TheNew30

I Like Big Buttes.

Wow. It's day 3 and I'm now in Wyoming. This is the sort of thing I pass at 85 miles an hour. Some things I've learned about myself so far:
1. I talk to God. A LOT.
2. I'm scared of passing 18-wheelers because of that movie "Duel" with Dennis Weaver. Thanks a lot, Stephen Spielberg.
3.I especially talk to God when I'm passing an 18-wheeler.
4. One person, one dog and one cat can generate unbelievable amounts of road filth: candy wrappers, soda cups, empty water bottles, wadded up napkins, hotel room entry cards, scattered change, cds (thanks Cory - I especially loved listening to Bowie as I crossed from Utah into Why-O-ming), technology (where's that damn phone?), and other ephemera. Not to mention the actual filth of the road.

Speaking of monster trucks, today, I barely made it around one that was ENGULFED in flames. Cops had passed me going about 100 mph, and that's never good. Then, over the next hill, there it was: a gigantic plume of black smoke about as big as an acre. There was a cop who was making some strange hand signals to me, pointing at one specific part of the road. After I passed him and glanced in the rearview, I realized he had been directing me to stop. In order to circumnavigate the catastrophe, I had to pass through the scary smoke cloud. However, after I was through it, I discovered that no cars followed me. For about 20 miles. Talk about squeaking by...

Still, in spite of my fear, I'm falling in love with this country. Even the crack-ho-bad-halter-top-wearin'-mullet-sportin'-country-folks I experienced at a Motel/Casino last night in Nevada. I'll try and check in tomorrow. Pray for me (and those 18-wheelers...)

Giving Up Isn't Always a Bad Thing.

 Yesterday, I went into San Francisco to have lunch with my 22-year-old daughter and the person for whom she has fallen head-over-heels. This person is a responsible individual who happens to be a neurologist. Who happens to live in Brazil. Who happens to be quite a bit older than my daughter.

And who happens to be a woman.

When my girl, glowing with elation, told me she had met someone, I could see she was smitten. Then, when she told me her love interest was a woman, I blinked rapidly and then calmly replied, "Oh...so... I mean... would that be...uh, are you... that is to say... uh... gay?" 

This was met with a roll of the eyes and a bemused response, "No, Mom. It's not about being gay or straight or bi. We're in love, and it doesn't matter what gender we are - we've found each other and it's wonderful!"

"So, er, did you, like, before, did you ever...?

"No, Mom," she murmured with the slightly condescending tone you'd use to explain something to a second grader who was a bit slow. "I've never been with a woman before. This is my first time." 

She went on to patiently repeat that just because her paramour is a woman, that doesn't make her gay. Or even bi.

The result, for me, is confusion. I know it is de rigeur for this generation to experiment in the same-sex sandbox. Big whoop, basically. But watching the two of them yesterday, it was clear as a pane of glass that they were madly in love with each other. I could see why my daughter felt the way she did for, let's call her "Daniella": she is a strikingly beautiful Brazilian woman with an irresistible accent, a keen intellect and sharp sense of humor. She is also a grown-up - something my daughter hasn't before encountered in a relationship. But Daniella has been gay all her life, apparently. My daughter, on the other hand, has always gone for boys. And the bad ones, at that. Doesn't her new relationship kind of re-arrange her, er, qualifications? And how does her girlfriend feel about the fact that my daughter claims to not be gay? My brain is befuddled.

As I sat across from them in the pricey restaurant the Brazilian Neurologist had suggested for lunch, they exchanged meaningful looks, and all I could think was: "How much will it cost for me to fly to Brazil several times a year?" And that thought was followed by a stream of others, such as, "Portuguese is such a hard language to learn - all those "shhhh"s!"

When the bill came, I didn't even reach for it to indicate my desire to pay. I am poor as Job's turkey these days, and in no position to pay for an expensive lunch at an expensive restaurant. Having always treated my girl and her friends whenever we ate out, it was one more in a series of humbling moments. But the sweet sadness I felt as we all walked up the steep hill of Castro Street, was made sweeter and sadder by the sight of the two of them, holding hands, together only for a short time and facing the pain of a long-distance love.

This lifetime of mine has never been something about which I sit back smugly and think "I've got it all figured out." It constantly throws things in my path - and I mean things like grand pianos and Hummer SUVs. For about 50 years, each time I'm thrown another curveball, I get all "Oh, my God, what the fucking fuck??"  But yesterday, as I drove back to Oakland, knowing I will soon have to drive across country to return to a place I insisted, at the age of 17, was a fate worse than death, I just shrugged. I wanted to stay here in the Bay Area, but God has shut all the doors to that possiblity. And more and more, my prayers have abandoned the tone of "What are you DOING to me, God??"  to be replaced by, "Okay. Whatever, God."

If I know anything, and most likely I don't, this life has been all about humility and surrender. And one more time, I'm running the white flag up the pole.

Lucia Davies also throws up her hands and cries "Uncle" regularly at svmoms.

Pharma-stein.

Last night, I was watching network news and, during a flurry of spots for various pharmacological products, I decided to count the number of medication ads for the whole broadcast. The resulting number was a disturbing 16 out of 20. Now, I know the boomers are entering the "golden years" - but this trend is macabre any way you slice it. I picture some media wonk sitting in his office, yakking his head off on the phone to his counterpart at Glaxo Smith Kline, Pfizer or AstraZeneca, "Oh they're all watching the news, and can you imagine? When tell 'em they're in danger of dropping dead, they'll eat this Lipitor® ad with a spoon," he cackles as he puts in a huge buy. Then he makes a similar move for Cialis or Cymbalta. And on. And on.

Sure, some of us suffer from depression, or erectile dysfunction or bladder control problems. But this trend seems to say that ALL of us have the capacity to suffer from ALL of these conditions. How exciting - for a hypochodriac, maybe.

Go Groom Yourself.

Okay, I'm seriously disturbed. Gillette has created a cute little Web site about shaving for men.
And when I say shaving, I mean head, back, chest, groin and, oh my sweet lord, armpits. I understand the need to be smooth - nothing worse than a full head of back hair. But the result of having gone through the entire site is, I feel so old. The fact that men today want to be hairless as little girls makes me feel sad. And totally out of touch.  I always thought underarm hair was sexy. On men. I also thought it was attractive on redheads - regardless of sex. I did a little research, and women have been shaving legs and armpits for less than a century. Before that, it was a given that we all had body hair - and I'm gonna go way out on a limb, here, and posit the idea that women and men actually got turned on by it.

Of course, now, very few women go for the unshaven look. It's the norm for girls to have clean pits and shins. Also, we pluck our eyebrows, wax our upper lips and pubic area, and get a haircut every 8 weeks. There's something distinctly feminine about all this upkeep. But now, according to Gillette, men are getting all high maint, too. Is full makeup for gents on the horizon? Sure, it worked for Ziggy Stardust, but on Ed the Electrician? Eww. Back in the 80's I took a series of pictures of some dear, gay friends of mine who were "Nairing" their backs. We all agreed, it was pretty funny.

Now, thanks to the wonderful world of advertising, it's being taken seriously. And I feel like throwing up a little. Can someone please explain to me how we got here?

Cry Me A Fucking River.

Okay, so I haven't blogged since April. Leemeealoneawreddy.  I've been busy dodging bullets. Like, a HAIL of them. Y'all need to pray for my sorry-lily-white-but-still-unemployed-ass, and ya need to do it RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I've called Silent Unity, even.

Heading to L.A. for mah b'day tomorrow, and will see my posse of amazing gal-pals for dinner tomorrow night. Uh, did someone tell them I can't pay? No matter, I'll wash dishes, that's how bad I need to see these wimmens. Then I get to spend the weekend with Jerry - and hit Jody's baby shower. Her first bambina is on the way. Excitement!

Speaking of wimmenfolk, Nnenna, Cory's best bud up here in the B.A. is going to stay here and look after Gracie, Biggie and Chauncey - cuz Cory's heading off to Albuquerque for Lauren's graduation. I have widened my circle of love to include Coco's best friends: Lauren, Lucy, Hannah and Nnenna. They're gorgeous, talented, whip smart and sweet. Well, all but Lucy. She's talented smart and gorgeous, but sweet? ...nah, kidding. They're all fabulous.

This is a departure from my usual rants. But I can't sign off without mentioning the joke of the week: Carrie Prejean, the (oh alright, if you say so Donald) reigning Miss Whatever who last week said, "Satan was tempting me" (with the question about her "opinion" on same sex marriage) "And God told me ['I need you to speak out on this']."

Apparently, Mizz Prejean, she of the supplemental sacks of silicone and windblown wardrobe malfunctions (except, if there was such a mighty wind, how come her HAIR stayed locked down?) felt compelled to cry at a podium yesterday about how her constitutional rights had been violated. Especially since she believed God Was On Her Side. Oh, boo hoo hoo, Carrie, when you're sobbing on about how your grandfather fought for your right to opine that there are certain members of our society who aren't good enough to have the rights you take for granted, remember this feeling you have of being singled out and persecuted. Doesn't feel too good, does it? What if, down the road, some group decided that people with foreign bodies... in their bodies... can't marry, because they're not, well, pure? Oh, you don't like that your photos got splashed all over the place? You cried that YOUR constitutional rights weren't observed? Hey, you made a choice. There are people out there who, because of short-sighted bigots like you, are being denied THEIR constitutional rights. And not because they made a choice, but simply because they are as GOD MADE THEM. Oh, I can hear you now: All men and women created, uh, equal?

Apparently not, according to you - and your God.

Thankfully, this will blow over like the stupid little spring dustup it is, and we won't hear a peep from this bimbo-bigot ever again. Miss Prejean? Your fifteen minutes are up.

Meanwhile, Virgin America is the rockingest business on Earth, IMHO. Can't wait for tomorrow...

Typepad is freaking me out.

This is a test. Typepad sent me a worrying message saying that I no longer had access to my blog. I'm just going to save this and see what happens.

Message of Hope - in Real World Dimensions.

Flamin' Eejits.

For the past two days, I have been taking part in a huge flame war on a certain cool chick's blog. I noticed there was a "fancies himself Rush Limbaugh"-type trying to bully anyone who sounded even slightly left-leaning so I jumped right into the party. Ohhh, he didn't like that. In the last two flames, he called me "dumbass" and "moron." Those were his sendup flare and his closing remark. I didn't read the long screes he'd typed in between, having seen the quality of his barf on other posters - namely some pretty classic fundamentalist "Christian" ravings, and ballooning "statistics" (example: 400 million children had been aborted since Roe v Wade. And the ludicrous "millions" who came out for last week's joke of the year,  TEA PARTIES.)  SO I couldn't resist cheerfully replying that he'd probably feel better if he'd suck on his night-night bottle instead of that crack pipe. He replied with something like 5 furious, endless paragraphs. I don't know for sure, though. It could have been 4. Or 6. I didn't read it. I now hit delete after I see this joker.

CUT TO:
The building where I live now, there's a woman who has a nasty little dog that barks at my dog (but credit where credit is due: Gracie gives as good as she gets). Tonight I was riding up in the elevator, sans Gracie, with said crankypants  and her dog. She actually, literally, turned her back on me. Her dog regarded me warily. My floor came first, and as I got off, I said, "Good night!" with as much good humor as I could muster. Said woman said nothing but scowled stink-eye in my general direction. And as the elevator doors were closing I gaily called out, "Oooh, FRIENDLY too!"

I know, I know. I shouldn't even engage. But it was kinda fun. The first couple of times, anyway. Now I've gotten it out of my system.  And I have the emotional hangover to prove it. Being an asshole comes naturally to all of us. Living with it, happily, not so much. There's just too much of that ick factor. Which most of us remember - that's what helps us check our flaming impulses, our inclinations to be cruel to a waiter (my ex-father-in-law had his blackbelt in that), cutting people off in traffic, or, what I never do, and what seems beyond vulgar, flippin' the bird.  Kinda seems sad to see it in print. Makes me want to pray for crankypants and The fundamentalist dude - since they clearly are big, steaming cups of rage. Makes me want to continue being Sickening Sweet Little Ray of Sunshine in response to towering tantrums and silent scorn.

But what I want to know is: what is it about people? Why the hell do they have to be so damn mean? Who raised them - Attila the Hun? Don't they know life is simply better when you're pleasant? I know it takes all kinds to make the world go round, but I'm disgusted and saddened by the ick inclination - and how I get in there too - I'm just as bad. Well, no, I'm not JUST as bad. I sign off before things get really fugly. So that's me, one half of a (remorseful)  asshole.  

I guess the world has always been pretty unfriendly. But one of the things that attracts me to my new home in Oakland, CA is the fact that most people I've run into here are really, really, REALLY friendly and nice. Except of course, that woman in the elevator. I have a feeling she's gonng be getting a lot of smiles, hellos and howareyous.

Which I'm pretty sure will piss her off. And her little dog, too.  

For the past two days, I have been taking part in a huge flame war on a certain cool chick's blog. I noticed there was a "fancies himself Rush Limbaugh"-type trying to bully anyone who sounded even slightly left-leaning so I jumped right into the party. Ohhh, he didn't like that. In the last two flames, he called me "dumbass" and "moron." Those were his sendup flare and his closing remark. I didn't read the long screes he'd typed in between, having seen the quality of his barf on other posters - namely some pretty classic fundamentalist "Christian" ravings, and ballooning "statistics" (example: 400 million children had been aborted since Roe v Wade. And the ludicrous "millions" who came out for last week's joke of the year,  TEA PARTIES.)  SO I couldn't resist cheerfully replying that he'd probably feel better if he'd suck on his night-night bottle instead of that crack pipe. He replied with something like 5 furious, endless paragraphs. I don't know for sure, though. It could have been 4. Or 6. I didn't read it. I now hit delete after I see this joker.

CUT TO:
The building where I live now, there's a woman who has a nasty little dog that barks at my dog (but credit where credit is due: Gracie gives as good as she gets). Tonight I was riding up in the elevator, sans Gracie, with said crankypants  and her dog. She actually, literally, turned her back on me. Her dog regarded me warily. My floor came first, and as I got off, I said, "Good night!" with as much good humor as I could muster. Said woman said nothing but scowled stink-eye in my general direction. And as the elevator doors were closing I gaily called out, "Oooh, FRIENDLY too!"

I know, I know. I shouldn't even engage. But it was kinda fun. The first couple of times, anyway. Now I've gotten it out of my system.  And I have the emotional hangover to prove it. Being an asshole comes naturally to all of us. Living with it, happily, not so much. There's just too much of that ick factor. Which most of us remember - that's what helps us check our flaming impulses, our inclinations to be cruel to a waiter (my ex-father-in-law had his blackbelt in that), cutting people off in traffic, or, what I never do, and what seems beyond vulgar, flippin' the bird.  Kinda seems sad to see it in print. Makes me want to pray for crankypants and The fundamentalist dude - since they clearly are big, steaming cups of rage. Makes me want to continue being Sickening Sweet Little Ray of Sunshine in response to towering tantrums and silent scorn.

But what I want to know is: what is it about people? Why the hell do they have to be so damn mean? Who raised them - Attila the Hun? Don't they know life is simply better when you're pleasant? I know it takes all kinds to make the world go round, but I'm disgusted and saddened by the ick inclination - and how I get in there too - I'm just as bad. Well, no, I'm not JUST as bad. I sign off before things get really fugly. So that's me, one half of a (remorseful)  asshole.  

I guess the world has always been pretty unfriendly. But one of the things that attracts me to my new home in Oakland, CA is the fact that most people I've run into here are really, really, REALLY friendly and nice. Except of course, that woman in the elevator. I have a feeling she's gonng be getting a lot of smiles, hellos and howareyous.

Which I'm pretty sure will piss her off. And her little dog, too.  

Cloud Cover in Oaksterdam.

Why I love my floor to ceiling windows...


 

Flying Around S.F. (Listen to the skeery ATC voiceover)