Call That Justice?

I'm back after a forgotten password hiatus, rediscovered and now I'm back and raring to blog about OJ Simpson.

Let's set aside, for the moment, the question of guilt or innocence. Let's say, for just a second, that is beside the point, it doesn't matter. Doesn't this guy still serve as an in-America's-face totem of everything wrong with our justice system? You've got someone who gets aquitted in trial by jury (so, he's innocent, right?), only to be found guilty in the civil courts (so he's definitely guilty now), yet has not made good on the court order to pay reparations (so isn't that a further guilt that should go punished?), who's had scrape after scrape with the law (of no consequence) and who now busts into a seedy Nevada hotel room to demand "his stuff back" while his goon friends wave arounda gun. He then smiles for his mug shot and proclaims there was absolutely nothing wrong with his behavior.

Ummm, okay. So we can all become vigilantes?

Should I bust into xx's house and wave around a machete while insisting he give me my tent back? Should a grab a gun and demand xx pays me back for all those cigarettes I sent him in rehab?

Uh, no.

What's your damage, OJ? Who the fuck do you think you are, a man who got away with murder???

Missing Part III

"I certainly miss seeing you and wonder how you've been."

So says the scorned therapist.

Into the Void

As far as books are concerned, I've been on a mountain adventure kick, re-reading Into Thin Air and just wondering at these people who put themselves through hell to reach the top of the world. Krakauer says that in the danger zone above 26,000 feet, the mind functions at a totally retarded pace. Couple that with the sheer physical exhaustion. I'm frankly surprised that there aren't more disasters like that summer in 1996. And then I think of my stint with altitude sickness in Cuzco, not even 12,000 feet and I felt like I was dying (the gastrointestinal illness didn't help). And yet part of me craves the utter maschochistic pleasure attained by these everest climbers, to know you can put your body and mind through the total wringer and still survive.

I also read Into the Void, which is about two climbers in Peru who embarked on an expedition almost exactly the opposite of Krakauer's. Where on Everest there were Sherpas and oxygen tanks and doctors and radios, these two guys just set out for themselves to climb one of Peru's toughest mountains, completely in the middle of the wildnerness, with no one to even know about or rescue them if trouble fell, which, inevitably it did. These guys were "only" at about 20,000 feet, but they spent days at this altitude, in sheer physically exhausting toil, along a path no one had dared take before. At one point, one of the climbers drops on his rope and shatters his leg into bits. His friend valiantly tries to lower him down, but at the last second has to make the agonizing decision to cut the rope and save himself from sure death as well.

The thing was, the guy who broke his leg wasn't dead, even though he was left for it. Instead he was hanging on a dangling rope in a crevasse, no food or water, in absolute screaming pain, and somehow he manages over an agonizing three days to hop and crawl his way back to camp, in complete delirium and dehydration. To read this book and what this guy went through, it's really testament to a character that desired, above all else, to live, even when the odds were nill. I just can't imagine that if I was in that situation I'd have the same drive, that I just wouldn't just give up to the cold and the stars and fade on out, taking the easy route.

Missing Part II

Politically speaking, there is probably very little that my mother and Lou Dobbs would agree on. Yet she watches his show whenever she can.

Why? "Because he looks just like my dad."

Missing

I never really missed Jon when he was alive, even when we went long stretches without seeing each other. I always looked forward to seeing him, but I never actively missed him in between. And now that I know I'll never see him again, I miss him terribly. If I'd only missed him, and called him, there's just so much I could say.

Hindsight sucks.

Some Small Consolation

MUNI this morning: a father, with his son in his lap. Little boy with baby skin, couldn't have been older than three. His little froggy voice pipes up, "daddy, I want some water. I'm thiiiiiiiirssssty."

Daddy: "We'll get you some water when we get off the train."

Boy: Puts on whiney voice: "but I WANT water. now."

Dad looks at kid. Kid's face is on the verge of total tantrum, you can see it in his features, his nose is screwing up, his face is scrunching. He is deciding. Face frozen in scruch for a second. You call tell Dad is holding his breath. And then the little boy lets his features relax. Giggles.

He makes his hands into a cup and dips into the air, gently, so as not to spill, he brings it to his lips, and sips, loudly. "Mmmmm. Water. Daddy, I found water."

His Dad smiles as the child cups his hands again, bringing the imaginary water to his father's mouth, so he, too, can drink.

Virginia

When I was in highschool, I briefly dated a guy who lived in Vienna, Virginia. He had me come out to visit him, and when I did, he proudly showed me his 22 rifle. Then, he tried to kiss me.

Such is Virginia. Sadly is Virginia. Virginia, now Bereaved.

What happened earlier this week is almost impossible to fathom, despite the prevalence in the media, the endless parade of pictures and video, still shots and interviews, it is just chilling, chilling, still unreal. That this guy was able to plan for so long and for so alone and that he got that far with it. That among us live mentally ill monsters who exist on the periphery, they give us goosebumps and so we bury them into that category of out of sight, out of mind. Until they shoot the door down, and gun their way in. There are not many of them, very few of these monsters, and I truly believe that most of the mentally ill are just sick. As in suffering from a disease.

Of the many disturbing elements of this now dubbed Virginia massacre, was that video, the words being said, there was a scary cadence to it, a rotten poetry, an element of "spoken word," a meter. The bastard child of a twisted imagination. The sick tirade of a dangerous, demented brain.

If I can console myself with anything, it's this: of people that are this deeply mentally disturbed, I do not think there are many out there capable of the planning and thinking necessary to put such a perverse plan like this into motion. Usually, I would hope, in these cases, the mind works in circles, and then trips itself up -- a hamster running too fast in its wheel will eventually fall before it ever reaches its imagined prey.

French Quarter Dive Bar Convo

Picture it being the middle of the day. The sun is playing tackle with the clouds outside and keeps breaking through with a hot and humid galumph. There's a gang of gutter punks eyeing my friend and I as we duck into the nearest dive bar.

"Beer," he says, settling into a bar stool.
"Vodka soda," I say, settling into same.

There are three other people at the bar. A big strong dog is lying right in the middle of the floor, tethered to his bar-sitting owner with a leash. Back in the shadows, there's a strung-out guy feverishly playing video poker. The bartender looks feminime tough, she pulls the beer, mixes my drink, slides them on over to us. And sits down on a bar stool of her own.

Guy to my left is saying, "so then he just, he's sitting there right at the bar, and he leans over, tilts over and just vomits all over himself. Man, it was disgusting, and he didn't even get up or nothing, just keep sitting there with puke all over himself."

Waitress: "that's disgusting. I get those guys in my bar all the time. Hate 'em. I mean, have some human decency. who was it?"

Guy: "It was X"
Waitress: "o'course."
Guy: "Yeah, so he's so gross. So you know he's still running that place over there near the X hotel. That bar over there."
Waitress: "Yeah, mmm hmm."
Guy: "And I'm in that bar the other night doing Jaeger shots. Just one after another. I must've lost track or something, I was slamming them. And all's a sudden I realize I'm shitfaced. Just plastered. Fuckin' lean over and puke onto the bar floor. And X, you know, he sees me doing it, he watches the whole thing, and man, he's so nasty, he just pushes over a bar stool and places it over the puke. Doesn't even clean it up or nothing."
Waitress: "Well, that guy's just a dirty fucker. Scum."

Guy: "So I'm at the bar a little longer and when I leave that shit is still there on the floor. And I get home and the next day I look in the closet and find my shirt and it's got Jaeger and puke and shit all over it. Just a mess. My nice shirt, too!"
Waitress: "Damn shame."

Poker Guy in Back of Bar: "Hey dahling, you think you can bring me a shot of Jaegar pretty please?"

Too Much Monkey Business

When I was young enough to go to day camp, each morning we'd start in this outdoor amphitheater called gully, and from what I remember of it, there'd be a lot of singing and if you were stirred enough you could come on down to the stage and dance. We sang Bad Leroy Brown. We sang a song about how "the loveliest of all is the unicorn," and that "poor old Charlie who will ride forever through the streets of Boston." We sang jailhouse rock and a song singing the praises of "glorious mud."

My favorite, however, was the one that went like this:

Too much monkey business
Too much monkey business
Too much monkey business for me to be involved in

That's the only part of the song that I remember, but I loved being able to stand up in gully and act like a monkey, scratching my armpits and hoo-hoo-hawww-haww-hawww-haawing.

Now I'm older and I've got no banana. The monkey business is too much, but it's no song and dance. It's bills and taxes, office politics and dysfunctional relationships. It's a therapist who spent over an hour on the phone telling me how screwed up I am. It's an unidentifiable smell in my kitchen. It's a whole lotta hair that's no longer on my head.

Too much monkey business for me to be involved in! (time to dance)

Envy is a Green Dress

It's perfectly shaved legs stretching on for a mile. It's a husky voice and a whip-smart wit and a sense of entitlement. And who am I? I'm just the one feeling left out like I'm in a bizarro world first grade, one where sex gets thrown into the mix, so much sand in a sandbox, tossles over who gets the best toy.

YinYang

For every yin there is a yang. For every promotion, for example, there is a bench warrant out for some unpaid parking ticket. I'm not necessarily talking about me. Or am I?

And today. A pretty crappy one as they go. Stressful. Busy. Tiring. And I come home all worked up in a state. Not finding solace in TV. Too hyper to settle down and read. Called some friends and no one's home.

And then, a total surprise. A friend calls who I haven't talked to in probably six months. Someone I've been wondering about. Someone who I was just so happy to hear from. It turned the whole day around. Just like that.

I'm thankful to end the day on a better note. Was starting to seem like yin-yin-yin. Or is it yang-yang-yang?

Live From Procrasti Nation

It's Sunday, the Sunday-itis is settling in, and that list of things I was supposed to do--not only did I not do everything, but I forgot to even make the list in the first place. Beautiful sunny day but I'm in a rainy day mood. I haunt my apartment, wandering between the bedroom and the couch.

I do wonder how I can be such a slacker to myself, when I am so conscientious at work. The messy apartment. The unpaid bills. It's me who has to live with it.

So. This weekend. A snoozer, personally. I heard on the news there are major fires fueled by the Santa Anas in Orange County. The sun shining through my window here reminds me how little rain we got this winter. This warm weather, if it means the rains are done, means it's going to be a long, dry summer. The hills will turn brown early. Rolling blackouts.

Which is one part of why I want today to be a rainy day. But more, it's about mood. It's about wanting to cuddle into the couch with a good book and not feel like a slouch for doing so. It's about feeling meditative and introspective to the sound of raindrops on the roof. Trying to synchronize with my cat's purrs. Stilling my compulsive ills.

Laundry to do, appointments to make, groceries to buy, etc, etc, etc. Instead, I type. And soon, I'll return to my couch.

Don't Stand So

close to me! It's one of those spilky days when everyone is in my way. They aren't really, but that's the way it feels when someone is going slowly on the sidewalk and I can't get around them. Or I can hear all the boring details of someone's grocery list that they feel like shouting into their cellphone while I'm waiting for the light to change at the streetcorner. Click-click someone's heels on pavement following my every step for two blocks. That guy that has a whole platform to stand on but chooses to breathe down my neck. And on MUNI, someone's bag is sticking into my butt, someone's elbow on my clavicle, there is an arm no less than two inches from my face and it's not mine, just someone trying to hold on.

And trying to get off MUNI is like burrowing through a tunnel of people, it's like diving underwater and I can't breathe as I fight for a slot on the stairway, assert my right to exit, ascend the escalator weaving around all those who don't yet get that you stand on the right and climb on the left, until I come up for sweet, siren-filled air of church & market. The cars rushing by as I try and hit my stride, my own little game of frogger, to find my way home.

Never Too Old to Die

Exquisite squeaky-fresh feeling day. Walking through it is like a purification.

Until you get to MUNI. Smelled like burned rubber and bad breath.

On my ride home, there's an old man standing next to me making love to his blackberry. He's got to be upwards of 70, dressed in full suit, and his wrinkled fingers are working the blackberry keys like mad. I looked over (boredom makes me nosy. and shameless.) and had to smile when I saw that what he was doing so intently and businesslike was playing a shoot-em-up alien game. Despite the furiosity with which he hit the keys, he wasn't doing so well. I watched him die three times, but he seemed determined to keep trying, keep living, and kill or be killed age-be-damned-if-he-wasn't-going-to-have fun.

Hits Your Eye Like a Pizza Pie

Last night was a lunar eclipse, although I wasn't able to see it here. BUT. Didn't matter. It was a warm day and I went to S's rooftop to watch the sky change with sunset colors and to watch the moon rise.

It rose like a rose, sprouting straight out the blushing top of Portrero Hill. A shade somewhere between rose and orange, the moon rose and took off towards the sky lighting little wisps of clouds who prettily pranced across its path. It made me feel most mad and moonly, to quote a little ee cummings.

So, logically, since the moon hit my eye I had to follow with some pizza and call it a true more. Today I made the Zachary's pilgrimage to visit my friend B. We ordered the deep dish and sat talking in delightful anticipation for about a half hour before the gooey globe of goodness landed beside our table. Tomato spinach crustacular heaven made with moon cheese. It's ridiculous how good it is. But I disappointed myself by only being able to eat two slices (normally I can eat three no problem), not only that, but I'm still full now and it's hours later, plus I've walked miles and miles in between.

Berkeley bedazzled in a warm early March day. T-shirt weather. All the wildflowers opening up to say hello to the sun. All the grass and ivy and ferns green from recent rains. Could the rains have ended early this year? Can March maybe maintain this level of most mad marvelous and moonly?

Of MUNI and Mustached Men

Muni, get it together! In this past week, I've had to get off the train on two separate occasions because neither of them would go anymore. The first time, I was on the J aboveground, and about to go into the tunnel when we just stopped and sat. And sat. And sat. Finally the driver announces brilliantly that "there appears to be some sort of delay." So for 15 more minutes I just sat there. We then start moving, oh sweet motion, I'm going somewhere and hooray--fuck. We go maybe the length of one car, lurch to a stop, and the driver says, "everyone's gotta get off. there's a bomb threat at Powell." 50 minutes later, I get to work after walking and bussing it. No mention of the Powell bomb threat in the day's news.

Same thing happens the next morning, sort of. At least I got into the tunnel this time, but at Powell station we just stop and sit with the doors closed. There's a homeless guy across from me, raving about getting Chinese food from Gavin Newsom, who, by the way, "looks gay. That fuck. He IS gay. Gay as a bluejay. Fucking Gaving New-Some. Fucker.' Sit, sit, sit, sit, sit. I finally go ask the driver what the hold up is and he says there's a medical emergency on the train ahead. I ask how long it will take to clear. He says he doesn't know. I ask if he could at least open the doors so people could get off and he looked at me like I'd just asked him to part the Red Sea with his eyes shut and while riding a unicycle. But he did open the doors, and I walked the rest of the way.

What does all this have to do with mustaches? Nothing!

But last night I went to a bar where the "winner of the Hustler mustache competition" was hanging out. His mustache was gross and weird. He gave me his phone number and my friends laughed at me. I really attract the winners, literally. Oh yes I do.

After that at Tosca I found myself drinking too much too fast. Overplayed my part. Taxied home and dreamt my way to today and hangover city.

My Phone is a Plague

7:30 this morning the phone starts making noise at me. A junk mail text message. Didn't even know that was possible.

8:30 unidentified Ohio number that has called me 10 times in the past four days. Ignored.

8:33 the voice mail buzz goes off. Didn't even know it rang. Indecipherable message for Marcy, mumble mumble something about Easter Island and then a song starts playing.

10:13 unidentified Ohio number.

10:55 voicemail from Mr. Price who tells me to call him back at an 800 number.

11:42 text message from my therapist. her cat is going to be okay.

2:21 unidentified Ohio number.

Blissful break.

5:50 unidentifed Ohio number. I answer to a recorded voice from my bank reminding me to pay my credit card.

7:22 home and doing laundry. phone is now annoyingly quiet.

I Don't Need No Norah Jones

Warning: this post has nothing to do with Ms. Jones.

Hitchhikers! I saw some tonight in the dark on the side of the freeway. It was just after that little tunnel just after the Golden Gate Bridge, and these two shadowy guys were standing there with their thumbs sticking out.

Who picks up hitchhikers anymore? Who in the name of MARIN picks up hitchhikers anymore? My guess is these two guys were campers unfresh from the eucalyptus wilds, having stumbled around the redwood trees for three days on LSD and cliff bars. Probably harmless. Probably not axe murderers or escaped convicts or right-wing republicans. But still, I wouldn't stop even if I wasn't on a freeway going 60 miles per hour on my way to see my therapist in the rain.

Meanwhile, unseen, millions of microorganisms hitch a ride with me to wherever I'm going, whenever I'm going anywhere, and even when I'm just sitting still typing into the computer. I am not alone.

Bloody Nose

My cousin was the kid who always had a nose bleed. You know him. He's calling teacher and sitting with his head tilted back, bloody kleenex piling up on the desk. He's the one who stained your parents' minivan seats in carpool, the one on the plane hogging the attention of the stewardess, the one making sniff sounds and figits reminiscent of a coke addict--all at age 10.

Yesterday, he had surgery for a deviated septum, and I picked him up at the hospital to bring him home. He's now in his late 20s, but when the orderly wheeled him out, it was a strange throwback for me, to see my cousin with packed bloody gauze all over his face. Zonked on morphine, he wore the expression of a scared and hurting little kid. I took him home, put him to bed all the while observing myself behaving as his mother did, protective. Wanting to go into the kitchen to get him a tab or diet rite and some reeses pieces for when the nose bleed went away.

Thankful

Someone suggested to me recently that I compile a mental list of everything I’m thankful for each night before I go to sleep. If the sleeping pill hasn’t kicked in yet, this can become an entertaining exercise.

The first thing that popped into my head when I got into bed was how very thankful I am that there are Stouffer’s French bread pizzas sold in a grocery store just blocks from my apartment. Shallow, but true—if these things were discontinued I would be inconsolable.

The second thing that popped into my head was cable TV. As someone who was denied access to this treasure trove of the vapid while a child, I’ve taken to it with open eyes as an adult, and have developed a bad but extremely satisfying habit of staying up way too late to watch CSI, Bravo TV reality shows, and MSNBC’s “docblocks.”

I then acknowledged my thankfulness for the health of family and friends. I thanked the terrorists and earthquake faults for holding off for the time being. I thanked popular opinion in 'Merica for finally wising up to Bush’s imbecility, and I thanked the company I work at for keeping me more or less gainfully employed.

And then a curious thing started happening—I started fishing around for more things I'm thankful for and for a few moments, could only grasp at some big stinking unthankfuls. And then I realized what this little exercise was supposed to be about, that even in the negatives, the someone who suggested that I be thankful in the first place, might be gunning for me to find a positive. So I tried. I gave a reluctant thanks that I was able to attend my friend Jon’s funeral in September, and that his ashes scatter through the place we met and shared so many delirious moments of fleeting epiphany while we used the bonfire to light cigarette after cigarette, idea after idea, adventure after misadventure.

And I also acknowledged how thankful I was that I hadn’t gotten “the phone call” yet about my other friend [xxxx], even though our communications cut off some time ago. My real thanks lies in the realization that came out of my damaging enabling--that control is an illusion, that good intentions aren't always enough, that liberation is best found by just letting go.

Like falling asleep. The unconscious bliss. The dreams rushing at me.