Ghost

I am realizing that I am actually nervous. I am leaving for Los Angeles in just 2 days. It’s strange; it used to be home. Seems like a lifetime ago. And for the first time since I left, I am going to spend time with the people who were part of my everyday life. I left that life in 2000 and never looked back.

They knew me as a “we”. They never knew me outside of this definition. And when I lived in Los Angeles, I was a grad student; buried in books and working a full-time job. And on the surface, it all looked fine. I kept everyone at an arm’s length because just like the proverbial impressionist painting, my life looked fine from afar. But if you got really close you would see how fucked up it really was.

I guess the most difficult part of seeing these guys is that they did really know. They really saw all of it. And just like me, they were powerless. We all watched him slowly killing himself. Well, they watched. As for me; this was my life. I think I spent much of it with my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them I would see a different picture. It was my sick secret. As long as I never spoke about it, it wasn’t real.

I remember the day I left. I just walked out the door, got in my car and drove. I knew then I would not be coming back. I was done with Los Angeles. I never told anyone I was leaving. I just left. I remember the ride up the Grapevine. I remember pulling over because I was crying so hard I could barely breath. And I remember going down into the central valley as the music was blaring on my stereo and thinking I had escaped.

Quote of the Day...

Thank you random homeless guy for screaming this. I still can't figure out what it means.

"He's a muffdiver driving a single bed on a double wide"

X-mas Tales from a Tenderloin Stripclub

So it's that time of year again when you start thinking about how you will be spending your holidays. I couldn't help but think about how I spent last Christmas...

Jim Beam, St. Ides and I had a wonderful time slipping ones down the g-strings of toothless "exotic dancers" in my favorite neck of the woods. Now, my intention was to have an evening of x-mas cheer visiting friends. And my night even began that way. An old friend and I decided to bust out the skateboards and toodle door to door and say hello to friends bearing gifts of home-made marmelade and lemon bars. And while back in the day i was a pretty good boarder, I was now equipped with a helmet and pads. I felt at home with the comforting smells of x-mas, St. Ides and weed. Now bear in mind I had not celebrated the holidays with Jim before and I am not sure I will again. He turned out to be not such a good influence. Or perhaps it was the rush of the oh so "cheerful memories" that shifted the tides for me.

Either way, happy holidays to the Aborigine who played pool worse than me and remembered me from a bar brawl in Indonesia and happy holidays to my new friend from Chicago who told me that she was looking forward to living in SF so she could have an ass as tight as mine. And happy holidays to my favorite heavy-metal skater for kickin' it with me in between screamin' calls with his ex. I was thrilled to be a part of your holiday love for one another last year. And I am sure she was thrilled to know we ran out of ones. I hope this holiday brings lots of love and throat lozenges.

And thank you to Peaches, Cheri, and Loqueesha (sorry if mispelled). I truly appreciated the pole dancing lesson and dating advice. I truly hoped you ladies had a wonderful holiday. And while at the moment I am not planning to make it down to the club, if I do, I know you will let me take a turn on the pole in my bike helmet and knee pads.

Free

The knock came earlier than I expected. I could hear my coffee pot gurgle as the last of the coffee brewed into its carafe. The two of them stood out on my doorstep dressed in mostly black. The slight peak of their badges became apparent to me as I opened the door. As I let them in I noticed the unmarked vehicle in front of my house. I had expected them last week.

The last time they had showed at my doorstep was in 1997. I was living in San Francisco then with my first love. It was my birthday and we were late to meet my parents for dinner. It was to be the first time he met my family. I naively told the men in black I had to go, that people were waiting for me. To which they let me know I was detained. The last time I had heard the word detention was in high school and similarly, I had no rights. I had to stay. I remember excusing myself to call the restaurant. My parents were waiting. This was before cell phones when you had to rely on the kindness of a stranger on the other end of the phone. I spoke slowly to my father telling him I would not be able to make the meal. I asked him not to come: I had no rights to an attorney. I had no rights at all. The taller man in black stood over me as I explained to my father who the men in black were and what they wanted. I was instructed to hang up.

I remember sitting on my bed since I lived in a studio as small as a closet. I reached for my partner’s hand as the questions began. Hours went by. I grew hungry and tired yet my answers remained the same. I couldn’t help them. The questions turned into accusations and I still couldn’t help them. Then came the threats; loss of home and freedom. I was numb. They grew tired. I remember their last words as they left, that I would be watched and that my world was no longer my own.

The next day on the news they caught the man in the dress in a Denny’s in San Diego. It was barely daylight as he stole a restaurants’ sense of security. He did not survive the arrest. I noticed the unmarked car go away, only to return now, 12 years later. My answers remained the same, I couldn’t help them. This time was different though. There is no one to hold my hand. There is no one waiting for me and there is no delusion of rights. I began to wonder if I were to be taken in, who would know I was gone and how long would I be gone for? They paced through my home as I sat on my couch. They asked me about my painting by a man who had achieved freedom after 40 years. The one with the darker eyes reached out to pet my cat. I did not reveal her name as she lay like a puddle on the couch.

After several hours of questions came an offer to drive me to work, I was late. I declined. I closed the door behind them as they made their way to the black car out front. This time I wasn’t numb. I waited at the window watching the car slowly pull away. I knew that this would be the last time I would see the men in mostly black. I also knew that for the first time in 20 years, I was truly free.

Something in between

I couldn’t help but think about the bitter man who ran away. I was never sure what he thought he’d find in a town as cold as the one he left so many years ago. As I walked on the beach in Boipeba over a month ago, I came upon a dachshund playing in the sand. I couldn’t help but think that I had never seen a happy wiener dog before. I watched as he buried his snout in the sand trying to capture the elusive crabs. The sideways walkers teased the pup by darting in and out of their homes and all the while the dachshund let out little barks. I called for the dog as he came running to me with sand on his nose. I giggled as I watched the skip in his step. As he came closer, the wave lightly licked at the shore and the dog was distracted as he chased the sea.

I remembered my days on the train in the same dark town. Sent away in the hopes I would change. And I did. As I sipped red wine and coke in darkened bars with the boys with the long hair, I learned that the beauty of the night was caught in the naked trees as the seasons began to change. I heard it in the whispers of the wind as the branches gently swayed. I no longer knew where I was after late night train rides to stone cities on the outskirts of that same cold town. I changed. As I sat on cobblestone walls and looked out into the night, I cherished the in between time. It was summer turning to fall, as the moon grew tired and color started to return to the sky. And I was in between, still a girl. I was too tired to sleep. My mind awake with thoughts like puzzle pieces, waiting to find their place.

I wondered if it was me as I read the words on the screen and blushed with uncertainty. Perhaps I simply wished they were. Or maybe I just wanted to believe like the sun warming the little dachshund running in the sand, memories of me would sweeten the taste of a sour town.

Knock Knock

For years and years, I would come home and within minutes there would be a knock at my door. Did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? For a long time, I would politely say no. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no issues with anyone’s freedom to practice religion. I just prefer that others keep their religion to themselves. I have yet to knock on anyone’s door asking them if they want to hear about Agnosticism and my worship of caffeine.

All this knocking would remind me of being a teenager attending a high school with tons of Mormons. I remember being the Jewish kid and being asked to attend church services. Knocks and notes on my locker daily. For a long time I didn’t understand why I was getting so much attention until I learned that Mormons get some special star in the sky for converting a Jew. While I was friends’ with some kids that were practicing Latter-day Saints, I never did go to temple with them.

I don't know if it is my proximity to the Mormon Temple, I actually have a splendid view of the place I affectionately call Disneyland North, but the knocks were happening at least once a week and some weeks, daily. My patience with the boys in suits grew thin. I went from polite, “no thanks” to curt “no”. And the very next day the knock would happen again. I started to contemplate how I could make this incessant knocking cease. At first I ignored the knocks, thinking that perhaps if I just didn’t answer the door, they would stop coming around. This didn’t seem to help. I even tried reasoning with the guys, letting them know I would never be interested and that they don’t ever need to return. The very next day, a new set of guys would show. I was done; it was time to make this stop.

Just like clockwork, a got home from work and then came the knock. As usual, the question was posed, “did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?” This time I answered, “Yes, if you want to hear about anal sex?” The young man at the door looked at me and said, “What makes you think we don’t learn about anal sex.” So I answered that I really had no clue what they learned about. He responded that he knew all about anal sex and would be happy to share the churches perspective on this. Damn, foiled by the Mormon! I had no witty response and told him I wasn’t interested. And, of course, a couple days later, the knocks continued.

I had to try something far more extreme. I really didn’t know what I could do. It’s not as if there is a “do not knock” list for Mormons. I was angry and this time when the knock happened, it was a lone, attractive man in the suit and tie. I invited him in to teach me all about Jesus in exchange to listening to my presentation on safer sex. We sat very close to one another as I spoke about sex. The tension between us was palpable. As we got closer and closer, I began to think about how he gets star status for converting me. I started to wonder what I would get if I had sex with a Mormon. Apparently I get peace and quiet. I don’t know what happened to my friend in the suit and tie, but I do know that it has been great; I haven’t had a knock in years.

Genocide on Thanksgiving

If it wasn’t bad enough that I just spent the last several hours with strangers over a holiday meal, I also spent several more annihilating an entire population of ants. True, I am actually related to them (the strangers that is), but when the only “safe” topics of discussion include pets and the latest viral videos, you may as well be strangers. But I digress… my house was crawling, literally. After opening my front door I immediately noticed the black trails. Yes, the plural is intentional. There were multiple trails of ants. As I located the destinations of each trail, I was beyond bummed to discover the ants had nested in my electronics.

First, was my boom box. I guess calling it a boom box is like calling Chihuahua a dog. It’s my $9.99 Walgreen’s CD player that I have had for years. So all the knobs have fallen off and it kind of makes a squeaking noise when the discs rotate, but it still is the only music-playing device I have. The ants had taken over. They were now living in the battery compartment and had even brought all their eggs. I have to confess that a wave of nausea came over me after opening up the battery case and seeing all these little crawling creatures.

Second, was my phone – the landline actually. Remember those “old school” devices kind of like cell phones but plug into walls and have answering machines attached? Well the phone had now become an ant condominium complex. The entire phone and machine were filled with ants and eggs.

Third, was the dust-buster. I was almost embarrassed that ants had moved in to a cleaning apparatus. It was perhaps a sign I needed to use it, but for now, it was functioning as ant track housing.

After deciphering the nest locations I began to spray everything with Orange Guard – a pet friendly ant killing spray. I guess for those of us that grew up with ant farms, this is kind of an oxymoron. But anyway, I found the Buddhist in me a bit traumatized by this act of killing hundreds of ants. And I found myself even more upset with destroying the eggs. The simple truth is I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spray the eggs. I know, they are ants, but it just seemed wrong.

I ended up taking all the new ant homes and putting them outside and shutting the door. I was torn. I didn’t want to lose my phone, my dust buster and definitely not the boom box. But killing the ant eggs was also not a great option for me either. As I debated what to do, I began to hope it wouldn’t rain. My only hope to postpone decision-making was based on weather. I didn’t have to make any choices so long as it stayed dry. The weather seemed to be cooperative at this point.

I have to admit being perplexed with my inability to destroy the ant eggs. I began to surmise that this is really the fault with Disney. I was ruined with images of talking, thinking, feeling ants. I couldn’t kill their eggs. This really made no sense, but yet somehow, I still couldn’t kill. Then I decided this was really about Thanksgiving. While my family is quite new to this country and certainly did not participate in the first Thanksgiving Day meal, it still seemed inappropriate to contribute to the dark history of this holiday.

The tryptophan finally had kicked in while I pondered what to do. I woke up the next morning on my couch still fully dressed. I looked outside and there was my boom box, phone/answering machine and dust buster and that was all. There were no ants. They had completely vacated taking all their home décor and eggs with them. It was impressive really. As I put back all my electronics I began to seriously consider being a vegetarian. My thoughts of a meatless life were soon halted upon the ringing of my now plugged in phone. The first words out of my brother’s mouth were “bacon.” And that’s all it took.

Happy Hour...

Comfort comes in different shapes and sizes. As I walk in I see all the eager faces. There are the ones barking for my attention and the others drooling with excitement. And then there are the more shy and reserve who I catch glancing at me out of the corner of their eyes.

As I take a sip of my drink, it is Cisco who catches my eye. I am immediately attracted to his disinterested stare and his beautiful two-toned eyes. He is gorgeous in that unconventional sort of way; perfect in his imperfections. There is the obvious scar on the side of his nose and his expressive thick eyebrows. He is flirting with me from across the room. His eyes beckoning me to walk over to him. I do.

As I get closer, he sits up. He is bigger and huskier than I had originally thought. I notice the touches of gray that hint of his life experience. He smiles sweetly and I feel my heart in my chest. Today, he is the one. I am impatient waiting to leave. I want him all to myself, to feel him close, so close I feel his breath against my face.

I wait for him outside. As he approaches me, I notice the confidence in his gait and the huge grin on his face. I can’t help but smile, giving away my own excitement. We begin to walk in silence and enter the park. Upon the sound of the latch closing on the gate, we speak for the first time. I ask Cisco if he wants to play and he lets out this huge bark. We both move hurriedly with anticipation through the park, also known to me as my sanctuary.

This is where I can be found during those bad days in which I just want to feel good, even if it’s just for a short while. I am never quite sure who I will choose to spend my time with. Sometimes it’s the big older guys, sometimes it’s the youngsters with no manners and sometimes the lady in the uniform behind the counter will introduce me to my new best friend for the day. I can’t help but to have a smile on my face whenever I come here.

Today it’s Cisco with his long black coat and shepherd features. We take to one another immediately and for a moment I wonder if I could just take him home and make it work. I remember I can’t with my long hours at work and the other hours taken over by performing. We will have to just meet here.

His endurance is incredible and the way his body moves is amazing. He is quiet with the exception of his panting. His tongue grows longer as minutes turn to hours. He finally finishes, laying down next to his toy just far enough away I can’t reach. I sit down and he quickly runs over and lays his head in my lap. It’s time to say goodbye.

We walk back into the building as the lady asks me how he was. Out of breath, I answer, “amazing.” I can’t help but fall in love a little. I say goodbye to Cisco as she asks me if I will be back next week. I remind her it’s the holidays, so I will be here more often. This place always cheers me up.

I know that one day I will get a dog, but for now there is always the Oakland Animal Shelter.

Waiting

It’s 3 am as I wake to the sound of light snoring. I quietly tiptoe out of bed and grab the remnants of what I had been wearing. As I bend to kiss her on her forehead, I notice her arm peeking out from her covers. Instinctively I trace the numbers branded on her arm with my finger. I think about the strength of her arms wrapped around me just hours earlier as she rocked me to sleep. The power of her words as I struggled to make sense of this day. I am waiting for my justice.

Twenty years have passed marked by silent pain and a memory I dare not tell. Only one week ago I shared my story to a room full of strangers amidst cement walls and iron gates. Questions I could barely answer as the words froze on my tongue. I glanced at the pictures, my face not even recognizable to myself, but yet I remember every smell and sound.

I think back to the first time I sat on a couch barely able to tell my story. No eye contact as I watched my feet and the words leave my mouth. And even while I watched the letters escape, I felt a disconnect. The person in the story wasn’t me. It was someone else I used to know. I like who she is now.

I asked my grandmother how she has always been able to tell her story. She smiled as she moved the curl from my face. “Because” she says, “it’s a story about survival”. She reminded me of the time I climbed the jungle gym in school. I was only 5 as my older brother sat under the structure crying, unable to face his fear. She laughed as she recalled that she had to ask a stranger to get me down. She couldn’t climb it either.

Once home, I sit down to the glowing box to reread the long distance ego boost I received days before. I wondered how warm beer and spaetzle could trigger thoughts of me. I think about my friend the monkey man wishing he were up to share maker’s with me and the latest viral videos so I could laugh. And I remember a line from an Eddie Murphy movie as I think about the brand on her arm, “I’m a karate man, I bruise on the inside.”

Last week I was judge and jury. My ruling told, my sentence stated. But today I am waiting.

A Prayer for the Accused...

I prayer every day you get to hear the sound of locking metal gates and cold cement under your feet.
That the steel against your wrists feels stiff and tight and the warmth of the breath in your ear brings terror instead of delight.
The laughter that echoes is never your own.
And the mattress under your tired body, brings torment instead of comfort.

I pray when you wake from the sound of screaming you realize the voice is your own.
And that the emptiness you feel inside is from your starvation and hunger.
The salty taste in your mouth is your tears, your blood and your sweat.
And the pillow against your mouth creates panic as you try to catch a breath.

I pray you cease to recognize your own face and that every day as you look in the mirror, every scar reminds you of horror and fear.
I pray you feel no relief, no trust and no refuge. You never have a moment to close your eyes and escape.

I pray that the wind in your hair steals your breath as you begin to run. And that as you run, your body stings. And that while you ache, you know you have to keep on running.

I pray that you share no kindred faces only glances of pity as you silently pray that no one knows. That you feel transparent and vulnerable wherever you go.

I pray that time marches slowly as years turn into decades. That you feel a chill when it’s warm and sweat in the cold. That the stiffness in your joints grows worse and the surgeries never cease.

I pray that as you hear the sound of my voice you know you didn’t win.
I pray you know now the fighter I am. The strength of my words and the power of what’s now healed. That you know that there are no looks and no words that could break me as you try. And you keep trying.

I pray you hear the sound of my voice as the gate slams shut. The echo of my laughter and the sour taste of your sin forever be with you.

Brazil Part IV: Beachside Burlesque

We were now in Itacare, a beautiful hippie surf town. Joined by a friend, we found ourselves staying in a Pousada completely occupied by Dutch tourists. In fact the whole town seemed to be filled with local Brazilians or the Dutch. My first night, I cruised the main street looking for a place to grab a drink and write. After making one pass down the street, I decided on an outdoor bar that blasted old school reggae. I sipped on my tropical beverage and began to write while Jimmy Cliff was singing. I was soon approached by one of the guests in my Pousada who asked if he could join me. I pointed at the chair next to me and remarked that my friend would be arriving soon as well. We ordered a round of Caipirinhas and spoke of our lives back at home.

After several rounds, the tempo had changed to Cypress Hill. We decided to locate a party we had heard of at the beach. Stumbling over the cobblestones, we made our way down the road to the beach. As we got closer, it was clear there was no party. All we heard were the bats, the night birds and the sounds of the sea. The water was aglow with the reflection of the near full moon and the twinkling of stars. In an attempt to break the silence, my friend exclaimed that I am a burlesque performer to our new Dutch friend. He turned to me and asked “what is burlesque?” I began to give my usual discourse which includes the history of burlesque and the rise of the neo-burlesque movement. Before getting to the 1900s, I paused. I am not sure if it was the alcohol or the site of the calm water that inspired me, but I suggested that rather than run through my verbiage I would coach him through a striptease. Before he responded, I also suggested that my friend would also take the “course” with him. My friend shot me a look while giggling nervously and before she could respond, he said yes.

The three of us were now standing on the beach. I began to explain the importance of movement and connection to the audience. We ran through a series of movements which included belt removal, pants removal, and shirt removal. Laughing through this process we redressed and repeated each step. My friend complained she couldn’t take off her pants since she was going “commando” that night. And Dutchboy began to complain, that he was looking like a “sissy”, so I suggested he should demonstrate what he learned for us and add his own “macho” touches. He whined that there was no music, to which I responded I would hum “the big strip” for him.

My friend and I sat down on the sand and debated over whether we should sing Sir Mixalot’s “Baby Got Back” or the more traditional “Big Strip”. And although we both knew the lyrics, Dutchboy preferred the more traditional striptease song. As I began to sing, he whipped off his belt and slapped it against his thigh. The subsequent wince gave away the fact he had just injured himself. He slowly unbuttoned the top of his shorts and dropped them down to his ankles. He stopped and posed and then began to pull of his shirt. When his shirt had barely made it over his head, I stopped singing. I told him he needed to redress and start over. He was not connecting to his “audience”. My friend nodded enthusiastically emphasizing the words “no connection”. He redressed and began once my humming resumed. He tripped taking off his shorts, so I made him start again. I began to giggle after the 4th attempt. I was amused by my ability to get this man to take off his clothes and redress. He started to catch on and demanded that someone else needs to take a turn. My friend looked at me and reminded us she wasn’t wearing any underwear, she couldn’t possibly strip. As they became more engaged with deciding how she could do a striptease without revealing “too much” I had already taken off everything and jumped in the ocean.

Brazil, Part III: Sunday Bloody Sunday

I felt I was ready to explore the city of Salvador beyond the little beach area where I was staying. The travel guides all recommended a day trip to the historic center, the Pelourinho. Feeling slightly more confident speaking “Portu-Span-Glish” I opted to take the local bus into town. The bus wound along the beach front and then inland. We made our way past nicely manicured high-rise apartments and museums. About 10 minutes into the ride, the street changed. The landscaped pavement gave way to street vendors, crowded streets, traffic and condemned buildings. I was now in the Brazilian equivalent to the Tenderloin (TL).

Similar to the TL, there were the junkie zombies whose eyes were barely open as they nodded while they asked for just about anything; money, food, water, etc. There were the young men on the corners all dressed alike playing some sort of gambling game. On the opposite corners were the working ladies, dressed in next to nothing. Many of the buildings were boarded up and oddly there were tons of stores selling musical instruments. My Portuguese was still too limited to determine if these were pawn shops or whether I just happened to be in the musical instrument sales area.

I was determined to see at least one “historical site” before I left the area, so I made my way to a palace in the center of the Pelourinho. While the palace hadn’t been cleaned in a while, it certainly had been restored at some point. As I perused the museum now in the palace, I came to realize the area I was standing in was utilized for slave auction. I came to learn that the slaves were whipped in the square and sold. I began to think about how I am unaware of any sites in the United States similar to this that remind us of our atrocious history. While I was uncomfortable and could feel the intensity of the history of this area, I stopped to take in the environment. I remembered the last time I felt this way was years ago visiting Bergen-Belsen.

I became distracted by drum beats, so I decided to make my way up the street to see if I could find the drum circle. As I approached the drum circle, two men were running towards me followed by two more. All four of them were shouting and when they crossed to the same side of the street that I was standing on, they began to fight. I crossed the street to get away from the fight and started to head back toward the area where the bus had originally dropped me off. After turning to walk, 6 police officers were running toward me with their guns drawn. I do believe this marked the first time in my life I had 6 guns pointed at me at the same time. The weapons ranged from hand guns to rifles. My pace quickened as I walked away from the scene. I kept repeating to myself, “don’t turn around”.

As I heard the blare and pop of the guns, I couldn’t help myself… I turned around.

Brazil, Part II: Okay I'm an asshole

The Pousada was set back from the street with hibiscus in shades of pinks, corals, and reds growing all around the patio. There was hammocks strung along the right side of the building shaded by tropical plants, I only knew as indoor plants. Here fed by the moisture and heat, the plants appeared to be on steroids, larger and more colorful. As I stepped across the tiled grounds I was greeted by a petite man. Upon hearing I was American declared, “Bon Jovi”. To which I sang back in response with raised fist in the air, “shot through the heart and you’re to blame, you give love a bad name”. He joined me on “you give love a bad name”. We had bonded.

I asked in my pathetic attempt at Portuguese where the exchange (cambio) was since I had no Brazilian dollars (reals). He pulled out a map and showed me that I needed to walk to the mall. Although I was exhausted after flying all night, I knew that I needed reals as soon as possible so I could grab food and water. Understanding his directions I flashed him an “okay” sign with my fingers. This was my first lesson in Brazilian culture. His smile turned and he glared. I looked down upon my okay sign and looked back toward him confused. He grabbed my fingers and closed my hand into a fist while shaking his head. He spoke quickly in Portuguese. I knew that tone. It’s that tone you hear in childhood in which you knew you were being admonished. He made the sign and then pointed directly at his ass. I shook my head in horror as I came to understand I had just called him an asshole. In his broken English, I came to understand I needed to adopt my inner Fonzi and give the thumbs up instead. This event would prove to be a foreshadowing of my entire trip. While I am not one to typically use the okay signal, I couldn’t seem to stop throughout the trip. It was as if my subconscious held onto this hand signal like a bad case of the hiccups. I couldn’t stop. This led to the first word I practiced to perfection in Portuguese “desculpe” – sorry. After apologizing profusely, I began the walk to the mall.

The streets were busy with locals walking although I had no sense of to where. It was still early in the day, the sun was bright, and the weather was amazing. I had expected heat and humidity and instead was greeted with warmth and a light ocean breeze. The cobblestone serene street the pousada was located on gave way to a busy intersection. I had no clue how to cross this busy street. I could see hear the phone call to my family now, she had been in brazil less than 4 hours and was hit by a car on the first street she tried to cross.

I finally manage to run across the street during a lull in traffic and make it to the mall. It was strange to be in a Brazilian mall; frankly it’s strange for me to be in any mall. Six layers of stores and not one I recognized. I wandered through the floors and finally asked a gentleman in a security uniform for the cambio. He spoke at length in Portuguese and I nodded my head listening carefully. I understood nothing but the pointing of his fingers demonstrating straight and then right. I flash him a smile and a thumb’s up.

I made it to the cambio and then got out of the mall as quickly as possible. I made my way back to the pousada stopping briefly at a little grocery store. I have a bit of an obsession with grocery stores in foreign countries. I love to walk the aisles looking at all the foods, wondering if the items I am looking at are even edible and if so how they are prepared. The best is the meat sections. I love wondering what animal is hanging on the hooks and what part of it I am looking at. This grocery store in particular felt like the “Whole Foods” of Brazil. The store was clean and bright with fruits and vegetables displayed impeccably by color. Drawn to the sweet smell and color of the mangoes, I grabbed one and then made my way to find water.

Buying water is always an amusing task. I look carefully at the labels, understanding nothing. For all I know, I am buying Brazil’s best in tap water. So I choose my water, much like I choose my wine. The bottle with the prettiest label wins. Water, mango, bread, cheese, and turkey in hand I purchase my items and return back to the pousada. While sitting on my little veranda to eat my day’s purchase, I notice a family of monkeys walk across the gate. Following one after the other, with their striped tails pointing skyward, I couldn’t help but think that this sight was certainly a reminder that I was no longer home.

Brazil, Part I

In just 2 short weeks, I fell in love. That deep love that writers and poets struggle to capture in words, that painters and sculptors attempt to provide us a lasting image of. Brazil is not the backdrop of this story, it is the story. A land so beautiful it emanates through its people, through its architecture and through its landscape.

Just like a first date, I found myself anxious as I made my way to the airport. It has been a long time since I have traveled to a place as far away as Brazil. And it has been a longer time since I have immersed myself in a land in which I did not speak the language, at all. Like every love before, I was unprepared; I was not looking for love. Preparations for Brazil were scattered in the wake of a death amidst whispers that it was a murder. My best friend appearing lost on my doorstep at the crack of dawn. I knew he hurt and I was leaving. My life has been a whirlwind of burlesque performances, dancer dramas, disappearing men and steering the sinking ship of my day job. I found myself with no ability to even muster a level of excitement in leaving. No time for nerves over flying, no time to process the fact I was going and for brief moments waiting in line at the airport to check-in I felt panic. My breath and heart stopped as anxiety took over and as quickly as it would come on, it would go away. Perhaps it was this that contributed to the surprise I was about to experience as I stepped off of the plane in Salvador after nearly 20 hours of flying.

My first glance of my blind date happened in Sao Paulo as I looked out the plane window and saw the largest concrete jungle I have ever set eyes on. It was overwhelming and intimidating. Touching ground meant a change of planes. No English to be heard as I struggled turning the pages of my phrasebook. I was approached by a young woman in her 20s who grabbed me by the hand and walked me through customs. While few words were spoken, I knew by sign language and her energy I was in good hands. After customs, she motioned to see my ticket and pointed the way for my next flight. It was then I knew that the rest of my trip would include countless moments of kindness and generosity. I came to understand that she represented the soul of the beauty of the Brazilian people.

After several more hours of flying, I was in Salvador, one of the oldest cities in Brazil. Exhausted I took a cab to my temporary place of stay, since my goal was to exit the big city in search of a quieter and more relaxed sanctuary. As the cab wove through the city of Salvador, I noticed subtle reminders of home: fast food chains and Sam’s Club. The city was an artist’s playground as graffiti popped from any potentially blank canvas. Unlike our graffiti, the artist vision was honored left as it’s own individual statement, no competitive paint, no cover-up.

As we wound our way through concrete high-rises, the asphalt gave way to cobblestone, the buildings were stunted in growth and the air seemed less thick with the smell of car exhaust. We had arrived.

30 Dates in 30 Days

About 7 years ago one of my friends dared me to go on 30 dates in 30 days. I didn’t originally agree to the dare. I really hadn’t dated in the true sense of going out on dates. I was scared. I had spent the last 10 years in a relationship; 8 actually being in the relationship and 2 getting over it. I agreed to the dare because I really believed that if I was going to start dating again, then this would be the way to do it. This was like diving into the deep end of the pool and I am not the “dip a toe in” kind of girl.

I knew that in order to be able to stack the odds in my favor that I actually could rack up enough guys to participate in this, there was only one option… craigslist. I was a newbie to dating, so I had limited perspective. I began looking at the Men seeking Women. I remember reading the posts and being totally freaked out. Who were these guys that posted? What does this guy even look like? And how do I respond?. “Hi, I’m a 30 year old bay area native who likes to hike and do yoga.” I had no idea what I was looking for or really how to describe myself. I started to hate the idea of “selling” myself.

Then I read the women seeking men posts. I was more freaked. I was snarky as I read post after post of women seeking their prince. Except these princes drove a BMW, worked in finance, and were ready to procreate immediately. I was more scared now. I wasn’t one of them, but at the same time I was. We shared at least one thing in common: we wanted a date. So I began to craft the profile. I remember it simply said, “I just want to meet for a drink. You’ll let me beat you at pool even though I am the worst player ever and know what whiskey to order. You know a dive from a hotspot. You are the kind of guy who is known for being funny, the drier the better.” And then I included some basic facts about me, the age, location kind of stuff. Then I clicked “Post”.

The next morning I was overwhelmed. I had to go through all these responses. I think the first group I eliminated was the “dirty bird” group. These were the guys who sent the nude pics or outrageous descriptions of what they were going to do to me. I think my favorite of the bunch was the picture of the cowboy in chaps and nothing else. Next to go were the guys who sent what I termed the “form responses”. You knew, just like the dirty birds, the form response guys didn’t read anything you wrote and probably copy pasted the same reply to ever women seeking men post on craigslist. I figured if they didn’t bother reading the post, then drinks would probably not be very fun. I would end up listening to some stranger talk about himself endlessly until I could finally figure out some way to end the evening. And I think last to go were the guys I deemed age/location incompatible.

Of course, I also viewed this as an opportunity to meet all kinds of men. My selection ran the gamut from computer tech types to surgeons to carpenters to students and even one bounty hunter. Actually it turned out he wasn’t really a bounty hunter. He had been on disability for 5 years and I didn’t get to hear any good bounty hunting stories, which was very disappointing. But I digress.

30 dates in 30 days was exhausting. There were days I had to book morning and evening shifts, due to scheduling. There were the countless nights of staying out too late. And then even the dates that ended early still included giggling with girlfriends over the phone talking about it. The worst date ended with me climbing out a bathroom window of a dive bar and the best included a couple friends I still have. Not much has changed since I posted back then. I still drink whiskey, I still love a great dive, and I still am terrible at pool. I think the only thing that has changed is my selection process.

Oaksterdam U!

Okay, I know I was half awake when I heard the ad… Oaksterdam University. Yes, that’s right, my hometown now offers the finest in higher education in the form of Oaksterdam University.

Last night in my dream like state I started to think about the curriculum they would offer. I would assume the basic general education: math, economics, science, history, etc. But this was such a creative opportunity for a school with a common theme of cannabis.

I started to think about the actual classes:

Art 140: Depictions of cannabis in film: from Reefer Madness to Pineapple Express

Art 160: Fashion: From Tie-Dye to Marley Shirts

Art 180: The death of Lasarium

Business 101: Selling by the dime or selling by the pound

History 101: Were cavemen smoking dude?

Legal Studies 101: Stay away from Nevada

Math 101: How many 8ths in a QP?

Macroeconomics 110: The effects of cannabis on world markets

Microeconomics 101: Oreo’s or gummy worms?

Music 103: The impact of cannabis on rock and roll: What else would explain Little Richard?

Philosophy 160: Bong, joint, pipe, or vaporizer?

Political Science 103: Bill inhaled: the political impact of cannabis use

Political Science 178: Towlie: Wanna get high?

Psychology 110: The art of manipulating munchies

Psychology 120: Paranoia: yes, they’re tapping your phone and here’s why

Psychology 200: Things to think about to curb inappropriately timed giggles

Science 105: Things you can safely blow up in your microwave

Science 110: Weed, Keef or Hash, what gets you higher?

Science 120: Why can’t I remember where I left the keys?

Science 200: Saliva Production

Sociology 101: Deadheads vs. Phish fans

20 Diseases

One of my fondest memories of childhood is playing 20 diseases in the car with my dad. It’s this game he made up for when we were on road trips. You know those god-awful trips with the entire family in which you are forced to go to a rock quarry somewhere in the middle of Oregon to look for geodes. Anyway, we had one of those super cool station wagons with the wood panels, except ours were just the doors painted to look like wood panels. It would be my two brothers and I crammed in the backseat with my folks upfront and the dog in the way back.

So the game went something like this… My dad would say I am thinking of a disease and then we would ask questions just like the game 20 questions. The person who got to 20 diseases won. So our questions would range from, “is one of the symptoms a rash?” Or “does it give you diarrhea?” Or “is it fatal?” Now this might seem like an easy game if my dad would have thought of diseases such as influenza or the common cold. But my dad is kind of a rare disease expert. So our questions would also include, “is it a kind of hemorrhagic disease?” Or “what type of contact does it spread through?” Or “is it hereditary?” We learned about all kinds of diseases; Hantavirus, Ebola, Creutzfeldt - Jakob disease. And the best part of this game, as far as he was concerned, was that no one ever got to 20. I don’t even think my brothers and I would have even known where to look to learn about diseases. We were young kids.

Typically he’d give us a few easy ones like Elephantitis or Lyme disease. Then we would spend the next few hours on the more difficult ones. My brothers and I would begin all these trips determined to win and then inevitably hate the game after losing round after round; My Dad taking bizarre pleasure in keeping us engaged and frustrated at the same time. I actually became pretty decent at this game predicting his pattern of going from dermatological disorders to diseases of the gastro-intestinal variety.

As an adult, I find that very few of my friends are interested in playing the game 20 diseases. I don’t have to miss the game though, since the game has morphed into something else. It has taken on a new premise and is usually it’s based on conversations that begin with, “I had unprotected sex with him 2 weeks ago and now I have a strange itch.” Or “there was a hard bump with a white pustule on his scrotum, what do you think it was.” Unfortunately with the adult version the only thing you typically win is a trip to Planned Parenthood and a prescription for antibiotics.

In the Pink...

Getting a bikini wax is quite a bonding experience. Not only do you end up bonding with the woman ripping hair off in between your legs, but it does seem to be a topic of conversation between women friends. As i was going in for my monthly manicure i couldn't help but think that this woman holding up my left leg up in the the air while shmearing a warm green goo on my nether-regions has a more intimate view of me than most guys I date. Seriously, a good brazillian takes at least 20 minutes. That is quite a chunk of time. Think about the last time you were downtown and how long you took? Frankly i have known her for a good 10 years and while she is ripping, we are rapping. I ask about her kids, she asks about dance. We talk about restaurants and movies and sometimes even dating. This is probably one of the most intimate relationships i have ever had.

In addition to knowing about my life - she has a perspective of me that I just don't have. I guess I could take the time to look, but still haven't got around to it at least not for a full 20 minutes. I have profound respect for her sense of professionalism as she pulls out her tweasers to make sure everything is even. This is one of those moments as she is completely between my legs I begin to think about how strange this would be on a date. I actually haven't had the experience of some guy telling me i am uneven. But her - she cares. She would notice. I appreciate this level of TLC.

As for my girlfriends - we spend inordinate amounts of time discussing this topic - who do you go to? Does it hurt? Do you go for the brazillian? How often do you go? How does it feel to be bald? And of course, there is always a virgin waxer in the crew. Being old-school (i have a lot of wax cred), I tend to be the "go to" for wax advice. I love these moments discussing skin sensitivity, ingrowns, and the best underwear to show off your new do. My friends and i have a great sense of humor about all this. We come up with new "hairstyle" ideas and sometimes even show them off.

Unfortunately, I find my waxer doesn't really have the same sense of humor. I did once make the mistake of calling the brazillian the pedophile special - that didn't go over too well and is probably the biggest near dealbreaker in my lasting relationships at the bikini wax shop. Hair ripping is serious business and I almost sabotaged one of my oldest relationships. We have since made up but i was quite concerned I'd have to date for a while until i found my new perfect wax relationship.

A Lap Dance for Jesus

On a typical Friday night I am usually kicking it with my best friend James at some dive. Since we have known each other since before I was old enough to drive I am sure you can imagine how many years of this we have clocked in together. We usually meet up at one of two dives in the financial district in San Francisco and then slowly make our way to the "better" dives of Oakland. For many years, Smitty’s was the bar of choice. Decent juke box, cheap shots, pool table and a great cast of characters. Recently James initiated a change of venue. I was skeptical about this new place until I met Jesus.

There were a few of us gathered around the pool table enjoying our beverages and playing rounds of pool. Then Jesus walked in; a fairly tall, thin white guy with a beard and long straight brown hair. He was the white archetype of Jesus in his white toga and hemp sandals. We were intrigued. I was first to notice and quickly pointed out to James that Jesus was drinking PBR. I was a bit surprised by his beer choice. For some reason I had always thought the son of God would have chosen a better tasting brew, but perhaps he was used to wine and didn’t have a palette for ale. Jesus then sat himself next to the pool table on a bench seat alone directly across from my little posse. We all agreed… Jesus looked sad. Certainly given the state of our planet we could all surmise why Jesus would be sad, and we all felt something needed to be done.

We ruled out buying Jesus a drink since he had just obtained one and buying Jesus PBR in a can seemed a bit sacrilegious. Then my friend Erin began rifling through her purse and pulled out $2, turns to me and says, “you need to give Jesus a lap dance!” And before I could answer, James slaps another $2 on top of Erin’s and says you should do it for $4. Now, just so everyone is clear, I have actually never given a lap dance, but even given my lack of experience I felt I was worth a bit more than 4 bucks. I say no way, minimum is $20. But my friends know me all too well and count on the fact that I can’t say no to any challenge, especially one such as this. How many opportunities in this lifetime do we have to give Jesus a lap dance? I decide I am still worth more than four and let them know that for four dollars I can make Jesus genuinely smile and for $20 I will surprise him by shaking my ass on his lap. And while my friends know me, I also know my friends and I knew they would rather spend their money on more booze than on a dare.

They went for the smile. So I strolled over to Jesus and plopped myself down right next to him. I turn and smile and say, “Jesus, my friends and I were concerned that you seem really sad and thought it might make you happy if I give you a lap dance.” Jesus lets out a little smile as I continue, “they even offered me $4 to do it although between you and I, despite my lack of experience, I think I am worth at least $20.” At this point Jesus begins to point and says, “see that girl in the toga over there?” I nod yes. “She’s my girlfriend, so I will give you $10 if you don’t.” I say deal and take his $10, we are both smiling as I stroll over and grab the 4 bucks from the table. Not bad for a typical Friday night.

A Shade of White

There are moments in life we realize how strong we are. Sometimes it’s in the physical sense such as lifting the sofa bed on moving day. Other times it’s when we realize that as life brings us obstacles, we handle them with dignity and grace. It’s these moments I find myself stuck in my head. I don’t share them. I quietly write about them. Letting myself have that alone time to just be in my head and feel all that I need to feel. I used to be so afraid of my feelings that the only emotion I could really allow myself was anger. I couldn’t imagine ever having any other sense of the world but anger. Dressed in black with my hair some various shade of purple or pink while referring to my Doc Martins as my sole mates. They were, afterall, the only shoes I owned at that time. It’s funny now, I can’t remember the last time I was really angry. Anger gave out long ago to the pity parties I used to throw myself which eventually gave way to the strength I aspire to maintain.

Today I wandered down the same hospital hallway I have grown to know since childhood. Today was different though. There was only paperwork to be signed and other family members to console while I breathed deeply reminding myself to be strong. There were the doctors doing their best to sound professional and optimistic when all of us knew the truth. We had all met here before. We knew the sterile smells, the sound of the nurses voice paging above and even some of the patients. But today was different.

I didn’t speak a word as I listened to all the questions barely audible through the choking back of tears. I looked from face to face to face as the words rallied back and forth. My mind began to drift. I thought about my third birthday. I remembered the Raggedy Ann cake and the banging on the front door. It was the bomb squad. We were to be evacuated. They had discovered 26 sticks of dynamite under the house and now we had to go. My mother refused, screaming that I hadn’t blown out the candles on my cake. I had to make a wish before we left. I remember the men dressed in white as they stood around singing. She had her way… with one exception. There was a giant flashlight lit up in the middle of the cake. And after I made my wish and blew my young breath against the metal, the light was switched off.

Panties and a Shave

I am beginning to think that shaving my legs before a date has become a jinx. For many women, including myself, shaving legs before a date can be ritual. But perhaps it is this very ritual that jinxes any possibility of taking the date home or even wanting to see this date again. On those occasions I don't have time to shave nor put on those perfectly cute panties, the chemistry is just right and then I am faced with some poor guy rubbing stubble and finding me in granny panties. (sorry for the heterosexist rant - but I can only speak from my own experience). I try to think to myself that no dude even cares if he finds stubble and briefs, after all I am naked and they are about to get laid. Maybe this is what the lesson needs to be for all dates - if you find stubble and ill-fitting panties it's simply because taking you home was exactly the plan.

And what is the male equivalent? Do guys think about their stubble? Do they think about which boxers or briefs to wear? I don't know of any woman that has been completely bummed after taking a guy home and finding that he is commando. Smell yes, tightie-whities, no. But none of us are happy to find stink, so that doesn't really count. I guess I could ask all those ball-shavers - do they think about their stubble. Do they give themselves a nut wax before going out? But then how many woman really care about stubble on scrotum? I haven't heard of any tongue injury's due to "stubble that could kill" on balls before. Although that term is definitely used about legs and facial hair. I am guessing that if i lament about male facial stubble i could possibly get censored, so i will leave that to everyone's imagination.

I do have to wonder though, if there was an impact on women when the 5 o'clock shadow was in style. I wonder if there was an increase in visits to the doctor for stubble burn. I can only imagine those visits to the doctor - "what we have here is a terrible abrasion. I will be prescribing you some antibiotic cream. The gillette razors are for your male partner which can be picked up in the pharmacy".

Cluster Fucked

Why is it that whenever you need something fixed that you end up in this cluster fuck between two companies? It's like when you were a kid and something broke and suddenly everyone in the room is declaring "i didn't do it". I have been up since 1 am and coffee isn't cutting it. And now, just waiting for the phone guy. Since when did a window become anytime between 9 am until 9 pm? At what point is it called an open-door? Of course, when i asked At&t this, they just didn't think that was funny.

My favorite conversation today happened at 3 am with ADT alarm service. As my alarm was blaring and i was desperately attempting to sound coherent over the phone, i come to learn from ADT that due to my phone being out for over a week, i also had no alarm. So I ask them, what is the point of paying them to monitor my system, if i had to call and tell them the system is not working. Shouldn't they pay me? It seems that i am doing a much better job monitoring my system than they are. So they tell me i am paying for monitoring, but that they can't monitor when the system is down. Logically i ask them, "isn't it their responsibility to monitor when the system is down and then let me know rather than the other way around"? They answer yes, but only when they do their once a month monitoring check. So i say, "let me get this straight. If i were to burglarize someone's home, i just need to cut their phone off, since you people wouldn't be aware of this for another month. And that is what you call monitoring?"I was beginning to feel that ADT was not quite grasping the definition of monitoring.

Maybe the lack of sleep has impacted my ability to comprehend the definition of monitoring something, but i was always under the impression that it meant something other than a once a month check. I offered to read the definition out of the dictionary. I even offered ADT a solution to this unfortunate misrepresentation of monitoring; they could call it "occasional monitoring" or "sporadic monitoring" or "once-a-month monitoring". I told ADT if they wanted to pay me, I could come up with all kinds of new slogans for them since i just missed a day of work, i could now use the income. "ADT, we're here if you call and let us know" or "ADT we've got your back on the first Monday of the Month" or "ADT, stopping crime one hour out of the month".

So after being transferred to the supervisor's supervisor, my system should be fixed sometime between now and 9 pm. They are even adding some new features such as a monitoring system that monitors the monitoring system. I am just happy i have a baseball bat and a knife. The last time i used the bat, prior to getting the alarm, it monitored my house much better than ADT ever has. I am sure that my burglar will never be able to grip his own nuts after the bashing i did to his hands through my door. Perhaps that should be the slogan and free gift with every system they sell, "ADT and Louisiana Slugger, keeping your home safe all year long".