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.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 5, 2008
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
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
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