Heppy Bersday

I brought in the year with a bang, glass table. Plucked paper lemon trees, duct taped, extras cut and added when the weather warms. Del wrapped me sunshine in a solar paneled mason jar for when it gets dark and I want to seem candle-lit. (Girls peek confident when candle-lit, keeps bad guys at bay). Mideast feast munchies, yes please.

Heppy Bersday sung by three Japanese sushi-rice-smiling waitresses, in blue, with little sister. I blew out one previously used glittery pink candle atop a scoop of green tea ice cream, forgot to make a wish.

Daddy passed high school sweetheart class rings, inscribed, to the eldest, saying “she should have been your mother, the one who got away.”

Thanks all who shared my birthday with me! xo


To a Furrow-Browed Perfectionist, Who Studies Too Much

I learned an important lesson from someone who paid $600 to join a cult for a couple days. (maybe not one of those super radical ones, but enough that France thinks so).

This morning, you dressed yourself in plaid not stripes, and the choice you made was right. Every daring confession and dinosaur dream mumbled in vulnerable unconsciousness was said just in time and with poignant purpose. You choose one city of elaborate architecture over another and immediately you are where you belong.

The world spins, supposedly, with gravitational, tidal and convectional intention to keep our feet on earth. Have faith that Newtonian apples fallen were meant to cause revelation. Let the exclusion of stripes strip the reservation from plaid. Forget buyer’s remorse.

And I know well enough that you measure jumps with yard sticks, calculating distances, parabolas, on Excel spreadsheets, risk versus reward- graphed in pies and lines, tabulated. But sometimes when you’re too high to see the paths below splitting with just an inkling of where you should land, you should just maybe hold your breath and jump. Land infallibly- you always do.



Punk'd: Mac Edition

These people would be named Ed and Dolores.

You know that Mac app where you can distort your face all crazy? What. the. fuck. The other night me and the boy sat in front of his computer, his lap numb from me parking my fat ass on it, making the most absurd faces at his computer. We made aliens, and camels, and today he showed me the birth scene he made after I went to bed. And we did this happily for the greater part of an hour.

If I weren’t doing it in good company, I would totally petition to get back that hour of my life. But I had a brilliant idea today when I was working -- how funny would it be if you could webcam your friends’ faces as they played with that stupid app? They would be so embarrassed. And being a good friend, you would conveniently send them the youtube link where you’ve already uploaded this hilarity for the larger online community. Try explaining that video to your parents who still aren’t sure how to program numbers into their cellular telephones.


And can we talk about some of the options? Yay! you no longer need any photoshop skills to make yourself into a comic book character, or put yourself in an aquarium scene, or my personal favorite, pop “art” of yourself. (Warhol would have loved this) Can you imagine the first people that invented the computer, the kind that took up entire rooms, and have to explain to them?

“Yeah, we got this computer thing down to 5ish pounds and when you’re not accessing all the world’s knowledge on the (insert finger quotes) ‘internet,’ you can make yourself a cyclops!”

The Camel

Just judging by the stupid shit I did to make that camel face, I can imagine how creative some people get. (Confession: I smooshed my boobs together using the fish eye lens to see what it would look like if I got fake titties. (and I hate that MSWord tells me that ‘titties’ is spelled wrong, because I’m 100% sure it’s not))

Why hasn’t someone been punk’d by this yet?

DISCLAIMER: the male figure in these pictures is fictional representation. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental. This person is definitely not running for public office in the future. So forget you saw it here.


Erin Expressed

Erin Express is perhaps the saddest holiday celebrated by my generation. For those too cool to acknowledge that you know exactly what Erin Express is, it is a day where college students and still-irresponsible young professionals wake up early the Saturday before St. Patty’s Day and get wasted at a variety of Irish pubs. This day is also sometimes called “St. Practice Day,” as if you need to practice your shitfaced waddle, and keeping down everything you ate during the 8am “Keggs and Eggs Party.”

I had the pleasure of working the front desk Saturday morning, and at 9am I bid farewell to a harem of girls dressed in green terrycloth dresses and green eyeliner shamrock tattoos. They looked beautiful, and I’m glad they didn’t wear coats so that I could see more of their outfits. They were home and passed out by 3. lightweights.

My favorite Erin Express memory this year (which I’ll cherish because so many will not have any memory of this day), was when I was walking to the library around 2pm. A girl was crying because she had peed on her own Uggs while a Public Safety officer tried to pull her out of a bush, in front of the library’s giant glass windows, which face Market Street.

Like maybe I’m a dowdy old hag who would rather work on her research papers than rehash stout and scrambled eggs, but isn’t this holiday a wee bit silly?

(Get it? Wee?)

Erin Express is kinda cheap and trashy if done right, but if you’re looking for something for uncool people- you’ll find me doing $5 carbombs at J.L. Sullivan’s this Tuesday after work, in my sensible heels and slacks.


Jesus Loves Me

About a month ago, I was standing on campus handing out condoms with labels that read “Save the Wood.” It was my ever-clever membership campaign for Sierra Club. A fine gentleman came up to me and handed a couple condoms back to me and told me he didn’t need them- which was quite brazen, I thought.

“Don’t you think you’re encouraging pre-martial sex?”

And this is how I met John. He asked me a couple questions about my religious beliefs as I continued to hand out rubbers to strangers. He seemed particularly concerned that I did not believe in heaven or hell, and my ideas about premarital sex were quite liberal. After 10 minutes, he left and said he would check out Sierra Club. Yeah, right, dude.

But he did. And afterwards we had a long conversation about our individual beliefs. He’s an evangelical christian, which I nearly had a “virtual baby” over. According to John, if you get a hard-on, you’ve had sex, and thusly have sinned. Additionally, very few people get into heaven because we’re all filthy adulterous sinning thieves. And if he had to console a woman who had just had an abortion he would simply say, “It’s not the first time you’ve killed someone” because technically she (and everyone else) has killed Christ too.

In short, we have very few things in common, except that we both find the Flying Spaghetti Monster hilarious. (personally, I think it’s the creation of pretentious atheists who love picking on scrawny christians. So dick.)

Because John came and checked out my tree-hugging crew, I was obligated to check out his bible-thumping crew: Campus Crusade for Christ. As soon as I walked into the meeting, there was a huge banner and those flags you see at used car dealerships. It was a Christ Carnival. Walking towards the front of the room, I was greeted by literally every person I passed. At last I found John and he told me that I could sit next to Holly. Well I sat down, and within five minutes, Holly moved her shit to another seat. She could smell my heathenism, and it smelled like Origins’ ginger perfume, burrito, and pheromones.

The meeting started off with everyone standing (now I remember why I disliked church: you just can’t casually sit and bear it. There’s all sorts of sitting-standing-kneeling-standing involved). So the Crusaders have their own house band, and John’s the drummer. Everyone sang along to a couple songs about loving Jesus, the guitarist frequently interjecting things like “All together now! Jesus we love you!”and “We are not worthy!”

Then my favorite part: Prayer Points!

And this is not something you cut off your Jesus Wheaties box and mail in for a free t-shirt. Prayer points were things you should pray for, in groups. So I found three random dudes to pray with. One guy introduced himself as “JC” and I couldn’t help but say “Oh! Like Jesus Christ!” He didn’t seem to get it. When JC suggested that I take the “help sinners bear fruit in Christ” bullet point, I politely asked the skinniest christian to do it for me, being that I was new and all. Pretty much this is the script for prayer points:

“Dear Lord, I just want to thank you for your grace, and bringing me to you, Father. I want to pray for ___(Insert Prayer Point)____. Father,_____________. Dear Lord, we are nothing in your glory, Father,” etc. etc.

After prayer points, there was a speaker on how to live an evangelical lifestyle and how to convince unbelievers to come to the christian community. He gave an outline of questions to use to engage unbelievers, and god damn it, it was the same script John used to get me there in the first place! So much for going as the open-minded atheist. I was duked.

After the speaker, there were some more prayer points. And more singing.

Now it’s two hours later, and really, I’ve had all the Christ I can take for one evening, so I tell John politely that I have to leave. Later he would email me to thank me for coming out and to invite me and a guest to “35,” one of the Crusade houses for a potluck dinner. I plan on asking my atheist other if he would like to go to the epicenter of organized evangelical Christianity, a plate of vegan tacos in hand.


Washington, Washington

This past weekend I was in Washington DC for PowerShift 2009. IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME.

“Civil Rights, Hip Hop and the New Eco-Equity Movement” was by far the best workshop. Reverend Lennox Yearwood put some fire in our bellies (at 9am) and I’m furthermore convinced that I want to drop out of college, move to Oakland, and sell my soul to Van Jones.

But after three days in our national’s capitol, I have come to another important realization, one that has implications for my own personal life: Washington has no soul. Cool people who go to Washington DC will inevitably be drained of whatever made them unique and special in the first place.

See, the boy has been accepted at Georgetown Law, and at first I was super stoked because Washington seemed like a cool town that I’d like to visit. Plus I guess it’s a pretty good school or something.

But then I had to pay $10 for a Cosi salad, which angered me some. And then I realized that everyone is a sad walking Brooks Brothers suit, aged 30-50 years. Even at a cafĂ© called “Bus Boys and Poets,” the people were dreadfully one-dimensional. Also, the White House is not so cool, which is kinda surprising.

I think much of this stems from the fact that Washington is a city carried by diplomats, while Philly is rooted by immigrants. There is no cheesesteak equivalent in DC. It’s a third of the size of Philadelphia, and there’s no “cool” part of town. A block of Chinatown was kinda groovy- you can even get duck blood with scallion and ginger there. Oh la la.

So I know this post is fraught with self-serving intentions (DON’T GO! GEORGETOWN, BAD), but seriously, Washington DC is not that cool when Reverend isn’t there. Not even Obama can make it look less… pasty.

Lesson Learned: Blog Smack

I’d like to say that I’ve learned a valuable lesson today, that talking smack online is wack. But the bigger lesson learned is that creeps will find you no matter what. And by resurfacing in unconnected facets of my life, they will reveal their true character. This is factual. The link to this blog is not posted on my facebook, myspace, or bebo. I think I might have included a link to a post via twitter, but that was a long time ago.

Likely, you are reading this because:
- I sent you the link
- a friend sent you the link
- it was featured somewhere and you randomly checked it out amidst thousands of other blogs
- you’re a lesbian who’s into social networking

If you fit into the above criteria and you dig me, I dig you. Welcome to the Yukon Tickertape. If you do not fit into these criteria, you are source for suspect. Tread carefully.

This is kinda feels like that time when a past love got really upset because I casually mentioned on this blog that I found a complete stranger attractive. Well, he was good looking. I can say such things without prosecution- online or off. And similarly, six months ago, I realized this other person was totally not for me for a variety of reasons that I outlined quite comically. (or at least I thought so)

The fact of the matter is that I speak truths, son. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I know your outlook towards the opposite sex is already iffy. Girls are mean, even the nice ones. It’s a good thing that you learn this now while you’re young.

p.s. stop texting me, please.
p.p.s. my man doesn't apprec