Marilyn's ruffled collar rested gracefully on her clavicle, the sheer ivory silk complementing the tailored periwinkle lapel of her Sunday jacket. Her daughter, Constance, in the next car suppressed a grin, proud to have gotten the thing on her mother today. Sunday indeed. It was Marilyn's most stylish outfit, but for years she'd refused to wear it, citing that at her age there wasn't an occasion special enough for such a well-made suit of clothes. But today Constance got to see the product of so many hours of conscientious stitching adorning her beloved mother. And without the orange lipstick for once.
"It's called Persian Melon"
"I'm sorry to break it to you, but that is bright orange."
"I've been told that warm tones suit me. I like it."
"Mother, why do you think Revlon Moondrops #585 is the only orange lipstick at the store? Because no one else is foolish enough to wear such a god-awful color on their face. I think the Newberry stocks it specifically for you."
"Well that's very nice of them." She smiled and turned back to face the mirror and clip on her pearl earrings.
"I just wish you could see yourself sometimes. You're such a beautiful woman and you ruin it with all that garbage you put on."
"Well, I don't think it's garbage. This is how I've always dressed. This is how I've always worn my make-up. I don't see why I have to change who I am now because it doesn't suit you. You're welcome to change with every fad that comes along. You're young, you're supposed to. But let me be."
"It's not about fads, it's about knowing what works for you."
"This works for me, dear."
But today Constance got her way. The sun glinted brightly on the late morning caravan, seeming to her simultaneously appropriate and not. She was pleased with her mother's appearance. She'd gotten up early, long before anyone else in the house to go down and fix her mother up. When Constance walked into the room, Marilyn was a clean slate, ready for her make-over. She lay quietly while Constance applied soft, natural-hued powders and creams gingerly not to disturb her mother's cool, delicate skin. Marylin didn't argue for once, didn't insist on Persian Melon. The transformation was remarkable. When Constance was done she could only describe her mother as looking altogether natural.
She'd pressed the suit the night before and selected appropriate accessories. Constance gave in on the earrings. Her mother loved them, and anyway they matched the silk blouse and the pearl buttons on the jacket. Marilyn's joints were a little stiffer than usual, but Constance was used to the silent struggle of tugging fabric over her mother's arthritic limbs. As she arranged the collar, she thought an occasion special enough, but didn't dare say this out loud.
Now, in the passenger seat of her daughter's late-model coup, Constance glanced at the police officer next to her window and thought he looked out of place, riding along so slowly on his motorcycle. She slid her right hand into her special occasion purse and pulled out a marbled emerald tube of Persian Melon, #585. She removed the cap, twisted up the stump of waxy orange lipstick, and breathed in its sweet, oily, vaguely floral smell. Without looking at a mirror for guidance, she applied an even layer of her mother's signature shade to her own lips, then covered her face with her cold, dry palms.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Thin, Cobalt Blue Line
Maybe it was the Heineken I drank in the terminal before boarding my usual BUR to OAK flight. Maybe it was the late, hazy hour. Something drew my attention out the window of the Southwest commuter plane, to the cobalt blue runway lights that looked so familiar and in an instant conjured a long lost memory, and closed a loop of associations. I laughed a little to myself, realizing that the backside of Burbank was Sun Valley. The backside of the suburbs was the ghetto. The backside of 2009, for the moment, was 1992.
Claudia and Letty, the older sisters of two of my friends clamored into the room where Lisa, Tonie and I were still sleeping at noon on a Friday. We were ditching and had no intentions of making it to school. The older girls, both 19, woke us up to say we had to come to a costume party.
“It’s Halloween! We got matching masks for all of us. Aren’t they cute?” Letty pulled simple black satin eye-masks with feathers out of her aqua plastic swap meet bag.
Lisa sat up and said, “Uhhh…no. We’re not going to anymore cholo parties. Everytime we go with you there ends up being drama.”
“But these aren’t cholos! They’re techno guys!”
“What’s that?”
“They’re just chill. They’re not from nowhere. They’re completely different.”
Claudia added, “They don’t bang, they don’t claim no neighborhood. They just chill and have parties, and they all dance.”
“Aaaayyyy! You guys have to come! We need more girls. We can’t go just the two of us!” Letty was not giving up.
“Fine, but if there’s cholos there, we’re leaving.”
“I promise they’re not from nowhere.”
We got up and made our own trip to the swap meet for some Mary Kay and Merci Gelle. In those days, we spent a lot of time getting ready. After the shower, the hair had to be scrunched with mousse and left to dry before you could do your bangs. The bangs involved curling irons, hot rollers, round and vented brushes, and lots of Aquanet. I was still learning, so I pretty much copied whatever I saw, down to the Light Ivory foundation, and I was not a Light Ivory girl. We all shared makeup, Light Ivory Coverstick, great for undereye circles, zits, and hickeys. Everything else was brown: blush, shadow, lipstick. This was the mark of fashionable girls, girls who weren’t cholas. Cholas were forever wearing hard black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, but we knew better. Brown makeup was softer, more natural, and it separated us from the gang bangers we were outgrowing.
When we got to Tonie’s house that night, Letty and Claudia instructed us that when you went to techno parties, you could either wear baggy pants with suspenders and cute little tops, or short shorts with cute little tops. Since I didn’t have baggy pants, they cut my jeans into Daisy Dukes, lent me a pair of cowboy boots and a tube top, and I was ready to go. None of us had cars or knew how to drive, so we made some phone calls looking for a ride, but there were no takers, so we headed out to the party on foot.
It seemed like we walked for hours through different residential and insdustrial neighborhoods, finally ending in a warehouse district. We followed the sound of heavy bass to where the promoters had broken into an abandoned warehouse. Once we knew where the party was, Letty and Claudia decided we needed to get some drinks before going inside. We found a liquor store and the girls got some guy to buy us each a 40 of Mickey’s. While we drank, Claudia told us how she’d kicked it with Everlast from House of Pain after a concert a few weeks earlier. They’d spent the night drinking Mickey’s and she was convinced it was the best malt liquor around.
It was two weeks before my 14th birthday, so the girls dedicated their first 40s to me and Letty, who would be turning 20 the following week. Once the beer was gone we paid our $5 and went into the party. I realized walking in that I didn’t know how to dance yet. I’d never been to a dance party before and certainly wasn’t prepared to show off up on a go-go box, but there I found myself, thick little thighs and nalgas hanging out of my Dukes, stomping along to some deep house song I’d never heard. In those days, you could always count on one of the DJs playing Tainted Love, and we danced to that too. Our love of KROQ was a symbol of us not being ghetto. Sure we listened to HipHop and House on Power106, but we also knew our Cure, Smiths, and Berlin.
Sweating, buzzed, feeling more grown up and having more fun than I ever anticipated, I still had to pee like crazy. 40 ounces of malt liquor goes through a 13 year old bladder like malt liquor through a seive, and I quickly learned that party girls don’t need no stinking bathrooms. No, we were worldly, rebel women who could pee in the bushes just like the boys. We were squatting behind a white, tagged up delivery truck when we first heard the popping sounds. We paused in our peeing, “Are those fireworks?”
“Maybe it’s coming from inside.”
And louder, closer, guns started blasting everywhere. We didn’t stop to drip-dry, just pulled up our tiny little shorts and ran, and ran, and ran, fiercely clinging to each other’s shirts and hands so we wouldn’t get separated in the crowd.
We stopped at a fence. Nowhere else to run. Behind the fence a field of cobalt blue runway lights stretched as far as we could see. “Where are we?”
Tonie sat on the curb, crying. “Where’s my brother? You guys have to find Eddie. He can’t be back there. Oh my god, what if he got shot?”
“He didn’t, he was inside, I’m sure he ran like everybody else. We’ll look for him once the crowd dies down.”
“Oh my god, what if the cops got him? Look, see who they’re arresting. Is that Danny Lugo? Eddie was with him.”
We prayed, we worried. I already had a reputation for predictions because one night I’d had a bad feeling about going out and the party we’d gone to had gotten raided by the cops. So everyone looked to me to see if I thought Eddie would be ok. “He’s fine. Nothing happened to him. We should just stay here for a while, then look for him if he doesn’t find us. Do you guys know where we are? What airport is this?”
“I don’t know. How far did we walk? Maybe we’re in San Fernando or Sylmar.”
“How are we gonna get home?”
“We’ll have to get a ride.”
“From who?”
“We’ll just have to get one. Don’t worry, I’ll get us home.” Letty always knew what to do.
“O.K.”
And she did. We waited for a long time. A cop came along and asked what we were doing. We didn’t run, figuring we had a good excuse. Tonie explained that we’d gotten separated from her brother and were waiting for him to find us. “You need to get going. It’s past curfew. I’m not gonna call your parents, but you need to go ahead on home now.”
So Letty got us a ride. She flagged down some guys in an Oldsmobile and sweet talked them. Asked if they’d give 5 cute girls a ride home. When he asked what he’d get in return, she said he’d get the honor of giving 5 cute girls a ride home. He laughed, said we’d have to pile on laps (the car was already full). So we sat on his friends’ laps and got home, where Eddie was waiting for us and watching a re-run of S.T.U.D.S. on channel 9. We ran to the fridge, heated tortillas on the stove and spread them with peanut butter and jelly, ate and fell asleep like little angels with our make-up on.
On the plane, looking out, I realized how close we’d been to home that night, how close the good neighborhoods are to the bad ones, and what a thin line there is between the little raver girl who found safety in those runway lights, and the woman who was flying over them.
Claudia and Letty, the older sisters of two of my friends clamored into the room where Lisa, Tonie and I were still sleeping at noon on a Friday. We were ditching and had no intentions of making it to school. The older girls, both 19, woke us up to say we had to come to a costume party.
“It’s Halloween! We got matching masks for all of us. Aren’t they cute?” Letty pulled simple black satin eye-masks with feathers out of her aqua plastic swap meet bag.
Lisa sat up and said, “Uhhh…no. We’re not going to anymore cholo parties. Everytime we go with you there ends up being drama.”
“But these aren’t cholos! They’re techno guys!”
“What’s that?”
“They’re just chill. They’re not from nowhere. They’re completely different.”
Claudia added, “They don’t bang, they don’t claim no neighborhood. They just chill and have parties, and they all dance.”
“Aaaayyyy! You guys have to come! We need more girls. We can’t go just the two of us!” Letty was not giving up.
“Fine, but if there’s cholos there, we’re leaving.”
“I promise they’re not from nowhere.”
We got up and made our own trip to the swap meet for some Mary Kay and Merci Gelle. In those days, we spent a lot of time getting ready. After the shower, the hair had to be scrunched with mousse and left to dry before you could do your bangs. The bangs involved curling irons, hot rollers, round and vented brushes, and lots of Aquanet. I was still learning, so I pretty much copied whatever I saw, down to the Light Ivory foundation, and I was not a Light Ivory girl. We all shared makeup, Light Ivory Coverstick, great for undereye circles, zits, and hickeys. Everything else was brown: blush, shadow, lipstick. This was the mark of fashionable girls, girls who weren’t cholas. Cholas were forever wearing hard black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, but we knew better. Brown makeup was softer, more natural, and it separated us from the gang bangers we were outgrowing.
When we got to Tonie’s house that night, Letty and Claudia instructed us that when you went to techno parties, you could either wear baggy pants with suspenders and cute little tops, or short shorts with cute little tops. Since I didn’t have baggy pants, they cut my jeans into Daisy Dukes, lent me a pair of cowboy boots and a tube top, and I was ready to go. None of us had cars or knew how to drive, so we made some phone calls looking for a ride, but there were no takers, so we headed out to the party on foot.
It seemed like we walked for hours through different residential and insdustrial neighborhoods, finally ending in a warehouse district. We followed the sound of heavy bass to where the promoters had broken into an abandoned warehouse. Once we knew where the party was, Letty and Claudia decided we needed to get some drinks before going inside. We found a liquor store and the girls got some guy to buy us each a 40 of Mickey’s. While we drank, Claudia told us how she’d kicked it with Everlast from House of Pain after a concert a few weeks earlier. They’d spent the night drinking Mickey’s and she was convinced it was the best malt liquor around.
It was two weeks before my 14th birthday, so the girls dedicated their first 40s to me and Letty, who would be turning 20 the following week. Once the beer was gone we paid our $5 and went into the party. I realized walking in that I didn’t know how to dance yet. I’d never been to a dance party before and certainly wasn’t prepared to show off up on a go-go box, but there I found myself, thick little thighs and nalgas hanging out of my Dukes, stomping along to some deep house song I’d never heard. In those days, you could always count on one of the DJs playing Tainted Love, and we danced to that too. Our love of KROQ was a symbol of us not being ghetto. Sure we listened to HipHop and House on Power106, but we also knew our Cure, Smiths, and Berlin.
Sweating, buzzed, feeling more grown up and having more fun than I ever anticipated, I still had to pee like crazy. 40 ounces of malt liquor goes through a 13 year old bladder like malt liquor through a seive, and I quickly learned that party girls don’t need no stinking bathrooms. No, we were worldly, rebel women who could pee in the bushes just like the boys. We were squatting behind a white, tagged up delivery truck when we first heard the popping sounds. We paused in our peeing, “Are those fireworks?”
“Maybe it’s coming from inside.”
And louder, closer, guns started blasting everywhere. We didn’t stop to drip-dry, just pulled up our tiny little shorts and ran, and ran, and ran, fiercely clinging to each other’s shirts and hands so we wouldn’t get separated in the crowd.
We stopped at a fence. Nowhere else to run. Behind the fence a field of cobalt blue runway lights stretched as far as we could see. “Where are we?”
Tonie sat on the curb, crying. “Where’s my brother? You guys have to find Eddie. He can’t be back there. Oh my god, what if he got shot?”
“He didn’t, he was inside, I’m sure he ran like everybody else. We’ll look for him once the crowd dies down.”
“Oh my god, what if the cops got him? Look, see who they’re arresting. Is that Danny Lugo? Eddie was with him.”
We prayed, we worried. I already had a reputation for predictions because one night I’d had a bad feeling about going out and the party we’d gone to had gotten raided by the cops. So everyone looked to me to see if I thought Eddie would be ok. “He’s fine. Nothing happened to him. We should just stay here for a while, then look for him if he doesn’t find us. Do you guys know where we are? What airport is this?”
“I don’t know. How far did we walk? Maybe we’re in San Fernando or Sylmar.”
“How are we gonna get home?”
“We’ll have to get a ride.”
“From who?”
“We’ll just have to get one. Don’t worry, I’ll get us home.” Letty always knew what to do.
“O.K.”
And she did. We waited for a long time. A cop came along and asked what we were doing. We didn’t run, figuring we had a good excuse. Tonie explained that we’d gotten separated from her brother and were waiting for him to find us. “You need to get going. It’s past curfew. I’m not gonna call your parents, but you need to go ahead on home now.”
So Letty got us a ride. She flagged down some guys in an Oldsmobile and sweet talked them. Asked if they’d give 5 cute girls a ride home. When he asked what he’d get in return, she said he’d get the honor of giving 5 cute girls a ride home. He laughed, said we’d have to pile on laps (the car was already full). So we sat on his friends’ laps and got home, where Eddie was waiting for us and watching a re-run of S.T.U.D.S. on channel 9. We ran to the fridge, heated tortillas on the stove and spread them with peanut butter and jelly, ate and fell asleep like little angels with our make-up on.
On the plane, looking out, I realized how close we’d been to home that night, how close the good neighborhoods are to the bad ones, and what a thin line there is between the little raver girl who found safety in those runway lights, and the woman who was flying over them.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
J-Church 1
for Eugenia & her crew
I’m on the outbound J, my second favorite train because it comes second closest to my house. I got on at Powell St. station along with a pile of others leaving the Chinese New Year Parade. The crush of bodies boarding the double-time procession of train cars heading anywhere-but-here is unusually dense and unusually overwhelming. We all feel it. We take shallow breaths, inching closer to the edge of the platform, filling one car after another.
Approaching: Outbound K, followed by 2-carNN, followed by one-car J.
The doors on the K open, no one gets off; no one can get on; the doors close. We wait, hope that the NN has room.
A woman in hospital-issue slipper socks squeezes through with the aid of a walker, mumbling, “Why do I bother? What’s the point? Why don’t you all go back to goddamn China? We don’t need your goddamn parade! It’s like I’m not even a citizen in my own country! I can’t even get on my own goddamn train because of you people. You go back to China. You go back to China, all of you! Taking away my rights as a citizen.”
The J’s doors open; those who can, get on; the doors struggle to close against the prying hands of desperate travelers. Three girls in leggings and jewel-toned tunics start to giggle. “I mean, it’s not like she owns the train!” The train pauses apologetically at the two remaining tunnel stops, opening its doors to show the standing commuters that it can’t accommodate them. As we zip away from the Van Ness station and swerve at the track split the driver announces, “Right side steps going down. Right side steps: going down.”
I glide down on my 2nd step perch and the three giggling girls stare at me with wide eyes. One gasps, “Oh my god, what jus happened?” The others giggle.
I explain, “The steps go up when you’re in the tunnel and come down when you come out so you can step down to ground level.”
“Oh my god! Can you tell we’re new?”
“Oh, well if that impresses you, wait ‘til the first time you see someone vomit on the bus!” This is met with a chorus of laughter and nodding that lets me know I’m finally home.
“No shit! Are you serious?”
Another chorus of nodding.
“Enjoy the city, ladies.”
“Thanks!”
I’m on the outbound J, my second favorite train because it comes second closest to my house. I got on at Powell St. station along with a pile of others leaving the Chinese New Year Parade. The crush of bodies boarding the double-time procession of train cars heading anywhere-but-here is unusually dense and unusually overwhelming. We all feel it. We take shallow breaths, inching closer to the edge of the platform, filling one car after another.
Approaching: Outbound K, followed by 2-carNN, followed by one-car J.
The doors on the K open, no one gets off; no one can get on; the doors close. We wait, hope that the NN has room.
A woman in hospital-issue slipper socks squeezes through with the aid of a walker, mumbling, “Why do I bother? What’s the point? Why don’t you all go back to goddamn China? We don’t need your goddamn parade! It’s like I’m not even a citizen in my own country! I can’t even get on my own goddamn train because of you people. You go back to China. You go back to China, all of you! Taking away my rights as a citizen.”
The J’s doors open; those who can, get on; the doors struggle to close against the prying hands of desperate travelers. Three girls in leggings and jewel-toned tunics start to giggle. “I mean, it’s not like she owns the train!” The train pauses apologetically at the two remaining tunnel stops, opening its doors to show the standing commuters that it can’t accommodate them. As we zip away from the Van Ness station and swerve at the track split the driver announces, “Right side steps going down. Right side steps: going down.”
I glide down on my 2nd step perch and the three giggling girls stare at me with wide eyes. One gasps, “Oh my god, what jus happened?” The others giggle.
I explain, “The steps go up when you’re in the tunnel and come down when you come out so you can step down to ground level.”
“Oh my god! Can you tell we’re new?”
“Oh, well if that impresses you, wait ‘til the first time you see someone vomit on the bus!” This is met with a chorus of laughter and nodding that lets me know I’m finally home.
“No shit! Are you serious?”
Another chorus of nodding.
“Enjoy the city, ladies.”
“Thanks!”
Monday, April 20, 2009
Outbound
The number 38 bus is almost always full. After work, Lydia walks two blocks east to Stockton to catch the outbound coach. She finds a seat in the front section of center-facing seats reserved for seniors and persons with disabilities. A recorded voice reminds her that she will need to vacate her seat if any such people board the bus.
She settles in, relieved to be off her feet for the long, cross-town trip, then hears one young man ask another, “Hey man, what’s that stand for? I always forget.”
“My sweatshirt? It’s USSR in Russian: CCCP is Russian for USSR.”
“Oh, right, right.”
“Yeah, you have no idea how much shit I get for wearing this thing. It’s like, it’s just a fuckin’ sweatshirt, you know?”
“Sure, sure man, I can see that. But you know, people are ingnorant, right?”
“Right?!”
The older woman to Lydia’s left interjects, “Now you know you wear that shirt exactly so that folks will give you a hard time. You ain’t wearing that to not get noticed, now are you? Mm hmm, I got your number.” The young man ignores her, flashing a look at his inquisitor. She continues, addressing Lydia, “I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding, but you know as well as I do what he’s really looking for.” Lydia remains silent, breathing in slow, shallow wisps, trying to adjust to the viscous smell of breath, body, stale beer, and soiled underpants.
After a while, the passengers with the farthest destinations quit counting stops and simply ride along. Some busy themselves with books and magazines, as much for the distraction as for inhibiting conversation. Lydia has forgotten her compulsory prop today, and rides unarmed against unsolicited chit chat.
“Look at this! It’s like iPod Nation up in here!” exclaims the woman to Lydia’s left. “Little white earplugs, everyone’s got little white earplugs.” She goes on in response to Lydia’s silence, “Oh, you must not wanna talk today. Mm hmm, I see.”
A teenager in an oversized sweatshirt gets on at the intersection of Geary and Jones and begins tagging the inside of the bus’s window with a yellow Mean Streak marker. He overhears the conversation from across the aisle and shouts, “Nobody wants to talk to your crackhead ass!”
“Nobody wants to talk to my crackhead ass? I don’t see nobody wanting to talk to your punk ass either. Disrespectful motherfucker.
“Ah, Babygirl, I know you know what I mean. You see that boy across the aisle, calling me names: You think you can trust him because he’s saying what you think, because he thinks what you think. But how do you know you can trust what you think? You see an old woman on the bus, you think ‘Listen to this crackhead telling me what’s wrong with the world! What’s wrong with the world is crackheads!’ You think I’m after money, think you can make me go away with money. I tell you what: I’ll take your money. And I’ll go away if you want. But you won’t. You’ll be here all the way to 37th Avenue, and you’ll be back again tomorrow. And I’ll see you come and go. Yes, I will.”
The recorded voice reminds passengers on crowded busses to always protect purses and wallets. Lydia makes a subtle physical adjustment in compliance with this instruction. The woman encourages her: “Go on, make yourself comfortable!
“I tell you what the real problem is: the children of Cain have lost their way. You – you’ve cozied yourself right on out to the edges: satellite pictures of the crevices and hovels, the oceans and the forests. Hmph! Those pictures’ve driven the edge-dwellers into the center, and now the march-steppers have no place to walk – and you wonder now why they ride the bus with you. You take their safe place, they’ll take yours. Yes, Babygirl, they’re here, already, even though they’re not meant for this place. The Lord put them where he intended and you’ve gone and driven them out into the daytime world where they do not belong. Yes, indeed, the march-steppers have lost their walking-place, lost their hiding-place.
“You don’t believe me. That’s ok. You’re afraid of me, but you know what I mean. And you know it’s true. You’ve lost track of who’s crazy anymore. I know. You think that’s your problem. Your problem is you don’t trust how very sane I am.”
“Please exit through the rear doors,” implores the recorded voice.
Near Divisadero the woman takes on a more intimate tone with the girl to her right. “It’s the monsters I’m talking about. You know this. I’m asking you, who do you think your monsters are? They’re the same monsters that have always been. All the monsters in all the stories: they’re real. They’re still here, too, only now they got no place to rest, thanks to you. They are unconfined, you see? They needed to be confined. You need them to be confined. You look like a smart girl. You know who Cain is? All the monsters that walk the earth: they’re of the same bloodline, you know. And the Lord placed them where he saw fit, at the edge of the world. Where is the edge now? Where’re they gonna live now that you’ve blown the forest up with all its secrets clear as day? You don’t need to see the secret places! You have no business in the secret places! Shouldda let mysteries be mysteries.
“Motherfucking satellites! Taking pictures of us in our sleep! They have the license plate of this bus right now broadcast on the computer for all the world to see. What do you think you’re safe from? You think you’re safe from me? I’m the one – I’m the one who’s not safe. I know.
“You! I got your number, too, mother fucker!” She shouts to the boy across the aisle who has begun freestyling a song about crackheads and fellatio.
“Babygirl, I see you getting ready to leave. You’re gonna get off here today and call up your girlfriend and tell her, ‘That same ol’ cooky crackhead was at it again today. Batty as all-get-out, talking about monsters and shit.’ Mm hmm, I know, ‘Now how am I gonna explain just how goddamn batty this old bitch is?’ Tell her I sat too close to you, that’s how you knew I was crazy – no sane person sits this close to a stranger. But I’ll tell you what: you are no stranger sweetheart. I saw you yesterday, and I’ll see you tomorrow. See you every day til the end. Every day til the end. I’ll see you, too, you little punk-ass motherfucker! Yeah, you! ‘Watch the Lord beat you down good, yes. With your sick lil’ self thinkin’ ‘bout laying hands on me… mmm, see the day the Lord lays hands on you and slits you from your navel to your neck. Oh, it’s coming! Yes, and when the Lord speaks, he will speak to the multitudes, and the multitudes will hear!”
Lydia gathers her things and makes her way to the rear doors two stops early. She steps down when the green light flashes.
She settles in, relieved to be off her feet for the long, cross-town trip, then hears one young man ask another, “Hey man, what’s that stand for? I always forget.”
“My sweatshirt? It’s USSR in Russian: CCCP is Russian for USSR.”
“Oh, right, right.”
“Yeah, you have no idea how much shit I get for wearing this thing. It’s like, it’s just a fuckin’ sweatshirt, you know?”
“Sure, sure man, I can see that. But you know, people are ingnorant, right?”
“Right?!”
The older woman to Lydia’s left interjects, “Now you know you wear that shirt exactly so that folks will give you a hard time. You ain’t wearing that to not get noticed, now are you? Mm hmm, I got your number.” The young man ignores her, flashing a look at his inquisitor. She continues, addressing Lydia, “I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding, but you know as well as I do what he’s really looking for.” Lydia remains silent, breathing in slow, shallow wisps, trying to adjust to the viscous smell of breath, body, stale beer, and soiled underpants.
After a while, the passengers with the farthest destinations quit counting stops and simply ride along. Some busy themselves with books and magazines, as much for the distraction as for inhibiting conversation. Lydia has forgotten her compulsory prop today, and rides unarmed against unsolicited chit chat.
“Look at this! It’s like iPod Nation up in here!” exclaims the woman to Lydia’s left. “Little white earplugs, everyone’s got little white earplugs.” She goes on in response to Lydia’s silence, “Oh, you must not wanna talk today. Mm hmm, I see.”
A teenager in an oversized sweatshirt gets on at the intersection of Geary and Jones and begins tagging the inside of the bus’s window with a yellow Mean Streak marker. He overhears the conversation from across the aisle and shouts, “Nobody wants to talk to your crackhead ass!”
“Nobody wants to talk to my crackhead ass? I don’t see nobody wanting to talk to your punk ass either. Disrespectful motherfucker.
“Ah, Babygirl, I know you know what I mean. You see that boy across the aisle, calling me names: You think you can trust him because he’s saying what you think, because he thinks what you think. But how do you know you can trust what you think? You see an old woman on the bus, you think ‘Listen to this crackhead telling me what’s wrong with the world! What’s wrong with the world is crackheads!’ You think I’m after money, think you can make me go away with money. I tell you what: I’ll take your money. And I’ll go away if you want. But you won’t. You’ll be here all the way to 37th Avenue, and you’ll be back again tomorrow. And I’ll see you come and go. Yes, I will.”
The recorded voice reminds passengers on crowded busses to always protect purses and wallets. Lydia makes a subtle physical adjustment in compliance with this instruction. The woman encourages her: “Go on, make yourself comfortable!
“I tell you what the real problem is: the children of Cain have lost their way. You – you’ve cozied yourself right on out to the edges: satellite pictures of the crevices and hovels, the oceans and the forests. Hmph! Those pictures’ve driven the edge-dwellers into the center, and now the march-steppers have no place to walk – and you wonder now why they ride the bus with you. You take their safe place, they’ll take yours. Yes, Babygirl, they’re here, already, even though they’re not meant for this place. The Lord put them where he intended and you’ve gone and driven them out into the daytime world where they do not belong. Yes, indeed, the march-steppers have lost their walking-place, lost their hiding-place.
“You don’t believe me. That’s ok. You’re afraid of me, but you know what I mean. And you know it’s true. You’ve lost track of who’s crazy anymore. I know. You think that’s your problem. Your problem is you don’t trust how very sane I am.”
“Please exit through the rear doors,” implores the recorded voice.
Near Divisadero the woman takes on a more intimate tone with the girl to her right. “It’s the monsters I’m talking about. You know this. I’m asking you, who do you think your monsters are? They’re the same monsters that have always been. All the monsters in all the stories: they’re real. They’re still here, too, only now they got no place to rest, thanks to you. They are unconfined, you see? They needed to be confined. You need them to be confined. You look like a smart girl. You know who Cain is? All the monsters that walk the earth: they’re of the same bloodline, you know. And the Lord placed them where he saw fit, at the edge of the world. Where is the edge now? Where’re they gonna live now that you’ve blown the forest up with all its secrets clear as day? You don’t need to see the secret places! You have no business in the secret places! Shouldda let mysteries be mysteries.
“Motherfucking satellites! Taking pictures of us in our sleep! They have the license plate of this bus right now broadcast on the computer for all the world to see. What do you think you’re safe from? You think you’re safe from me? I’m the one – I’m the one who’s not safe. I know.
“You! I got your number, too, mother fucker!” She shouts to the boy across the aisle who has begun freestyling a song about crackheads and fellatio.
“Babygirl, I see you getting ready to leave. You’re gonna get off here today and call up your girlfriend and tell her, ‘That same ol’ cooky crackhead was at it again today. Batty as all-get-out, talking about monsters and shit.’ Mm hmm, I know, ‘Now how am I gonna explain just how goddamn batty this old bitch is?’ Tell her I sat too close to you, that’s how you knew I was crazy – no sane person sits this close to a stranger. But I’ll tell you what: you are no stranger sweetheart. I saw you yesterday, and I’ll see you tomorrow. See you every day til the end. Every day til the end. I’ll see you, too, you little punk-ass motherfucker! Yeah, you! ‘Watch the Lord beat you down good, yes. With your sick lil’ self thinkin’ ‘bout laying hands on me… mmm, see the day the Lord lays hands on you and slits you from your navel to your neck. Oh, it’s coming! Yes, and when the Lord speaks, he will speak to the multitudes, and the multitudes will hear!”
Lydia gathers her things and makes her way to the rear doors two stops early. She steps down when the green light flashes.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Why They Can't Write Love Songs Like They Used To
I spent the whole day listening to a Sam Cooke station on Pandora. Those who are familiar with what my friend calls “musical autism” understand what it’s like to listen to the same song or artist over and over and over and over. It’s like stimming.
Today I stimmed to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Curtis Mayfield, Mary Wells. Now I’m at Café du Soleil on Waller and Fillmore, sitting at a communal table. The barista is playing “These Arms of Mine” from her iPod, and the couple next to me is talking about their relationship. (i've omitted all the parts about secret fears, etc.)
"I just find it fascinating now that we know that when I say this you think that I think this other thing"
"It really is fascinating. And then sometimes you do this other thing"
"I know. I do it all the time. It must be really frustrating"
"It's not frustrating; I just find it fascinating for us to look at it. Maybe in the future we can try doing it this other way. Or not. This is really great. It could be exhausting, but instead I feel really like you understand what I think you think when you think that I think you're thinking things"
“I'm fascinated that you’re fascinated by this. And I'm not exhausted at all. I think that that time that we made love and then we went to the restaurant. I just really feel like there's no better situation than that and I find it fascinating that you think about it the way that you do."
"What?"
"Well you said you were fascinated. Why would you think that I'd be exhausted? Why would this be exhausting and that other thing wouldn't"
“That’s a really excellent question. I think it would be great if we could think about why I would think that you’d be exhausted. It’s not that I think of you as a person who can’t handle this sort of thing. I think that I think you’re fascinating and amazing, and I really want to express that to you in a way that’s also fascinating for you.”
Now they are comparing their "What did I accomplish in 2008" lists (yes, they both took the time to write them out by hand. and yes they are reading them out loud to each other.
I can't help thinking that if it weren't for the fear of finding myself as one half of a thirty-something yuppie couple, or winding up with a junky, a musician, or a pornographer, or the exhausting saturation of psychotherapeutic memes in our common dialog, I might not mind just getting down with some dude in a shanty dorm to the soundtrack from Dirty Dancing...
But I live in this world
These arms of mine
They are lonely and feeling blue
These arms of mine
They are yearning, yearning from wanting you
And if you would let them hold you
We could spend the rest of our lives talking about how you think I think you think it makes me feel.
Today I stimmed to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Curtis Mayfield, Mary Wells. Now I’m at Café du Soleil on Waller and Fillmore, sitting at a communal table. The barista is playing “These Arms of Mine” from her iPod, and the couple next to me is talking about their relationship. (i've omitted all the parts about secret fears, etc.)
"I just find it fascinating now that we know that when I say this you think that I think this other thing"
"It really is fascinating. And then sometimes you do this other thing"
"I know. I do it all the time. It must be really frustrating"
"It's not frustrating; I just find it fascinating for us to look at it. Maybe in the future we can try doing it this other way. Or not. This is really great. It could be exhausting, but instead I feel really like you understand what I think you think when you think that I think you're thinking things"
“I'm fascinated that you’re fascinated by this. And I'm not exhausted at all. I think that that time that we made love and then we went to the restaurant. I just really feel like there's no better situation than that and I find it fascinating that you think about it the way that you do."
"What?"
"Well you said you were fascinated. Why would you think that I'd be exhausted? Why would this be exhausting and that other thing wouldn't"
“That’s a really excellent question. I think it would be great if we could think about why I would think that you’d be exhausted. It’s not that I think of you as a person who can’t handle this sort of thing. I think that I think you’re fascinating and amazing, and I really want to express that to you in a way that’s also fascinating for you.”
Now they are comparing their "What did I accomplish in 2008" lists (yes, they both took the time to write them out by hand. and yes they are reading them out loud to each other.
I can't help thinking that if it weren't for the fear of finding myself as one half of a thirty-something yuppie couple, or winding up with a junky, a musician, or a pornographer, or the exhausting saturation of psychotherapeutic memes in our common dialog, I might not mind just getting down with some dude in a shanty dorm to the soundtrack from Dirty Dancing...
But I live in this world
These arms of mine
They are lonely and feeling blue
These arms of mine
They are yearning, yearning from wanting you
And if you would let them hold you
We could spend the rest of our lives talking about how you think I think you think it makes me feel.
Friday, April 17, 2009
A History of Valleyness: Duke of Earl
I often wonder if there's much difference between growing up in the suburbs and growing up in the city. I grew up in a place that was a little of both: The Valley. Here's a slice of life from the Val.
One schoolnight in 6th grade, my friend Lisa, who was in all respects my partner in crime, invited me to my first kickback. A kickback, I quickly learned, is an informal gathering in someone's living room or back yard, or sometimes in an abandoned house. This first kickback was at our friend Tonie's apartment in an area of North Hollywood that was run by a gang called Valley Locos. Valley Locos was a lesser known neighborhood, but were cliqued up with larger gangs, so they had a fair amount of street cred at our elementary school. The boys we were hanging out with were between 12 and 15, but they had older homeboys, so we knew they were legit.
Tonie invited us over to watch Duke of Earl, a movie by Victory Outreach Church that offers a fictionalized account of gang culture on the streets and in prison, and draws special attention to the risks inherent in the lifestyle and the benefits of finding Jesus Christ to be one's personal Lord and Savior. We weren't looking for Jesus. I think we were mostly looking for fashion tips and to see which scenes were filmed in places we knew. Tonie's aunt, who kicked it with Pacoima 13, had made her a copy on VHS, and also left half a bottle of Crown Royal for us to drink while we watched. The boys, Payaso, Klever, and Shadow brought a couple of joints and it was on.
Before the boys got there, we fired up the curling iron, applied a liberal coating of Aquanet and lined our lips with Maybeline eyebrow pencil in Dark Brown. We looked hard. We looked street. We looked sexy. We were twelve. Lisa and Tonie were hoping to scam with the boys, and I was hoping to get through the night without anyone calling me a schoolgirl. I was the youngest in the group, had the most protective mother, and was, for the moment, the furthest from dropping out of school. I had also never kissed a boy, and wasn't really sure if "scamming" meant "making out" or "boning."
After saying our "what's ups", we put the tape in the VCR, passed the bottle of Crown around and sparked a J, and by the time Cisco got out of prison, we were spinning the bottle on the floor and taking turns throwing scams in the kitchen. I postponed my 7 minutes in heaven as long as I could, fearing that the boys would tell everyone at school that I didn't know how to kiss. But as Cisco stabbed Duke under the bridge downtown, Payaso put his hands on my hips, lifted me up onto the kitchen counter, and licked my clench lips. It took me a minute, but by the time the credits rolled I had figured out the whole kissing thing and was macking like a puta on prom night.
When I was a kid, I thought we were unique, bad-asses, living a fast life. I assumed the other kids in school were in their bedrooms doing homework at a desk instead of a coffee table and planning for college while we ran around being little traviesas. And I felt both guilty and proud of this. I've realized that the suburban girls were fooling around, too, maybe without the funny nicknames and big hair. But while I'm certain they had plenty of burgundy lipstick to lure their boys to the mack-down, I know they didn't have our soundtrack of killer oldies to set the mood.
Note: Don't ask my where our parents were during all this. I'm saving that info for another post. It's enough to say they weren't there.
One schoolnight in 6th grade, my friend Lisa, who was in all respects my partner in crime, invited me to my first kickback. A kickback, I quickly learned, is an informal gathering in someone's living room or back yard, or sometimes in an abandoned house. This first kickback was at our friend Tonie's apartment in an area of North Hollywood that was run by a gang called Valley Locos. Valley Locos was a lesser known neighborhood, but were cliqued up with larger gangs, so they had a fair amount of street cred at our elementary school. The boys we were hanging out with were between 12 and 15, but they had older homeboys, so we knew they were legit.
Tonie invited us over to watch Duke of Earl, a movie by Victory Outreach Church that offers a fictionalized account of gang culture on the streets and in prison, and draws special attention to the risks inherent in the lifestyle and the benefits of finding Jesus Christ to be one's personal Lord and Savior. We weren't looking for Jesus. I think we were mostly looking for fashion tips and to see which scenes were filmed in places we knew. Tonie's aunt, who kicked it with Pacoima 13, had made her a copy on VHS, and also left half a bottle of Crown Royal for us to drink while we watched. The boys, Payaso, Klever, and Shadow brought a couple of joints and it was on.
Before the boys got there, we fired up the curling iron, applied a liberal coating of Aquanet and lined our lips with Maybeline eyebrow pencil in Dark Brown. We looked hard. We looked street. We looked sexy. We were twelve. Lisa and Tonie were hoping to scam with the boys, and I was hoping to get through the night without anyone calling me a schoolgirl. I was the youngest in the group, had the most protective mother, and was, for the moment, the furthest from dropping out of school. I had also never kissed a boy, and wasn't really sure if "scamming" meant "making out" or "boning."
After saying our "what's ups", we put the tape in the VCR, passed the bottle of Crown around and sparked a J, and by the time Cisco got out of prison, we were spinning the bottle on the floor and taking turns throwing scams in the kitchen. I postponed my 7 minutes in heaven as long as I could, fearing that the boys would tell everyone at school that I didn't know how to kiss. But as Cisco stabbed Duke under the bridge downtown, Payaso put his hands on my hips, lifted me up onto the kitchen counter, and licked my clench lips. It took me a minute, but by the time the credits rolled I had figured out the whole kissing thing and was macking like a puta on prom night.
When I was a kid, I thought we were unique, bad-asses, living a fast life. I assumed the other kids in school were in their bedrooms doing homework at a desk instead of a coffee table and planning for college while we ran around being little traviesas. And I felt both guilty and proud of this. I've realized that the suburban girls were fooling around, too, maybe without the funny nicknames and big hair. But while I'm certain they had plenty of burgundy lipstick to lure their boys to the mack-down, I know they didn't have our soundtrack of killer oldies to set the mood.
Note: Don't ask my where our parents were during all this. I'm saving that info for another post. It's enough to say they weren't there.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Review: SFPD South Station & Officer So-and-so
I guess I'm glad SFPD isn't wasting my tax dollars on interactive maps and fancy "find a location" features on their website, or on signs that might help me find my way around their facilities once I'm there. Thankfully, the sheriffs are next door to offer information and directions, and are surprisingly friendly about it.
I'm also glad officer So-and-so knows the letter of the law so well and can quote his police academy textbooks verbatim. I help make and distribute those textbooks, and it pleases me to know that someone has opened them, read them, and can recite passages on command, expecially the parts about the law being blind. You know, you always wonder if the work you do means anything in the world. Now I know it does. Bliss.
****4 gold sheriff's staaaaars!
I'm also glad officer So-and-so knows the letter of the law so well and can quote his police academy textbooks verbatim. I help make and distribute those textbooks, and it pleases me to know that someone has opened them, read them, and can recite passages on command, expecially the parts about the law being blind. You know, you always wonder if the work you do means anything in the world. Now I know it does. Bliss.
****4 gold sheriff's staaaaars!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Is Not A Crime
Do you remember your first concert? Mine was at Six Flags Magic Mountain. It was this guy, but don't hold that against me. Fortunately, I was able to wash off the dirty in a matter of years by seeing many other live shows and being exposed to far more varieties of music than I could ever have found on the street or in my bedroom. I formed much of my adolescent identity in response to the music I listened to, and I can't imagine how I would have turned out without that influence and the time spent with other music lovers.I work in all-ages concert venues where I've had the rare privelige of watching thousands of kids and adults indulge their love of music and develop their identities together at the rock shows. I utterly value the role these venues play in our lives, but now, like everything good, these clubs are being threatened.
One of the clubs I work at is the Great American Music Hall which has recently received some special attention from the ABC. You can read about it at SFGate. In order to fund their legal efforts, GAMH and Slim's are selling the above t-shirts for $20 (handsome spokesmodel not included). If you're in the neighborhood, stop by and pick one up.
If you love live music, help support it and the venues that make it possible for a kid to rock out with a bunch of other kids and a couple of drunk dudes. If you love me, help support me having a job.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
From Here to Euternity
My current job takes me on the road a lot. One road. The 101. I travel between San Francisco and Eureka, CA, hauling books in a Chrysler that seats about 20 and for miles on end will receive no radio signal that isn’t Benny Goodman and/or the Grateful Dead. Natural consequences of this ramblin’ life are 1) a burgeoning affinity for Big Band and Jam Bands, and 2) and a growing intimacy with the various truck stops and perching points along the sea of asphalt and evergreens. I have opinions about each of my little towns, now that I know them by name. Here goes:
Willits
Willits isn’t my favorite town to stop in, but it’s one of the biggest on the road to nowhere, and you can find most of your traveling essentials like gas, food, and stimulants. You can find your choice of branded gas stations, all the big names in drive-thru fast food shacks, and a Safeway that sells the cheapest gas on the road. You can get drip coffee at a number of shops, but lattes are hard to find, steamed milk remaining a novelty to some of the coffee purveyors in town. It’s a good town for travelers who like the familiarity of chain stores and restaurants. The main drag isn’t so great for people like me who get weary for the locally grown, organic comforts of San Francisco.
They get bonus points for hard-bodied silver bullet driver with the tan, tattoos and camo pants in the Rite-Aid parking lot. Minus points for his tore-up, meth-ravaged hatchet face. Other than that, I just wish they had better coffee.
Laytonville
Now, Laytonville is my joint – It’s about halfway between Willits and Eureka and your last chance to have a decent time before Hopland on the way down. Stop into Boomers. Try the beer, the Reuben sandwich and the hospitality. You can get an Irish Car Bomb (though I don’t know why you would), but don’t drop the shot glass into the beer glass. I saw some road trippin’ Trentstafarian try to pull this and get reprimanded by the bartender. He ended up drinking three Irish Car Boilermakers with his BBQ tri-tip sandwich and fries. The waitress helped me out in a time of great need. She’s bitchin’! Tip her well and bring some money for the juke box.
Arcata
If you like yuppy food (and I’ve come to realize I do), stop by Brio in the plaza for breakfast. They bake all their pastries fresh on site, and feature Blue Bottle coffee. The barista told me Blue Bottle sends a rep up every now and then to train the staff and ensure that their brews are perfect every time. They didn’t know what I meant when I asked if they took Amex. When I explained, the cashier said they don’t see much of that around. Italian food is hit or miss in the plaza. You can get lucky at Mizzoti’s for lunch. For dinner, Abruzzi down in the basement has much better ambiance. Both places have their weak spots though and seafood doesn’t seem to be the local forte.
Try not to miss Hunan Plaza restaurant. They manage to make really good Chinese food (which seems increasingly rare to me these days). Very affordable, and the servers are super charming and funny. Bonus: I got to eat next to some member of Kid Rock’s brother’s entourage who had BIG plans for a kick-ass concept album and a dope-ass tour to support it. It’s the little things that make this big city girl feel at home on the range.
Coming Soon: Ferndale! & Hopland!
Willits
Willits isn’t my favorite town to stop in, but it’s one of the biggest on the road to nowhere, and you can find most of your traveling essentials like gas, food, and stimulants. You can find your choice of branded gas stations, all the big names in drive-thru fast food shacks, and a Safeway that sells the cheapest gas on the road. You can get drip coffee at a number of shops, but lattes are hard to find, steamed milk remaining a novelty to some of the coffee purveyors in town. It’s a good town for travelers who like the familiarity of chain stores and restaurants. The main drag isn’t so great for people like me who get weary for the locally grown, organic comforts of San Francisco.
They get bonus points for hard-bodied silver bullet driver with the tan, tattoos and camo pants in the Rite-Aid parking lot. Minus points for his tore-up, meth-ravaged hatchet face. Other than that, I just wish they had better coffee.
Laytonville
Now, Laytonville is my joint – It’s about halfway between Willits and Eureka and your last chance to have a decent time before Hopland on the way down. Stop into Boomers. Try the beer, the Reuben sandwich and the hospitality. You can get an Irish Car Bomb (though I don’t know why you would), but don’t drop the shot glass into the beer glass. I saw some road trippin’ Trentstafarian try to pull this and get reprimanded by the bartender. He ended up drinking three Irish Car Boilermakers with his BBQ tri-tip sandwich and fries. The waitress helped me out in a time of great need. She’s bitchin’! Tip her well and bring some money for the juke box.
Arcata
If you like yuppy food (and I’ve come to realize I do), stop by Brio in the plaza for breakfast. They bake all their pastries fresh on site, and feature Blue Bottle coffee. The barista told me Blue Bottle sends a rep up every now and then to train the staff and ensure that their brews are perfect every time. They didn’t know what I meant when I asked if they took Amex. When I explained, the cashier said they don’t see much of that around. Italian food is hit or miss in the plaza. You can get lucky at Mizzoti’s for lunch. For dinner, Abruzzi down in the basement has much better ambiance. Both places have their weak spots though and seafood doesn’t seem to be the local forte.
Try not to miss Hunan Plaza restaurant. They manage to make really good Chinese food (which seems increasingly rare to me these days). Very affordable, and the servers are super charming and funny. Bonus: I got to eat next to some member of Kid Rock’s brother’s entourage who had BIG plans for a kick-ass concept album and a dope-ass tour to support it. It’s the little things that make this big city girl feel at home on the range.
Coming Soon: Ferndale! & Hopland!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Book Review - The Elegance of the Hedgehog
I'm starting a new section on books, starting with a French novel I recently read. Here's my review in the form of a paraphrase:
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery
"i nearly fainted because i slipped and said something that indicated i read books! i couldn't bear to have the boss think that I, a lowly concierge could possibly have read Anna Karenina! these stupid bourgeoisie think they know everything. i cleverly disguise my intelligence with the elegance of the hedgehog, all quills on the outside and a soft underbelly. i suspect that monsieur so-and-so is also an intellectual and may have discovered my secret! i must maintain my secret so as to allow the bourgeoisie to continue in their foolish enterprise of believing me to be a lowly concierge. but ah, i love japan, anything Japanese: haiku, sushi (it is so much more elegant than french cuisine!), and manga."
i wonder if at the end of the book the narrator is revealed to have been an idiot for all her self-ascribed intellectual superiority. i think that's the only way it could redeem itself, and even then, it would only serve to belie the author's self-diagnosed superiority to the underclass it sets out to elevate...? (the author is a French professor of Philosophy)
hmm... too much for this time of the morning? maybe it's time for me to go back to school and take some lit classes
Rating: Aucune étoile!
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery
"i nearly fainted because i slipped and said something that indicated i read books! i couldn't bear to have the boss think that I, a lowly concierge could possibly have read Anna Karenina! these stupid bourgeoisie think they know everything. i cleverly disguise my intelligence with the elegance of the hedgehog, all quills on the outside and a soft underbelly. i suspect that monsieur so-and-so is also an intellectual and may have discovered my secret! i must maintain my secret so as to allow the bourgeoisie to continue in their foolish enterprise of believing me to be a lowly concierge. but ah, i love japan, anything Japanese: haiku, sushi (it is so much more elegant than french cuisine!), and manga."
i wonder if at the end of the book the narrator is revealed to have been an idiot for all her self-ascribed intellectual superiority. i think that's the only way it could redeem itself, and even then, it would only serve to belie the author's self-diagnosed superiority to the underclass it sets out to elevate...? (the author is a French professor of Philosophy)
hmm... too much for this time of the morning? maybe it's time for me to go back to school and take some lit classes
Rating: Aucune étoile!
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