Lip my stocking

I had a Babel moment today. Not in the miscommunication way, but in the reliving one of the scenes way. It was the scene where the deaf girl licks her dentist in the middle of her appointment. Differences between my moment and her? I'm not deaf. It wasn't a dentist. And I certainly didn't lick him. It was a trip to the optometrist for me today and as he was peering into my eyes with his flashlight wand, I realized, "Wow, you really are close enough to lick." I didn't act on it, because I'm not THAT starved for touch or attention. Nonetheless, the thought did cross my mind. Why am I telling this story? Because it's the only thing of slight interest that's happened this past week. Oh, there was that revelation that smokers and drinkers never quit those vices. They just stop.

I saw this card off the postsecret website. Last week? This week? Frank N'Furter would just tell us that time is fleeting.


Instant connection for the first time in some while that I've been visiting that website. I'm just craving stability.

Drifter

Someday I'd like to let go of it, the past: that huge and heavy thing that weighs us down without us ever realizing it, until we can't move. And I'd look at it, squarely and firmly. And I'd push off from it, a ship from shore. Sailing away and away, but knowing that if I ever wanted to, I could still return to it, a ship to shore.

Bad, Chiquita, bad!

It's my love for music and Latin American history coming together! The Chiquita banana company pulled a Rolling Stone move by hiring the Hell's Angels of Colombia, but on a much more worse scale, for protection in some of Colombia's hostile farming area. Okay, so maybe the AUC aren't really like the Hell's Angels seeing as how they're a terrorist group and infamous for all those ransom-kidnappings and massacres. And the Hell Angels are more of a biker gang. That's not important, what is is that I was able to make a music history analogy. Go me.

In another lifetime and in another place, specifically the slums of Rio de Janiero or Colombia, I think I would be an errand boy for Scarface. Carry that kilo to the helicopter port? Done. Clean up the palace by sweeping away old bullet shells? Done. My justification? Lula de Silva and Evo Morales had to start somewhere and you can always say you grew up and beyond the drug life. Plus, as President, you get a sash. That's reason enough to hold a coup. The only other winner of any election I've ever seen who got to wear a sash is a beauty queen.

Snaking up the coast

Spring break marks my return to San Francisco for the first time four years and I'm looking forward to it. For one thing, finals will be over; for another, I might get to see a few folks I haven't seen in oh-so long. Plus, it's a whole week of me pestering the Boyfriend Guy. Awesome. I'm just wondering what we're going to do there, because SF isn't a city I'm familiar with but hey, maybe we'll just wander 'round the town and amuse ourselves like that.

The last time I was in SF, it was for a debate tournament, and oddly enough, the one distinct thing I remember is Steps of Rome. Oh, and the gay waiters. In retrospect, they weren't *that* Italian. Other fonds memories--or not so fond--included Pier 39 where a seagull attacked me, the introduction of Choco, and the lynching of Jimmy.

You also shouldn't be surprised that I've been composing a soundtrack for the drive up the coast and I'm tossing in as many loud and lush songs as possible. Because what else will distract us from the wasteland that lies between Los Angeles and San Francisco? And no, playing the "Let's see how many people are picking their nose in their car" game does not count as a distraction because after a while, it's just gross.