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What can I say, it’s a grouchy, muttery time here at TSR HQ and nothing is helping. Not hot baths in big tubs. Not soothing marathons of Showtime On-Demand. Not even big-eyed baby animals.

I suspect couchsurfing and hormones are to blame, along with all the existential unknowns in my life. Living with the mystery ain’t easy, people. Alone time (and a little bleed-release) should sort me out soonish, but in the meantime, GRR.

via

I meant to post this weeks ago, but I got a little busy with all the freedom and the driving and the homelessness. Now that I’m freshly arrived back in San Francisco (call me!) it seems like an appropriate time to celebrate being in the Castro for the first annual Harvey Milk Day on May 22nd.

I was not in San Francisco—or even particularly sentient—back when Milk and Mayor Moscone were assassinated by Dan White. But I was there in time for the next wave of losses, and Harvey was—is—still a mythic figure around the Castro, with his toughguy humor and his dogged sense of nudge and push, of right and rights. He wasn’t Patient Zero in the pandemic, but he was the first real breakout hero lost to fear and homophobia, and that makes him a saint, a mouthy MLK for the GLBT crowd and all those who stand with them. I can’t help but connect the two: Harvey’s death with the deaths of so many friends, colleagues, neighbors.

Seeing the movie Milk last year was like reliving those days when I worked for the AIDS Memorial Quilt, in one of the sites of Harvey’s camera shop. I’m pretty sure I bruised my poor companion with all the poking. “See, that’s where I worked!” I’d say, grabbing his arm. “I marched in those candlelight vigils!” I’d tell him, while thwocking his knee. Or I’d grab his shoulder and hiss: “That’s where the Quilt was, but now it’s a seafood place,” holding my hand over my mouth, so the couple behind us would stop asking me to settle down.

When I worked for the Quilt, I spent a lot of time talking to people who’d made panels for their loved ones—all the sad people, basically. One of those people was Scott Smith, his lover, played by James Franco in the film. I also spent a lot of time scheduling speaking engagements for Cleve Jones, played by Emile Hirsch. So the film was a weird reunion for me, like being able to see the crazy youths of people I knew later in their lives. Maybe that’s why Harvey’s so tied with that chapter for me—because even though he was gone before the first deaths from GRID, he was still the guiding spirit in the Castro and all his lieutenants rose up to lead the fight against the disease, the fear, the blinkered attitudes of so much of America.

Milk is not just a touchstone for gay, lesbian, bi, and transgendered people; his fierce spirit taught this straight girl from the flat part of this evolving country a whole bunch about being open to all kinds of people, about taking on the system and making it your own. And just think about all the little Californians who will learn from his example in late May every year.

But then, that’s classic Harvey, still recruiting 30 years after his death.

I’m enjoying a good steam and swelter here in Lincoln—105 today!—while I bomb around town in my dad’s Toyota Tundra, obsessively punching through the radio stations, looking for something asskicking and anthemic so I can sing along, pounding out steering wheel drum solos at the red lights.

I have satellite radio in my car, so I’m spoiled for choice, with several NPR stations and all those finely calibrated playlists designed to tickle the ears of the most targeted markets. Late-model Dylan? Check! Sadfuck grindcore with emo overtones? You bet! Godchaux-era board-recordings? Drillbit-assbait techno tunage? Lite rock covered by opera stars? CAN DO! It’s the musical equivalent of fetish sites, where you can parse your longings down to the subtlest erotics. But my car’s still in San Francisco, waiting for me to figure out where I’m headed next, so I’m strictly FM for now.

The radio airwaves here in Lincoln are hostage to the mainstream country stations, heavy on the pro-forma bootstomping and winking homespun, along with what seems like a crap-ton of Christian outposts oozing ecstatic idolatry in the guise of sappy love songs to Jesus (some of which sound promising until they start wailing about “kingdom” or “father” or “glory”), and a million dueling purveyors of classic rock, all named using the article-manly nature noun format: The Eagle, The Rock, The River, The Hawk, each doling out your required daily allowance of SUPERHITZ in Triple Play Weekends and 90-minute Rock Blocks.

You know the tunes, they’re in your bones by now: all those Dixie-fried outlaw stompers, metal classix rendered as heavy as tinfoil through too many listenings, psychedelic riffage that takes you back to bonghits in basements and flaccid revolutions, and all forms of progrock nerdery. (Speaking of which, I had to sit in the driveway the other day until the very last chord of “Tom Sawyer.” I’m not proud. And I’m not ashamed. I also play a mean air flute when certain Jethro Tull songs coil out of the speakers.)

Something about piloting around this amphitheater of truck makes me want bigtime bombast, the propulsive drive that comes from beaten skins and resonating wood. Here’s the hope of radio: that the next song, the next station will give me everything I’m looking for, and right now that’s a head-bangable beat, a thrillingly familiar chorus that’s not so known I can’t stand to hear it again, and the possibility of hair-band slut-shimmying in the driver’s seat. I want my Cherry Pie, my Dirty Deeds. Bring on the boyrock!

Of course, if I had a little cash, I would start up a station of my own and call it The Pebble or The Wren. We’d play only fragile and lovely singer-songwritery tunes: your haunted americana, your dead Buckleys, your lesser-heard seventies-era Laurel Canyon folkrock obscuranta.

What’s your favorite guilty listen? Which songs have you heard too damn many times? And whose tunes would you play on your imaginary radio station?

roadtrip, scrapbook, rock-on amulet, bird stylus

While waiting on hold to untangle a shipping issue with Amazon, I read this blog post about this article (featuring my hero Robert Sapolsky), and got to thinking about paranoia. This is a common equation in my brain:

Customer Service + Internet Multitasking = Dire Thoughts

The article is about research into stress, but the way it got boiled down into particularly tough media gristle is a textbook example of cognitive dissonance in action. That’s where you believe something and then get evidence contradicting that belief. People don’t like to hold conflicting thoughts in their heads, so while some shift their beliefs in the face of new evidence, for others, it only strengthens their conviction, much like doomsday cultists who decide that their prayers staved off the predicted apocalypse, leaving them free to devise a new date for the end of the world.

Back in college, we’d throw this and other psychological terms around (as one does), and we always shorthanded it as “Cognitive D.” Oh man, we’d say while wading through the dense and heady verbiage thickets of then-vogue pomo theorists, Cognitive D! I believe there was a zine or two that went by that name, and maybe a punk band that played in various basements, although those days are hazy (a psychological state that deserves its own shorthand—how about Rosy M or Foggy M, depending on your filter?).

I’m particularly intrigued by the people who use evidence against their beliefs as fuel for the fire, in much the same way that god-proselytizers feed on disdain or anger or slammed doors; it strengthens their resolve. I think it’s because I have relatives who see conspiracies in contrails and believe that FEMA is building a crematoriums.* “I wouldn’t just drive up to visit in an unfamiliar car,” my sheriff’s deputy cousin told me once, when discussing these outliers, “especially not with California plates.” One great uncle used to materialize in our kitchen like smoke, wearing copper bracelets and raving about making runs to Mexico for Laetrile. If he were alive today, he’d be drawn to the tea partiers, although I think he might be too freaky for them; he was the kind of guy the people I sidle away from with a fixed grin sidle away from with a fixed grin.

All of this is to say that Amazon kept me on hold long enough while kibbitzing with FedEx that I wrote a little poem for you:

Cognitive D: Ode to the Paranoid

You double down on
Certainty
With evidence to the
Contrary—
Can’t let facts crack
Convictions—
Let faith be reason’s
Conqueror!
Your heart’s packed tight with
Conspiracy,
While your head fights off the
Cognitive
D, until there’s no dissonance,
only emptiness.

But it’s no fun to write poetry alone. So please share your creative outpourings on this or other psychological phenomena. If Coozledad ever gets his wireless working again, reaction formation would be a natural one for him to tackle.

I’d also like to see your pysch terms for new phenomena. What would you call the realization when:

–>Only coworkers and bores are on IM?

–>Your boss asks you a question on a conference call, but you’ve been too busy reading about the poor choices of celebrities to know what he’s talking about?

–>It becomes clear that the old flame you’ve friended on facebook is (a) a galt’s gulcher, (b) a rabid bible quoter, or (c) an annoyingly happy newlywed with a baby on the way?

*OH, GREAT. When I googled “fematoriums,” this post was the top hit. So not only do I repeat myself, I’m also the SEO champ for that particular conspiracy theory. Yay, me. I win the internets!

Image via

I’m flying back to Nebraska in 43 hours, and I have 14 hours of work, 6 hours of personal appointments (these ladyparts don’t wax themselves), 6 hours of last-minute friend catch-up, and as close to 16 hours of sleep as I can manage before then. This gives me approximately 1 hour to pack and get my ass to the airport, but does not leave me much time to blog, so please accept these recent images with my love and apologies:

They say you can tell a lot about people by where they choose to point their camera.

I wonder what these shots say about me?

Look at the neph sacked out on his papa, all lank and trust (and 110th percentile in both height and wit). Now go here and see how things have changed in 17 months.

God, I miss the little fucker. And my fucking mutts, as well. This life I’ve chosen is conditioned on missing; there’s always someone I’m longing to see:

Photos by Grandpa Phil…thanks!

I spend a certain amount of time (okay, too much) on ranty political sites, confirming the rightness of my leftness by mocking the beliefs of others. I blame Bush and Cheney for this, because if they hadn’t happened to the world like a case of head-to-foot herpes, I could be wasting more of my time on adorable animals and misguided celebrities. Basically, I like the funny sites, because laughing burns more calories than frothing and scathing alone.

One of my favorite reads is Alicublog, who was talking about a taxi driver he met in Las Vegas recently:

…my driver, a friendly old guy, diverted me with stories of his own life. He wanted to get out of Vegas, but family issues prevented it. He wasn’t complaining, though; his mantra was, “I’m the same as anybody else.” I took this for a tic at first, but the wisdom of it unfolded for me. I find I’m most unhappy when I walk through this world like a deposed prince looking for his lost kingdom.

Although this was just a throwaway observation in a larger post, it’s what really struck me, out of everything I read yesterday or over this past week: that the bent toward special can make you sad.

We’re all our own special little snowflakes, no two alike. But god, what a burden to carry around all the time; those heightened self-expectations put such a strain on our everyday muscles, already overtaxed and undertoned. It might be a comfort to tell yourself you’re special—and you are! I’m sure of it!—but sheesh, it’s also incredibly frustrating. If you’re so special, why hasn’t the world figured it out by now? Why didn’t that person love you or hire you or make you feel like the asskicker you are? And why does it feel so hard sometimes?

I know I’m happier when I’m in community, when I can share my gifts and revel in the wonder of others, of all of us. I mean, do your thing, hone your talents, but don’t get all broody and particular about it. Take some time to notice everyone’s spiky edges, then marvel at how we fit together and where we diverge.

It’s not about being like everybody else, it’s about recognizing that while we’re all the star of our own movie, we also play meaty parts in other people’s lives. It’s about investing as much time in those performances as you do in your own leading role.

(And damn, all this makes me sound like some namby-assed collectivist, doesn’t it? Take your neighbor’s hand, children! Next up, gluten-free nilla wafers and the ritual singing of kum-bah-yah!!!)

I know that part of my occasional tendency toward insular fuckerdom is shyness, but I suspect the rest is arrogance—or reads that way, at least. That’s part of what this year’s about for me: do the work, but also reach out, throw myself into the mix without waiting for someone to notice my tiny, miraculous light.

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Walking through the Mission, it’s impossible to miss all the ass. It’s just booty, booty everywhere:

And for those who can’t fill out your jeanshorts, THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU, LADIES.

Of course, I find that a diet of thigh-sized burritos does the same trick without resorting to special ass-pantalóns:

He doesn’t ask for money, he asks for food.

I’m with my friend Sal* after an afternoon spent photographing buds and textures at the arboretum in Golden Gate Park. We’re heading into Safeway for onions and catfood. We tell the guy no, but when we get inside, we stop at the sandwich counter.

“I’ll go see what he wants,” I say.

Anything, he tells me. Whatever’s good. “What do you really want? Turkey? Roast beef?”

Roast Beef, it is, I tell Sal and then, while the sandwich is being made, I go back out to talk to the guy, take his picture. His name is Jelani and he’s from southern California.

“How do you like the cold up north?” I ask. He shakes his head and pulls the blanket he’s wearing around him tighter.

“I’m from the really southern part of the state. I’m not used to this shit.”

All the while, I’m snapping pictures, finding the focus point in one eye or the other, then taking the shot.

As we talk, another street dude walks past. “Charge her ten bucks,” he says.

“What’s that, man?” Jelani asks.

“Charge that lady ten bucks for pictures and you’ll eat.”

Jelani shakes his head. “She’s already feeding me, but thank you, brother.”

I ask how he likes San Francisco and he tells me he wishes he’d brought his drum with him. “That’s the one good thing about this city,” he says. “You can get in on some really great drum circles.” He was traveling with a friend and they’d stopped at that friend’s mom’s place somewhere south of the city. He’d left his drum there. “To let her know we’d be coming back,” he says sadly.

“And now you can’t go back?”

“My friend died. Right over in that park,” he says, pointing the block over to Golden Gate.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He was 63 and a drinker. He just wore his body thin.”

Now Jelani can’t get his drum back. “I don’t really remember exactly where she lived, plus I’d have to tell her. We’d probably weep together.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad thing, I suggest.

“Yeah, that was the first man who died in my arms,” he says, shaking his head as though the thought sits funny in there.

Sal came out with the bag of food. “Roast beef,” he says, “some chips and a coke. Oh, and a pudding. Chocolate. You like pudding?”

“I don’t really eat pudding, man,” Jelani says. “But I’m gonna try.”

I thank him for the talk and the pictures. “Stay warm,” I say.

“I hope you got some good ones,” he tells me, pointing to the camera.

*Not his real name, but he told me if I blogged him, he would “KILL ME DEAD.” So there you go, SAL.