Shut Up and Talk

Slut

2006-07-13T20:21:00.000-04:00

This is the dumbest thing I have ever read. And how about the second to last paragraph about how the median number of sexual partners for women between 30 and 44 is four (?!?!?). Where I come from there is a word for women like that: Liars. Puh-leez.

Blazers and Blouses

2006-07-05T22:53:00.000-04:00

What the fuck is up with business attire? I recently started two summer gigs here in DC and one of them is in a gray, windowless cube farm where I am required to "dress for business" even though I sit at a computer all day and the only people I really see are the receptionist (who greets clients by phone and not in person, because you have to have an encoded card to get into the building) and my supervisor. Today, that supervisor told me that her boss asked her why I don't wear a blazer to the office. As she says this I am standing in front of her in striped dress slacks, a button down shirt, and a cutely matching (if I do say so myself) light sweater vest. Everything was clean, my hair was pulled back, no visible tattoos. How in the hell would a blazer make the situation any different? Am I just unaware of my own slovenliness and everyone on Earth, except for people like me, knows that blazers are the secret to masking inherent unprofessionality? Give me a fucking break. My supervisor isn't the sharpest of dressers and wears ugly shoes that show off her shitty pedicure. BUT. She keeps a blazer in her office, er, foamboard partitioned cubicle. So, I guess that redeems everything else.

I am beginning to believe that these business attire sanctions are being brought down on me as a demonstration of power relations in the office. It's a passive aggressive way for me to constantly be reminded that I am lowly intern (as if having it following my name on the email list isn't enough; there are 16 employees, I think people will remember which one the intern is) and so am not expected to have a personality. The excuse is that clients could pop in anytime, the reality is that they never do because the building houses a government agency and you gotta know the secret knock to get in. I have seen one client in the weeks that I have been there and he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He maybe looked in the direction of my cube for half a second. And I wasn't wearing a blazer, so chances are he's taking his business elsewhere and will tell all of his undoubtedly powerful peers to never step foot in that office.

I guess I just like to bitch about this job. I am officially a professional intern. I guess I could just suck it up and dress the part, but what I really want to do is wear something ridiculous (like a Juicy sweatsuit with matching fuzzy visor) and then flop down into my cube while saying something like, "Fuckin' A, my dogs are killing my ass" and then rip a big fart that echoes throughout the 8 foot high cubes of my not-peers. I think that if these people had any idea how well dressed and behaved I actually am while I am in there compared to the horror that the rest of the world is witness to, they might let the whole blazer thing go.

The Basics

2006-05-23T23:39:00.000-04:00

It's been blazing hot in Austin. It's the type of weather that makes everything move a little slower. Several days ago, knowing that we really had no other choice, Eastside, Spearlma, and myself decided to spend the afternoon on a porch under a fan drinking margaritas. It was the sort of drinking session that started with really well articulated conversation and banter that eventually devolved into us slamming our hands down on the table and burping out phrases like, "Lemme tell you a lil' sumfing" with one eye crossed. You know, a typical afternoon with the girls.

Anyway, we gots to talking about men, er... I mean, boys and decided that it was high time that we distinguished basic characteristics and qualities that guys must have if they are to be even remotely considered for potential dating. What prompted this conversation were some realizations about how little we have come to expect from guys. I think most people have criteria of some sort that they follow when it comes to the type of person they would like to date. I just think women have to compromise what they want more than men do. Okay, they don't HAVE to compromise, they just do. Or so it seems lately. Hence, The Basics: a semi-short list of qualities and characteristics that my girlfriends and I will use to navigate potential dates or mates. Essentially, if the dude I am dating lacks these things, I personally know, it will never go anywhere. Here they are in random order:

-ORAL SEX: Quite simply, if he doesn't do it, he is getting dumped. Oral sex should be offered without question, without whining, without complaining, and without need for an instruction manual (although women are usually happy to help!). Seriously, these are in completely random order. And don't try to give me any shit about a double standard, what is given (really, really well) is bound to be returned.

-SENSE OF HUMOR: It's really not enough to have a sense of humor anymore, a guy really needs an ability with humor. And not in a completely self-deprecating way, although being able to laugh at yourself is key. Humor should be playful and not immediately be met with defensiveness or always used in passive aggressive ways. If a man is pissed off at a woman, he shouldn't express it by making fun of her (and vice versa, of course). Goofiness. Laughability.

-TOLERANCE: Tolerance in this case refers to open-mindedness, not to a man putting up with a woman's, say, inappropriate and obnoxious drunken behavior in public (although, in my case, it's a must!). Social tolerance, not a bigot, or a fundamentalist. A slight amendment to this is a man who has specific convictions, about his religion for example, that he can articulate with reason.

-HEALTHY: No addictions, be it to drugs, booze, sex, Star Trek, gambling, computer games, porn, etc. Active, gets out of the house, tries new things, isn't incased in a world that doesn't have anything to do with the actual world around him. Seriously ladies, if you are still dating drug addicts or booze hounds or anyone that makes you take a back seat to a chemical or an inanimate object or a fantasy world, find another project. He will never change for you, so it's better to find one that is already interested in his own well-being.

-JOB: Must have a job or clearly articulated professional goals AND the skills and qualifications to meet those goals. And, I'm sorry, but wanting to be a rock star is not a professional goal, even if he plays an instrument. Unless he is some sort of musical prodigy, it's a hobby. No one is saying that men shouldn't explore new things and do what they love and be supported, they just need to have some fucking goals and some strategy for reaching them.

-TRANSPORT: Men need to have a license and a car or else some other sort of viable transport. Just be self-sufficient enough to get where you need to go. Or else you are annoying.

-TWO SPOONS RULE: This is Spearlma's genius, and it stems from a story— Spearlma and a guy she was (WAS) dating decided they wanted to eat some cereal, so they go into the kitchen, Spearlma grabs two bowls, dude grabs the milk out of the fridge and the cereal. Dude pours himself some cereal, Spearlma pours herself some cereal. Dude pours himself some milk, Spearlma pours herself some milk. Dude opens the drawer and grabs a spoon, and then proceeds to close the drawer and walk out of the kitchen. Aw, come the fuck on! He couldn't be bothered to grab TWO spoons?!?! Essentially, if a man is dateable he will have a sort of underlying anticipation for the little things you might need, like a fucking spoon for the cereal he just watched you pour. Sheesh.

-FAMILY TIES: Dateable men will have a healthy relationship with their families, without hanging on to their mother's apron strings. If there is family strife, there should be clearly understood and legitimate reasoning.

-HYGIENE: Yeah, this should go without saying, but it often needs to be said. Guys, please. Be well versed in personal hygiene and spatial cleanliness (clothes, home, car, office space, what have you). And have enough dishes and utensils to host a small, modest dinner party (paper plates do not count), including having toilet paper in your house. The only exceptions are guys that have no possessions because they have just come back from living in Zimbabwe where they were developing sustainable argicultural projects or guys that have been traveling for extended periods of time or the like. If you have a home, make it liveable and be presentable in it.

-SMARTS: Advanced literacy, political interest if not insight, strong perception of the world, critical ability, steeped in educational or worldly experience, genuine interest in learning and being educated.

-SKILLS: I think this becomes increasingly important the older that I get, but guys need to be socially versatile and socially skilled. Not like they need to be wheelers and dealers, but they need to be able to blend into formal work affairs, lunches with Grandma, and drinking binges with buddies and still maintain fundamental aspects of their own personality. Someone who is approachable and understands tact.

-SPACE: Dateable people in general must have an understanding of boundaries and be able to maintain a realistic view of a person's need for space, privacy, and time with friends.

-THREADS: Every man should own a suit that fits and is appropriate for weddings, funerals, graduations, job interviews, etc. Every man should also know how to tie a tie. If he wants dates.

-FEELINGS: Men need to have the ability to express their feelings without reverting to infancy or having to pull quotes from ACDC lyrics. Bon Jovi lyrics, however, will be considered. Seriously, just talk to us. And be willing to speak for yourselves... in words.

-PERIODS: This one was added by my dear friend, Briznooks. Any man who is grossed out or takes issue with the fact that women have menstrual cycles and biological functions that make us human, is a mamby-pamby milktoast of a boy who doesn't deserve dates. Go back to your Japanimation cartoons, lost cause, you will never understand the marvel that is woman from which all human life springs. You are not worthy.

-IN SUM: People need to understand that relationships shouldn't be about building someone's self-esteem or confidence or social ability, they are simply opportunities to compliment someone's characteristics with your own. So, have good characteristics. And, from here on out, jealousy will be understood as blatant lack of self-confidence, without which you cannot expect someone to commit themselves to you. Period.

I really don't think it's that demanding a list. It's the basics. It was pointed out to us that these are qualities that people should expect from each other in general, for friendship. And I agree.

Reconstruction in Progress

2006-03-07T00:30:00.000-05:00

I need badly to resurrect this sad little blog. Sitting here all dusty and stagnant and alone on the scary interweb. No visitors, just creepy automated posts by what seem to be robot Christian bloggers. Poor little blog.

The other day I was sitting at Hamilton Pool with Elliot drinking beers (grad school is so hard) and we were joking around about the phenomenon of life coaches who help people find their true bliss by encouraging them to follow their hearts away from the corporate world in order to open up boutique dog food shops or whatever. We were cracking up about it, trying on our life coach voices and all, rolling our eyes at how gullible people are. But fuck. For the last few months I have been sort of struggling to prioritize the steps I need to take to finish school and to find some sort of employment that I don't hate, and I gotta say that that shit is hard. And I am not saying that I need a life coach, you jerks, I'm just saying that it's hard to have your normal responsibilities and at the same time be in the process of planning your next step. Especially if that next step is a big one, like possibly moving to a new city, or back to one you came from so that you can commit yourself to a place long enough to make the sort of contacts and build the network you need to get the type of job you want. I personally feel like I need help, not just encouragement. It sucks to be in this weird sort of quasi-adult position where essentially the advice that you get from people is, "It's all going to work out in the end," or "You can do anything you put your mind to," or "You just got to get out there and do it." Um, DO FUCKING WHAT? A little soft-shoe? Balloon animals? An interpretative puppet show? What the fuck am I supposed to be doing? "Oh you'll figure it out..." Aw, shut up.

I am currently in a state of gross anti-productivity. I should be finishing up my master's degree and diligently working away on my master's project which is the last thing I have to do in order to be done. But it's not really happening. I've been thinking about it a lot (and why not? it's not like I'm fucking doing anything else) and my theory is that the light at the end of the tunnel is a little too close for comfort and it's hypnotizing me into inactivity. I'm a student, but I'm so close to being done that I feel like I should already have a job. But applying for jobs is so ruthlessly humbling that I spend most of my day licking my wounds and wasting a bunch of time and it has become pretty clear to me that I am pretty much just creating excuses for not being done with my degree on time so that I don't have to make any decisions about what I'm doing next. God, it feels good to say that.

Please understand, I truly appreciate the support and confidence of my loved ones, I really do. It's invaluable to me. But I also need someone to call me the fuck out when it's necessary (that was not an invitation), someone that is a little more in tune with the fact that people make lousy decisions and that I am fully capable of making some ridiculous ones and I might make a bad one again and it might fuck shit up for me. Ahh, Jesus, there it is. I'm not incapable of prioritizing, I'm scared of making the wrong decision. I'm generally a pretty confident person, but it only takes one really stupid decision (like say, leaving a perfectly good life to shack up with a drug addict who ends up breaking your heart and stealing all your shit) to make you think real hard on what it is you're about to do so that you don't find yourself in some unnecessary mess.

Man, it feels really good to articulate this. I've been convinced that I am just defective when it comes to transitions, but I'm not. I'm just scared. And that's sort of normal. And compared to the really stupid decision I mentioned above, pretty much every other option I have in my life right now would be an okay decision. I mean nothing that I decide at this point is going to cause my life to fall apart or my teeth to fall out no matter how many time I have that freaking dream.

It is a little daunting to be leaving the comfy confines of academia, not that it's the warmest place to be. I guess I keep waiting to feel like an adult with some mystical and unwavering security founded in my exceptional, grown-up competence. I think what I need to resign myself to is that me being an adult is pretty much this. Me. Now. It's almost comical. I have to have entire conversations with myself just to reassure myself that I am totally fine. Jesus.

Back to work on the project tomorrow.

Here's what I think about it.

2006-02-15T19:29:00.000-05:00

The African always feels endangered. Nature on this continent strikes such monstrous and aggressive poses, dons such vengeful and fearsome masks, sets such traps and ambushes, that man lives with a constant sense of anxiety about tomorrow, in unabating certainty and dread. Everything here appears in an inflated, unbridled, hysterically exaggerated form. If there is a storm, then the thunderbolts convulse the entire planet, the lightening tears the sky to shreds; if there is a downpour, then a veritable wall of water pours from the heavens, threatening at any moment now to drown us and pound us into the ground; if there is a drought, then it is one that does not leave a drop of water behind, and we die of thirst. There is nothing here to temper the relations between man and nature- no compromise, no in-between stages, no gradations. Only ceaseless struggle, battle, a fight to the finish. From birth until death, the African is on the front line, sparring with his continent’s exceptionally hostile nature, and the mere fact that he is alive and knows how to endure is his greatest triumph.

-Ryszard Kapuscinski, The Shadow of the Sun (1998)

More than a half-century of persistent efforts by the World Bank and others have not altered the stubborn reality of rural poverty, and the gap between rich and poor is widening. Most of the world’s poorest people still live in rural areas and this will continue for the foreseeable future. The day when the goals for international development will be met is still far off in many parts of the world.

-The World Bank, Reaching the Rural Poor (2003)

In early August 2005, I sat in a cushioned chair in an air-conditioned conference room at the US Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya with Warren “Buck” Buckingham, Interagency Coordinator for the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) and the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR). He was explaining to my colleagues and me the war the US government, his agency, the governments of various countries, and NGOs around the world are waging against the AIDS pandemic. During our meeting, Mr. Buckingham outlined for us how by working with Kenyan government and non-governmental organizations, USAID and PEPFAR were making it possible for people living with AIDS in Kenya and other countries to receive antiretroviral drugs (ARVs) that assist in pro-longing life by increasing the capacity of the immune systems in a most ARV recipients. My colleagues and I were moved by the progress we assumed was being made through the coordinated efforts of the various groups involved. We felt that real change was being accomplished.

About a week after meeting Buck Buckingham, I sat in a wooden chair in the mud-walled home of Clarice, a 35-year-old mother of three who was dying of AIDS related illnesses in a small fishing village in western Kenya. Prior to falling ill, Clarice, whose husband died of AIDS years earlier, was the breadwinner of the family, supporting her children and her elderly mother. Once Clarice was too sick to work, the family lost all monetary income and now survives by farming a small piece of land adjacent to their home. When I sat down to talk with Clarice she was lying on a thin plastic mattress on the floor of the home and had been lying there for 8 months, suffering from bedsores and lacking even the strength to sit up.

****

Kunya Village, on the shores of scenic Lake Victoria is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever visited. On the day of my team’s arrival, a brief rainstorm had moved through the area and left behind it a massive and stunning rainbow that hung over the lake and distant mountains. We stared up at the rainbow in awe, snapped pictures of one another beneath it, and walked around as if in a world we had never known existed. In many ways, we were in a world we had never known existed. As American, middle-class college and graduate students, we were traversing unfamiliar territory. We were walking around in a community that our privilege afforded us ignorance of. While Kunya Village is extraordinarily beautiful, it is also extremely poor and geographically isolated from more developed parts of Kenya; the nearest adequately equipped hospital is in the city of Kisumu, two hours away by vehicle. And there is a scarcity, if not a complete absence, of vehicles in Kunya Village.

Fishing is the main source of revenue in Kunya. Fishermen from various parts of western Kenya travel to villages like Kunya to take advantage of Lake Victoria’s bounties. The fishermen bring money and the basis for village markets, however small those markets may be. The fishermen are recognized as having money, and in a poor rural village this creates a lot of opportunity for transactional sex to take place. It is not abnormal for women living in extreme poverty in Kenya to trade sex not just for money, but more often for food, clothing, or other basic items for themselves or their families. The consequences of this practice are stark: in Kenya the HIV infection rate on average is about four percent of the population, but in Kunya Village, with a population of about 3,000, community health workers estimate that 1 in 5 people is HIV-positive.

Kunya Village has no water or sewer systems. The entire village collects water from Lake Victoria to wash clothes and cook. Residents often wade into the lake to bathe. Some residents must come from several miles away to collect water, and while some enjoy the luxury of donkeys to transport heavy water buckets, others (mostly women) simply balance buckets and basins on their heads to get the water to their homes. The guidebooks that my colleagues and I had with us warned us not even to dip our toes in the waters of Lake Victoria, much less drink it, due to infestations of water parasites.

Kunya Village doesn’t have electricity, emergency response service, organized trash collection, or public transportation of any sort. The conditions in Kunya Village are almost standard in rural parts of Kenya. While USAID and PEPFAR initiatives should be applauded, they cannot help the vast number of people living in villages like Kunya, where even when residents know that resources (such as government provided ARVs for HIV-positive citizens) exist, they do not expect to have access to them.

****

While the conditions in Kunya Village are not unique to rural communities in Kenya, it has two things that countless villages like it don’t: Mama na Dada Africa and the Kunya Clinic. Mama na Dada is a small, non-governmental grassroots organization created in Kunya Village in the late ‘90’s by Joyce Oneko, an attorney by trade who now runs the organization full-time. “When I started Mama na Dada (mother and sister in Swahili) what I wanted was to encourage girls to stay in school because I felt the longer they stay in school the less vulnerable they become and they become wiser. So, as we went on encouraging girls to stay in school we found all these other problems in the community.”

One fundamental problem that Joyce and her staff encountered was that most people in the village did not have the means to eat more than one meal a day, “if you don’t have food, there is no way you can do anything else.” Focusing on women, Mama na Dada developed programs to teach sustainable agricultural practices using goat breeding, efficient farming methods, and nutritional education. The organization also started a sewing group that provides young women vocational training they can use to generate an income for themselves and their families. Without the support of the sewing group and lacking vocational skills, members of the group would likely engage in transactional sex with fishermen to provide for their families.

Mama na Dada initiates numerous community meetings to provide residents of Kunya Village with health measures they can take to avoid preventable diseases like malaria and typhoid. Avoiding preventable diseases is simple in theory but the reality in Kunya Village is complicated. Water borne disease and illness, like typhoid or diarrhea, are extremely common because residents use contaminated water from Lake Victoria for everyday use. While boiling the water is a healthy option, Joyce explains that in Kunya Village, “you have to make a choice: are you going to drink water or are you going to cook food? There isn’t enough firewood for both.” Malaria can be prevented through correct use of mosquito nets but most residents don’t have the money it takes to purchase them. The work that Mama na Dada is doing is an obvious benefit to its community, but it is a small organization with few resources and its reach is limited.

In 1999, the Kunya Clinic was established in Kunya Village. Several community members identified the need for a health facility in the region and donated land for the clinic’s site. Funds were drawn from the World Bank’s Lake Victoria Environmental Project to have the clinic erected. Once the clinic was in place, the Kenyan government provided a government employed community health nurse, David Olouch. “My work is to improve the health status of this community through treatment, education, and immunization.”

David is the clinic’s only paid employee and after 6 years the clinic still lacks adequate supplies and storage facilities. Every three months the clinic receives rations of “essential medicines” from the Ministry of Health, but the supply does not reflect the actual needs of the community. Once a week, the clinic offers basic immunizations for people in Kunya Village, but because the clinic has no refrigeration, all of the vaccines must be used the day they are received from the district hospital. The consequences of this are that the number of people who show up for vaccinations may be larger than the number available, so they are told to come back the following week. Disappointed by being turned away the week before or burdened by other responsibilities, residents often don’t return, so vaccinations go to waste. “This can be solved,” explains David, “If we had a solar panel and a refrigerator, we can immunize them anytime they come. And then we can plan, we can calculate how much we need and then (the vaccines) are always accessible.” The inconsistency in resources affects the credibility of the clinic in the community, “If they have no faith in us, we can’t teach them.” Until the clinic becomes more stable in resource provision, the community will not depend on it as a source for health treatment and education.

Because both want to uplift the community, Mama na Dada and the Kunya Clinic work in partnership. “We work as partners because our aim is one,” says David, “We work as partners because we cannot do it alone.” Many of their joint efforts go into raising the level of awareness on HIV/AIDS in the community through outreach and education. In examining the obstacles that Mama na Dada and the Kunya Clinic are facing it becomes clear that mobilizing a community to invest in its own future health is difficult when a majority of the residents who make up the community struggle day to day to obtain basic resources, like food.

****

In 2000, the United Nations created its Millennium Declaration, described by Kofi Annan, UN Secretary, as “an unprecedented promise by world leaders to address, as a single package, peace, security, development, human rights and fundamental freedoms.” The Declaration outlines eight Millennium Development Goals: to eradicate extreme poverty and hunger, achieve universal primary education, promote gender equality and empower women, reduce child mortality, improve maternal health, combat HIV/AIDS, malaria and other diseases, ensure environmental sustainability, and develop a global partnership for development; all of this by the year 2015. In a progress report released this year to measure the progress made, Annan asserts that the Millennium Goals, “form a blueprint agreed by all the world’s countries and all the world’s leading development institutions- a set of simple but powerful objectives that every man and woman in the street, from New York to Nairobi to New Delhi, can easily support and understand” (3).

The objectives are easy enough to understand. The difficulty lies in their implementation. While the UN’s Declaration documents the agreement of various countries to scrutinize development issues around the world it does not show how to approach those issues effectively. The UN’s progress report, written prior to the September summit of world leaders to assess “how far their pledges have been fulfilled,” demonstrates that poverty in sub-Saharan Africa, already the poorest geographical location in the world, has worsened over the last 15 years. Nearly one-third of children in sub-Saharan Africa are malnourished. Two-fifths of the populations do not have access to safe sources of drinking water. The number of people in sub-Saharan Africa who die of AIDS each year is roughly equivalent to the number of those who become newly infected.

The rhetoric currently dominating development discourse orbits around the concept of civil society as the solution that will lead communities, cultures, and countries away from the social problems that affect them. Governments and international aid agencies are lauding NGOs, people’s organizations, religious groups, professional associations, civic clubs, and the media as holding the key to social progress. Literature found on the World Bank’s website defines civil society as, “the groups and organizations, both formal and informal, which act independently of the state and market to promote diverse interests in society,” and goes on to say that “while individual groups form the building blocks of civil society, the concept’s value lies in the extent and density of relations among groups as well as the synergy between civil society, state and market.” CIVICUS, an international “alliance” whose mission is to “strengthen citizen action and civil society throughout the world,” produced a collection of essays called Civil Society at the Millennium (1999), which is full of statements like, “Civil society has become a force for challenging existing policies and institutions to work for the poor, and in so doing, is reshaping the rules of the game” (p. 138).

I’m not sure what the original rules of the game were, but it seems as though the new ones are still exclusionary. Essentially, “civil society has been called upon to shoulder an increasing share of the responsibility for eradicating poverty” (p.137). Yet, for civil society to be effective in social development, some modicum of sustainability must already exist. Civil society thrives in “an intellectual space, one in which it is recognized that all individuals through their diverse associations and organizations have the right to contribute to discussions about how to organize their society, deal with its problems, and ultimately define what kind of development is required and desired” (Howell and Pearce, 2001, p.13). If the groups that constitute civil society are organized enough to affect government or policy, then they are already included in a system that recognizes them as agents of change:

While civil society has always existed, it is an arena fully realized only in social formations dominated by the capitalist mode of production and only alongside the existence of the bourgeoisie. Civil society is where the bourgeoisie exercises its social and economic power, and the state is an artificial unity that gives true freedom only to those who own the means of production (33).

What about those individuals or groups who still exist outside of an organized and systemic society? What about the people and the communities clinging to the grassroots, literally struggling to stay alive? “Time and money are both crucial to the functioning of civil society. Engagement in voluntary public activity assumes surplus time and energy, which may be unevenly distributed across society in terms of age, class, and gender and across societies” (108).

Millennium Goals declarations publicize the living conditions of a huge number of people around the world. Initiatives such as PEPFAR are admirable attempts to address pressing issues. Yet, they do not serve to strengthen the foundations of the countries they are working in. Employing civil society in development rhetoric creates assumptions that any group can organize themselves to the point of political viability, which doesn’t account for the social structures that must be in place for civil society to be an effective option. According to Adigun Agbaje (1991), donor efforts to strengthen civil society are “not likely to add up to a meaningful intervention in the development process if (they are) not complimented by appropriate action to repair the state to enhance its capacity for development oriented activity,” especially in African nations where, “in a situation of increasing poverty and international debt, African states are simply unable to attain high levels of grassroots development or to support non-state action…Given the reality of state failure and incapacitation, where is self-help voluntary action expected to get the resources…to do the job?” (pgs. 25,34). In the late 1990’s institutions like the World bank recognized the “need for some state intervention to guarantee minimum living standards,” but there are still no clear outlines for assisting developing governments in becoming capable of such intervention (Howell and Pearce, 2001, p.66).

The huge, deep-pocketed, donor agencies that assert themselves as the main players in international development are now a third sector, replete with bureaucracy susceptible to political pressure and blind to the social complexity that plagues under-developed countries. The World Bank makes it possible for projects like the Kunya Clinic to exist but it doesn’t ensure that such projects will be operational. While the third sector is successful in employing millions of people around the world in various civil society agency and advocacy departments, it has been ineffective in making accessible continuous support for small, localized, and effective grassroots efforts:

The realization that there are barriers to entry into civil society, and that civil society is as much a captured field as the state and economy, underpins the growing interest among donors, politicians, and policymakers in the idea of “social exclusion.” In the context of unequal economic and social power, is it possible to have parity of association and participation in civil or political society? How can “the poor” and those on the margins of society find a voice in civil society? How can they finance associations and campaigns when the resources of corporate capital and privileged social groups are so much greater? Whose interests do donors promote in their civil society strengthening programs? (86).

Joyce explains that, “the government has not been really helpful. And when I talk about the government, it also involves the other agencies that give funding, people like UNICEF, OXFAM, the CDC. They do not want to deal with the smaller agencies that are not known, so people like us who are doing grassroots work on the ground find it difficult to get money. About 15-20 years ago when the civil society, the non-profit organizations, started trying to do development work in the country there was so much money that an NGO would get people together and just do handouts. That has been so engrained in people in communities that it has taken their power away.”

According to Joyce, governments and development institutions should “teach people that we can actually use the resources we have to improve our lives.” Instead, these institutions are propagating verbose and romantic rhetoric about development potential, imposing a development standard that may not be realistic for communities struggling with sustainability, or failing to follow through on the efficacy of development efforts. Joyce cites the misuse of water in Kunya Village, noting that the village is on Lake Victoria, “we have a lot of water and we still have famine when it doesn’t rain. Why can’t we use this water to do irrigation? If the government gave a little bit of assistance and gave education to the people to explain that if you use this resource you will still be able to get the food you need, it would help.” The suggestions Joyce makes are simple: she argues “attitude change is one of the biggest challenges we (in Kenya) are facing.” An attitude that combines grand declarations with ground-level pessimism means that organizations and communities like hers don’t get the type of support that would make a sustainable difference.

****

My aim is not to suggest that donor and development institutions and industries are unnecessary or that their efforts are unquestionably futile. Social strides have been made in developing countries, particularly concerning the public dissemination of information on basic human rights, since donor and development institutions began operations 60 years ago. Development is a concept that demands fundamental cultural shifts to be successful, which requires the participation of citizens of developing nations. It has become clear in the last two decades as the West has attempted to aid countries like Kenya in creating economic and social sustainability that there is no tried and true model to employ to ensure a projected outcome. And as the rhetoric has shifted from a top down to a civil society initiated development approach, funding has spread out to address a wider variety of development issues and initiatives. Civil society, however, has its limits and is largely an intellectual theory that needs a basic social infrastructure in place to be effective.

Development has become a competitive enterprise in which struggling grassroots organizations and communities must fight to gain access to the most basic resources. For a community to be deserving of the types of infrastructure that would allow it to be sustainable, local, politically viable organizations savvy to the language of donor institutions must exist within it. Those communities that lack the types of organizations that could fight for their rights are completely off the development radar which means that the most disenfranchised, the most geographically isolated and the poorest people in the world are unaccounted for by civil society, development institutions, and their governments. So, while the United Nations creates its bulleted list of global problems to address in the next 15 years, a person like Clarice, who lives in a country now capable of supplying her with drugs that could prolong her life and allow her to provide for her family, remains a casualty of the present lack of infrastructure.

Toward the end of our trip in Kenya, my colleagues and I met once more with Buck Buckingham, the interagency coordinator for USAID and PEPFAR. We talked with him about how his agency’s efforts weren’t reaching people in rural parts of Kenya, that in those areas people were dying of, rather than living with, AIDS. We asked him what a country like Kenya needs in order to effectively deal with a problem like HIV/AIDS, especially when so many Kenyans are more concerned with eating than with being educated on the disease. He responded by saying that until countries like Kenya have sound governance that citizens have faith in, it doesn’t matter how much money and aid foreign bodies funnel in to deal with specific problems; it simply won’t be enough. President Bush’s PEPFAR program is committing 15 billion dollars over five years to fifteen developing countries. It is an ambitious project that demands the efforts of many people around the world. But until individuals, civil society, and donor institutions and industries are committed to strengthening the governments of developing nations so that infrastructures that citizens can build a society on exist, we can expect disappointment. The rhetoric may change, but the reality won’t.

Works Cited:

Agbaje, Adigun. “In search of Building Blocks: The State, Civil Society, Voluntary Action and Grassroot Development in Africa,” Africa Quarterly. Vol. 30, Num.3-4, 1991.

CIVICUS: World Alliance for Citizen Participation: http://www.civicus.org

Howell, Jude and Jenny Pearce. Civil Society and Development: A Critical Exploration. Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc: Boulder, CO. 2001.

Kapuscinski, Ryszard. The Shadow of the Sun. Vintage Books: New York, NY. 1998.

Weisen, Caitlin, Geoffrey D. Prewitt and Babar Sobhan. “Civil Society and Poverty: Whose Rights Count?,” Civil Society at the Millennium. Kumarian Press, Inc: West Hartford, CT. 1999.

The United Nations Millennium Development Goals and The Millennium Development Goals Report 2005 (book downloaded): http://www.un.org/millenniumgoals/index.asp

The World Bank. Reaching the Rural Poor: A Renewed Strategy for Rural Development. The International Bank for Reconstruction and Development/The World Bank: Washington, DC. 2003.

The World Bank: http://www.worldbank.org

Interviews:

Buckingham, Warren “Buck.” Interagency Coordinator, PEPFAR. August 9, 2005. Nairobi, Kenya.

Oluoch, David. Community Health Nurse, Kunya Clinic. August 22, 2005. Kunya Village, Kenya.

Oneko, Joyce. Founder and Director, Mama na Dada Africa. August 22, 2005. Kunya Village, Kenya.

Works Referenced:

Allen, Chris. “Who Needs Civil Society?” Review of African Political Economy. Vol. 24, Num. 73, September 1997.

Chazan, Naomi, et al. Politics and Society in Contemporary Africa. Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc: Boulder, CO. 1999.

Easterly, William. The Elusive Quest for Growth: Economists’ Adventures and Misadventures in the Tropics. MIT Press: Boston, MA. 2001.

Kenya Updates

2005-09-05T11:37:00.000-04:00

Nakuru, Kenya 8-10

Hello people. I'm writing from an internet cafe in Nakuru. I just bought some earrings from astreet vendor for 200 shillings, Roxanne is playing in the background, the sunis shining, life is beautiful.

We drove into Kericho yesterday and went to a rural community where there is a group of women who support orphans in their community who have been abandoned due to AIDS. Often, children are literally left alone to fend for themselvesif their parents die from AIDS. There was and continues to be a lot of stigmatization placed on people living with AIDS and children with AIDS are no exception. Things are changing though and we have met and talked with a lot of progressive minded folks who are doing amazing things for their community. Anyway, we went to this community yesterday and were greeted with people singing and dancing in their native language. It was literally one of the most amazing things I have ever been a part of in my life. I can't reallybegin to articulate it. It was just one of the most beautiful days I have ever experienced. All captured on film and video, of course. The children squealed with laughter every time I bent over and revealed the "drawing" on my back. By the end of the visit they were all calling me butterfly. I could literally cryjust thinking about it. That is a basic snapshot of how this trip is going. We have met the coolest people and seen some fucking amazing shit.

Some highlights:
-Zebras on the side of the road driving from Nairobi to Nakuru
-A rainbow that looked like it was being illuminated from inside
-A serious run in with some not-happy muslims in a slum in Nairobi
-Toilets that warrant having their picture taken
-having no recollection of the last time I showered
-Disco dancing to Bon Jovi at a club in Nakuru followed by drunken wrestlingthat resulted in the destruction of a perfectly good mosquito net

And we haven't even been here a week. Needless to say, I am having an amazing time. It's been nice knowing you. I am never coming back.

Much love, of course, Tamara

***********

Kitale, Kenya 8-16

Hello,people. So we are heading to Kitale today. It is about a 5 hour drive from Nakuru (where we are now) and is supposed to be more agricultural. I am really curious to see it as compared to Nakuru which is far less city-like than Nairobi. The further west we go, the more rural the areas we visit are. The rural areas tend more towards traditional cultural practices than the cities and apparently the areas around Kitale are the parts of the country where practices like wife inheritance still come into play. We will be spending 4 days with an orginazation called Common Ground which has program sites in the rural areas around Kitale and then we will go to the Nyanza province near LakeVictoria for 4 days to visit a program called Mama na Dada. There are descriptions of both at www.villagevolunteers.org under the 'programs' menu if you are so inclined. It will be nice to spend a few days with specific organizations rather than visiting a different organization or multiple organizations in a day. We are still having a good time although I have to say that things have been pretty heavy. The other day we went into a slum in Nakuru that borders a huge trash dump and we met with organized groups of people who literally live off of the trash that they collect. They have programs in place where people salvage trash to use as materials for making bags and such and an "organic" composting program. It makes sense that people use trash as a resource, but the fact that these groups are looking for help to assist them in living off of trash rather than attempting to make a different life for themselves is a sign of how dire alot of people's circumstances are here. At one point during the visit a woman from one of the groups wanted to lead us in a prayer and them proceeded to literally yell to god in swahili about the help that they need. I realizedthat I have never and problably will never need or want anything as bad as she does. As a lot of people here do. It is ridiculous how easy our lives are in comparison to others.

I have to go meet the team now to start heading out. The roads here are pretty rough to say the least, but we have a fearless driver named Kamau who has managed to see us through some pretty sketchy situations. He is a riot, barely speaks english but is prone to randomly yell out, TAM-A-RA, for no reason at all. It's good shit, I tell you. Apparently my name is the easiest for people to pronounce. The real difficulty comes when people try to say Matt or Courtney. They just quit trying after awhile. But, for whatever reason my name translates to them. Thanks Mama and Papa.

Hope all is well with you and yours. I will be in touch.

Much love always, TAM-A-RA

**************

Kisumu, Kenya 8-24

Hello people. So, we have spent the last week and a half in western Kenya, getting to know some awesome organizations. For the last four days we were in Kunya Village which is in the Nyanza provice right on Lake Victoria. We were staying with an organization called Mama na Dada and the grounds looked right over the lake and distant mountains. The second day we were there, there was this sick rainbow right over the lake. It was so fucking beautiful I didn't know what to do with myself. I almost threw up.

It's amazing that an area so physically beautiful can be so ravished by a disease. We spoke with community health care workers who estimate that one in five people in the area are infected with HIV. The Kenyan government has programs in place whereby HIV+ citizens who have white cell counts below a certain number are able to get ARVs for free. The problem is that it's really difficult for people in rural areas to get the drugs. Often, people won't be tested, even though they know that resources exist, simply because they know that they will not be able to get to the drungs consistantly. Kisumu is the closest city to Kunya Village and it takes about two hours to get to by car. And NO ONE has a car. They don't even have running water or electricity. All of their water comes from the lake, which is by no means clean (we were warned to not even dip a pinky toe in it, much less drink it) and the community health workers told us that while AIDS is devestating the community, large numbers of people die from diarehea due to contaminated water and food. It's literally a struggle for them to survive. Mind boggling.

I went on a home visit while we were there and I met a woman named Clarice who is dying of AIDS. She has three children and they all live with her mother who is the caregiver for all of them. They have no income and Clarice hasn't beenable to get off of her mattress for 8 months. She was very open and candid and even though at this point she is pretty much skeletal, you can tell she was once exceptionally beautiful. You could also tell from looking at her kids. We talked with her and when we left I thanked her and shook her hand. She is so small and thin, it's crazy. It was completely surreal to leave her little mudhouse and walk out and look across some of the most beautiful scenery i have ever seen in my life. Things are pretty heavy, but we still manage to have a good time. Many of the organization directors that we meet make comments about how much we laugh. The people here seem to enjoy the fact that we are always willing to make asses of ourselves singing and dancing with them and we gorge ourselves on the food they offer. We think we might be the only people to come to eastern Africa who manage to gain weight. Communication between the team is good, and we are all aware of the magnatude of the experience we are having. It has truly been anamazing trip. There are moments, both beautiful and devastating, burned into my mind that will never go away. Everyday is incredible.

On a lighter note, some highlights:
-The road to Kunya Village which was less a road and more a path for bikes and donkeys. Literally. It turned my ass into hamburger.
-No running water and 8 people in one room. By the end we went out in teams to scope out places to take a crap and high fived each other when we thought we had found a particularly sweet spot. Simple pleasures.
-I literally have no recollection of the last time I showered. I'm pretty sure there is something living in my hair.
-Standing in a windstorm at night looking over the lake while lightening lit up the sky. We had drank a lot of wine. I'm not going to lie, I took my shirt off. It was glorious.

I have to go, we are driving back to Nakuru today and then back to Nairobi tomorrow. The trip is coming to an end. I'm going to weep like a child when they drop me off at the airport.

Hope all is well.

Much love, Tamara

**********

Nairobi, Kenya 8-26

So we are back in Nairobi and I have to admit that I am really bummed about it. We have been able to see some amazing places and get to know some of the best people and now it really feels like the trip is over. Nairobi is a big, dirty city and we have a couple of days of work left and we are all completely burned out on the documentary tip. Today we are going into Kibera which is regarded as one of the worst slums in Africa. We drove through there the first week we were here, just on the outskirts, and while most people found our presence novel and humorous, at least once I heard a hearty, 'Fuck you' float out of the crowd. I know it will all be fine, but I am bitchy about being back in Nairobi and the fact that yesterday we had to say goodbye to Denis Kimambo, one of our guides,who I had grown really attached to. We meet him in Nakuru and we documented the work he is doing with community and street theater to raise awareness on HIV and AIDS in slums. He traveled with us to Kitale and Kunya Village and had really become a part of the group. Dropping him off yesterday, I felt that involuntary quiver in my chin and was sort of flooded by the realization of how far away my life is from this place. I am so happy that I have met the peoplethat I have along the way, but it always sucks to say goodbye not really knowing when or if you will see them again. Shitty. And it's gray, cold, and rainy in Nairobi. I need a hug.

We leave late Sunday night and get into Austin late Monday evening. We have a 9 hour layover in London, so we might try to pop into the city for lunch or to hit up a pub. No big deal.

It's a strange thing to be aware of life changing events as they are happening to you. The reality of the devestation of poverty and disease on developing countries is the burden of my generation, I think. If these issues aren't adequately addressed in my lifetime then I think it's fair to say that this generation will have failed. Of course, that is just my opinion.

I'll be okay, I promise. On a lighter note, in the hotel where we are currently staying, if you turn on the shower the water sprays directly into the toilet. It's fuckinh genius I tell you... genius.

Mad love always, Tamara

um, Hello?

2005-05-24T00:13:00.000-04:00

Is anyone even checking this shit anymore? The four of you that check it, I mean. Took me a little break, I did. Having some difficulty managing my time. Because I have far too much of it.

So, I have been trying to decide on what to talk about here and at first I wanted to talk about whether or not the internet is a viable place to meet people. I had all this ammo about Friendster and MySpace, and how if those sites are actual meeting places then I am being cock-blocked by some of the comments people post about me. My friendsters seem to make me sound gay, and my myspacers make me out to be a complete lush (hush your mouth people). But I'm bored with that already.

I want to talk about anticipation instead. And here is why: one of my best friends from high school, Summar, came to visit me in Austin and the first night she was in we went out downtown. It was Saturday night and Summar was all gimped out from a knee injury, and seeing that downtown Austin on the weekends is completely unnavigable by car, we got around on bike taxis. In case you don't know, bike taxis are everywhere around downtown Austin on the weekends. It's a pretty sweet deal, they take you to what ever bar you are hopping to and you pay them whatever you want, as they can only be paid in tips.

Anyway, it's the end of the night, bars are closing, and me and my lady friend are totally drunk. Me and ole' limpy wave down a bike taxi for the last leg of the evening and some random bike taxi dude picks us up and we are on our way. Being the obnoxious drunks that we are, we immediately start talking the guy up, friendly style, in no way implying that either of our ultimate motives was to hook up with this bike taxi dude. At some point, dude asks me for my phone number and thinking I would cut him off at the chase I asked for his number instead and then after he dropped us off I proceeded to leave some retarded message on his phone with Summar laughing her ass off in the background.

We go home and I, of course, proceed to completely forget about the entire encounter.

Fast-forward a few days and I begin to get calls from a number I don't recognize on my cell phone. Many calls. Producing many messages and text messages. Apparently bike taxi guy did not forget about the encounter and now, three days later, is hell bent on getting me to answer my phone. The thing is, I honestly could not pick this guy out in a line up, I have virtually no recollection of talking to him at all. And the messages he was leaving were seriously creepy and getting creepier and he is very, very insistent, and so... I never answered the phone. After two days of calling every few hours, he stops. I think I'm off the hook. Then a couple days later, he starts calling again and leaving messages that were genuinely becoming scary. He was trying to call me out on not having the human decency to return a phone call or the individuality to not "play the game." I must reiterate here that this was a guy I met for about 4 minutes while I was drunk and we had no physical contact whatsoever. All in all, and I am joking not at all about this, he left approximately 15 texts messages and about 30 minutes worth of voice mail messages on my cell phone. I crap you negatory (as my friendster Mike would say).

Now, I understand the apprehension one can have at attempting to contact someone that you barely know in order to, perhaps, get to know them. I am no stranger to making the first move, which makes me familiar with the anticipation of the response. And while my response to this particular advance was admittedly passive and maybe even cold (but come on, one four minute conversation doesn't obligate me to further dialogue I ain't interested in having), since when has disappointment not been a potential outcome of anticipation? And I say this as a realist, not a pessimist. If I had a dime for everytime I crossed my fingers and did a little prayer dance in hopes that on the other end of the ringing phone was some potential hook-up partner I would cash that shit in and buy every person I've ever pined for in my life a fucking steak dinner. With dessert. Not calling back is international code for getting blown off. Is it just me, or don't you sort of just chalk that shit up as their loss?

In thinking about this I was reminded of a game we used to play in elementary school called '7-Up.' Essentially, seven students were chosen from the class (of about 25-30) and they stood at the front of the class while the rest of the students put their heads down on their desks (no peeking!) with one fist out. The seven up would then mosey among their blinded classmates and each would choose one kid by tapping the kid's fist; the kid would respond to the tap by turning their closed fist into a thumbs-up. Once the seven up had each chosen a person the teacher would call out "SEVEN UP!" and everyone would raise their heads and those with their thumb up would try to guess who chose them. If they guessed correctly then they got to be one of the 7 up and so the game went.

I describe this game not because it translates into a really fun adult drinking game, but because I clearly remember the anticipation of having my head down on the desk, waiting, and hoping, and practically willing someone to touch my hand so I could put my thumb up. I remember hearing the seven kids up shuffling around my desk, I could sense them wanting to touch my hand. And when I was chosen, there was an almost tangible sense of satisfaction, marked by a private grin on my concealed face. I won't even go into the flushed anticipation that occurred when one of the seven up was a boy I had a crush on. My point though, is that sometimes, many times, I wouldn't get chosen. Crush or not. Sometimes I went several rounds without getting chosen; and my built up anticipation would drain out of me like a leaky balloon. But that was the game: sometimes you will be chosen, and sometimes you won't. You can't fight the anticipation, but you can't always expect that it will go your way. I don't think that sounds so ridiculous.

All of a sudden I realize the importance of teaching kids useful games. As well as the benefits of just fucking walking.

Sleepytime Lemon Traditions

2005-03-23T15:51:00.000-05:00

To witness the most honest and relevent discourse available about recent media spectacle, please click right here.

A New, Old Obsession

2005-03-01T00:25:00.000-05:00

I'm taking a class right now on history, nostalgia, and American collective memory. This week, I will present an article on the Enola Gay controversy that took place in the mid 1990's. A little background: the Enola Gay is the fighter plane that dropped the first atomic bomb over Hiroshima in 1945. In 1994, the Smithsonian proposed an historical exhibition on the events leading to and the results of the bombing, featuring the restored fuselage of the Enola Gay, photos and mementos from a destroyed Hiroshima, personal narratives from American soldiers and Japanese survivors, etc. The exhibition caused a huge controversy prompted by the right, namely the American legion, who felt that the exhibition was un-American in its attempts to present the motivations for and the effects of the bombing in a way that did not blow sunshine up Uncle Sam's ass. The right proved quite effective, evoking the Republican Congress to threaten the Smithsonian with restricting funds if curators of the museum didn't work with American veteran groups, rather than just professional, academic historians, in creating the exhibit. The Smithsonian eventually caved, which pissed off the left who effectively argued that the "historical cleansing" the American Legion and their ilk were pressing for, was just another way to hijack history in favor of a carefully constructed, pro-American rhetoric where the government is some icon of morality and all of its actions are justified. The exhibition was abandoned for years as those who valued their own memories and sentiments of the war and the bombings fought it out with those who valued interpreting the facts and documents in a historical context with effects relevant to contemporary culture.

I said more about that than I meant to. I really just want to talk about my petty ego. But this class has really got me thinking. If American history can be hijacked by and for political motivations, then what about our own histories? Our personal histories. What politics are they hijacked by? Something in one of the readings I had for this class keeps coming into my head: "Nostalgia and romanticism are the equivalents of forgetfulness." Yes, exactly. That one statement articulates sentiments that I have had for a long time but have been unable to put into words. What is it that causes us individually and collectively to substitute nostalgia or, god forbid, romanticism for our actual lived experience? Do we really just forget the truth?

Here's my petty example: I have been known to revisit old relationships. Old, tired ass relationships that ended for perfectly legitimate reasons that I conveniently seem to,... well, forget. It hasn't happened countless times, but it has happened enough for me to know that I don't want to date anyone that I have already dated and broke up with again. And again. And, yeah, I know, some relationships are on-again, off-again. That's not what I am talking about; I am talking about relationships that have been dead (and buried) for years. YEARS. In the most recent of amnesianic random encounters with an ex, I was starkly reminded that this was a person who I had grown so far away from in the relationship, while we were in it, that we became virtually unrecognizable to one another. But because the only remnants of the relationship that I have are goofy pictures of us cutting up and romanticized memories, I convince myself the relationship was all shits and giggles and then I am disappointed that it isn't anymore. Even though the relationship ended (badly) years ago. What the fuck is that? I want to be able to run into an ex, or an old friend from a million years ago who I have nothing in common with anymore, and not be forced to pull whatever shreds we can conjure from the past into the now as if an old relationship could arrive in the present in tact.

If I could create an exhibition of my life, I'm worried that I would only want my selective memory represented. The memories of myself and the community around me that reflect me at my best, rather than me as I actually have been. What do I gain by allowing myself to block out the uglier parts of my life and my relationships? Am I convincing myself that I am actually a specific type of person by actively pursuing the memories that are the most attractive to me? Not that I want to constantly relive painful experiences, I certainly don't. But I also don't want to delude myself into thinking that my experiences have been anything other than what they have actually been, even if they don't look good on paper.

I guess it's tacky, and offensive, to talk about atomic bombings and old relationships in the same breath (although, all of a sudden it doesn't seem so far fetched...). What I'm really at odds with right now is how fragile and malleable and deceptive memories can be. And how much I sort of feed into the deception in order to convince myself of how much I've changed, or to remember myself in a way I might never have actually been. I'm going to start a 'shitty moment' archive and fill it with all the crappy things I have seen and done and said. Something to remind me to not forget.

Oh. My. Shit.

2005-01-31T23:48:00.000-05:00

I had a really good day that was defecated upon about an hour ago.

Here's how it went: woke up to miserable, freezing drizzle and the type of gray day that makes time indistinguishable and eyelids heavy. Despite the weather I popped up, made tea, started doing some reading for my classes. I ended up getting a lot of work done (always nice for a Monday morning), listened to a couple of new cd's, cleaned up, bundled up, and took my ass to class. The class is on producing for independent film and documentary television and our guest speakers today were Jake Vaughan and Bryan Poyser who wrote, directed, and produced Dear Pillow, a little, low-budget nugget of goodness (and naughtiness) currently on the film festival circuit seeking distribution. They talked to us about the haphazard way they went about getting the film made (which proved quite humorous) and they showed us some deleted scenes, which made me happy because they were kind of raunchy. My joy in being shown these extra scenes stems from the fact that after the initial screening of the film (last week) some fucking whiney, mamby-pamby, wet blanket complained about the graphic content of the film. Fucking boo-hoo. You're in film school moron. Take your shit and transfer to the advertising department where you belong. Anyway, knowing that the complainer was being subject to a little more graphic content filled me with sinister glee. Because I'm mean.

After class, I walked and talked and giggled with my friend Kristen (EASTSIDE!!). We voiced our thoughts and concerns about this semester, generally looked at by both of us with an air of restrained optimism. Said goodbye to Kristen and headed to the grocery store which at 5pm on a Monday was a total madhouse. Got through it rather unscathed until I get out to my car which is all of sudden sporting a totally flat tire. Bitchin'. Luckily, moments earlier I had spotted my roommate's car as I was making my way through the parking lot. I called her (how do people live without cell phones?) and she came over and chatted with me and lent moral support while I changed the tire. We cracked up about feeling a little slighted that no one stopped to offer us help (it was drizzling after all), but then concluded if someone had stopped we would probably have gotten defensive (can't two females be gathered around a flat tire without someone thinking they are helpless?!?!). Despite the pain-in-the-assedness of having a flat tire, it really didn't ruin my day, although it did get me thinking about the shit I put off that I should deal with already. I should have gotten new tires as soon as I got back from break. And come to think of it, I need to take my ass (er, head) to the damned dentist before shit starts breaking down in there, too. Still, though, at this point, my day is officially NOT RUINED.

Back at home I gossip with my roommate while she cooks dinner. After dinner I read a magazine while reality television plays in the background, a perfectly delightful end to a perfectly good day. At 10pm (central) I turn on the Daily Show. Halfway through the show, cut for a commercial break and what comes on seriously breaks my heart. It was a motherfucking, goddamned, assball, shit heaping commercial for fucking Pringles potato chips that have goddamned NASCAR questions and answers printed ON THE FUCKING POTATO CHIPS. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. I had a small seizure on the couch and then sat baffled... BAFFLED... that we live in a country where it is someone's fucking job to come up with these sort of asinine marketing techniques so that the Pringles overlords can pat said person on the back and that fucking jerk-off American can drive home in his or her Dodge Stratus and sit satisfied whenever that stupid, fucking, idiotic NASCAR Pringles commercial comes on. Say it ain't so people. Potato chips with race car trivia written in MSG? Is this really an option that people need? Fucking fat Americans are rotten with choices about things that are useless to their lives and yet are somehow complacent as our actual rights are being whittled away. Having a billion potato chip flavors is really only the illusion of personal choice, you lard-drenched rednecks. NASCAR Pringles do not a democracy make. The absurdity exists not only in the fact that people are going to eat the motherfucking chips because they love NASCAR, but also in the fact that we are talking about a fucking huge mass of people that are going to gather around their greasy TV sets (chips in tow) or drive their bloated families from whatever red state they inhabit to Daytona to watch the shit and every goddamned one of them probably has a fucking American flag sticker prominently displayed on their F-350's. These are proud, ignorant Americans doing what they choose to do: eat fucking chips with shit written on them as cars race around a track while our country is at war over oil.

I, for one, am completely embarrassed.

Holla' Daze.

2005-01-11T01:20:00.000-05:00

Made it back to Austin in one piece. Four weeks of lunacy have finally caught up with me in the way of some gruesome flu-type bullshit that caused me to go deaf everytime one of the flights I was on went into initial descent. Yesterday, my head would throb everytime I coughed or sneezed or laughed or blinked, but that has (thankfully) subsided and today I could and did sneeze to my heart's desire. Still have a constant buzz in my head that I'm beginning to think is being caused by billions of dead brain cells having nowhere to go.

A rundown of my hollerday break:

Started it off in Austin, naturally, with my COWP muthaRTFers. Drinking felt bag after felt bag of Crown Royal (what the...?). Watched the rap videos Elliot made in Africa. Fucking genius, I tell you. Seriously amazing. Bid my colleagues a fond see-you-soon, packed my shit and headed to Chapel Hill, NC.

Almost cried when I saw Melis and Mike at the airport waiting for me. Man, I've been homesick. Went straight from the airport to the new bar Mike is a partner of. Some sort of communist republic motif going on in there. Very masculine. It took the place of GO! Studios, which was a little surreal. It looked familiar, but also wasn't. Anyway, it's not like I've never gotten drunk in that space, so it didn't take long to get comfortable. All the familiar faces made their way into my blurry sights at some point. It was comforting. For awhile before I got there, I was convinced that I missed everything about Chapel Hill. I guess that's not really the case. I miss very specific people and the type of spontaneity that exists around going out when you live in a small town and you know all the people that live there, too. You never really have to make plans. Just go to one of the bars that one of your friends owns or is employed by and poof!, you're out with friends.

It was so much fun though. Got a couple of wacky emails while I was there (...I love your silence). Threw down with my ladies Yeu-Li, Kristen, Isa, Amy Jae, Shannon (who I didn't see enough), Melissa, and the one... the only... that's right folks, Upper Decky Mormino. Are you kidding me? She might be one of the best ever created. Then, of course, there are the girls: Lyle, Mike (Peanuts) Ellis, Luke (where the hell were you?), Jebbie Downer, Richard and goddamned Jesse Paddock who intolerably lives up to his reputation as being one of the best people everyone who knows him will ever know. I laughed so hard, I seriously thought I was damaging organs. Had one of the surliest (and most delicious) holiday brunches ever concocted. Drank myself blind. Almost had a hernia watching the SNL hosted by Donald 'Wonk' Trump. People kept asking me the same questions, which I always hate, but I guess that's to be expected. I got some face time with the ones I wanted to (mostly). And when it was time for me to go, it didn't feel like I was being uprooted from home (although I am completely at home there), it felt like I was leaving the town where a bunch of friends that I love live. Left Chapel Hill and landed in Florida.

I accidentally purposely burned some bridges the last time I was in Florida, so I spent the entire 6 days hanging out with my family and driving around hunkered down in the car seat so as not to be noticed by anyone who might recognize me. It was actually really fun. The women in my family tend to be ab-surd including my puberty drenched 14-year-old cousin who is now taller than I am (fucking bizarro). There are so many inside jokes schilled out between all of us that words usually aren't necessary, just a look or a sound will suffice to have all of us rolling around like idiots. My dad is dating a doctor who just bought some swank digs right on the ocean. That didn't suck. Drinking wine in a fancy house, falling out the back door onto the beach. His lady is cool as shit, too, so I'm happy for the old man. It was good, old-fashioned, quality time with the family. The kind that needs to happen once a year. Once my time was up in Florida, I headed to NYC.

The NYC experience for me always happens before even getting to NYC. This trip was no exception. I get to the airport in Jacksonville, kiss my mom goodbye and head to my gate. When I get there the flight has been delayed so I go to sit in the bar and read while I wait. I order a drink(s) and after awhile I am lured into the conversation of the people next to me. I throw in my two cents and immediately this guy sticks out his hand and asks me my name. I shake his hand, tell him my name, he tells me his, and proceeds to keep a firm grip of my hand. Uh... what are you...? He says, "Put it together, girl." I study his face, turns out it's someone I know but didn't recognize (he had a beard last time I saw him), so OF COURSE we start flipping out, laughing our faces off, and taking shots. We figure out that we are on the same flight to New York and decide to head to the gate. When we get there the terminal is empty, departure gate door is closed. We pound our way onto the plane, which ends up being a 50 seat commuter and, of course, we are the last ones to board. And we're straight drunk. We come piling on the plane all swimmy eyed and swervy foot, I am almost positive that I used the tops of a couple of people's heads to keep my balance going down the aisle to our seats. Our steward talks like a talk show host and loves us immediately, cracking up into the mic as we throw the goat to him from the back of the plane. He doesn't even announce having booze in his drink cart, but we're pretty sure he's got some. And he does. By the time we get to New York we are fucking dopey drunk and somehow my buddy fanagles a limo to Brooklyn. So we cruise into Brooklyn in a fucking limo? I finally get to Lauren's in Chelsea, where I was staying, about four hours and many, many drinks later. I am there long enough to tell her about my flight and run-in with our mutual friend before one of our best friends, Brian, shows up ready to go out for, well, drinks. I was game. We end up at Tortilla Flats drinking 16oz PBRs while random, weirdo drunk dude (like I should talk) holds up tortilla chips end to end, trying to explain to us how tall our beers were. Oh, the antics. I had been in New York for about 3 hours at that point.

The two weeks in New York were a blur, but when thinking about it certain things pop clear as day into my mind: Brian doing the pant chaffing walk and imitating a Japanese cowboy waiter; the third degree burn on my hand (no recollection of doing it); me and Lauren dancing to Puerto Rican polka music on the street in Williamsburg on New Year's eve; the Ralph Ellison inspired photograph at the MoMA and the drop of blood on the floor that Brian and I found more perplexing than the exhibits; Indian food and heartbreak talk with Casey, Sara, and Leia (we're all better off); the hilarious yoga class I took with Lauren where she accidentally sat on my head and someone started snoring during meditation ("Breathe deep," SSSNNNNOOORRRE); Aaron Pollack, the charming, teapot carrying, felon who apparently owns most of Lower Manhattan and is NOT afraid to hug strangers; a fucking hilarious game of 90's Trivial Pursuit with Katie, Trevor and Brian (fucking floptical... so 1990's); buying prom dresses with Katie... because we need them; god damn $8.00 scotches at Amateur Night at the Apollo (hell yes!); drunken 'I love you, man' talks with Katie; Casey stumbling in drunk and proceeding to show us her goods; Katie's pre-birthday bash where our waitress bought us a bottle of wine for being so damned cool and then a night of debauchery ensued ("oops, I just ran into Chelsea Clinton and she's ugly." "Where is CBGB's at? We out looking for slits and cunnilingus." Then I think you need to be going thataway); serenading our cab driver with 'I Just Called to Say I Love You' cause he told us he liked sentimental music; OC marathon hosted by the eyebrow farmer; and the fucking HorseTray in the Ashfriend that will never, ever not be funny to me.

I didn't feel ready to leave New York. I guess I had just gotten used to being around my old peeps. About half-way back to Austin I started getting really excited about coming back. Flight arrived at sunset and certain things were obvious from the sky, the UT Tower, the Capital building. I have to say, despite my deafness, I felt a tangible happiness. It got even better when I saw my roommate's smiling face and then our sweet little abode. When I walked into my room my bed seemed like an old lover I had unknowingly been dying to see, causing me to crawl onto it and writhe uncontrollably as sounds of pleasure leaked out of my face. It was good to be gone, and now it's good to be back. Home is where the heart is, but sometimes home is where your shit is, too.

Austin, TX Bound.

2005-01-10T10:43:00.000-05:00

After a month of what can only be described as shenanigans, it is time to head home.

Soundtracks.

2004-12-13T01:57:00.000-05:00

Stemming from my recent obsession with hating cliches and then employing them in every aspect of my existence, I was on the horn today with my lady KayTay (BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!!) and we got to talking about how our lives could literally be laid out in music tracks:

Me: "How come there aren't guidance counselors for adults? Sometimes I need someone around to tell me I'm fucking it up. Someone who knows me..."

Katie: "Do you need, like, your own...personal...Jesus?"

Me: "Someone to hear my prayers..."

Katie: "Someone who cares."

Me: "DAMN IT!!"

There is something that compels me to believe, during the deepest depths of self-pity, that my specific variety of pain is completely unique to my own brand of sorrow. Turns out that that is complete bullshit. And to prove it, I need only tune into whatever classic or easy listening rock stations are available. Sooner or later, I find myself singing into my fist (like I'm the only one?), thinking, "You know, love really IS a battle field."

Seriously though, it's funny to think about how worked up I can get about something because it seems so isolated to me alone, but then there will be some song (sometimes an unlikely one) that will articulate perfectly whatever emotion I am convinced that no one but me has ever had. Not to mention songs that express emotions I've never known and yet I am completely rattled by. It's this sort of wonderful absurdity that music (sometimes really popular music) can deliver parts of your life to you in a way that still makes it feel like yours alone. It's crazy.

Katie and I went on to ponder whether or not we become involved in unwarranted (and often unnecessary) romantic drama because it makes for a good soundtrack. There is ALWAYS music associated with relationships and the more dramatic the relationship the wider the song selection can be. I mean, if you're in a relationship that has known no turmoil or darkness then the soundtrack is going to be mostly love songs with happy endings and songs that remind you of certain times you were together, blah blah boring. If there is some drama in the scene and sometimes you really like each other and other times you want to rip each other's faces off (a real soundtrack plus if these instances take place at a show) then the music starts to get a little more interesting. Things really get crazy if someone gets really, really hurt, or some raunchy cheating scandal is involved. That's the real moneymaker. I mean, as far as I am concerned, if a relationship ends and I am not cosmically forced to blast Dylan's "Don't Think Twice," then I was probably never really interested in the first place.

If I had to, I could reduce the skeleton of my year down to a few songs, some not even good, but relevant none the less. At the beginning of the year, I was in love. Stupid in love, like 'Open Arms' by Journey in love. Love is a real sonofabitch though, and before I knew it, it was kicking my ass. And winning. So, I turned to country music (and bourbon) for comfort, The Star Room Boys, 'Whiskey and You' ("and when the bottle runs empty, I'll be back feeling blue/But whiskey's still winning between whiskey and you") was, needless to say, on heavy rotation at all times. Eventually I had to get my shit together and that was accomplished with the help of a little band that I like to call Whitesnake who sing a little song called, "Here I Go Again on My Own." Maybe you've heard of it? If you know what it means to walk alone down the lonely street of dreams, then you probably have. For awhile I lived with Katie who would play me songs at top volume from her room down the hall, The Pretenders or Elton John jams, "Rolling like thun-DAH, under the covers!!!" Once summer rolled around, and there were some crazy changes on the horizon, M. Ward's 'Vincent o'Brien' was making a whole lot of sense to me ("I hope you get yourself together soon," yeah, no shit). Then I was hitting the road to move to Austin, and a road trip naturally implies Springsteen and Dylan, 'Born to Run' and 'Shelter from the Storm,' respectively; not to mention a little Willy Nelson, I won't bother naming the song. The fall was marked by change, insecurity, and homesickness so you could pretty much choose a song from any Mountain Goats album and add it to this year's soundtrack, but if I had to pick one, I'd say 'Balance.' There were moments of optimism, too, so I'd have to throw in a 'Now' by Grandaddy. I think I would sum things up with 'Sweet Thing' by Van Morrison because of how the weather has been here and because it reminds me of Chapel Hill, where I will be going in a couple of days, and because I won't stop playing it. And that's just off the top of my head. I could probably compile an extensive list of songs that were somehow crucial to my year. One's that would fit snugly even in the darkest little moments.

Maybe for 2005, I will put together a soundtrack and see if I can get my life to follow it.

This week, I am obsessed with this Built to Spill lyric, "And you'd better not be angry and you'd better not be sad. You'd better just enjoy the luxury of sympathy, if that's a luxury you have." Fuck yes.

Lessons.

2004-12-02T22:20:00.000-05:00

As the semester winds down, I sit back to think of what I have actually learned this fall:

1. I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever take another class that requires me to be a part of a group project. Group projects are for children who need to learn how to share, they are not for quasi-adults who are well aware that they are incapable of it. I can't remember the last time that I turned in a group project that I felt proud of. "In the real world, you have to work in groups all the time..," yeah, and in the real world there is a boss who delegates responsibility and if you don't pull your weight you get demoted AND if you do it well you get paid. Don't even try it with that shit about the real world, I am not hearing it.

2. It is a normalized practice of higher education to assign more reading than could possibly be covered in class. This will most likely NEVER change, so it's not even worth bitching about... it just is.

3. The anticipation of getting the work done is far worse than actually diving into the work and doing it. Once even the slightest amount of work is done the blurry silhouettes of relief and accomplishment appear on the horizon. From there it's just a matter of steady moving and slick maneuvering until you're counting down the hours to your next drunk.

4. Blogs, friendster, and freewillastrology (not to mention the entirety of the internet) are AMAZING tools for procrastination. Having a computer at your fingertips for writing papers is awesome, having the internet at your fingertips when you are supposed to be writing papers is pure evil.

5. Good people are everywhere. And they are accessible. I knew this before this fall, but it has definitely been driven home as the gospel these last few months.

6. Time heals all wounds (DAMN CLICHES!!). I gotta say, it's sort of true. That's not to say that you won't be left with a burly scar that you can point at and bitch about constantly though. Time doesn't heal cynicism. But cracking up helps.

7. Don't shit where you eat. Period.

I have exactly one full day of video editing (grrrrr), one 3 question take home exam, and one 5 page essay (that I will pull from my arse) left to do before I have one semester down. Then I am going to get drunk for a month. The end.

Etiquette.

2004-11-20T21:31:00.000-05:00

Last week I went to see The Weakerthans, who are straight up one of my favorite bands. Everytime I see them I turn into a hyperactive 12-year-old on a sugar high. Or rather, I turn into a drunkass 27-year-old who doesn't give a shit about screaming lyrics into people's ears while spilling beer on their shoes. Admittedly, I am not the most charming person to stand next to at shows. I tend to see shows as intimate interactions between artist and fans where verbal exchanges are not only acceptable, they are practically mandatory. The people around me rarely seem to feel the same way.

The show was at Emo's in Austin which isn't a huge venue but can still pack a pretty good crowd. It was crowded, but totally manageable. You could move around without much of a problem, so I figured wiggling my way up front wouldn't be that big a deal. I went with my friend Kristen (COWP represent!) after bar hopping for a couple of hours, so I was straight drunk by the time my Canadian heroes took the stage, and I was fucking PUMPED. The band starts ripping into their first song and immediately people are jumping and dancing around and singing and throwing fists into the air. Anyway, I start dancing and singing and the chick in front of me (standing with her arms crossed) starts turning around to give me the stank eye because, I guess, I touched her or something. Now, I have been at shows where other people's antics have fucking pissed me off. I can't remember the last time that it actually happened, but I know that it has. So when I saw the girl in front of me wanting me to notice her shitty look, I readjusted so as not to touch her. Honestly, I was so happy at this point that her crappy glances could not have fazed my mood. The second song starts and I am arm and arm with Kristen telling her that I love the song (I think I said this every time the song changed) and she suggests getting closer to the stage. The crowd was sort of broken up and there was room in front of the shitty-look giver, so we swooped around her toward the more openly bouncy people near the stage (MY PEOPLE!!). As we are passing her, this girl literally claws at my shirt. I'm not exaggerating, I'm talking fingernails. What the fuck is that about? She had plenty of room in front of her. And she was standing there lock kneed with her arms crossed, so it's not like she needed the space. I asked her if she was fucking kidding me, to which she rolled her eyes and recrossed her arms, tucking her claws into her pits.

The thing is, once we were in front of her the people around us couldn't have cared less about getting bumped or hearing me hoot and holler. As far as they were concerned, we were best friends, many of them throwing their arms over my shoulder while we belted out lyrics into each other's faces and jumped around like idiots. It was fantastic; we laughed hysterically and often. We left the show exhausted and happy. And wasted. I didn't remember until the next day that along with all my new buddies I had made at least one enemy.

I can't pretend that I am faultless at shows; I've heard audio recordings of shows where I was in attendance. They are testaments of my not-quietness. But it's a fucking rock and roll show. Rock and roll isn't supposed to be totally courteous is it? Am I the asshole for being excited and excitable while watching a band that I frequently blast in my bedroom while I dance and sing into my hairbrush? I can't stand the unspoken code that exists at some shows where to appreciate a band you have act like some sort of music snob who doesn't like to shake booty once in awhile. Get over the fucking posturing already. And put your fucking claws away. The whole head-bobbing, shoe-gazing phenomenon as audience participation has its place (I guess), but I don't think we should accept it as the only option. Sometimes, we should just rock the fuck out.

Strategery

2004-11-03T23:48:00.000-05:00

As coverage of the (god damned) elections started last night I placed and received several phone calls. Here are some highlights:
"Yeah, I'm on my way to the bar." -Melissa, NC
"All I know is that it's going to be cold in Canada." -Caroline, NC
"Finally!! We can get back to coat hanger abortions." -Katie, NYC

I had distinct fantasies of throwing my front door open at 2am on election night and as the street filled with the shouts of my joyously relieved neighbors I would blast 'Brand New Day' by Van Morrison and run around my yard singing into my wine bottle. And then me and my roommate and our neighbors would proceed to make a human pyramid because that's what carefree people do. Instead I spent the evening and the early morning of the election in front of the TV having a fit of spastic tics that I could only relieve through tedious house chores and by draining every vessel containing any remnants of alcohol into my gullet. This morning I woke up with a hangover and a clean kitchen and opted against Van Morrison in favor of 'Harder They Come' by Jimmy Cliff. And 'Many Rivers to Cross.' I mean, whatever, the whole album is good for down-on-your-(country's)-luck days... er, years? Fuck.

I have to say that I really thought Kerry could do it. I believed he was the guy. And not in the I-would-vote-for-a-ham-sandwich-as-long-as-it's-not-Bush way. Which, by the way, I would. But he impressed me during the Democratic nominee debates. Not as much as Al Sharpton, mind you, but I was on board. Before Bush did his victory lap this afternoon, every newscaster on the planet was projecting him to say, "The American people have spoken." Yep, they've spoken, and what they've said is that nearly half of the voting public wishes that Bush wasn't the guy in office. What a crushing victory.

So, what now? Sure, our economy is bad enough to affect generations that we can't even conceive of yet, and by the way you're not going to want to be (intentionally or accidentally) conceiving shit for the next four years unless you're prepared to live sans health insurance and to home school your kid because, well yeah, some Supreme Court appointments might be filled by some rather conservative justices. And yes, our country is at war and rapidly depleting human and social resources to fight terror, including the terrorists that take time out of their busy terrorist duties to dance, rosey-cheeked, across our TV screens to patronize our country. And maybe minimum wage isn't a realistic living wage and unemployment is devastating communities all over the country (hey, just send those people to community colleges!). And okay, so Social Security may or may not exist when we are old and riddled with diseases whose treatments couldn't be researched "ethically" according to an evangelical leader who was born again in the cafeteria of a Holiday Inn. I mean, is it really such a big deal?

Sigh. My hope is that people won't lose hope. I hope that leftist folks continue to demonstrate integrity by not abandoning the politics that are just. I think we will get through these next four years the same way we got through the last four: paycheck to paycheck, The Daily Show, biting sarcasm, extended international travel, pearls of optimism disguised as crippling cynicism, and lots and lots of drinking.

God Bless America.

The Politics of Lonely

2004-10-29T13:46:00.000-04:00

This morning I called my friend Brian in New York (whom I love franticly) and when he asked me how I was doing I found myself breaking down and saying that I was so lonesome that I could die. And in the moment that I was saying it, it didn't feel like an exaggeration.

I would like to be able to handle major transitions with a sort of grace that I have not yet been capable of. In fact, I would like to handle any situation with even a modicum of grace. Lately it seems like every attempt I make at handling anything at all ends in an almost comic state of disaster. In my efforts to be natural and spontaneous I end up drinking too much and then saying WAY too much and then feeling like a total ass the next day. It's like I am struggling to be myself, but what comes out is this side of me that is so needy and bothered and scared. It's obnoxious.

Trying to make new friends sucks. Having the people that you love the most spread out across the country sucks. I realize right now how spoiled I was in the place I lived before I moved to Austin. The community of people that I enjoyed there seemed to have come together so effortlessly, it was so easy to be a part of. And people knew me, they understood when to take me seriously and when to tell me to fuck off. So few explanations were needed.

That's what I miss the most right now. Just being able to say whatever I need to say to someone and not worry about coming across like a lunatic. Actually, I miss a lot more than that right now. I miss being able to walk out of my front door and stroll down the street knowing that somewhere in the next few blocks I'll run into someone I know. I miss a Tuesday night organically turning into a non-stop laugh riot because of a random assortment of accessible people. I miss being the first person that someone would call to come over if he or she needed some company for any fucking reason at all. DAMN IT. I am fucking lonely.

I'm struggling with the idea that in order to progress academically or professionally or howeverly you have to leave behind what may be the most comfortable to you. I consciously and willingly left that cozy little town because I felt like it was time. I felt like my life had to change so that I could make an effort to get to wherever it is that I think I need to get to. So now, here I am, taking these steps because something is compelling me to believe that it's what I have to do and all I can think about sometimes is what I would give for a few buddies to show up at my door with a case and nothing to do for the next few hours.

And sure, I know. These things take time. And fucking more time. Just give it time. I am over that shit. I'm impatient and impulsive. I'm not stoic or, I don't know,... calm. I need people. Comrades. Company. Laughter. I'm sick of small talk. In fact, I hate small talk. I need people to dive into shit with, fucking wade around and see what we can come up with. I need people who I can lock arms with as we set out to just be fucking ludicrous. I'm no good at being casual. Or lonely.

At least I know they're there though. My tribe. Thank fucking god. They may be spread out across this big, dumb ass country, but I can usually get one of them on the horn when I am in desperate need of reassurance. Which is all the fucking time, these days. I called Brian this morning in tears and by the time I got off the phone with him my stomach hurt from laughing so hard. I'm so grateful to that. It helps me to know that the reason it's hard to find genuine friends in a new place is because the standards I have for friendship are set by fantastic, beautiful people who may not be able to combust out of thin air onto the barstool next to me, even though I may want them to. Holy shit I miss my friends.

I know there are cool people here. I've met some of them. Most of them think I'm a fucking nut job, though. Whatever. I guess I'll just give it some time. Some wonderful fucking time. I hate when cliches become relevant to your life, it feels so pathetic. I need a fucking hug.

Mania.

2004-10-13T01:03:00.000-04:00

I have days when I am sure that I am witness to my own life spinning out of control, but then I will clean my room and do my laundry and all of sudden everything seems right again. I have days when I will find myself walking alone across campus or down the street and realize that I am about to burst into laughter prompted by nothing more than a random thought or memory cruising around my consciousness. I have days when out of the blue I know for a fact that if anyone utters even the slightest word to me, I will break down and cry. And then I have days when I am totally fine, not a care in the world.

In the last several years I have become a staunch advocate of having, experiencing, and expressing whatever emotion you are feeling while you are feeling it. Some people almost instinctively convert one emotion into another because it's easier to express. I used to turn everything into anger. If I was sad, disappointed, frustrated, confused, lonely, etc. the easiest I could think to deal with it was to become irrationally angry. I could come up with an endless list of reasons why I did this or I could sum it up in three words: fear of vulnerability.

I finally evolved from being angry all the time because (surprise, surprise) it was starting to drive me, my family, and my friends insane. Plus, I got a little older and realized how much of a weight it is to carry all that bullshit around. Anger will stew for as long as you let it until it finally just gets rotten. And, frankly, I'm not nearly as scared of vulnerability as I once was. I remember sitting at a bar (one so many of us know and love) a few years back having a heart to heart with my friend John about how no matter where you want to be, or where you want to get to in your life, you are only ever going to be exactly where you are. The present. Avoiding how you feel, trying to transform emotions when you're having them is essentially a way to not live in the present. We decided it was a good thing to embrace all the emotions that would inevitably run their course through our lives and our bodies because it meant we were human.

The thing is, now I feel like I'm a crazy person. A crazy person who is very open with her emotions. One day I'm laughing so hard my body feels like it's going to turn inside out and the next day I can literally see a heavy, little rain cloud hovering over my head. And maybe at this point some of you are thinking I should take my ass to doctor, what with all the happy pills on the market these days, but it's not like I'm dangerous crazy or inconsolable crazy; I just feel, I don't know... crazy.

Maybe "crazy" isn't the best choice of words, considering there are truly KUH-RAYZEE people out in the world. It's just that the older I get, the more my life seems like an experiment I conduct on myself. There's no way that it's "supposed" to be, there is no such thing as how I "normally" act because virtually every big thing or experience that happens is happening for the first time. How could I have a precedent? I don't even know how I'm going to feel from one day to the next emotionally. Emotions don't exist in categories, they exist on a spectrum. You can land anywhere and never've been there before. It's all brand new. And it's fucking crazy.

My dad tells me that your twenties can be the most emotionally intense years because every decision you make has the potential to affect the rest of your life. I'm going to go with him on this one. Maybe being a spazz right now will provide insight for me the future. Or maybe I'll just end up a 45 year old spazz. Whatever happens, I'm going to stop worrying about it today because I have laundry to do and my room is a mess.

Fashion Police

2004-09-24T17:14:00.000-04:00

Personally, I think there are some cool things going on with fashion these days. I am happy to see that the days of the grotesquely clunky shoe are over. It pleases me that men are no longer wearing stupidly baggy pants. Men's shoe options have gotten pretty good, too. No more Doc Marten's. Yes, I like it. I love that women are pairing heels with blue jeans. If you're a guy and can pull it off, I definitely dig the fitted sport jacket over a t-shirt and jeans. Good stuff, I could go on. But I won't.

I probably shouldn't always just take it upon myself to pass judgment on strangers. But we all make decisions about the ways in which we present ourselves to the world. It seems obvious that the way that we appear will convey certain messages to others about our personalities, our tastes, our grooming habits. I completely understand and support the idea of different strokes for different folks. But I still seem to have opinions about other people's, um... strokes. Let's just get down to it.

DREADLOCKS ON WHITE PEOPLE- Okay, first of all, I hate this shit. I always have, it's almost a principle at this point. I mean, why? Is it really that convenient? Are these people actually practicing Rastafarians? Dreads for religious reasons are one thing, otherwise what the fuck would possess you to choose a hairstyle that you have to shave off in order to change? And what's up with the nasty-ass, yarn laundry bag people wear on their heads to wrangle their dreaded locks? Gross. These days there seem to be two factions of white people dreadlock wearers: the Rob Zombie/Korn contingent and the Dirty Hippie. Nothing chaps my ass more than walking down the street and seeing a gaggle of pre-pubescent teens in black Insane Clown Posse t-shirts and the makings of some little nasty dreads. You look like a bunch of idiots. Go home and appreciate your parents. Dreads are not punk rock. Neither are they the icon for one-ness with nature. What's going on here? You're too one with the Earth to comb your hair? You don't think those braided, hemp Jerusalem cruisers you've got strapped to your feet are enough to convey your hippiness? You're earthy, we got it. Now please get away from me, I've heard that lice can jump.

SUPER SHORT SKIRTS- Now, I am down with a mini-skirt. Summer time, warm nights, tan gams, no problem. But there is a line (a panty line). If your skirt is so short that your bare ass hits the seat when you sit down, then it is too fucking short. Don't you care about sanitation? I'm no germ phobe but I'm also not into plopping my crotch down on dirty public furniture without substantial layers of fabric to protect it (I can already hear the comments flowing through some of your brains right now...). Seriously though, if not your own sanitation, think of mine. If you are wearing a too short skirt and a g-string, you are potentially leaving behind enough DNA to perform a pap smear every time you sit down. Please carry a wet-nap.

SHORTS TOO LONG TO BE SHORTS BUT TOO SHORT TO BE PANTS- Men can go very wrong when wearing shorts. Some just shouldn't. A man in too short shorts is not a pretty picture. On the other hand, what the fuck is up with shorts that hit the middle of your shins? Why not just wear pants? Man shorts should hit around the knees. Those ridiculous, long-ass shorts with the 3-foot back pocket are way 1996. Get rid of them. And if you are a long short wearer who also lets the waistband of said shorts hang below your ass, you are a moron. What are you doing? Pull your fucking pants up, slob. Have a little dignity for fuck's sake.

SHORTS OR PANTS WITH WORDS WRITTEN ACROSS THE ASS- God, this exhausts me. If this trend was ever novel, it's time has passed. It's annoying enough to have to read whatever school someone goes to when you're walking behind them, it becomes even worse when their ass is wearing descriptors. Understanding that sometimes the word is or coincides with the brand of clothes, I'm still convinced that the ladies sporting these items believe whole-heartedly that they actually are "Sassy" or "Juicy." Barf. Is this some sort of personality advertising? Why not choose a pair with something more relevant sprawled across the ass? "Vacant" or "Unoriginal" would probably work. In fact, I am anti any apparel with irony lacking personality traits displayed for the public. I don't give a shit if you're a "Spoiled Brat" or a "Heartbreaker." I'm clearly a "Total Bitch" but I don't feel the need to buy a t-shirt or a pair of shorts with the word ironed on to be validated.

Ahhh. So, that may be enough karma damage for now. It kills me, though. I certainly don't dress to impress all the time, but I also don't dress to confuse. With so many good, viable options out there, people are still content to look like jackasses. Ain't that America.

Let's Be Friends

2004-09-07T19:55:00.000-04:00

I have a lot of male friends. I am one of those that believes men and women can genuinely be friends, despite sexual tension. Or to spite it, maybe. I have certainly had crushes on a few of the men that I call my friends. And once or twice (okay, it's been many, many times) I have tested the limits of friendship to try to get someone to make-out with me (usually while they were drunk). Never has the result been the establishing of a 'friend with benefits' agreement, although I am enamored with the idea. More often than not, nothing has come (no pun intended) of my advances. Just friends.

For me, things get tricky when I am on the receiving end of advances from friends. Friends I do not want to make out with. My first reaction is a sort of resentment, the typical can't-men-and-women-just-be-friends-without-the-dumb-sexual-tension? This is, of course, a defense mechanism against feeling like an asshole for getting ready to reject the advances of a friend. Of course there will be sexual tension. Biologically, if you're a heterosexual woman, men are for having sex with. It's hard to avoid. My next, and more preferred reaction is rationalization. It's time-tested and true. Sometimes, getting physical (in the Olivia Newton-John sense of the word) with a buddy will really screw up that friendship. Period.

I am curious though, as to what degree of rejection is appropriate when it comes to the advances of a friend. Especially a friend who is doing their own rationalizing and questioning why it is that two people who seemingly enjoy each other's company aren't going to the next level. I once had some success at thwarting an advance by asking loudly, "So you think we should just start having sex now?" I guess the success came because the question caught my friend off guard and allowed both of us to consider how weird an idea it actually was. If he had pursued the issue though, how much information could I offer, by way of rejection, without damaging the friendship?

I guess what I am really thinking about is the fact that unless I want to tear off your clothes, I don't want to date you. And sometimes if I want to tear off your clothes, I still don't want to date you. But, I digress. I suppose it sounds completely shallow, probably because it is, but isn't there something to be said for straight up, down and dirty physical attraction? And yes, I have heard it a million times, the better you know a person, the more attractive they become (given they're a good person..., or that you like assholes). But, I also know myself, and if I didn't want to kiss you when we met, I'm not going to want to kiss you after you show me your bitchin' album collection or book of love poems. Maybe it's harsh, but it's honest.

Is it too much rejection to tell a friend making advances that you simply don't want to have sex with them? As a friend, is it your duty to concoct some rationalized tale of why it wouldn't work? Isn't that like lying? I am sure that my ego would be damaged if I were rejected on the grounds that I simply wasn't sexually attractive to the person I was pursuing. BUT, it would certainly keep me from having false hopes. Friendships, when good, are based on substance, not appearance. And yet, some sort of obligation arises when a friend makes sexual advances to downplay the very important aspect of physical, chemical attraction. In my quest to make this world a more honest place, I think we should be more honest. However shallow it may be.

Here we go...

2004-08-24T16:04:00.000-04:00

"The report said prisoner interrogation policies in Iraq were inadequate and deficient, and changes made by Rumsfeld between Dec. 2002 and April 2003 in what interrogation techniques were permitted contributed to uncertainties in the field as to what actions were allowed and what were forbidden."

Above is a direct quote from a Reuters article on the investigation into the abuse of Iraqi prisoners by American soldiers at Abu Ghraib, in a facility being used as a detention center. The article goes on to say that not only did Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld fail to exercise proper insight over "confusing detention policies," but also that the "interrogation techniques" employed at Abu Ghraib were, essentially, coercive techniques that Rumsfeld allowed for in Guantanamo which had migrated to the Middle-East, "where they were neither limited or safeguarded."

I don't know if you have seen the "unregulated" photos that prompted the investigation, but here is an idea: American soldiers, male and female, wearing plastic gloves and shit-eating grins pose with peace signs and thumbs-ups behind a pile of Iraqi detainees wearing nothing but masks or full hoods. There are numerous photos of 3 or more detainees at a time in homo-erotic positions, sitting on each other's faces, laps, shoulders, etc. When American soldiers are present in the photos, they literally look like they are laughing their asses off.

First of all, it is ridiculous to me that the humiliation and abuse of Iraqi soldiers is being pawned off as some sort of interrogation process. You cannot tell me that the behavior demonstrated by certain American soldiers in those photos was in any way contributing to American military intelligence. Give me a fucking break. Also, I highly doubt whether the captors in these cases were mixed up about "confusing detention policies." Which policy is it exactly that never quite says decisively whether or not it's correct military conduct to strip prisoners of war naked and make them stimulate gay sex? That one is so hard to figure out. I mean, maybe it's necessary, right? Come the fuck on.

The panel investigating the allegations (yeah sure, allegations), headed by former Defense Secretary James Schlesinger, has found that abuses against war prisoners are not limited to Abu Ghraib; there are approximately 300 cases being investigated between Guantanamo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Clearly, this wasn't just some slip-up by the officers at Abu Ghraib. Thank goodness there was a White House spokesman around to tell us what was really going on; Scott McClellan told reporters at Bush's ranch in Texas (does that guy ever work?) that, "it's important that those who are responsible for the appalling acts at Abu Ghraib are held accountable. It's also important to take a broad look and make sure that there are no systemic problems." You fucking ass-wipe. I'm pretty sure he said that last sentence while coughing into his hand. I encourage you to watch the news and see how the lying liars that make up our current administration are going to completely dance around this matter. It's going to be quite a show.

As for Rumsfeld, of course he won't be asked to resign, he probably won't even be asked to perform (despite ALLOWING abusive behavior at Guantanamo). He has heard what the investigating panel has to say and his response? Oh, it's a good one, he states, "the panel has provided important information and recommendations that will be of assistance in our ongoing efforts to improve detention operations." Well, golly, that's swell, Don. Did they mention anything about it looking really fucking bad and amoral for American fucking soldiers to abuse and humiliate war prisoners AND to capture it all on film for no fucking reason?!?! Was that part of the "important information?" Is it important for soldiers to be trained at all? Was that in the memo?

The report released by Schlesinger's panel states that, "The abuses were not just the failure of some individuals to follow known standards, and they are more than the failure of a few leaders to enforce proper discipline. There is both institutional and personal responsibility at higher levels."

Look, I won't pretend to know what it's like to be employed in a war. I cannot even begin to imagine the huge burden of stress that must accompany even having the smallest connection to fighting a war. Our administration however, our fucking Commander in Chief, and those people that hold his strings, cannot allow our soldiers to go into a war with the notion that abuse or humiliation as a war tactic is tolerable at any level. When soldiers assume that abuse of individuals is acceptable, the next step becomes torture, rape, ethnic cleansing, and genocide as a means to win a war. Those people over there are young, and scared, and probably mad as hell at most Iraqis they encounter, but it is our government who should be held accountable for those soldiers knowing what is right and wrong when it comes to war. And frankly, I don't trust this administration to maintain a moral responsibility in this war, I don't believe they care. They'd rather let a bunch of inexperienced, red-necks go over there and act at will and fucking call it patriotism. Wake me when it's over.

-all info gathered from Reuters and NY Times articles.

The Aggression Question

2004-08-19T00:31:00.000-04:00

Here's the scene: It is a beautiful Sunday afternoon here in Austin. I am laying in the sun, reading a book on the grass, after taking a dip in the the local spring. Perfect Sunday. It's pretty crowded at the springs, lots of good people watching (including a topless chick with nipple rings and a fucking red star tattooed ON HER FOREHEAD... no, I'm not kidding). As I am finishing a chapter, a fella decides on the spot of grass next to me, spreads out a towel, and heads for the water. I don't pay too much attention; it's a pretty good book. When this fella comes back to his towel, I notice something... he's totally hot. But not hot in that obnoxious I-bang-chicks-for-breakfast sort of way. Instead, he's healthy looking, nice face, excellent proportions, probably early thirties. Hot. As we are both laying there, alone, he gets a phone call. He is incredibly warm to the caller who is another guy (I know because he called him 'bro'). He makes small talk for a minute and then begins to describe where he is. As he is doing this, he looks in my exact direction and says, "Yep, it's looking pretty gorgeous out here today."

First of all, it was gorgeous out that day, and he may well have just been stating the obvious. If I, however, had gotten on the phone and proceeded to look his way and say something like, "Yeah, it's hot as shit out here, I'm all about it," I would completely accept him thinking that I was essentially referring to him. I won't try to say that I was looking "gorgeous," but I was half-naked and all wet (from swimming in the water, perverts) and we were all of two feet apart. I'm not saying he was hitting on me, but I'm not saying he wasn't hitting on me.

I felt I had two options: start talking this guy up and hope for the best, or sit tight and hope he starts talking me up. I continued to lay there, half reading my book, half straining my eyes to check him out, and what kept popping into my head was this question of aggression. I have always had a tendency to be (ahem) somewhat aggressive when it comes to pursuing men. Generally though, I become aggressive when I am sure that the targeted person is also attracted to me. Or when the targeted person is cornered and there is little chance of escape. It's definitely not that I prefer to be the aggressor, I just get tired of wondering, and I find the whole act of being coy rather boring. I am (almost) always flattered when a man approaches me in a not-cheesey way. But it truly doesn't happen too often. Not that I am belly-aching exactly, I am just stating the facts.

Anyway, back to being aggressive. I find that in certain aspects of my day to day life, being aggressive is an asset. I won't back down from an argument because a person is trying to be intimidating; I won't settle for less than I feel I deserve when it comes to work and academics; I initiate changes and activity in my life. Being aggressive helps me negotiate this world in a way that I accept. Being aggressive has also caused me to be labeled a hard-ass, a ball-breaker, and a macho, macho man. I don't know where I get my aggressive tendencies from, neither of my parents are particularly assertive, I never beat kids up on the playground (unless they started it), but it is definitely a quality that I can't be defined without. And it has always been something that (I know this is a generalization) I find unfeminine about myself. I am far, far, far away from ever being cast as dainty, but still, as a woman, I want to be feminine.

Of course, I do believe that the face of femininity is changing. But it is hard to shake the idea of my own face, in a determined effort to dive face first down the pants of the guy laying next to me on the grass, as being considerably unfeminine while in the midst of an aggressive pursuit. Do men like aggressive women? And if they do, do they consider such women to be particularly feminine? Does it even matter?

I continued to lay there, finishing my book, pondering this question of aggression. I am sure that I thought too much about it (when is that never the case?), but I decided against striking the conversation match. The hot fella next to me started for the water again, and convincing myself that I was getting too much sun, I packed my things and left.

In the end, with my femininity in tact, I feel like a fucking jackass. It's been three days since this happened, and I am still thinking about it. What a reward.