WARNING: Offensive language ahead.

I’m Not Your Buddy
The Author, 2005

Call “those people” what you will: mentally challenged (who isn’t?), handicapped (says who?), retarded (not nice), but please, please don’t call them buddy.

There is an insipid new advertisement gracing the Chicago’s subway cars that has been grating on my nerves for some time now. This ad features a young woman in a ludicrous floppy velvet hat and a drag queen’s feather boa smiling manically. With no regard to personal space whatsoever, this woman’s meaty arms are thrown clumsily around the neck of a mildly freaked out, cautiously smiling woman in her mid-thirties who appears to be affected by downs syndrome. Bold, red lettering above this couple’s heads righteously informs commuters that, “The Next Person You Meet Could be Your Best Buddy!”

There is a particular breed of volunteerism that is so shallow and ultimately unhelpful that it makes me want to punch a girl scout. This type of volunteerism is typically done by the kind of people who would call their efforts “charity.” It is work that is rooted in the belief that the caregiver is in some way superior to the recipient, and churches and other smug people frequently undertake it. Chicago’s “Best Buddy” program is undoubtedly rooted in this variety of shitty good deeds.

Now, before you get your underwear all in a bundle about this proposed information, consider this: would you ever–in a moment of sobriety–call a new acquaintance your “buddy?” Of course not! You’d simply say that is was a pleasure meeting them and that you’d like to meet again, and if things go well, you may soon be able to call this person your friend. Buddy is a lame, weird, term that is gummy with condescension. Buddy is a word reserved for small children and dogs; neither of which should equate to adults with mental issues.

Aside from the atrocious use of the word buddy, the ad faults in its costuming and pose of the non-retarded woman; her outfit and pose is so unflattering that at first glance one might wonder if the best buddy program is a charity organization in which retarded people assist non-retarded, fashion impaired people with their wardrobe and social skills. Once you understand that the crazy boa-clad woman is supposed to be mentoring the woman with downs syndrome, you can’t help but shake your head in pity. “Oh man,” you think of saying to the downs syndrome woman, “a lot of help that nut-job is going to do you.” It is bad enough that the best buddy program assumes that people with mental challenges also have problems making friends, but it is even worse to pawn off the social rejects of the world on to them to play with. The assumption of non-retarded people that individuals who are mentally challenged somehow have an inherently unsatisfying life–so unsatisfying in fact, that supplying them with wacko’s dressed in a crack whore’s clothing will somehow improve their situation–is really bothersome.

If the Best Buddies program were being honest about its motivations in its ads, the banner would feature the boa-wearing woman looking awkward excluded in a social situation filled with people who are dressed in a manner that reflects their sane-ness. Instead of reading, “The Next Person You Meet Could Be Your Best Buddy,” the bold red lettering would read, “The Next Person Who Rejects You, You Can Be Better Than!”

Before you think that I am being too much of a bitch about this whole idea of “buddies,” consider the lasting and self-perpetuating damage that people like the boa-wearer creates. When we call people, “buddy,” we never take the time to learn their names. We never look at them at individuals.

While I may seem insensitive in my word choice when I write “retarded,” I simply cannot agree with the words mentally challenged, or handicapped. Mental challenges are relative and we all are, or should be challenged mentally to different degrees. Handicapped is a stupid word that people who function “normally” (whatever that means) invented that consequently creates limitations for “impaired” people. It is a word the serves to separate “us” from “them.” Humans are really disgusting in our love of clean, distinct separateness; we love it so much that we create it when it doesn’t even really exist. Sure, you’d love to think you are so different that a mentally challenged person–and in plenty of ways you are, just as we are all individually unique–but across the board, people share more commonalities than differences. I use the word retarded because it is brash, it is not politically correct. The raw use of the word retarded is (I hope) forcing you to reconcile with what all the terms mean, and ultimately how meaningless they all are.

So what do we call “these people?” I’m not entirely sure, but it seems like a starting point would be to take the time to learn individuals’ names, and recognize the differences and variations that mental capacities can have. It is a dangerous thing to define people by their demographics.

It is time for society to change—and I’m not talking about the cosmetics of political correctness. Organizations like Best Buddies are right in offering support systems to retarded people, as everyone needs one type of support or another, but the Best Buddies ads, and other like them, are better off showcasing the services provided than presenting degrading assumptions of those they assist.

Until all members of society can look each other in the eye with absolute respect, it is we “normal” people who have the biggest mental challenges ahead of us; we have the challenge of being honest with ourselves and confronting our gross bigotry. I suggest that we all take this process one step at a time, starting with ditching the word buddy. It’s just way too retarded.

Rational Fear in a (Pity) Party Dress
The Author, 2005

Usually my Fridays are purposeful; I work at my tutoring gig at a local
college. But that college is on break between summer semester and fall,
leaving me with an entire Friday to enjoy in solitude while the rest of
the world is at work.
 
The trouble is, I’m not so good at having days off. I do silly things
like think about what I am doing with my life, which oftentimes leads
me to think about my biggest fear: the possibility that I may be subconsciously
resigning myself to a life of mediocrity.

And you thought my greatest fear was cockroaches.

Fearing cockroaches is irrational–sure they are hideous scuttling
monsters that play mind games with me by standing on their hind legs
intimidatingly, nearly convincing me that they are ten feet taller than
me–but the fact of the matter is that I am bigger than the most
behemoth roach, and my shoe is his crunchy death.

On the other hand, fearing a subconscious inclination towards
mediocrity is completely rational. The institutions that seek to
control society (our governments, our jobs, our churches, ect) depend
upon this quiet and unsettling resignation. Without it, the “masses”
(as we are so lovingly termed) may prove to be more capable than those
who have the power. Upon the epiphany that we are as fabulous and
genius as we actually are, we wouldn’t hesitate to eject these freak
shows from their thrones and shape a world full of purity and grace.

But we doubt. And on many quiet, hidden levels of our minds we believe
what our world subliminally tells us: we are expendable, replaceable,
and we should be grateful to receive whatever scraps the people in
power choose to throw our way.

In a fit of prickly disgust with myself, I am festering in an Internet
cafe today, researching various ways I can change the world. I’m
looking into various other not-for-profit arts centers that provide
means for creative expression free of charge to underserved youth.

Yesterday, I did an informational interview with a professional in this
field, and she had some good suggestions for me. I learned so much from
the experience, and today I’ve scheduled a few more of these types of
interviews with other organizations in Chicago.

Taking this proactive approach to dismantling any feelings of
mediocrity is temporarily soothing, but the prickly panic of fear
eventually creeps back up on me. While conducting research online to
prepare for these informational interviews, a spongy, sickly feeling
creeps in between my breasts. Am I good enough to call myself a
teaching writer/artist? It’s weird–I am really confident with my
ability to bring out the best in other’s writing, but I have such
serious doubts about my own. Can I be a person who facilitates
education with that dynamic happening? And as for video
production–there are a million and one people who are far better than
me. My ideas are always cool, but the finished product lacks polish.
This is a recurring theme with me. I prefer a rougher look, a look
where the guts of a project are visible (its a running aesthetic in my
work that is an extension of the fact that I am a person who wears her
heart on her sleeve), but I haven’t quite mastered ways to make that
look less like an amateur and more like a directorial choice. It just
gets disheartening, you know?

I know I’ve got to do a better job of believing that my creative
endeavors are decent, but it is just really hard to do. I know I need
to do it, though because my doubts in my acting and directing abilities
caused me to really distance myself from theater these past three
years, and I really miss it now. And just because my singing voice
isn’t as stellar as other divas, I quit singing, even though choir was
my lifeblood in high school and I miss it. If I keep feeling shitty
about my work, then I might abandon it in the same way as I did the
performing arts, and that would seriously suck. The joy of the artistic
process out weighs however depressed or self-conscious I oftentimes
feel about the product.

Anyhow, I bring this all this emotional turmoil up not to throw a pity
party, but to invoke an honest dialogue about the things that we fear.
These hideous feelings need to be cut loose; there are freak shows on
thrones to overthrow and a crazy, beautiful world to revive.

With this in mind, I ask you: What rational fear do you carry? How do you deal with it? What would happen if you conquered it?

WARNING: This post is gross.

Heaving Dryly
© The Author, 2005

Yesterday (I guess we can call it that, since I am posting at 2:00 am Friday), on my way to O’Hare airport to travel to St. Louis to teach another College Summit writing workshop, I died. Well, almost anyways.

After a morning of feeling vaguely funny, which I chalked up to being over-heated in our heinously muggy un-air-conditioned apartment (Chi-town’s been reaching a sopping wet 105 as of late), I trotted off to the Blue Line to journey to the airport. The icky feeling was to get progressively worse.

I did my best to ignore the blurry dark spots invading my peripheral vision as I boarded the subway car. I tried to convince myself that my queasy feeling would soon pass as I hunched in my seat with my head between my legs, soaking my shirt with a steady stream of cold sweat. Upon arrival at the airport, I tried to make it to the bathroom before collapsing, but I only made it as far as the nearest reeking garbage can. Attempting to look as if it was the most normal thing in the world for a disgustingly sweaty, panting person to squat down randomly in front of a garbage can, I tried to will my body into cooperating with my travel itinerary. My body passed out instead.

A few minutes later, I woke to a friendly, mullet-ed Chicago Public Transit Authority worker shaking my limp, sopping shoulder.

“Hey! Are you okay?” He asked me kindly.
In lieu of saying, “I’ll be fine, thank you,” I dry-heaved a bitter, bile-stenching breath in his beautifully compassionate face.

I have a history of dry heaving and passing out in public. This is largely due to a quirky little hereditary disease I have called Vasovagal Syncope (see http://www.ncemi.org/cse/cse0101.htm for details). This “disease” (I feel like a leper calling it that) is more embarrassing than harmful, as it mainly means that my body refuses to feel pain or anticipation. Since my blood pressure flat to refuses to cramp its style with adjustments that would accommodate survival during unsavory feelings, I simply pass out. As long as I don’t hit my head or fall onto anything that will kill me on my way down, it’s fine. Mostly, it is just embarrassing to wake up afterwards, especially since on more than one occasion I wake to people who assume I’ve passed out because of an eating disorder or due to being in the early stages of pregnancy—both conditions being ones that I have never suffered from.

Since illness is accompanied by a plethora of unsavory feelings, I also frequently pass out when I’m sick. This is also pretty embarrassing because instead of feeling refreshed when I wake up (as I do when I pass out in a healthy state), I dry heave loudly upon entering consciousness, as the kindly CTA worker discovered first hand.

Warf!

The nice CTA man asked if I wanted him to call a medical unit and I shook my head no. Instead, I asked if he could please use one of those little airport golf carts to haul my putrid ass to the nearest restroom. After being nice enough to let me lean on his forearm on the escalator, he pawned me off to another CTA worker with a golf cart. Amazingly, my puke was able to hold off its burning exit from my trachea until the golf cart dropped me off at the nearest ladies room. I’ll spare you the details, but it was vile to say the least.

Being too sick to venture back on the el, I reasoned that perhaps eating a bit of something would ease my pain. The trouble was that the food court was on the other side of the security checkpoint—so what’s a sordid, vomitous Chicago Art Girl to do? In my stupidly nauseated state, I actually did the unthinkable. I went through a security check point for a food court.

Once I miraculously made it through the security checkpoint without passing out, I gagged at the sights and smells of the fast food Mecca. Consciously holding back any food remnants from making a violent departure from my stomach, I feebly made my way to the smoothie stand.

“One small banana smoothie, please,” my puke-stained voice moaned.
“Five dollars,” the indifferent clerk sighed.

I shelled out a little less than thirty minutes pay before the clerk horrified me with the way she made my hideously expensive drink. First, she squirted a dog-shit sized lump of soft serve vanilla frozen yoghurt into the blender pitcher. Then, she dumped a few sad frozen banana slices atop the lumpy squirt. Lastly, she added tap water to the terrible concoction before blending my caloric replenishment into a gross, goopy smoothie from hell.

I tried to convince myself that I needed to eat something, that I would be fine once something was in my stomach. But as I raised the straw to my barf-chapped lips, I couldn’t help but think about the various reports you hear about the unsanitary nature of soft-serve frozen yoghurt—specifically the festering bacteria that breeds in the smoothie machines and coats each and every square inch of the frosty sweet stuff.

“Wharf!!” I heaved. And it was back to the bathroom for me.

As my head hovered over the sickly lip of the public toilet’s seat, I realized that as much as I had genuinly been looking forward to it, there was no way that I would be able to stand in front of a room and teach. I called my workshop director from the pube-coated floor and told her that, to my grave disappointment, I would be unable to board the plane to teach at the workshop, due to the fact that I was dying in a public restroom at the airport. Although we were both bummed out by the fact, the news was not catastrophic (read: I think I’ll be able to work for that company sometime in the future, even after canceling on such short notice).

Eventually, I was able to move at a snails pace back to the el. I survived the trip home. Sharing my bed with the fan, I napped and drank plenty of fluids until waking recently for a snack of Chex and Sprite, the official “flu foods” of the Chicago Art Girl household. Currently I’m still not feeling very well, but at least my flu’s abated enough to blog, eh? How else could I gross more people out than I did at the airport? Since I am not a star of a reality TV show, it seems that the Internet is my best bet for this challenge. So, tell me, honestly—how gross was this read?

Wharf!

After a crazy week of work, shopping for a new apartment to move into Sept. 1 (Yay for our spankin’ new lease in a cute part of town called Ravenswood), attending 2 free, fun movies (ET at Movies in the Park and Broken Flowers, an awesome new film that I scored free passes to by my favorite director, Jim Jarmusch), I am heading out to teach another four day writing workshop to high school students. This one is in St. Louis, a city I have never visited, and am quite eager to explore. Any entertainment or dining suggestions from St. Louis peeps? Anyhow, with a leisurely morning before my flight leaves, I had the pleasure to take a time out for a little blogging. Enjoy!

Crazy Countenance
© The Author, 2005

Among many little things that make my work day bright is the pleasant happenstance of stepping into the elevator with a colleague that I actually like. Not that I dislike any of my colleagues, but some are simply more comfortable to me than others. The front desk receptionist—we’ll call him Jimmy*—is one of these colleagues.

Although many people think it is odd that I have a handful of close friends who are shorter than the average Joe, being that I stand a statuesque six feet tall on a short day, I surmise that it is completely natural for people whose bodies vary from the status quo to share an unspoken bond. This assumption is seen in the up nod that us Amazon queens give each other in passing; it is demonstrated in the amazed smile that a tall and short person exchange when they are randomly situated next to each other; it is the giggle that a fat and skinny person share when they put their arms around each other for a photo. Mutt and Jeff’s are everywhere, and for the most part they delight in their differences.

Anyhow, Jimmy stands an awesome five feet on a tall day, and even though three of his strides equal one of mine, he is my absolute favorite person to ride the elevator down to punch out with at 5:00 pm. We walk the same route to the el, so I have the added bonus of an actual conversation to cap off my workday, as well.

Being a person of outstanding quality, Jimmy forgoes office gossip (which I loathe) for real topics. We gab about movies, art exhibitions, newly discovered bike routes, our attempts to make and save money, our plans to travel and rule the world—you know, fun stuff.

Yesterday at the lazy hour of 5 pm, I was had the pleasure of riding the elevator down with Jimmy. I am always up to learning something new from our chats, but never was I expecting to learn something as crazy as this.

“You are in a movie,” Jimmy said.
“What?”
“You are in a movie?”
“I repeat: What?!?”
“I was watching a Howard Zinn documentary and I was like, holy shit, that is Truly. You were nodding emphatically to a lecture he was giving. I’ve been dying to tell you all day, but you keep walking by when I’m on a call.”
“Oh my god! I love Howard Zinn! I was at that lecture for a class in college—Culture, Race and the Media; it was the best class I’ve ever taken in my life. That is so crazy! Did I look like a freak?”
“No—you looked…emphatic.”
“Did I have a weird look on my face? Like a look of crazy concentration that looks like I am trying to bore a hole into something with my eyes? Did I look like a mannequin with zero intelligence? Because I look really weird sometimes.”

It’s true. I do look extraordinarily weird sometimes. Most notably, I looked extraordinarily weird on a little program called The Oprah Winfrey Show.

During college, one of my internships was in the Public Relations department at Harpo Studios. Before you ask—no, I never met Oprah (although I did see her and her gigantic hair a couple of times), but I did open all the letters that nut-jobs sent her during the height of the Anthrax scare. Anyhow, at the tail end of my internship, I was invited to sit in the audience during the taping of a show. This was supposed to be a treat, although I much preferred my usual routine of sitting in the director’s booth during the tapings, but what are you going to do? It’s a part of an intern’s job to be ecstatic about everything.

The show that I sat in the audience for was called, “Incredible Weight Loss Stories.” I am all about healthy living and an active life style, but there is nothing that I hate more than talk of dieting. I could go on a rant about how dieting talk is bad for body image, how it is more interested in fueling consumerism than healthy bodies, the unreliability of medical trends, and a plethora of other more eloquent reasons for hating diet talk, but when it comes down to it, I hate dieting talk because it is boring. It is as boring to me as driving through Nebraska, only driving through Nebraska you get to listen to fun music to keep you awake, where as when listening to dieting talk you have no other option but to let your mind turn to mush.

So I’m at the taping of Oprah’s “Incredible Weight Loss Stories,” trying to stay awake as middle aged women around me blot at their mascara-rimmed eyes and gasp orgasmically as Oprah struts around her warm and amazingly lit stage. I wasn’t put to sleep because the guest’s stories weren’t incredible—I mean, they really worked their asses off, literally—it was just that I longed for the awesome action happening in the director’s booth; now that stuff really keeps my interest. I hadn’t in my wildest dreams suspected that the cameras would take not one, but five reaction shots of my seemingly unimpressed face.

Sometimes, depending on my mood, I tell this story as if I was simply so engrossed in the once-sizable guests’ stories that my face took a look of severe concentration, of emersion into their incredible tales. But to be honest—this expression my countenance assumes also generates itself any time that I am lost inside my own head, like when I am dreaming of new recipes for ice cream sundaes while feigning interest at someone’s incredible weight loss story.

Anyhow, as Jimmy told me that my altogether too expressive face was captured in Howard Zinn’s film, I feared that my face might have assumed a freakish posture while listening to Zinn’s incredible lecture. Looking like a snooty bitch on Oprah is one thing, but looking like that while listening to Zinn is absolutely unforgivable. For those few of you who haven’t had the pleasure of reading historian and social crusader Zinn’s work, I urge you to indulge yourself—he is an amazing person.

As it turns out, Jimmy assured me that my face was just fine, but I guess I’ll have to wait until Netflicks sends me my most recently qued item, Howard Zinn—You Can’t be Neutral on a Moving Train to find out for myself.

*Please note: Jimmy is a fake, fake name.
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Does your face ever betray you?

Snack Cakes from Space
© The Author, 2005

The Old Coney Shoppe sits snuggly, beneath the el tracks by the Harold Washington Public Library. Its rival, 7-11 stares at the shoppe inconsiderately from across the street. Worse still, a Dunkin’ Doughnuts is less than thirty paces away from both. With two reliable, brand name snacking outposts competing for el rider’s caloric intake, one might suppose that Old Coney’s livelihood might be threatened. Indeed, things appear bleak—the quiet, unassuming shoppe is the last snack outpost that a pedestrian sees walking south west from the el, a place for those whose inner battle to snack or not to snack took longer than anticipated, a place for the unsure, the hesitant, the penny pincher. But alas, The Old Coney Shoppe neednt worry about survival in this crewel world of chain stores and stingy consumers, for it has something that 7-11 and Dunkin’ Doughnuts will never have: The Only Moon Pie On The Planet.

When spending weekends with my dad as a child, I was often pawned off to random family members while my dad saw to more important matters (i.e. tending to the roach infested the slums he rented out, assisting his brother with drug related items, and devouring fistfuls of Taco Bell at an alarming rate—you know, all the usual obligations that keep a man from spending time with his family). One happy upside to this abandonment was that without it, I would have never become acquainted with the oddest food in the world. I am of course referring to the Moon Pie.

My dad’s grandparents indulged in many culinary conundrums as a result of originating from the groggy backwaters of Alabama: pigs’ feet, snout, giblets and gravy, chickens’ claws, Tab Cola, chocolate crème pie, and biscuits included in every meal of the day. Most importantly though, my great grandma and grandpa had a hankerin’ to sink their teeth into a Moon Pie frequently enough for them to keep a box full of the sweet snacks in the cupboard.

A Moon Pie is composed of three layers of dry, crumbly, lifeless, and inherently stale dough product flattened into disks. These disks are crammed up against a white paste of sticky goo posing as marshmallow and arranged in a style that the sandwich community refers to as a “double decker.” The entire monstrosity is coated in a light crust of chocolate-y substance that is distributed in absolute perfection over the entire arrangement—no areas thicker or thinner than others, sides included. It is this last flourish, so fancy that the human mind can barely comprehend it, that makes the Moon Pie a miracle of science, a leader in the forefront of food processing. And at my great grandma and grandpa’s house, a Moon Pie was the great reward for surviving the moth-ball boredom that a child is doomed to experience upon spending significant time at a really old person’s house.

I had long forgotten the undeserved, yet profound dignity of the Moon Pie until about two weeks ago. Shaun and I were having a lively debate over snack cake preference (we never actually eat snack cakes), when I was reminded of the crumby texture of a Moon Pie struggling to be washed down my gullet (saliva alone is rarely enough for this challenge—a glass of milk, or a Pepsi Cola is oftentimes needed to push the cake completely down). Suddenly inspired, we were out the door and trekking to Wallgreens to sequester a Moon Pie.

To my dismay, Wallgreens doesn’t carry Moon Pies. Neither does 7-11 or Jewel Osco!!! None of the bodegas stocked the sinfully distasteful snacks either. Were Moon Pies a thing of the past? Had they gone the way of Jolt Soda, Garbage Pail Kids, and Slap Wrist bracelets—other relics of my childhood that evaporated into thin air once the nineties were in full effect?

With thoughts of lost Moon Pies swimming in my head, Shaun and I settled down to watch a movie last night. What the Bleep Do We Know?!?! is a fascinating documentary that explores the ways in which quantum physics affects humans on a molecular level. According to the sources in the film, time is not linear and thoughts influence our bodies, behaviors, and realities more than anyone had originally presumed. It is a difficult film to rationalize without sounding like a nut-job, but I highly recommend this movie to anyone (don’t be intimidated by the quantum physics—I went to art school and this movie kept my rapt attention). Just watch the movie, and watch it with friends—you are going to have an amazing post-show discussion. My head has been buzzing with the film all day.

Anyhow, in What the Bleep Do We Know?!?!, the idea that humans can will realities into existence is perpetuated. I have always been a firm believer in this, and this thought gives me strength when I volunteer and attempt to tread lightly on this earth. It is the strength that I draw from to carve a place for myself in this world—it is why I can see a few bits of the future so clear that I can actually draw them up as if they are memories, when in fact they haven’t happened yet. It was good to have a reminder and a celebration of these ideas, and the film really rejuvenated me. This morning, on my run my inner monologue joked that I would will a Moon Pie into my reality today.

I am not a morning snacker. I am not a snack store shopper. But today I stopped into The Coney Shoppe on my way to work and upon walking through the door, I was greeted by a shiny, squeaky-clean package of Moon Pie. It was the last Moon Pie on the rack, backed by an eager row of strawberry zingers. In awe, I snatched the Moon Pie up and laughed out loud at the slogan streaked across the wrapping. The slogan proudly proclaimed, “Moon Pie—The Only One on the Planet!” Indeed it was.

Perhaps one day I will hone my ability to will bigger, more useful things into existence, but considering my Moon Pie was the last one on the planet, I’m not off to a bad start.

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What magic have you willed recently?

A ChicagoArtGirl Walks into a Bar…

Blogger extraordinaire, TimsHead, tagged me last week for a little game of internet debauchery. Since I was super busy teaching the writing workshop, I didn’t get a chance to complete the tag in a timely manner, but considering I uncovered the tag just before heading out to my favorite Chicago bar, The Inn Joy, to enjoy (har, har) the excellent music, chill atmosphere (read: NOT A MEAT MARKET), and the lovely, lovely air conditioning (a big draw for people like me who live in steaming un-air-conditioned hell holes), it was almost perfect timing. This tag makes for riotous bar conversation that will surely get everyone talking. With your cocktail conversation needs in mind, I will share with you the Top Five Fictional Characters I Would Take to Bed (ahem…), even though I am an English-blooded prude who keeps her sexuality (I am cringing here, folks) pretty private.  

1.)     Brett from The Sun Also Rises

The point of this character was that she was a sexy, personable lady who was a delight in bed. Who wouldn’t want to sleep with her? Besides, The Sun Also Rises is my favorite book and I can’t very well sleep with Jake, now can I?

2.)     Alobar from Jitterbug Perfume

With the help of his lady love, this man discovered an elixir that made him live for a thousand years. I dig that passion for life. Plus, they were tantric.

3.)     Morpheous from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman

This character was the Sandman, the keeper of dreams. It would probably be a nice experience to sleep with a person who could so easily tap into your subconscious mind.

4.)     David from Strangers in Paradise (The comic book, not the play)

He’s an intellectual “sensitive” type that I like, so it seems likely. I can’t expect everyone to be mythical, now can I?

5.)     The maid turned Witch in the book Master and Margarita

This one I stole from Shaun, but I like his logic. Even though she turned her lover into a flying pig, unpredictability is always a riot. Plus, these witches were bombshells—not hags with warts and split-ends.  

Remember folks, you may be inclined to choose your character from a movie, but beware of choosing them based on the slick appearance of the actor or actress that plays them. Plus, I find choosing a character from a novel easier, since books allow you to get to know your characters better (I’m a big fan of monogamy, can you tell?). I won’t tag anyone outright, but feel free to add your fictional hotties in the comments box.

What is your favorite cocktail conversation starter?

Hello beautiful readers! I apologize for my absence—these past few weeks have been insane. Friends and family delighted Shaun and I with their presence, visiting the weekend before last. This past weekend, after working Monday—Wednesday at the MCA (in addition to an extra video gig Tuesday night), I was off Thursday—Sunday teaching a writing workshop in a town hilariously dubbed Normal, Illinois. Normal it was, I suppose. I’ve been too insanely busy to check my email or Xanga, so don’t feel ignored—you know I love ya. ::smile::
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Put Me Through the Ringer
© The Author, 2005

Friday night I stood in the shower, exhausted. My sagging, lifeless limbs dangled around my bloated belly, my tummy too worn from a day of wicked menstrual cramps and emotional knotting to care about erect carriage and taunt muscles. My spine curved inwards, collapsing over my volleyball stomach; under the hot pinpricks of water I became an overgrown seahorse.

The events of the day had shown me a new side of exhaustion—a bleary eyed, nauseated, stiff-necked model that was willing to lie down and submit to pain, too sapped to care. A soldier too tuckered to realize that their lullaby is the gentle tick of a bomb, I cuddled up in the trenches and went to sleep.

Don’t get me wrong—I know exhaustion. I’ve seen more than enough 15-hour work days, juggling jobs, picking up freelance gigs as they come (despite my promises to myself to knock that shit off and “just say no” to the un-needed extra stress). However, prior to teaching this weekend’s particularly challenging four day workshop to a group of teenage girls for a not-for-profit organization called College Summit (www.collegesummit.org), I have never been so exhausted that I’ve laid to rest before every task at hand had been completed, checked, revised at least twice. I typically cannot rest without a feeling of accomplishment, but this time I couldn’t help it.

College Summit is a program designed for mid-tier, low income, urban students to prepare for college application. There are many programs designed to provide outreach for super-achievers and underachievers of this demographic, but far too many students (whose predominantly white, suburban counterparts would be applying to state schools) don’t have the resources to understand the college admissions process. Since many of these students are first-generation high school graduates, college is not even on their radar. Many simply figure that they are not college material. Granted, a “mid-tier” student in Chicago Public Schools might have a 16 on their ACT, but you can thank the whack way our government distributes tax dollars for that. These kids can learn and learn well—its just that they are learning in under funded schools that don’t have the resources to eloquently teach the material they are requested to know for the ACT. Additionally, many have challenges that are even more difficult to overcome than surviving Chicago Public Schools; many of these teens are parents, many have parents who are “in the game” (drug dealing, prostitutions, ect.), many have attended over six schools in three years due to having to be shuttled from foster home to foster home, some have been homeless, some are the youngest of families of sixteen and they are the first to graduate high school, some are the first in their family to stay out of jail.

These students will succeed in college because their willingness and capacity to learn is strong. I know this because I was their Writing Coach, helping them write eloquent, expressive personal statements. These statements are not your average college application essay filled with promises and accomplishments. Since the majority of these kids have a 1.8—2.1 GPA, their essay needs to provide the reader with a picture of them that is bigger than their test scores. Their essays are about who they are as people, and the experiences that set them apart from the average college applicant. Students at College Summit compose essays about lessons they have learned that give them what it takes to make it in college. I like this organization because there are quantifiable results; 80% of students that go through the four-day college summit workshop graduate from college.

Educational inequality is something that I am eager to help combat. I hate societies ignorant reliance on affirmative action to provide diverse populations accessibility to education. Affirmative action is a cosmetic solution to a deep and monstrous problem. If communities pooled our energies (and our shitty government stops jacking around with public school funding) to provide assistance and support to the underrepresented populations at our colleges and workplaces, then diversity can be accomplished without the falsehood of ineffective laws. Diversity is essential to innovative thought, and to a peaceful global existence.

Friday night I came back to my room (our group stayed on the Illinois Wesleyan campus with the students), and I didn’t have the strength to read and comment over my group’s first drafts. After teaching workshops the entire day, I was utterly whipped. Saturday morning, I rose at 4:00am to complete the task before the workshop started at 9:00. Life flowed back to my limbs, and my spine hoisted itself upright when I read the group’s essays; they were beautiful—obscenely and undeniably beautiful.

Despite my initial exhaustion, I returned from the workshop Sunday night at 9:30pm with more energy than I’ve had in a while. We all need a reminder that the world is our oyster, at any time, at any age, and despite and circumstance. Possibilities are endless if you can only get to a place where you can fully embrace them. Every individual has a responsibility to the community to embrace possibility, because not only is it paramount to their personal success and happiness in life, but it is also paramount to peace and equality. Individuals who have embraced possibility have a responsibility to their communities to help others get to that place. It is my vision for the world that this approach will create a momentum that fuels itself, an endless cycle of receiving, achieving, and giving back. Peace is possible—we just have to be willing to go through the ringer for it.
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What is your vision for the world?

Being Mistaken for an Honest Person (my name is Truly, after all)
© The Author, 2005

Mary Ann
Once in middle school choir I was standing on the top bleacher (a prerequisite of a six-grade, six-foot Amazon) rehearsing a song about a river, when somebody farted—silent but deadly. We were all trapped with the smell, gagging as we inhaled deeply to sing through the phrase,“flowing water, gently flowing river, finding its path to the deep blue sea.” People laughed later because Mary Ann Treader’s face glowed bright red during the incident. She probably wasn’t the one to let it rip, but she was always embarrassed about other people’s cock-ups and quirks. Once at her birthday party in seventh grade she cried when Jenny drew pictures of sperms on the blackboard that her god-fearing family used to play wholesome games of Pictionary on. When Mary Ann’s mom came to tell us it was time for cake (which we were forced to pray for before eating) and saw the subversive sperms wiggling their merry way across the blackboard, she gasped. “They’re balloons,” I offered. My name is Truly, so she chose to belive me. That night a girl told us what the word “masterbation” meant and I inadvertently dry-heaved. I never lived it down. I was a late bloomer.

Brianna
During middle school I had one raggedy-assed bra that my mom bought for me. It was two grey cloth triangles sewn together with straps. Somebody made fun of me for not seeing straps beneath my shirt, so I was all for the trip to K-mart to be outfitted for a bra. When I showed it to my sometimes-best friend Brianna, she showed me how to stuff it, two little lumps growing steadily each week to bulbous perfection. At the time she had no boobs either (although later she was to grow enormous knockers to hang prettily from her tall, thin frame), so I completely trusted her advice. (I was not to grow much in terms of chest lard at all.) The next week I shoved some toilet paper (not too much) into the pathetic little triangles. While changing for gym one of these days, Brianna pointed at me and said loudly, accusingly, “you stuff your bra?!?” I looked down at my sunken-in chest to see huge bits of daffodil yellow toilet paper poking out absurdly from the confines of my silly grey triangles. I looked up to see the entire locker room—including my arch nemesis Heather Combs—staring at me. “No,” I said defiantly. I tried not to rush putting my gym shirt on—I didn’t want to encourage any doubt. Brianna and I continued to be friends afterwards like nothing ever happened. No one said much about the incident—I choose to think they believed me. Brianna died two years ago of brain cancer. I didn’t go to her funeral and I regret it. I can’t think of anything else I’ve ever regretted, including stuffing my bra.

Random Confessions of a Guilty Mind
I was 21 for two and 1/2 years. You might think this was a fallacy created to support multiple trips to the local watering holes like any normal college kid, but it wasn’t. I was sick of people’s relactions to a 19-year old gal who had chosen to make her awesome relationship legally binding. Trial and error taught me that 21 was an acceptable age for me to “be” when I reveled my marriage to other people (no, a ring doesn’t do this for me, since I only wear one if I’m in the mood to wear jewelry—which is only about 40% of the time). Now I often forget how old I am. I am twenty-three.

Today
“How are you?”
This was said to a in a heartfelt way to a stranger on a conference call at work. Like I give a shit.
“Sure, I’d love a doughnut!”
I HATE doughnuts. Why doesn’t anyone bring bagels to work for a tasty reason to socialize that doesn’t leave your teeth feeling like they are rotting from your mouth?
“I’m in the mood to write.”
Lets call this a half-truth, or an experiment to test if my ability to have my way with words has been revived. It hasn’t.
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How honest are you?

…I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel…
© The Author, 2005

I’m not thinking in words this week. Instead, my buzzing brain is alive with little movies of life’s possibilities that play in my head incessantly—images, clips, phrases repeated, noises, music, whiffs and sniffs. I can feel my hair growing, autumn encroaching. I can hear the fruit in the kitchen bowl ripening and then rotting. I can feel a change happening—the cataclysmic burst of my synapses learning something new (something damaging?) about adulthood, about the meaning of meaning. But words fail me. So I can’t really name what that something is. So here are some pictures for your enjoyment. I hope to be verbal again soon. Really, I do.

I like this picture. It’s by our apartment. I get sad when I look at it though. In real life, beyond the weeds a bit you can see a little encampment that a homeless man that I’ve named Jesus Dude (because of his long hair and constant shirtless-ness) lives in. Sometimes other shopping cart people camp out with him, but mostly I see him alone there, staring up at the sky.

The two pictures above were taken at Chicago Botanic Gardens, which is not in Chicago at all. It’s in Glencoe, which is a suburb that you have to take the commuter train to and then a slow Pace bus. Shaun and I nearly walked the two miles there before a Pace bus picked us up. It was worth the trip, though. Very pretty indeed. And free too!

The two gangly, lovely teenage guys are my brothers, Anthony (16) and Julian (13). The older gentlemen is my step-dad, and the young guy is my partner. They came for a visit in early May and I was able to snap a few family pictures by the lake. We walked all the way from Wicker Park to the Museum Campus that day. For those of you who are Chicagoans–yes, it took a really long time. But it made the pizza we ate for dinner that much more delicious.

This is just a little collage that I made last summer. I just thought I’d share, since the inside of my mind looks pretty much exactly like this picture right now.

This is a picture of me and my partner with our new nephew, baby Noah. This child is brought to you by Shaun’s lovely sister Melissa and her husband Pat. Noah is a cool baby. He digs us and we dig him too.

I named this one “Lovely Shaun,” because I think it’s lovely. I’m lucky to have someone look at me like that. It’s nice, you know?

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How are your thoughts compiled these days? Do you typically think in pictures or words?

P.S. Oh yeah–I forgot to mention: Dig my new profile pic! I’ve taken a few (orange) liberties with Mr. Roy Lichtenstein’s work, but I don’t think he’ll mind too much. Lichtenstein is a contemporary pop artist that I like. You might like him too. Click here to see if you dig him too!

AOL Polls Make Xanga Author Queasy
The Author, 2005

2.4 million U.S. citizens are in dire need of a lobotomy. According to the Tuesday, June 28th issue of bbcnews online, 2.4 million doltish Americans bolted online last week to take an AOL survey of the Top Ten Greatest American’s. The results are appalling.

Apparently, our country’s best figure of all time is Ronald Reagan. How embarrassing! But it gets worse. Take a look for yourself:

AOL Poll: Top 10 greatest Americans
1 Ronald Reagan
2 Abraham Lincoln
3 Martin Luther King
4 George Washington
5 Benjamin Franklin
6 George W Bush
7 Bill Clinton
8 Elvis Presley
9 Oprah Winfrey
10 Franklin D Roosevelt

How does Reagan trump Lincoln and MLK? Why is Elvis on the list? What on earth gives Oprah top billing? I’m sad that Americans really are that ignorant. As much as this country upsets me, we do indeed have our fair share of cool people. So that they don’t feel ignored by this awful slight that AOL has perpetrated, let’s take a moment to give them a few props, shall we? In no particular order, here we go:

The Top Ten Coolest Americans in History

César Chávez
This man forewent economic security in order to pursue equal rights for his Latino counterparts. An integral member of Community Service Organization, a Latino civil rights group, Chavez founded the United Farm Workers of America to fight for the rights of America’s migrant workers.

Harriet Tubman
Brave, heroic, and fearless, Harriet Tubman not only had the moxy to free herself from slavery, she assisted over 300 slaves to freedom as well.

Frederick Douglass
Even once he attained freedom by escaping from slavery, Douglass never lost his verve for freedom. Douglass risked his life daily, serving his fellow man as an abolitionist, editor, writer, orator, and public servant.

John Brown
John Brown kicks ass. In 1859, Brown led a raid of the federal arsenal in Virginia in order to steal the weapons that he planned to arm slaves with and start a revolution. While this attempt failed, Brown’s actions divided the nation and got people talking about aboloshing slavery, if only to save their white asses. Even though Brown was hung for his actions, he died knowing that he was a good man. Which wasn’t something most white men could say in 1859.

Mark Twain
Twain’s critiques of American society were done with such great style. If it weren’t for Twain’s concerned, funny, genuine, and impossibly human flair, I wonder if mainstream America would have ever been receptive to the very difficult things they needed to hear.

Martin Luther King Junior
Need I say more?

Margaret Sanger
I know, I know, you might be wondering, “what is that racist bitch doing on your list?” Even though Sanger founded Planned Parenthood for heart breakingly racist reasons (birth control was supposed to aid in maintaining some alleged “racial purity”), American women owe whatever shred of reproductive rights they have left to her. Conscientious American women can also be thankful that she died long before our time and we never had to boycott the pill because a racist bitch was profiting from it. I just wish that someone else stuck her neck out for a woman’s right to choose—someone who wasn’t a heinous freak interested in eugenics. Oh…the seedy underbelly of history sickens me so.

Sojourner Truth
Oh yes, Sojourner—you are a woman. One of the very best.

Tatanka Iyotaka (Chief Sitting Bull)
This Sioux chief lead his troops to conquer Custer. Iyotaka refused to relinquish his tribe’s land and relocate. Sadly, he was murdered by his own people after hideous white settlers bribed and threatened the weakest of his tribe to do so.

Dr. Huey P. Newton
Along with his friend Booby Seale, Dr. Newton was one of the founders of the Black Panther Movement. Forget about all the propaganda that you learned in your high school history classes about the Black Panthers and try a little research of your own. I’m sure you’ll find that Newton’s efforts are an example of how fiercely we should all love our communities. It sucks that there was a need for the Black Panthers, but our government is so racist and class-ist that I give props to anyone who is innovative enough to figure out a new solution.

The Top Ten Coolest Americans With a Pulse

Dennis Banks
This Native American activist and leader established the American Indian movement to protect the traditional ways of Indian people and to engage in legal cases protecting treaty rights of Natives. Banks was the principal negotiator when he led a group of Native Americans to complete a 71-day seizure of Wounded Knee in protest of a corrupt U.S. appointed leader to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. The U.S. government, crap-assed as it is, couldn’t handle the fact that Banks wanted to educate the public about the plight he felt his native nation was going through, so they appointed a puppet to run things at Pine Ridge. The U.S.’s decision to appoint a dummy to Pine Ridge probably wasn’t hurt by the fact that Banks lead his team to seize and occupy the Bureau of Indian Affairs Office a few months prior, but if the bureaucrats at this government office didn’t refuse meetings with the people of the American Indian Movement, then perhaps they wouldn’t have had a problem in the first place. Banks is a crusader and lucky for us, he’s still alive and kickin’.

San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom
If Gavin Newsom ever runs for president, I will quit my job and work to get him in office. With his controversial crusade for gay rights, Newsom has proven to be a man who devotes more time to helping his constituents than to playing the reelection game. He is the only reasonable American voice in politics.

Margaret Cho
Margaret Cho is not only hilarious, but she is a social critic, a feminist, and a model of how truly beautiful imperfection is. When you go to one of her shows, it feels like a pep rally, firing you up and fueling you for the next proverbial battle with our greedy, bigoted country.

John Stewart
Everything I said about the Cho, but you get to witness it nightly. Joy!

Dave Capelle
Dave Chappelle is a modern Mark Twain.

Howard Zinn
This man is brave enough to tell you all about America’s fat, ugly underbelly. And boy, does he do it well.

Studs Turkel
Same as Zinn, except he’s doubly cool for collecting the stories from actual people history happened to.

Laurie Henzel & Debbie Stoller, publishers of BUST Magaznie
This magazine is what every women’s magazine wishes it could be. It’s political, fun, creative, and it generally kicks ass. I’m so thankful that these publishers exist, because it makes me feel like I’m not the only woman alive who thinks our society is heinous and hilarious all at once. Check it out! Subscribe!

Joan Blades and Wes Boyd, founders of Moveon.org
These people changed the face of activism in America. While I’m not entirely sure it’s a good change, as the Internet is a quieter force than marches and demonstrations, at least it gets more people involved and is a great place to educate yourself about activism in the U.S.

Ira Glass
This American Life is my all-time favorite radio show. Ira Glass may not bring you the news, but the way he is able to uncover how contemporary life is affecting Americans gives us all a context to put the news in. This show is amazing, and I aspire to be just as cool as Ira.

Alright ladies and gents, I’m sure I missed many (I’m no History buff), so please leave your additions in the comment box. Piss on AOL. Xanga Polls are much cooler.

Who is your favorite American?

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edit: Timshead did well to remind me to rant about Bush listed as #6. I think I just ranted about him so much in person that I didn’t realise I neglected to actually write about it! So here you go: BUSH AT 6?!?!?!?WTF!?!?!?!?!