14 February, 2008

Funnest Valentine's find EVERRR!!!

donut shop diva - m4w - 30
Reply to: mail to:pers-574236638@craigslist.org
subject=donut shop diva
Date: 2008-02-14, 2:12PM PST

You, a petite little princess. I noticed you as soon as you walked into my doughnut shop. When I say "my" doughnut shop I don't mean that I own it. What I mean is that it's my hang out spot. I write my poetry there while I drink their low grade overpriced coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. Oh, and I eat doughnuts too. Like seven or eight while I'm there writing. But, it's not really "writing" so much as it is crafting or sculpting. Creating a poem is far more labor intensive than carving an ugly little woman out of marble. Ah, I digress…

When you came into my doughnut shop my heart stopped for a brief moment. Not because of your beauty, but because of the little beast dragging behind you. I knew you and I were meant to be together the very second I saw that you had a French Bulldog in tow. I overheard you call him Nuno (rhymes with Bruno) and I can only assume you thoughtfully named him after Nuno Bettencourt, the beloved long haired rocker from one of the best bands to emerge from, what I like to call, the era of hair-a, EXTREME. I too, am a proud owner of a dog breed that I have endeared with the following moniker: "Totally Tarded But Cuter Than Cute With A Snort More Powerful Than A Whale." Hanging just below where Nuno's tail should have been I couldn't help but notice his enormous scrotum, which was another sign that we HAVE TO meet. What my Frenchie lacks in scrotum, she more than makes up for with her ready and willing Frengina. Our little doggies should mate! I have no doubt in my mind that they would make a wonderful pair whose progeny would be the most precious salivating snorers this side of Bakersfield.

As for you and I…well, you ordered a sprinkled doughnut and one of those gay chai things, so I just don't think you and I would work out. Of course, I wouldn't be opposed to a meeting that consisted of ridiculously wonderful no strings attached meaningless sexy time.

You know where to find me.

Re. donut shop diva
Reply to: "mailto:pers-574323735@craigslist.org
subject=Re. donut shop diva
Date: 2008-02-14, 3:46PM PST

Donut shop Casanova...

Just as I was about to post a "missed connection" for you, I happily discovered that you had beaten me to the punch. I noticed you right away, mulling over "Youth in Revolt" in a most UN-revolting way, and I couldn't take my eyes off of you. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think we made "eyes" for a moment before you turned away to admire my well-endowed Frenchie. As you turned your head, your hair tousled like Mark Bolan during an encore of "20th Century Boy" and I felt my knees go soft. Your "wings" took my breath away. My dog was clearly smitten as well, and he has the most intuitive taste in men. Take it as a compliment that he sniffed your leg and a little tinkle came out.

As for you and I, well... Nuno and his magnificent scrotum were the fortuitous recipients of that rainbow sprinkled donut and the "gay chai thing"- which I'm sure you noticed, I ordered with air-quotes (just to make the Vietnamese clerk's day)... But to my dismay you ordered the pink, frosting-encrusted mess on the second shelf. Is that because it matched your "ALEX MADONNA LIVES" T-shirt, or the paint job on your car? Either way, I hesitate to further pursue a pepto-pink loving Mark Bolan lookalike such as yourself without (at the very least) the suggestion of flagrant, dirty, sexy time and arms full of Valentine's day offerings. Regardless...

I want you.

I'll find you.

Be ready with the economy pack of fun-time thingies.

Location: SLO- Sunshine Donuts
  • it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 574323735

13 February, 2008

Of all the fortuitous... "Cause & Effect" Magazine, March 2008

“I don’t know if you know anything about eating healthy, but…”

*Insert wide eyes and gaping mouth*

Of all the fortuitous… This question nearly knocked me off my barstool. I was completely unable to mutter an intelligible response, but he just kept talking- clearly not needing one… PHEW! I was off the hook. Still, for whatever outward composure I mustered, I didn’t hear another word he said for about five minutes. I was too consumed with the question, and the answer I never got out.

The resounding echo in my head, was “I’M PASSING!” and “HE HAS NO IDEA!”. There may even have been a “WOOO HOOO” in my mind, at some point. All these years, I’d lived my life in the long haired shadow of my parents, convinced, and begrudgingly content in the knowledge that I wore the effects of my upbringing on my sleeve. I imagined it emblazoned across my forehead, and flashing aglow in stinging neon lights…


But he hadn’t even noticed! He actually asked me if I knew anything about healthy eating! I became very quietly excited at this point. Maybe he thinks I’m a fast-food eater! Maybe he thinks that I don’t recycle! The prospect of passing as “normal” seemed so unbelievably far-fetched, that I’d grown up resigned to the fact that everyone just knew somehow that… I am a second-generation pseudo-hippie. A what? A child of pseudo-hippie parents. Organic spawn…
What does that mean, and why should I care, you say? Because I’m not alone in this, and I’m pretty thoroughly convinced that this little pocket of my generation, who can call themselves “pseudo-hippie children” will be a saving grace and vastly important voice of the global issues and modern art forms yet to come. We’re here now. We are teaching your children, designing your structures, and writing the books you read; and we are doing it with an advantage lacking in our predecessors. Pseudo-hippie parents. We are not a generation rebelling from the previous one, we are embracing them, learning from their mistakes and benefiting from their influence.
We are not children of the drugged out hippies of the 1960’s, but rather that of a mellower, second coming of post-Vietnam pseudo-hippie. They had traded Bob Dylan for Cat Stevens, and were too busy surfing to bother with protesting. They were neither a consumer generation, nor major proponents against one. They were a rather quiet people who would fashion themselves into the artisans, entrepreneurs and small business folk of the 1980’s and 90’s. Hardworking- but doing it for themselves, their families, and for the free time it afforded them. They taught us to recycle, eat organic, and “leave only footprints”. These pseudo-hippie parents cultivated in us an appreciation for artwork, music on vinyl, travel, and vintage treasures.
I would by no means, characterize myself as a hippie, in the stereotypical sense- or any other, but if I could step back from myself for a moment and take a truly objective stance, the term “pseudo-hippie” (dread-locked connotations and B.O. aside) would apply rather aptly to my life. My parents? Okay, they were tipping a little closer to our society’s definition of “hippie”. They burned incense, and the occasional joint well into their 20’s. They belonged to a food co-op, and relied upon Chinese herbal medicines for everything from aches and pains, to the Ebola virus. They made a comfortable living, but didn’t live to earn. Specifically, they prioritized in a very influential way. For example, it was common practice in our home to buy and restore well-made, but weathered furniture from thrift stores, but splurge on $1,200 sheets. Their eccentricities ranged from artsy to expert, to odd… Rare orchids were carefully hand-cultivated in the kitchen terrarium. Wood plank floors were beat-up with heavy chains to achieve a rustic, “lived in” look. The structural beams in our home were salvaged from a historic bridge. And though they both painted, an artist was commissioned to do a mural up the staircase. Dog food was made from scratch, and largely vegetarian. My mother sat in box seats at the Honolulu Opera House wearing vintage couture and restored jewels she’d found in estate sales.
Of the latter, I take enormous pride in this fact about her, and I know that this relaxed attitude toward luxury, and the collision of classes was an amazing gift to have passed on. My mom encouraged me to experiment with making my own clothing in high school, which actually made it possible to go without wanting to kill myself. She collected well-preserved cocktail dresses from the 1940’s and let me wear one to prom. She actually grew organic veggies in a garden behind our kitchen to make my baby food! Extremism in its sweetest form…
But admittedly, with parents like this, it’s not always a walk in the park… Case in point, my dad...
He’s been rebelling against the buzz-cut of his childhood, since high school. And I’m pretty sure that this hair issue was a catalyst in his moving out at 17. My dad is a ponytail man. It’s hard for me to admit that. Teenage flashbacks of Kira Sedgwick in “Singles” and her “Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Man” come clouding back and I’m reminded of my admittedly unfair prejudice against such tress-offending men. I’m slowly learning to deal with and accept this fact about my father, but it’s been a long, hard road to tolerance… And not unlike the secret hopes and dreams of children from broken homes, a part of me quietly dares to hope that one-day he’ll part ways with the tail and revert to the 1950’s buzz-cut my grandmother was so fond of forcing upon him. Couldn’t that be the mid-life crisis cut? The reclaiming of his youth? Why does it have to be the shaggy San Diego surf-rat hair of his teens? I say; if you’re clinging to your youth, go all the way! Take it up ten notches and go for broke! Go for your boyhood-at-the-barber-buzz-cut!
Yeah, clearly, I’ve got issues; but unless your dad is rocking hair longer than his adult daughter’s, don’t judge me. Though, for all the shameful hair-intolerance, and hideous alternative “cures” forced upon me, I have to hand it to them… They managed to curb mass influence, while instilling something invaluable in me- an open mind and an outside awareness lacking in so many people. Because of them, “healthy eating” was a non-issue, because there was never an alternative to it, and I’ve kept that with me (albeit with the occasional midnight organic milk and cookie binge). Art and literature appreciation was a way of life, and a respectful commentary on the world around me was as much a part of growing up as grass-stained knees and sunburns.
I’m slowly learning to take pride in this and see it as an advantage I’ve had in my life. So what if my lunch boxes were full of sprouts, carob bars, and cashew butter and jelly sandwiches? Who cares if chocolate milk was made with soy and prom dresses had been worn before? I can’t imagine having grown up in any other way, in any other home. They were thinking ahead and preparing me for a long and healthy life. And though I’ll choose not to make my own pet food, or marry a be-tailed man, I’m grateful for the experience.
And yes, I know a thing or two about eating healthy.

Banksy, From The Mouths of Babes- "Cause & Effect" Magazine, January 2008

I can’t be bothered... With anything.

Am I grouchy? Yes. Am I bitchy? Yes. In fact, I am probably the most moody, ill-tempered person I know. I am hardened and awful. Cynical and pessimistic… But once in a while life throws these little surprises at us- and good or bad, even I am not immune to them. Just when you think it’s all said and done, and it is the way it is… You’re set in your ways… You like what you like, and you hate what you hate… Life will flip you right onto your know-it-all ass.
It needn’t always be a major event. Even the little things can make you think twice; and thinking twice can change your life.
I'm writing about my experience visiting the Banksy exhibit in Los Angeles, and the responses my children had to it. Personally, I thought it was brilliant. I loved his lighthearted but indelicate approach to some very delicate issues... It piqued my curiosity and interest in this elusive fellow, and the more I learned about him, the more I liked him. And the more I liked his art…

We are learning that the people we trust with our liberty cannot be trusted.

Wow! That’s EXACTLY how I feel, Mr. Banks!

The time of getting fame for your name on its own is over. Artwork that is only about wanting to be famous will never make you famous. Any fame is a by-product of making something that means something. You don’t go to a restaurant and order a meal because you want to have a shit.

GENIUS, sir! And the man is funny!

But UGH!!! Am I just hopping on the Banksy bandwagon? I can’t handle that. I can’t be bothered with that… That’s enough to make me give up on Banksy altogether. Which wouldn’t make any difference to anyone, anyway. Except that I love that my kids got a chance to see this show, and that because I had an interest in him- they learned something about profundity and moral accountability. Even if they’re oblivious to it- their eyes were opened and it made them THINK. They asked me some pretty interesting questions about the art they saw there- some that I had difficulty in answering, and those are the BEST. My flipped-on-ass experience this month was really a gift.
I’ve always encouraged my children to think twice, think for themselves, and think as big as possible. I want them to be successful, smart and kind, it’s really important to me. And though I will always love and support my children in whatever path they choose, I’ve had a semi-plan in mind for them. But I’m realizing that success comes in many forms. That was my lesson.
A graffiti artist is not automatically a vandal; he has the opportunity to make himself a messenger. And though I want to contribute two empathetic and thoughtful people to this world, I’ve realized recently that I also want them to break rules, break boundaries and question authority. Even if mine is the authority in question... Maybe. And I really hope that Banksy’s parents (whomever they are) are very, very proud of their son.

Our last minute trip to Los Angeles
for the (now infamous) “Barely Legal” show, by British artist, Banksy was everything we expected And worse... It was chaotic. An urbane zoo, and media circus- complete with elephant!

38 year old “Tai”, was the highlight of the trip for my four and six year old children. Their opinions of her affected moreso by her “looooooooong eyelashes” and “soooooo cuuuuute pink color”, than the uproar she was causing among animal rights activists.

For the record, the paint used on her skin was non-toxic and she spent the majority of her time in a comfortable area behind the warehouse, only coming in for a short while at a time to stand in Banksy’s “living room”. In fact, we waited about 45 minutes to finally catch a glimpse. She was brought in, and offered an obscene amounts of carrots to munch on. She was by far, the main attraction, and stood oblivious to the scandal surrounding her.
Tai was taken home to her ranch each night, and on the third and final day of the show, by order of Los Angeles animal control, she lost her pretty pink paint job. No bother, Banksy’s “elephant in the room” had long since made its point. She represented “a problem we never talk about”, his politically charged theme of global injustice and social oppression. One rather large piece, in particular summed it all up quite nicely… Picnic”, featuring a white family picnicking oblivious to the 15 starving Africans around them, aptly took up an entire wall and could probably be considered a second “elephant in the room”. Angelina Jolie purchased this piece for $226,000; I won’t even comment on the irony in that- but I’m sure the artist is laughing all the way to the bank.

My four year old daughter had this to say about it:

It’s sad ‘cos the babies don’t have food. I’m mad because those people aren’t sharing, ‘cos I don’t like people that don’t share. ‘Cos that’s mean. ‘Cos I love babies.

Another piece, featuring Neolithic plains people throwing spears at some strikingly misplaced shopping carts; had a similar affect upon my six year old son:

Sad because they don’t have food in their shopping carts.

One of my very favorites was a piece featuring a series
of Blackhawk helicopters topped off with purdy pink bows…

For me, it represented the misguided intentions of war, and the neat little packages they wrap it in. Feeding us cyanide laced cake… It represents perfectly, Banky’s ability to send a politically charged message in a whimsical and humorous way. It’s a powerful practice in that it insights political commentary, and questions among those who may not otherwise have been aware… I like what he’s doing. I can appreciate anything that carries an opinion, and I respect his. According to my four year old, the group of helicopters were:

A family, and they’re leaving a junk place and going to a new place; ‘cos there was rubbish there, and yucky people."

I completely agree.

He’s gonna hit a bad person with flowers so bees will sting them. ‘Cos bad people don’t like it when they get stinged.

They’re Hawaiian kids and they’re standing on a car with a flag, ‘cos they wanna be like American kids. Isn’t it cool that I know everything about these pictures…?!


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