"Hello,"

I answered the phone. "How are you?" she asked, in a tone that made me suspect that the answer wouldn't be "Fine." when I returned the question, but I asked it anyway, "I'm fine...how are you?" "Oh, I just got back from getting my hair cut." "And...?" What she said next struck a chord of terror somewhere deep in my soul.

"I think I might have a mullet."

Guiltily, I realized that somehow over the years I've managed to transmit my irrational fear of the multi-level hairstyle to several of my friends and family.



So of course I didn't just hang up and leave her wondering. I went over to confirm. And marched her back to the hairdresser, as fast as the time I marched there myself when she told me, "Val, don't freak, but, your hair...""Whatwhatwhat?!?!" "You're looking a little...mullet-y."

Flashbacks brought to you by a colossally bad hair day - as bad as it can get without my having a mullet, anyway.

Not even "not better, just different"

At first, I thought it was kinda cool that I write more proficiently in Spanish than in English. Later, I was ashamed. Then, two days ago I was OK with it. Now I'm back to being chagrined, having just run the spell-checker (something I've never resorted to in my life) over a document, authored by CRG, that I'm translating. Some of my errors are typos, some are Spanish interference (consistently typing en for in), but some are just idiotic: infinite spellings of annhilating, patriarchical, appropiate...

One of life's ironies...

...is that spilled soap is one of the worst messes to clean up.

I felt so virtuous as I unscrewed the cap of the eco-friendly handsoap refill pouch with its lightweight, minimal packaging design. I held it over the dispenser, ready for the familiar slow ooze of the liquid soap. I'd spent years perfecting my pour technique and haven't wasted a drop since my second time. Needless to say, I was totally unprepared for the gush of watery liquid that came splashing out all over the countertop and onto the closed (¿?) toilet seat. I spent about 5 minutes wiping everything down with a sponge until there were no more suds. Guess it's a different formula..."foaming" handwash, rather than "gel". When all else fails, read the label.

I guess it could have been worse. For instance, having a bottle of Axe shower gel leak all over the inside of one's gym bag whilst on the road in one's 1970 Ford. Or maybe not..."One" claims that as one drove by with one's alluringly scented cargo, every woman between Clear Lake and Vallejo plastered herself to the sides of the truck...



Disclaimer: String of Lights does not condone the misogynistic TV ads of the above product, though it has been known to chuckle at one or two of them...but I think that those of us who do chuckle are not deriding the women in the commercials, but rather the absurdity of the situations and by extension, any men who believe themselves capable of driving women to such ridiculous behaviors by slathering on Axe (or anything else they do, for that matter).

Apology: String of Lights sincerely apologizes for the sexist nature of the last part of the Disclaimer.

I can't really call this a milestone...

...because I've never measured how many miles I can actually run jog. In fact, I'm a little afraid that the actual distance might prove to be more of a disappointment than I can handle. In fact, I don't really like to talk or even think much about how I exercise. I like it to be something that just happens without my analyzing it or being too scientific, so that it keeps its magic. But perhaps reflecting upon it a bit more seriously a couple of times a year is OK. A year ago today was my latest "starting over" with jogging. It's something I've done off and on since my first year of college and this is the longest I've stuck with it in about 12-13 years, when I'd trained up to running Bloomsday (12K) with Jack. In that fun run race I found that I actually do possess some competitive instincts. I took a break after moving from Missoula to here. After that I've had several more false starts, including the time in 2000 when I foolishly ran Bay to Breakers (also 12K) having only trained for about 5.5K. For some reason, I couldn't walk it, like I'd planned...something just got into me and I had to run. Then, for a week after that I almost literally couldn't walk...but not like you might think. Mysteriously, I had no sore muscles anywhere, but the tops of both feet felt like I'd dropped anvils on them.



So. Yeah, last year on today's date I found myself at the waterfront, planning to walk, but I ran. And I remember how good it felt. For 3 weeks I didn't even keep track of how long I went, but finally started recording minutes at 30. I increased one wimpy minute every week or two until I was able to go 40. I've been holding at 40 minutes since the end of October, a few times going up to 45, but never counting those extra minutes. I'm probably overdue to start thinking about increasing speed...adding hills...getting new shoes, but that's thinking about running and I'm not sure I'm ready for that. My only goal is to not quit.

In the past year, I've run many more days than I haven't. I don't want to get compulsive about it, but I don't want to stop. Dr. Ken was right - I've needed to balance the mental activity (or inactivity, depending on which class I'm in) from school with some physical activity. I can't say that my head is always clearer, but some ideas do get knocked loose during a run once in a while. And it feels good. OK, usually it only feels good afterwards and sometimes not even then, and once in a while it sucks every step of the way. But I know it is good. Good for my health, of course...but good in other ways. I have no idea what drew me to running. I'm no athlete, and my body type might benefit more from some other type of exercise, but I don't want that just yet. I'm happy with the limitations of my "work out". Even running 5-6x a week, I'll never escape the curves of my "hearty peasant stock", for example. Butt yes, there have been some physical benefits...

To ease my splurge-induced capitalist pig consumer guilt,

and feeling über-responsible, I pull the book (50¢) off the shelf and add it to the alarmingly high pile of items in my section of the cart: pink sweaters; cigar shirt; a picture frame just like the one in La flor de mi secreto - the one whose marbles go skittering all over the floor in the desenlace; kick-pleat (and kick-ass, if I do say so myself) brown skirt with pink ribbon and sequin trim; images of La Virgen framed in thick wood, spray-painted gold - hechas en México; brand-new shiny black slingback pointy-toe pumps...

And, to follow up my day of shopping + lunch out...

...an evening of dinner out + shopping! With gas at $14.56/gal, we now combine errands. Yes, dinner counts as an errand. P.F. Chang's in Walnut Creek - bad review, by the way, service slow an absolute clusterf%@K! I stayed at the table waiting to pay the check so he could actually do some shopping before Nordstrom closed. He would have done the same for me if it were almost closing time at my favorite stores...

His and hers

Red Onion Review

After almost 3 hours of thrift-store whoring, we were ready for lunch. OK, after 2 hours, I was ready for lunch, but L. made me wait until it was at least noon on the dot. We'd both been wanting to try the new burger joint on Springs, so that's where we went. It's only been open since March and today we were part of a respectably sized crowd that evidently also had been wanting to check it out. Before I took even a bite of my cheeseburger with grilled onions, I knew I'd be happily regretting my choice two hours later. I posted the following on the "Yelp" review website...

"First things first, this eatery is exactly what Vallejo needs! The burgers are pretty much as they were when Bud's stood on the spot that Red Onion now occupies (1321 Springs Road), but the atmosphere is more like Barney's. Excellent service! The waitstaff is very attentive, and they even brought around dessert samples. Be warned: the burgers do come with Miracle Whip...wish I'd known that. Also, the management needs to think about getting sturdier buns. The bread fell apart after two bites. But the burgers are juicy and the oil-saturated fries and onion rings are superior to just about anyone's. To criticize the fattiness of the food at Red Onion would be downright ignorant, not to mention hypocritical - from the moment you walk in the door, you know exactly what you're in for as a fine layer of grease settles into your hair, skin and clothing. Fortunately, the menu also contains a selection of salads, one of which this diner will be ordering the next time I go. God, I need a Dr. Pepper..."

How does it know?!?!

I have a gmail account that has a very limited use and I like the application very much for what it allows me to do. There is one thing I don't like, however. I think it's called adsense. From what I can tell, it uses keywords in correspondence to determine what kind of advertising will show up in the right margin next to the frame containing the e-mail. For example, if a novel was mentioned, an ad for a publisher or bookseller would pop up. But some of the ads are hard to link to anything that was mentioned in the correspondence and can be quite alarming, such as this one, which, apallingly, has come up way more than once (!):

10 Rules for Stomach Fat

Drop 9 lbs of Stomach Fat every 11 Days by Sticking with the 10 Rules.
www.FatLoss4Idiots.com/StomachFat

 

 

No, I'm not going to say "salvífico" again!

The stress factor of this quarter's end was exceptional only because it was exponentiated. I usually spend most of the first week or so of summer break rattling around feeling a little purposeless. This year, though, I think I realize that the period of relative inertia is probably something very necessary. It serves a restorative purpose. Like those unexpected material and immaterial gifts or combination of the two that I've had showered on me this week or so...

Such as this volume...and its content.

The voice you were expecting.../The voice you were waiting for...

"La copa rota"

I loved the melodramatic lyrics (below) of "La copa rota" ("The Broken Wineglass", I guess it could but "tomar una copa" just means having a drink, and in parts of México, the vino doesn't just translate to "wine", but to any alcoholic drink), so I bought it. It's about a man who purposely bites his liquor glass and cuts his mouth so that the "poison of a treacherous kiss" will bleed out. But now I wonder if it wasn't a bad omen...I've gotten several cuts in the past few days. Today as I was packing up my office, I knocked the carafe from the coffee maker off my desk, watched it bounce once, land intact, bounce again and shatter. Cleaning up, one of the shards pierced my left middle finger (how will I manage to drive?). Strangely, it's not this freshest one that stings the most, but I'm sure I'll feel it tomorrow.

Aturdido y abrumado
por la duda de los celos
y deciste en la cantina
un bohemio ya sin fe
con los nervios destrozados
y llorando sin remedio
como un loco atormentado
por la ingrata que se fue.

Se ve siempre acompañado
del mejor de los amigos
que le acompaña y le dice
"ya está bueno de licor"
Nada remedias con llanto
nada remedias con vino
al contrario la recuerda
mucho mas tu corazón.

Una noche como un loco
mordió la copa de vino
y con su cortante filo
que su boca destrozó
y la sangre que brotaba
confundióse con el vino
y en la cantina este grito
a todos estremeció.

No te apures compañero
si me destrozo la boca
no te apures es que quiero
con el filo de esta copa
borrar la huella de un beso
traicionero que me dio.

Mozo sírvame en la copa rota
sírvame que me destroza esta
fiebre de obsesion
mozo sírvame en la copa rota
quiero sangrar gota a gota
el veneno de su amor.

Mozo sírvame en la copa rota
sírvame que me destroza esta
fiebre de obsesion
mozo sírvame en la copa rota
quiero sangrar gota a gota
el veneno de su amor.

P.S.

That flight...

...obviously turned out to be just fine. But, also just fine - those other items in my litany of worries of a few weeks ago. In this interim, support, reassurance, remedy, jugo de confianza, evaporation and tranquilidad vía e-mails, phone calls, GoogleChat, SISWEB, face-to-face and the heart and brain God gave me.

"Thanks for taking the afternoon off to marry me," he said.

"Did you call L. back?" "Shit! I forgot," I said, replaying his message, which ended, "...and Val, I just have a question for you." As I dialed, I wondered if the question was "Are you ready for another dog yet?"

"Hey, it's Val. Sorry I didn't call earlier..." I braced for a funny yet caustic comment, but he said, a little subdued, or nervous, "That's OK. Hey, school's out, right?" "Yes, thank God!" "Oh, good," he seemed relieved. "Well," he continued, a familiar bitchy tone creeping into his voice, "since I know you don't have any plans for tomorrow - other than eating bon-bons and screwing the gardener, that is - do you want to go to Fairfield?" I wasn't offended, nor should you be, neither of those things were in my plan for today. In fact, he knows I prefer salty to sweet...but, come to think of it, I am a little miffed that he'd even joke that I would resort to behavior that's as conventional a cliché as screwing my non-existent gardener.

"Fairfield?" I asked. "Yes...would you like to be our witness?" Two beats later I shattered my silence and his eardrum with an embarrassingly girly squeal. "Great, we'll pick you up at 12:30..." "No, 12:00," I heard R. in the background. L. continued, "OK, 12:00. We have to be at the courthouse by 12:30, then we'll take you to lunch at Mimi's, then we'll stop at Home Depot if R. doesn't have to get right back to work..."



Only these two would have "Get married" on their list of errands to run on a Friday afternoon. Their down-to-earth, no-nonsense way of relating (among other things) has made possible their 26-years together. They so clearly value each other, yet have never taken themselves or their relationship overly seriously. This couple is a model of how to effectively mix tolerance, (com)passion, realism, annoyance, humor, independence, several hobbies and a small zoo and still stay together. Here's to 26 more years!

I'd misspelled "bourgeoisie" reallyreally bad and none of you peasants

and/or lumpenproletariat even told me!

Maybe we'll see nice things on vacation.

Just a little something I picked up this evening.

No, I'm not pregnant! Well, 86%-98% probably not, anyway...But someone might be...and sadly was desperate enough to use the test in or near in the parking lot by Coldstone Ice Cream. Or at least just Vallejo enough to leave the box in the parking space along with a drink cup from L&L Hawaiian Barbeque and a container from Coldstone. Yes, as I often do, I did my civic duty - picked up the trash, watching the other patrons' gazes drop to the E.P.T. box in my hand as I walked toward the trash. I made sure to make direct eye contact with each of them, tempted to squeal, "It's negative!" to some and "It's positive!" to others. I threw away my disgusting cargo. Then I patiently panicked until I got to a place where I could wash my hands.

Now, I would much rather go to the Dairy Queen on Springs Road than to Coldstone in the Costco/PepBoys/Marshall's and Ross/Chevy's area. Yeah, it's also a chain, but somehow it feels more home-towny and I somehow feel more righteous at DQ buying a simple, reasonably sized (and priced) sundae with chocolate and marshmallow sauces. Plus, at DQ, you expect a certain level of that V-Town atmosphere, because it's right there. In Vallejo. But overpriced, conglomerate ice cream was better than no ice cream on this hot evening...Perhaps I should just appreciate that someone brought a bit of Vallejo to our version of Any Town (but No Town), U.S.A.

Eye candy...

Need an escape?

Click here for a slide show that evokes Borges' "El Aleph", which may or may not have foreshadowed the internet...




Thanks to the friend who sent the link all those months ago!

I could have brought all of them upon myself...

Yet, somehow... The worst is the punishment I deserve. The better is probably just par for the course. The best must have been an act of mercy.

No, actually I don't think it's too much of a stretch to interpret my grades as a metaphor for judgment of my moral being.

Domestic decline

Following the aftermath of Paper Writing Week, I've been slowly reacquainting myself with my surroundings. Not that I was surrounded by my surroundings much this weekend...However, I did take note of several conditions that range from inconvenient to unacceptable, to normally unthinkable to strange to strangely beneficial: downstairs toilet having to be shut off to stop the running we haven't had time to fix; bed linens consisting of a top sheet used as a bottom sheet, and a comforter used as a top sheet; forgetting to drink wine; popcorn and black coffee for breakfast; laundry piling up, resulting in my being quite elegantly outfitted for things like a trip to the DMV and staying home all day to write papers.

Of course, the condition of the fridge is really, well, how it gets...

I looked up from the absolutely essential activity of doing yesterday's blog entry to see him come into the office. "Hey...when you go the grocery store tomorrow or whenever...could you get something...?" His expression was slightly panic-stricken. "Um...of course...What do you need?" I asked, dreading the answer, envisioning myself browsing the Embarrassing Items aisle, behind Steve the pharmacist, who hands me a package whose wrapping contains the word anal or genital in large red letters.

"Can you get some healthy shit? I just got off the scale!"

"Stop being so nice...

...I know you like this one better,"she said as I reached for the other Frida Kahlo retablo, which was grey and plain and had socialist images painted on it. "You'll sell the yellow one more easily, though..."

I don't think that grey and red one ever did sell.

On its shelf: the broken keychain she'd bought me at the Museo/Casa Azul, the glass bird we'd gotten for her at a flea market in the 70s, a big gem, a monster finger puppet, Paloma's first dog tag, a package of those little candies wrapped in tissue paper and tied off with string from the last time we'd gone to Cien Años (the time she'd set the menu on fire by holding it over the votive candle too long and the waiter whose nametag was the EL PÁJARO card from lotería had to first come extinguish the flame and later come back to settle the heated Vicente/Alejandro dispute that ensued about the background music. Vicente.)

The Frida Kahlo exhibit opened yesterday at SFMoMA. But today I could go an hour before the museum officially opened. One of those small gifts of serendipity that I choose to attribute to her...All those paintings with their aura of the original. Perhaps because today was today, my cynicism suspended and the work and the artist seemed again new.

Come to think of it, though, that title might need to be added to the list of advice I wrote back in November.

My dad knows the right thing to say.

And he's very prompt, too. He got to the Crocker about 15 minutes early and called. We met in the lobby...

"Happy Father's Day." "Thanks. Oh, I like your hairstyle." "Oh...um...thanks...for calling it a style."

Pandora opens yet another...

The Detroit Cobras quite rock. Just very very good. Lead singer with a sexy, smoke-fed voice, incredible lead and bass players. They are a cover band...but... if you've actually heard the originals of more than 4 of their songs, you rock even more than they do. Saw them last night at Slim's, which also quite rocks. It seemed like a perfect place to sport those henna tattoos acquired at the Pirate Festival. Decided to splurge this time and reserved dinner seating, not really knowing what to expect. Not knowing indeed, if the ticket price was just to assure a seat to actually sit in or if it really meant dinner. It meant dinner. And not just bar food, but reallyreally dinner. A salad, a choice of a proper meal with veggies and cake for dessert! (him: lemon pepper chicken, me: spinach ravioli, but we could have had rib-eye had we not, in the throes of hungry-cranky, shelled out a ludicrous amout of $1.00 bills for "saucy tips" sangies at the Pirate Festival)

It seemed a bit strange to be chowing down on something that required a knife and fork while listening to the opening band, The Hi-Nobles. Do click the name for their MySpace...excellent musicians with influences that seem to span 5 decades. The highest-energy band of le soir featured a lead singer in a shiny red suit and porkpie hat. Forgave him the ubiquitous hat whilst watching him scale the amps and drum set like Stella used to run along the back of the couch and other alternative surfaces. The keyboard player interacted in an aggressively hermeneutic manner with his candy-apple red organ, tilting it so that at times he was playing it at a 45 degree angle - and never once hit a wrong key.

Still trying to decide if Les Sans Culottes are a fake French band...either way, loved them! The band members have silly names, like Jacques Strappe, Edith Pissoff...

Clicking here for the write-up Slim's gives the Detroit Cobras, I see that they were also in town last year on a significant date. Last year was my turn to plan and all I came up with was a Pulp Fiction theme: breakfast and a "Bad Mother Fucker" wallet presented in a Hefty bag... Had I only known of the band then, Slim's might have become "Jackrabbit Slim's" for a night...

Top Ten Things about the...

10. Vallejo can have one nice thing!

9. License to susbstitute first person direct/indirect object for possessive pronoun. Ex: Check out me henna tattoo, matey.

8. Henna tattoos!

7. Punk/Pirate band, Rum Rebellion

6. FREE ADMISSION!

5. Wenches on stilts...

4. Turkey legs

3. All the "booty" jokes you can "crack".

2. Cleavage galore.

1. Saying VARRRRRH!

Musical medicinal

The woman-power message of Trisha Yearwood's "American Girl" seemed about 15 years too late when the song came out. But perhaps things are different in places where Country music has a wider following, and it is a bigger deal there when a girl decides to replace the "ribbons and bows", "heels and pearls" with things that will allow her to "make it in her daddy's world". I like the song in spite of most of the lyrics not really fitting for me and most women I know. One lyric does apply. Yearwood lets us know that the subject of her song makes it through the hard times with a little help. "She's got her God/ and she's got good wine/Aretha Franklin and Patsy Cline." I understand and go there myself. But to that already excellent list I'd have to add a couple of substances and songstresses. Franklin and Cline are classic, but I may have played them out quite a few years ago. Thankfully, there's also...Courtney Love, Joan Baez, Holly Golightly, Joan Jett, Shakira (¡don't judge me!), Dolly Parton, Billie Holiday, Lola Beltrán, Emmylou Harris, Paquita la del Barrio, The Donnas, Nina Simone, Yearwood herself, Peaches, Julieta Venegas, 7-Year Bitch, Emily Jan White, Dusty Springfield, and many many others I'm forgetting...

Who are your go-to gals? Or guys?

"I don't know why. I just do."

If there's no passenger demanding otherwise I only turn it on if it's 82 or above. Yet perversely, once the temperature reaches about 91, I shut it off and roll down the windows.

I try to look at it every time I'm there.

This atypical piece by Ana Mendieta (Cuban, b. 1948 exile 1961) is part of SFMoMA's collection. I've always liked it and I do look for it on each visit. And today (of all days) I finally note the title, Tallus Mater (Madre Tallo/Stem Mother).

When the artist's name came up during lecture on 21/5 I should have intervened, calling up images of arte fugaz for an accompanying show and tell. But that day was a wonderful, all 5 senses day, full of things fugaz and not so much, and serendipitous discoveries ... Mendieta metida en la colección de mujeres de barba postiza, mujeres barbudas, el Caimán Barbudo...

Mendieta (1948-1985) was best known for "earth-body sculptures", these ephemeral images made permanent by the camera.

She also left the imprint of her body on other surfaces, often in violent looking motions and positions. This beach sculpture could be seen as containing symbolic elements of Afro-cuban religion - red is the color of Xangó...and Yemayá comes from the ocean...But this work of medio fotografía/medio performance is a chilling foreshadowing. Mendieta fell to her death from a 34th floor in Greenwich village. Today I discover, during research, that Nancy Morejón wrote a poem about this, in its last versos, bringing the exiled body back to the island.

An excerpt from Morejón's "Ana Mendieta":

Ana
Una golondrina de arena y barro.
Ana
Una golondrina de agua.
Ana
Una golondrina de fuego.
Ana
Una golondrina de un jazmín.
Una golondrina que creó el más lento de los veranos.
Una golondrina que surca el cielo de Manhattan
hacía un norte ficticio que no alcanzamos a vislumbrar,
o a imaginar, más al norte aún de tantas vanas
ilusiones.
. . .
Ana, lanzada a la intemperie de Iowa, otra vez.
Una llovizna negra cae sobre tu silueta.
Tus siluetas dormidas nos acunan
como diosas supremas de la desigualdad,
como diosas supremas de los nuevos peregrinos
ccidentales.
Ana sencilla. Ana vivaz.
Ana con su mano encantada de huérfana.
Anda durmiente. Ana orfebre.
Ana, frágil como una cáscara de huevo
esparcida sobre las raíces enormes de una Ceiba
cubana
De hojas oscuras, espesamente verdes.
. . .
Ana, qué colores tan radiantes veo
Y cómo se parecen a ciertos cuadros de Chagall
que te gustaba perseguir por cualquier galería
de la Tierra
Tus Siluetas, adormecidas,
van empinando al papalote multicolor
que huye de Iowa bordeando los cipreses indígenas
y va a posarse sobre las nubes ciertas
de las montañas de Jaruco en cuya tierra húmeda
has vuelto a renacer envuelta en un musgo celeste
que domina la roca y las cuevas del lugar
que es tuyo como nunca

Ana

"Este documento puede salvar tu vida"

I've officially over-used the word salvífico, but yeah, seeing this little ticket in my box last week (with salvar actually spelled right) certainly did something to salvage something for me. And so did seeing the play tonight...excellent presentation. So worth the drive and the few hours away from the papers.

Gracias...take many more bows. All of you.

He was properly sympathetic.

Rushing to Gate C-14 I stopped at a drinking fountain to pop a Fioricet.

"Poor thing. You had a rough night. Your migraine's still there, isn't it?" It was, but not as bad as it had been at 3:30 this morning, when it was accompanied by todo y vomitos. He asked, "Do you think it was food-triggered?"

I stared at the label on the bottle for a second, thinking back to Friday, when I was trying to write a paper, trying to pack, trying to give dog-related instructions, trying not to think about, trying to not be afraid of the upcoming flights and trying leave the house on time. Doing none of the above, I sat on the cedar chest holding the bottle and feeling my heart beat. "How wrong would it be to take one of these if I don't have a migraine?"

"No," I responded, after pulling my head up from the drinking fountain on the way to Gate C-14, "I think it was poetic justice."

That's why it's blue

It doesn't belong there, blue as it is, and cold. Doesn't belong there rigid and angular as it is. Doesn't belong there, rigid and utilitarian as it is, metal. Iron, probably, though, so that's good for the blood, right? Blood comes from and back to the heart, ¿no?

I meant to comment on those neighbors who didn’t want to talk about what went on in Allende’s house after...

...and ask whether there was some sort of unspoken pacto de olvido among the chilean bourgeoisie.

But I got confused and wrote something embarrassingly impressionistic...the closest I'd ever get to poetry. I mean, what was I supposed to do? My first copy of FGL's Romancero gitano was sitting right there in front of me.

I know we've seen him here recently, but today is the 110th anniversary of the poet's birth.

"The red one is called 'César Chávez'!", I'd announced.

"Of course it is."

Por éso estamos como estamos en este país...

Of course I voted. Yes, dressed "like that"... after having possibly run one of the miles in under... insert embarrassingly high number of minutes here:

At 5:50 this afternoon I was the 46th voter at my polling place. All day. I'm so glad CA spent the money to run this election now instead of saving those two uncontested Assembly seats and two confoundingly similar measures dealing with eminent domain (which I've always confused with Westward Expansion and/or colonialism - will google it later) and putting the whole enchilada on the ballot in the next major election. Karl had gone in quite a bit earlier and was number 44. He'd seen our neighbor (45) as he was leaving.

I walked out of the church gym, having abandoned the mental rant against my pinche non-voting fellow citizens in favor of the Things to Do litany. I was on "Oh, shit! Call Little Maya and order tamales for Thurs...10 chicken...see if they have them de piña...probably no pork..." when a man got out of the red Toyota parked behind me. "Excuse me, would you like to buy any tamales?" I flashed back to two weeks ago, when I was asked,

"Would you ever buy tamales from those people who come around sellin' 'em from their cars?" I knew my answer would profoundly influence him. "Absolutely."

So today I made the arrangements to place the order. "Actually, yes...los necesito para jueves, pasado mañana...como 10 de pollo, 10 de queso, 10 de...¿de piña tiene Ud.?"

After the deal went down, I told Gustavo that he wouldn't find many likely clients at the polling place and launched into a bit of a tirade about people not voting. He looked a little sheepish, "Yo no voté hoy...y no creo que voy a votar...hay como, ¿qué? 2 candidatos que se lanzaron por una formality y algo que tiene que ver con las rentas, ¿no? Pues, casi no vale la pena...¿no?"

Heh. I hope he didn't think I included him in "este país de pendejos"...

I don't think so, though, because he gave me a sample of the queso con chile.

Default Setting #7

Escribo desde/I write from:
El tiempo/Weather:
Estoy luciendo/What I'm wearing:
Conmigo/With me:
Estado de animo/State of being:
Estoy leyendo/What I'm reading: Isla sin fin de Rafael Rojas y "La isla en peso" de Piñera
Música:
Vi a/I saw:
Hablé con/I spoke with:
Antojo/Craving:
Serendipity/Corazonada: Yesterday in translating Pizarnik vía CRG... in a result from a google search...a blog containing my first ever subject of literary analysis - FGL's "Prendimiento de Antoñito de Camborio"/"Muerte de Antoñito de Camborio", for some reason I check the sources, and sure enough, my first profe's Federico García Lorca: The Poetry of Limits...then por fin a re-opening of myself to poetry...Today Piñera's poem, in verses evocative of...

Let me just read you something...

...from my as yet unwritten paper, which somehow manages to already suck!