Nancy Sinatra Can Kiss My Ass

I have this pair of riding boots, which is to say that that is their style, not that I have ever worn them while riding a horse, or a motorcycle, or a lumberjack. These boots, I fear, were not made for walking. A few days ago, while walking to class, the heal of my boot got caught right around the sixth step from the ground. I would like to say that I caught myself on the railing. I would like to say that I, at least, took the guy I was walking with down with me. Alas, it was just me and my fat ass, tumbling towards humiliation, landing on the edge of the first step with all my weight on my left shin. I think it went, left shin, right shin, left knee, turn, ass before I finally hit the bottom, at which point I was facing the steps that I'd just gracefully descended. I ignored the pain, and immediately sprang up like a gymnast who's hoping that the judges won't notice she fucked up her landing. "Oh my God, are you all right," was the most popular question posed by the onlookers.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." It's just my pride.

Are you ever disappointed to discover that you haven't really hurt yourself as badly as you think you have? As I walked toward the bathroom to pull down my pants and assess the damage, I was semi-convinced that the only reason I was standing was that I was in shock. I was hesitant to look down, afraid that I would see blood seeping through my jeans, due to the fact that I'd almost certainly partially severed my leg at the spot on my shin that took all the impact. Imagine my dismay when I got into the bathroom stall and dropped trow only to find that I'd scraped a bit of skin off my shin and my knee. This was kid's stuff, really. The sort of thing my fourteen-year-old self would have done with an eraser if she felt that people weren't paying enough attention to her. Annoyed, I pulled up my pants, flushed the toilet (not because I'd used it, but because I didn't want the other ladies to think that I had and then hadn't flushed,) and walked to class, taking a moment to consider throwing myself down the stairs, this time on purpose, in hopes of more dramatic results.

Waxing Political Again

During tonight's Republican debate Mayor Giuliani said, "when the country was 7 out of 10 in favor of the war, Hilary supported it.  Now that the country is 6 out of 10 against it, so is she."  He says this to show that she's flip-flopping at the will of the people.  Here's the problem: we live in a republic.  We live in something called a representative democracy.  There are a couple reasons for this.  One, it's impractical for everyone in a country to vote every time a decision needs to be made, so we elect people who we think would vote the same way we would when it comes time to make one of these decisions.  I personally find it refreshing that there are people out there representing us who follow polls, who say, "well, my constituents don't like this, I better not vote for it, or they're going to assert the power that they have over me, and they're not going to re-elect me."  That's how this government works, if the people who represent us act in a way that we don't agree with, we get to fire them.  What is wrong with Senator Clinton voicing the will of the people she serves?  This brings us to the second (read real) reason that our government was set up the way it was.  The founding fathers, and apparently most of the people who currently represent, or wish to represent us, don't think we're smart enough to make informed decisions.  Now, I get that we don't have the resources at our fingertips that elected officials do.  I don't remember the last time a 5-star general sat down with me to talk military strategy or disclosed classified information to me.  But I do think that after 6 years of war in which nothing seems to be getting accomplished, in which we start to see people who have served in the Middle East saying that enough is enough, I think it is well within our right to say, we've had it.  Your time is up.  Let's put an end to this, or we'll fire you.  Whether Mayor Giuliani thinks we're smart enough to make this decision or not. 

Can't Sleep. Guilt Will Eat Me

I miss my grandfather. The man's been dead for over a year. One year one hundred and sixteen days, to be exact. Forgive the large chunks of exposition, but my grandfather's death and the impact it has had on my psyche are things I've written about before, so I'm not going into it here. What I will say is, I had a dream about him last night. In said dream, my grandfather calls me from his death bed. "Where the hell ya been?" he says, "I haven't seen you in a month. I don't think I've got much time left here." Let the record show, I saw my grandfather the day before he died. In his last hours of lucidity. I also saw him the day he died; he was in a coma, but I sat there with him. Stroking his hand. Running my fingers through his hair. Telling him I loved him. What I'm saying is, this dream was not a re-enactment of events that actually transpired. Well, next in my dream, I drive to my grandparents' house, but it's too late. My grandfather is already dead. Next the dream turned into one involving sex with someone who I will not mention. The kind of sex that I really desperately need to believe was something highly symbolic and not at all literal. (No, not with my grandfather, though that seems the obvious conclusion to be made here.)  I woke up feeling dirty and no further along in the grieving process than I was the day after my grandfather died. WHAT THE FUCK!? I'm not one for CAPS LOCK or dramatic use of punctuation, but for Christ's sake. My mother has dreams about my grandfather all the time. They're lovely dreams in which they're simply spending time together. She wakes up thankful for the impromptu visit. Why can't I have a dream like that. One where we're golfing, or playing gin? It's the kind of shit that makes me miss my insomnia.

Excuse me, do you have the time?

Something odd happened to me today. I was walking to class. Up ahead I saw two people canvassing. I knew who they were, because people just like them had been standing in the same spot on behalf of the same organization everyday for the last month. They were there for HRC or the Human Rights Campaign or the By Human Rights We Mean Gay Rights Campaign. "Hi, do you have a minute for gay rights?" they say when someone walks by.

"I actually just re-upped my HRC membership," I have said every time someone has asked. It's a lie, of course. I haven't had an HRC membership in years. When I did have one, it was unintentional. I bought a watch from the HRC catalog, and the next thing I knew, I was getting monthly newsletters. I've been meaning to renew my membership. Truly I have. It's just that, do you know how many Ramen Noodles you can buy with $50?

As I continued walking toward the canvasser, I was sure to make eye-contact with him. Certainly he'll recognize me in all my transparently homosexual glory, I thought. Then I can make his day 1) by knowing exactly what he's getting after and already knowing about HRC and 2) being enlightened enough and compassionate enough to already have a membership.

It all happened so quickly, I'm not sure I can adequately describe the experience. I walked past the man and veered to the right. At the same time, a blatantly straight girl walked past him and veered to the left. I'm not saying this girl was actively participating in heterosexual activities (like sex with a man, for example) as she walked by. I'm just saying that if you put the two of us in a line-up, 10 out of 10 people would pick me out as the 'mo'. "Hi, do you have a minute for gay rights?" he said to the straight girl. To the straight girl?

The way I see it, there are a couple explanations:

1. The canvasser was a breeder with bad gaydar.
2. The canvasser was a breeder with perfectly fine gaydar but was very much interested in
talking to this cute, straight girl, so that he could potentially engage in breeder-type
activities (like sex with a woman, for example).
3. I don't represent myself nearly as gay-ly as I think I do. Note to self: wear more flannel.

In any case, I feel discriminated against. I have just as much a right to lie to a do-gooder in an effort to make myself feel better about myself as anyone else does. Maybe it's time to invest in a new watch.

Setting the Women's Movement Back Thirty Years at a Time

I'm lonely.

Goin' Out In Style

I'm taking a fiction writing class, and though I love the class, it's making me want to scream. It's not that I can't tell a good story. It's not that I can't bullshit on just about anything and make people believe that I know what I'm talking about. It's just that I have to have some prompting. There's no fictional nugget dying to get out of my head right now. I suppose I could tell myself, I'm going to write a story about a boy who falls in love with his imaginary friend then gets institutionalized when his mom walks in on him and this imaginary friend in the throws of passion, because to her, it just looks like little Billy is humping the air. I could do that, but I'm not compelled to do that. I did have this one sentence that popped into my head as I was trying and failing to fall asleep last night. The sentence was, "dead is a strange way to describe your best friend." It's not brilliant. It's probably not even good, but I got to thinking about a character dealing with the sudden death of his best friend, and what that would be like. So, I'm sitting down to start writing, at this point any words on the page would feel like a victory, and I go to describe the casket only to realize that I have no idea what caskets are made of. I do the old blackle.com search for caskets, and stumble upon the most wonderful shit I have ever seen. If you'd like to check it out for yourself, here's the link http://www.casketstore.net/Special_Caskets.htm . You know how sometimes you'll be driving down the highway, and you'll come up to a van, and the whole rear windshield is some graphic of the Crucifixion? Or the American flag being raised at Iwo Jima? Or Sponge Bob? Well, that seems to be what they've done with these caskets. Friends, for the low, low price of $2863, you too can be buried in a steel box with the Last Supper Photoshopped onto it. Or a beautiful mountain scene. These, though novel, are not my favorites. My favorites are, "The Last Hole," complete with life-sized golf clubs and the 18th pin in the distance, this is the best way I can think of to honor a golfer; "The Race is Over," in this casket we have a side view of stock cars racing through the checkered flag; then there's my personal favorite, "Return to Sender," this classy casket is made to look like an ordinary package, wrapped in brown paper and held together with string, the words, "return to sender," printed in giant red ink across the lid.

Before I saw this website, I was emphatic about wanting to be cremated. Now I'm not so sure. Perhaps it would be better to go for one of these flashy custom jobs. If anyone asks, I'll take the one with the Simpsons couch, with a picture of me sitting right next to Homer. "Doh!"

My Ass Is Chapped

Robert Johnson (as in the founder of BET, not the blues guitarist who famously sold his soul to the devil) alluded to Barack Obama's drug use when he introduced Hilary Clinton at a stump speech last week. Fine. It lacks tact. If the media wants to point that out, okay. I personally don't give a shit if Obama wants to snort blow off his desk in the Oval Office, should he get there. Maybe he does his best thinking when his pupils are the size of dimes. Here's my issue. Everyone is taking this enlightened stance, saying that no one should care what the candidates did in their youth. I agree with that. The thing that pisses me off is this. Anyone remember the 1992 campaign and the way these same pundits wanted to crucify Bill Clinton over the fact that he smoked pot in the '60s? Could the media please just point out and embrace its own hypocrisy? If Obama is willing to own up to his own mistakes, so should they. Maybe the fact that we no longer care whether or not the candidates led exemplary lives before they entered the public arena is a good thing. It shows we're growing as a nation. I'm not sure where we should draw the line, but I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.