have them crawling all over me right now and I'm sure I'll have maggot nightmares tonight, but they really aren't as bad as they sound. And as far as my neighbor goes, I feel bad about maggots falling on her and her friend, but honestly, I'm a little bitter she thought I knew they were there and I was just too lazy to deal with them. And she shouldn't smoke anyway, those things will kill you. Maggots, you can just step on those.

The Astrophysicist.

We are dancing this fine dance, our feet heavy, clumsy, our heels dragging. We laugh, and I drink while you sip your ginger ale and tell me about NASA and being an Astrophysicist. Really, you are very smart and charming but all I am thinking is how I will sleep with an Astrophysicist tonight. We leave the bar and I suggest the park, because you are 17 years sober and I’m starting to feel like you’re getting me drunk just to take advantage of me. Not that I mind all that much, I just want to remember this one in the morning. Or do I—I’m pretending, this is all an act. I wonder if you can see through it, me on the edge of my chair, listening to you babble on about the stars and satellites and that year you spent in the South Pole.
I’m wondering how big your dick is and if I'll still like the way your face looks in the morning.
It’s a clear night and in between making out you get distracted by a flash in the sky. You stand up, leaving me cold on the bench, my head still cocked to one side. “What was that?” You ask, clearly not to me, because now you can see that I don’t care at all about your stories, “I think it was a plane.” I respond anyway, patting the spot you left next to me on the bench. “It most certainly was not.” Your head is still face up to the sky and I’m getting bored with this.
The city is before us and I guess I care more about those buildings then anything that may be exploding in the sky right now. I won’t be the girl who asks you to explain quantum physics or the black hole all night. I’m the girl with my feet on the ground, ankle deep in pigeon shit and garbage and tar and I couldn’t be happier.
“Want to walk me home?” I ask, not caring anymore about fucking an Astrophysicist. I just want my bed, my torn up couch, my messy room. I want to sink there and sleep and dream and wake up alone. You weasel your way into my house—the bathroom; you have to use the bathroom. I give you water and kisses and your dick is huge. You keep talking about my room, how you want to see it, but it’s dirty and I want it all to myself tonight. So I send you home and I’m sure you won’t call, but I don’t care.
I sleep hard and long and in the morning no one is there but my cat, his face two inches from me, wide green eyes staring into mine, he does this, just watches me sleep some mornings, knowing that his stare will eventually wake me. And it always does, and this morning when I see him like that I look around my filthy room, my yellow walls, I wake up laughing and I can’t stop. And I feel better than I have in months.

Bronx grapes.

I called this blog a miscellany for a reason. I knew some days I would want to talk about crafting, some days I would want to subject you to some of my bad writing, and other days I would want to just wallow in self pity. But today, today I must tell you about the most amazing grape I've ever had. The Bronx grape.
I'll start by saying that maybe the environment I was in persuaded my taste buds, maybe I should try the Bronx grape when I am on 16th and Mission, knee deep in human fecal matter, standing in front of that nasty porn shop that I'm sure is a cover for something else. Last night, I had the good fortune of being at a friends house, surrounded by great people, in a nice big kitchen with dim lighting and big, lush plants everywhere. It was Chris's 30th birthday, and even though he seemed skeptical about turning 30 I assured him it was a good place to be. I was lucky enough to be seated at the table when Katie arrived, with Katie came raspberries, figs with honey, strawberries, and of course the Bronx grape. First of all how great is that fucking name? And what makes it even better is the heavenly taste of the grape, you would think with a name like the Bronx grape it would taste dirty, and flat, that it would look like an undernourished creature. The Bronx grape is perfectly round, slightly smaller than a concord. The Bronx tastes a little like concords, (which if you've never had a concord grape- they as someone so aptly described last night- have that "cartoon flavor" you think a grape should have) but these grapes just sort of melt on your tongue. Since I know I can't really do this grape justice, you can read about the origins of this grape here. And here is a picture, let me just say that this picture was the best I could find and does not really look like the grapes I ate, the ones we had last night were a lot paler and smaller and not as boastful. But these look pretty and I bet they taste divine.
An image search for the Bronx grape did pull up a poster shot of What's Eating Gilbert Grape, which made me a little nostalgic for the days when Leonardo DiCaprio was just a young lad untainted by hot tennis players and drugs. And it was a great movie, wasn't it? Anyway, if you live in SF you can buy the Bronx grape at Bi-Rite on 18th street, and then you can walk up to Dolores Park and sit on the hill there and look at the city and think about how happy you are to live in California.
Sorry for the cheese, tomorrow I'll be much more depressing. I promise.

Pity Pit.

Today was the day I told myself I would quit coffee. But since I was out sick yesterday and it's really my Monday at work, I thought it was just silly to start today. As soon as I took a sip of my giant sized coffee my headache vanished, I ask you, will Earl Grey really be able to do that for me?
Here are a few pictures of some of my favorite things that Kerri bought last night. I'm doing this new thing with felt and shapes on my wallets I really like.


I actually got the idea for those shapes from the book, The Craftster Guide to Nifty, Thrifty, and Kitschy Crafts. Which I traded with that boy I went on a couple of dates with from Ten Speed Press. He didn't laugh when I told him if we traded books at least we would be guaranteed to both get something we liked out of seeing one another. When he didn't laugh at that joke I should have known better, because the books were the highlight of our two dates.
Here's my favorite pair of earrings Kerri bought last night:

I was going to tell you about the moment of weakness I had last night when my ex-boyfriend called and I tried convincing him to take the train from the East Bay and come 'see' me in the city. But he refused and gave me such a sane, rational response when I reminded him that only a month ago he was trying to convince me to give our relationship 'another shot', that if I share too much of the story I'll only make myself look like a bad person.
Instead I'll tell you about two of my favorite new phrases I've learned in the past week. The first sort of fits the mood my ex sent me into last night and it comes from Cissie via Chip:
Pity Pit- The place one goes to when feeling sorry for themselves and realizing that things are worse for them than anyone else in the world at that very moment. A dark, pitiful place.
And my favorite, which I'll be sure to use often, comes from Heidi:
Shame Over- The feeling which overcomes one when, after a long, hard night of drinking, they realize that they may have acted in some ways they never would have acted had they been sober (i.e, trying to make out with someone they know they shouldn't, yelling obnoxious things in public places, throwing up all over themselves). The Shame Over does not necessarily have to accompany a Hang Over, but often does.
Time to really gulp my coffee and open my Outlook.

Maiden Voyage.

Here goes. My official entry into the world of blogs. Big thanks to Nekoda for getting so excited about me doing this and thus forcing it into reality. She'll probably be the only one who ever reads it. Maybe I'll just tell myself that so I won't feel awkward writing in a public space about bad dates and crafting projects and boring stories that no one but my friends would actually want to hear about anyway. Or would they even? This is getting off to a bad start isn't it. And I'm only proving that ex-boss of mine right when he said I care too much about what other people think about me. Clearly he cared too much about what people thought of him too, why else would he have taken that god awful septum ring out of his nose?
I'm home sick today and taking advantage of not being at work by crafting away. Well I haven't actually started crafting yet, but Kerri from Blank Space is coming over tonight to buy some jewelry and wallets for her store, so once I'm done fiddling around on here I'll get working. I've got six hours and I can't wait to turn on npr, listen to old episodes of This American Life and get high from duct tape fumes. I make wallets and other things out of duct tape, and just because you're probably thinking of some silver, gummed up tape wallet that looks like a fifth grader made it, I'll post some pictures.
Here's a card holder,

and a checkbook wallet.

I also make jewelry and have what seems to be a very common obsession with birds, here are some earrings I've made.

Please don't tell me if you think they look like a fifth grader made them. I don't want to know.