Weird Craigslist

This real alligator head can be purchased at Mr. D's Leather and Novelties in Newport News, VA for a mere $45.

Hey, anyone ever been to Mr. D's?
ROAD TRIP!

Theres no such thing as free therapy.

I saw PostSecret first.
Damnit, I still need to send that book to Erin.

Damint, she probably already has it now.

DAMNIT, I wanted to send her something cool!

Then, a more basic cyber version on FlawLes TV's website.
Mary B., where I come from, its illegal to be that cute.
Sometimes I think the Universe likes to watch me squirm. Bonus points for all-out breakdowns.

Confessionals.
And not the Catholic-booth kind, which I find uber creepy.

Catholic school, I was 12 and was told that I wasn't "prepared" for the Sacrament of Penance. I've had an aversion to confessional booths ever since. At the time, I thought ooohhhh....something dark and terrifying happens in there. I shouldn't go in there. Ever.

I dont walk to close to confessionals in a church. You'd have to pay me to step in one. I dont like it when authors describe their, or their character's, experience in confessionals. I dont like to see actors in them in movies or TV (exception: Kate Moennig as Shane, season 2, episode 8).

I don't believe in vibes, juju, or auras - I think humans project their own bullshit and then say things like "its just a feeling I have in here." But if there was such a thing as bad juju, 50 bucks says I'd find it in a confessional. With all that sin spewing out of people in those boxes, how in the bloody hell does the wood not rot?

I digress.

No, no, I did not begin this post with that kind of creepy confessional in mind. I am talking about the instant, anonymous, tell Cyber-Les or PostSecret everything and no one will ever know its you, confessional. And I still can't do it. I'm too paranoid. I fear that if I design a postcard and send it in to PostSecret, they will publish the damn thing and then somehow, somehow!, my artistic mark will be so potent, so prominent, that I'll get busted. Freakishly ridiculous.

Same thing on FlawLes. On their website you can post an anonymous confession. Type a nickname, confess and hit enter. I was about to do it- I had my confession all typed out, edited for relevance and entertainment factors, when I noticed a little button...

"click here for Confessions policy"

Wait, what?
Theres a policy?
Well fuck me, now I have to read it!

Leave it to the les's to write a policy for confessions. I'm not blaming Mary B and Jess for having a policy because I know why they have it. If they hadn't posted their confession policy then they would be accosted by emails from lesbian who wanted to know -

...is this really anonymous?
...what do you do with my "optional" email?
...can you track my IP address, discover my true identity and email my girlfriend/ ex-girlfriend/ boss/ neighbor/ university my confession?

Hmmmm? WELL? CAN YOU?!
Needless to say, I couldn't confess.

While I hate - haaaate - paying $130 to emotionally puke in front of a PhD, I must admit...I appreciate the fact that I can purchase the professional standards of therapists. You see, I know they can't tell. As long as you are not going to hurt yourself or hurt someone else: They - Can - Not - Tell. Ever! Nothing. If they do they risk their license and, hence, their fat-ass paychecks. And I believe in the lure of that dollar. I know how attractive that paycheck must be. I dont think anyone would ever walk away from a job where you sit on your ass all day in a chair of your choosing, making $130 an hour in order to leak some bullshit sob story of mine.

Greed. Keeping secrets secret for millennia.

Strange Criagslist

This is not what HGTV had in mind when they suggested staging your property.

See that ticker?

The fingers...on the left of the screen. Thats a hit-counter. An American Sign Language webpage hit counter. Vanity made me add it. Its pretty nerd-bally, I know, but I love Sign Language and since everything else on 52islandweeks is nerdy, it works.

Recently, I became *acutely aware of just how weirdo my blog is when someone asked if I had a Facebook page. They asked for reference-sake. I dont mean job interview reference...more like "I want to make sure you're not a weirdo" reference or "do you have a picture of yourself" reference. In this day and age, its a perfectly legit request and I felt compelled to offer something. But I dont have a facebook. Fuck facebook. All I have is this blog and a 6 year old MySpace page...and I can't even remember how to sign in to that damn thing.

But, I'm not so sure this blog is a good reference. I mean there's a reason why its 95% anonymous. I keep it anonymous so I can vent. So I can let the extremes of my personality out without fear of judement. I look at the ticker that counts my web-hits and I think...

...the hits are not really the result of 1000+ people looking at my blog. That number is simply the result of my mom and Erin clicking on it a hundered times to make me feel like someone reads this bullshit. Lets, for my pride's sake, pretend like it is.

Paris

How many times have you heard that the French don't like us Americans? Plenty, I'm sure.

And we're not so fond of them either. Remember back in Bush's first war when the French questioned the integrity of our "proof" of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? They called our President's bullshit and we didn't take to kindly to that. So we did the only thing we could think of: boycott them son'bitches! Ugh...I'm embarrassed for us. Like hide-under-the-table embarrassed.

I don't think the boycott hurt the French economy too much. It never really took off. All in all, it was the spirit of the protest we were trying to convey. That "Oh yeah?!" attitude the U.S. tends to exude when we want someone to bow down and call us "Daddy."

But the French refused then, and now, to recognize our superiority on every front. Politically we are imbeciles. Culturally we are void. Academically we're lazy. And don't mention food: we're the hotdog to their foie gras. Our literature is predictable, our fashion...well, pathetique translates simply enough.

A friend of mine who resides in France, but is neither French nor American, recently told me that the French, however dismissive of us they may seem, only hold Americans in contempt superficially. Ironically, if you scratch the surface, he claims, the French think Americans are "cool." They admire our swagger, if you will.

You know that tacky American tourist traipsing around Paris wearing Teva sandels and khaki shorts? They think its disgusting, but we could give a fuck. We're oblivious. We're oblivious to French politics. They know all about ours. We are oblivious to their culture. They know all about ours. We don't even acknowledge the French Masters...to us, they belong to the World and we could give a shit (once again) about where they were born. Besides, if its at the MET, New Yorkers own it. Go 'head...ask 'em. Dare ya.

I've been in Paris now enough times to say that I scratched the surface - and I am equally positive that in doing so I have rubbed more than one Parisian the wrong way.

I tried to buy cigarettes at a drug store.

I never say Bonjour when I walked into a store.

I look for the closest Gap if I need an extra pair of socks.

I've stuck my nose up at Duck liver and have gotten bored in the Louvre.

The Eiffel Tower strikes me as large and not much else.

When I hear 2 Live Crew blaring in a swanky club, I laugh hysterically and refuse to pay the cover charge.

Pleasant little American, ain't I?

Actually, I am. No American has ever accused me of being course or difficult. Well, maybe my mother, but in her case its true. But no one else. Its just that in France, everything I do is wrong. And everything they do is weird. The French are the Ying to my Yang in almost every sense.

I leave for France in about a week again and I am sure that when I am there it will only take a few days before I piss someone off with my ignorance. So I beg you, if you are French and you see an American with unruly brown hair wearing her best Gap-duds...please, dig deep, be as pleasant as humanly possible - because I like you...despite yourself. I know my culture has replaced delicacy with convenience. I know I worship my Ipod and bow to my Blackberry. I totally get that Coypell was a genius and yes, I wish we had a Gabriel to design D.C.

So to show my appreciation I'm bringing my collection of JayZ C.D.'s and a shit-ton of Budweiser.
Works every time.

What?

Mom won.

Contest over. Below is the bust of Andrew Jackson.
Mom was supposed to be on the do-not-play list too, but I forgot.
Sneaky.

And sorry Mika- you emailed me *after mom. And even if you hadn't, your smartass "shortbus" comment rendered you ineligible.

Norfolkians. Always gotta say something.

April is National Poetry Month

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
T. S. Eliot

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions Which a minute will reverse.

Design: Paul Sahre

Its A Contest People!

Another addition to the running Weird Craigs List theme. This (and he's got one of Washington and Jackson too) can be yours for the low, low cost of $35.

How about this: $35 to the first person who emails me which President this is.
Ready, Set, GO!


Erin- you can't play.
Sarah- your disqualified too.

Both ya'll too dang smart.

I was so sure no one had heard...

Damnit Lizzie, is nothing sacred!? ;)

UFC Fighter Kaleb the Kitty

I'm searching for my annual, wear-every-day-all-summer-long linen pants.

I went to Bannana Republic and the Sales Associate (she has an Associates in Hor'dom) told me I was "box" shaped. But not too worry because by doing a few squats with some 5 lbs weights in hand I could lift my ass up and pull in "those hips".

She died.

It was sad.

No Aloha FOR YOU!

Racist White Woman by Haunani-Kay Trask

I could kick

Your face, puncture

Both eyes.

You deserve this kind

Of violence.

No more vicious

Tongues, obscene

Lies.

Just a knife

Slitting your tight

Little heart.

For all my people

Under your feet

For all those years

Lived smug and wealthy

Off our land

Parasite arrogant

A fist

In your painted

Mouth, thick

With money

And piety.

Daaaaaaaamn girrrrrl! Mommas no jokin', no whatd I'm sayin'?

Suck Art.

I was sent a "escher and modigliani hybrid" piece of "art" yesterday. I say "art" in quotations (and lower case) because that is how the artist sent it to me.

That piece above, by the way, is not it, nor is it an Escher or a Modigliani...its a little something Bert Christianson calls "Cleavage".

Look at it again.

Stare at it.

You know you want to.

It reminds you of something, doesn't it?

Kinda Madonna and Child on ecstasy?

Weird.

Escher is a no brainer Art man- he did that curly cue shaving picture of a person's face. "The Rind". Popular modern. Its just missed "cult classic"...a bit more high brow than the notorious elevator into the ocean (which in my opinion is about as devoid of a thinking audience as The Scream).

Modigliani is a bit freaky for me. Anytime he painted a portrait the subject always had these hollow black eyes in a weird alien shape. No like.

Lauded for his weirdoness...individuality if you will, (which I dont get because frankly, with those eyes, they all look the same to me), Modigliani doesn't suck. You may like it, or hate it, but even a poo'head AP Art History high school student will give him props.

Plus he's got the equivalent of street cred in the Artist World. He died a disease ridden drunk, hooked on pills and depressed.

Plus, he was a Jew. Nuff said.

Escher died of cancer in some Artist Colony- boring? Yes. But he was good enough to get away with that type of stand-up lifestyle. My thought: Modigliani needed a healthy dose of high power angst to make him cool enough to be worthy of renowned and all that that word implies.

Which brings me to the question- what makes Art cool? Good? Worthy of discussion- or at least more than a two second glance? And on a counter note- what makes art suck? Tough questions which many philosophers, art scholars and people generally more brilliant than I am have tackled with gusto. But they're often too wordy, explaining every fucking reason behind all their fucking reasons. Drives me nutts.

Here's my rule of thumb: Any time a piece of work that is mass produced by a poster company and then sold to college students across the country for $10, you've got a problem. Ditto if some dude sells your piece of work pre-framed for $20 at a flea market or out of his car at a gas station. I apply my rule to the lowest of the low "Blue Line on White Canvas" to the notorious best of the best, like Monet.

Sorry Monet but The Water-Lily Pond now officially sucks.
No seriously. Its sucks so fucking bad it hurts.

"I have nothing to say / and I am saying it / and that is poetry / as I
needed it"
--John Cage


"It reflects no great honor on a painter to be able to execute only one
thing well -- such as a head, an academy figure, or draperies, animals,
landscapes, or the like -- in other words, confining himself to some particular
object of study. This is so because there is scarcely a person so devoid of
genius as to fail of success if he applies himself earnestly to one branch of
study and practices it continually."
--Leonardo da Vinci

Drinks?

My grandmother used these goblets (they're not "glasses" damnit) while I was growing up.

Between my Papa and I, they have all been broken except for one- which I keep wrapped up in a special box in the garage. I had two, but when the second to the last one broke, my heart just couldn't take watching the last one go. So it got packed away along with all my other life's memrobelia thats too precious to cope with losing.

That is, of course, until my mother decided it was finally time to give in to my begs and drop way too many $10's on these sexy baby blues.

I'm so excited.

Retail therapy is fucking pathetic.

Turn The Volume On Anyway

I've been learning to live without you now
but I miss you sometimes
the more I know, the less I understand
all the things I thought I knew
I'm learning them again

I've gotten a few emails about my lack of posts.
I'm in a bad mood. I hate missing...him.
I've got too much crap in my brain and its all clogged up.
Nothing happens fingers to keys.
Wont last forever, but could be longer than I'd like.
Peace- I'm taking a break.

The Holiday Call

Erin and I call each other on holidays. Every holiday- big or small. It began when I got perturbed with her one year, pre-holiday, when I wanted to talk about some "Amazing Grace" topic and she was being an atheist downer bootie-head.

Well, I'll show her.

Fast forward to Easter. Easter isn't a big one for her. The whole "The third day he rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven..." Apostle's Creed thing just doesn't jive in her mind. Who can blame her? She's Catholic. But even still, I called her an announced in my best mad scientist impersonation,

"He's aaaaaliiiive!"

With my usual celebratory "Risen Christ" Easter attitude, I assured her that she could breathe a little easier because I had officially prayed her way into Heaven. She was most gracious and, of course, thanked me profusely.

I also find it terribly fun to try to interrupt her in the middle of a holiday family event. Particularly those that involve extended family. My fantasy is to call Erin right when she sits down at the Christmas dinner table and butt in with a loud, obnoxious cell phone ring. I would bust into the most operatic version of "Happy Birthday Baby Jesus" I could muster. And she'd have to sit through the whole thing with me on speaker phone! Delicious! The very thought makes me giddy.

One year she answered on Christmas Eve (she gets two phone calls around then- Christmas Eve and Christmas Day) and she said in a hushed voice "We're about to eat- cant chat- call you back." I said a quick "Ok, bye." in a similar whisper and set the phone down with an evil gleam of twisted satisfaction in my eye.

Sooooooo close.

The beauty of Erin and I is two fold: we often disagree and we like it that way. I'm a Jesus Freak and she's atheist. She's a vegetarian and I crave rare cow butt. I like Tupac and Madonna, Erin heads for the indie labels. She assures me that some men really are good in bed. I lament having to waste the 15 minutes it takes the men I've pulled out from under the rocks. And there is little to no chance of changing either one of our minds about most topics. Even if we act like we might in conversation with you...nooo...we're just hoping if we give you a few head nods you'll shut the fuck up.

Ok, so neither of us are really that extreme. No, really, we're very open minded. I happily cook vegetarian dishes regularly, will conceded that the Virgin Birth aint all the probable, and In still have hope for the brother's, if you know what I mean. Erin would agree that humans may never fully understand the concept of existence in all its glory- while happily listening to my rendering of Man in the Mirror, by Michael Jackson. Stoned, I'm a rockstar.

This Thanksgiving, as with all holidays, I am thankful for my Erin, in whatever extreme she can bring. In fact...I might even try the tofurkey.

Frickin' Google

It seems if you google Duncan Hunter and/or California 52 Congressional District my last post will eventually pop up. More than a few of these surfers are Dumb Duncan Fans and have taken me up on my offer in the November 19th post:

Dear California's 52 Congressional District,

I know you've voted Duncan Hunter into Congress since 1981. And I know he's retiring now and that his son Duncan D. Hunter is hot on his father's coattails. And yes, Duncan D. is a Marine. And yes, you've got a lot of drug crime and maybe you think that he's the man for the job.

He isn't. He's wrong. Scary wrong. He's so wrong that I can't even begin to touch on it here. But I promise- if you write me, I will answer. And not in my typical wild curse-word laden manner. I'll send you the emails and blog pages of really smart people- I mean super smart people. Much smarter than me. Obviously, I have an agenda. But if you believe nothing else- believe that so does Duncan D. Hunter.
Get both sides. At the very least, you'll know your opposition even better.

Dont Be Doop'd,
DEE DEE YEE

Well, I came through. And after 47 emails, forwarding them on and having them thoroughly anwsered (like 10 page Law Review anwsered), I have decided to suspend my offer. My super smart politico friends are tired (and really busy as most super smart people are). I am too embarressed to ask for any more anwsers because, afterall, they get paid to think. I'm begging for freebies over here, know what I'm sayin'?

Thanks to Ben. Thanks King. Thanks JennyBenny.
Drinks on me.

The Brookings Institute in Washington D.C. is one of the oldest and most prominent private research institutions in the United States. The scholars of Brookings devote thier lives to the art of thought and logic. They're some of the smartest think-tank motherfuckers I have ever had the pleasure of calling friends. They give us all hope. http://www.brookings.edu/

Duncan Hunter

Could Obama bring down the militarys dumb-dumb Dont Ask/Dont Tell policy? Could The Man liberate our gay and lesbian troops?

(Dude- did you catch that? I just referred to a black man as "The Man". There are so many firsts in this administration is down-right silly!!)

So if Obama is our Great Black Hope...then who's the Evil Do'er, you ask? I'll tell you:

Duncan Hunter

Ranking Member of the House Armed Services Committee

This is what DumbDumb Duncan had to say on 60Minutes on Sunday:

We aren't the Brits. We're not the Europeans. We're not the Swedes. The Fallujahs of the world, the Ramadis of the world that require heavy combat and lots of fire-fighting capability- those are the places Americans go. The other countries tend to go to the so-called peacekeeper zones, where they have fewer fire fights and less contact with the enemy. And the European nations show little will to send large contingents of their military people into dangerous places.

With the Pentagon now making its recruiting goals, would we risk with doing
away with this system that works, where American families sit around the dinner
table and they make a decision that their young man or their young woman is
going to go into this military because they share the values of that military.
Or should we experiment at a time when our military is totally volunteer, when
it's extremely capable and perhaps lose that capability and perhaps lose those
number Perhaps lose those re-enlistments and perhaps lose that
effectiveness.

Duncan Hunter. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan. *tsk* *tsk* Duncan. Finger-wag, finger-wag! Your in time out. Go to the naughty chair! Your grounded! INDEFINITELY.
Richard Simmons will be upstairs momentarily to give you a spanking.

Dear Dumb Fucking Duncan,

I'll work backwards.

A) The Pentagon's making their recruitment goals?

In 2006 the Army had to start issuing waivers to convicted felons, lower their mental and physical standards, double their enlistment bonus and triple their reenlistment bonus. Congratulations! The Pentagon made the cut!

Too bad none of their new recruits could.

B) American families sitting around the dinner table to discuss whether or not their children should serve in the Armed Forces?

Uhmmm...Someones been watching a few too many Leave It To Beaver re-runs. That quintessential 1950's family is legend. A cultural myth. It never existed. It was someones idea of ideal and people tried to achieve it....

Think "supermodel thin" and teenage eating disorders. Like that.

C) You think Peacekeeping Zones are for pussies, eh?

I got idea!! Ship your fat fucking ass to Darfur. No? Dont want to go? How about the Congo? I hear the Tche Refugee Camp's got a great feeding program. Still not good? You like Lebanon? The Hezbollah guerrillas are sure to say "Hi". Afghanistan's got a good NATO Peacekeeping force. I'm sure you could get in there.

Oh, please pick Darfur! Pretty, pretty please!?

D) We're not the Brits? Not Europeans? Swiss?

Did you just say that? DID YOU seriously just insult an ENTIRE FUCKING CONTINENT AND THEIR MILITARYS?

Dear California's 52 Congressional District,

I know you've voted Duncan Hunter into Congress since 1981. And I know he's retiring now and that his son Duncan D. Hunter is hot on his father's coattails. And yes, Duncan D. is a Marine. I know you've got a lot of drug crime and maybe you think that he's the man for the job.

He isn't. He's wrong. Scary wrong. He's so wrong that I can't even begin to touch on it here. But I promise- if you write me, I will answer. And not in my typical wild curse-word laden manner. I'll send you the emails and blog pages of really smart people- I mean super smart people. Much smarter than me.

Obviously, I have an agenda. But if you believe nothing else- believe that so does Duncan D. Hunter.

Get both sides. At the very least, you'll know your opposition even better.

Check out Family Day: A National Day To Eat Dinner With Your Children. http://casafamilyday.org/familyday/

Miss Lilian

Lilian is a mighty three. If you ask her how old she is she will violently shove three little fingers in the air, lock eyes with you and give a millitant "and thats the way it is" nod of her head.




Lilian attends a small, private inclusive school for average-abled and deaf children just outside Washington D.C. There are plenty of other deaf children there, but even still, you can spot Lilian immediately in the crowd. Her clothes are hand me downs from her four foster sisters and her hair was recently chopped (quite hapazardly in my opinion) due to a stubborn case of lice. Amoungst the hip little District kiddies, Lilian is a bit...rough around the edges, shall I say?

Her tuition is split between two deaf women, and two deaf men, who live in Washington D.C. As her foster mother puts it- her "fancy pants" school would never be possible on the small government check she recieves for caring for Lilian.

As her foster mother gripes about money, Lilian is reading the big people's lips and is quick to remind her foster mother that she doesn't have any "fancy pants". Lilian's fingers thrust in the air: "No pretty pants on Lilian!" And although her foster mother doesn't know ASL, she has a good idea that Lilian had a "smart-mouth-sign" and returns Lilian's icy stare with your-about-to-get-time-out eyebrows. Its do-or-die body language in Lilian's house.

Your probably wondering how all this happened to Lilian. To be frank, the first 4 months of Lil's life would make any of us want to crawl back to God and ask for a reassignment. Within moments of her first breath, she got ditched. Her hearing loss is most likely the result of exposure. How fucked does that sound, eh? Trust me, the sign for it is even worse.

If you ask her "You deaf? You hearing?"- a common question in "mixed" company- she will give you a small, sly smile. She's not sure what this "hearing" thing is yet, but she suspects its a trick question- or one of those questions growups ask children just to see if they know the awnser. Either way- she's annoyed. I watch her eyes sink deep and her fingers sign rapidly by her side, in no particular word order. She's thinking of how to outsmart me.

I wait patiently until she responds: "What hear do, I don't know? But I know I Lilian, Big Girl!"

I'm happy to say that I know Lilian, Big Girl, too.

We Won.

"For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard." Baldwin, 1965

James Baldwin (1924-1987) was a queer, black American author and civil rights activist who treked the minefield of the human rights race with "an elequence to inspire a nation"*.

His book-length essay, No Name In The Street, is a moving account of his experiences through the assassinations and mourning of his three friends Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

I guarantee he'll make you say "wow" more than once.

*Maya Angelou