Monday, April 16, 2007

Spirit Healing: Not Fake. A Testimonial...

Hey ladies,

I FINALLY DOWNLOADED FIREFOX!

After years of browser-related rage, I finally figured out how to get Firefox to work on my comp. Damn I'm good!

Turns out all I actually had to do was click on the little icon and hit "install," but let's disregard how sadly comp-unsavvy I am and move on...it's a miracle I've even got a blog...

I had ambitions plans for today to write a post expounding upon the myriad ways in which Freud's "The Uncanny" is reflected in our daily lives. However, this plan was derailed because a couple of things have happened since then that I cannot resist talking about. Maybe I'll find a link, or maybe--more likely--I'll spare you the Comp Lit BS for another day.

It was a halfway nice weekend here. Friday we had a Ladiez Nite at the 'BO Room; Saturday, Maggs and I hit up TRAX for a couple hours to get completely traxxxed for less than 5 bucks. As per usual, we were the only females there besides June, and the rest of the customers appeared to be middle-aged Norweigan gay men. Typical Trax Saturday crowd: Norweigans, June, Soccerball, LL, Derrick, me. You know, the FAM.

Then Maggs and I got sucked into Hobsonian's by some high school chums. Maggs was intelligent enough to not hop on the party train at 1:30 to the Shannon Arms several miles away. I, howev, was not, and felt somewhat less than fabulous the next day, but had a good time shooting the shit with the various sketchballs and no-goodniks that our diocese has produced.

Sunday--unlike Saturday, when it rained like whoa all morning--was a perfect day to trek to the hipster kingdom of Dolores Park to people-watch and show off your new mullet/bangs/ill-fitting frock and leggings/hideous high-waisted jumper unisuit. One of the greater joys in life is to chill at D park with some doobies and pals and a Roxy(TM) portable ipod dock, gawking at the oddballs that rove around on nice days. Sunday, the chief odd-job was a tall fellow with filthy dreads (looked like a combo of Tom Greene and John the Baptist) who wielded a hand-painted sandwich board reading:

SPIRIT HEALING
emotional disstres (sic)
PHYSICAL PAIN
heal through my hands
TALK TO ME

He was probably hoping that no one would notice that the back of the sign said "6 FOOT 7 JEW WILL FREESTYLE RAP FOR YOU"...seriously...would that lower his spirit healing cred?

Well, I def got a holy vibe so I flagged him. With all the psychic pain I've been feeling lately, I figured this could not hurt. So, after notifying me that he was about to fall into a trance, he had me lay down in a cross position and then he sort of moved his hands over me while making this sound: "whooooooOOOOOOshhhhhhh...." Like the sound of wind whistling through the Himalayas....or perhaps a whale call...not sure.

Anyways this went on for quite some time and I was kinda wondering when it would be over and trying not to laugh cause then Maggs would laugh and it would be all over. Thankfully I was saved by the music that was bumping from my 'pod. When a certain song came on, the 6'7 Jew snapped out of his trance, rasped "is this Freedom by George Michael?" to no one in particular, then launched into an elaborate lip-synch performance during which be removed most of his clothing. (Though, mercifully, not his patchwork pants.)

Then when that was over he placed a cell phone call to his dad and engaged in an entirely mundane conversation.

Needless to say, assuming that the George Michael breakdown was part of the spirit healing procedure, I felt MUCH better.

Miss you,

TEMPIST

Friday, April 13, 2007

Jury Duty and Shit

Hey friends,

Ugh. Today has been one of those days when nothing goes right, you weep while listening to George Michael slow jams, and just when things start to look a little brighter...you step in dogshit. During times like this, I try to remind myself of how much worse things could be. I could be homeless/parapeligic/terminally ill or any number of things that are far worse than being a shiftless quarterlifecrisis-ridden Gen Y cliche. For example, I could be sitting on the jury of a months-long murder trial, which is close to be vision of hell but, THANK GAWD, I managed to evade it this time around.

See, I got called in this week and forgot to send in the excuse form thing, so I ended up having to actually show up. I knew I was in for a long and boring day so I got supa dupa stoned and started making my sweet ass way down to the courthouse with my newest Ann Rule book and my 'pod bumpin some Shaggy. I had to be there at 1 but was running hella f-ing late and started seeing paranoid visions of arriving at 1:02 and being thrown in prison and subsequently sexually assaulted by Jackie Warners around every corner. So to play it safe I grabbed a taxi, unnecessarily tipped the cabbie 80% out of this strange need to be perceived as a baller by cabbies, and hustled inside.

So here I was sitting with all these mofoin zombies in the courthouse. I scanned the room for hot guys to sit near, but alas, there were none. So I perched in the corner and started doodling and thinking about funny stuff to entertain myself. Then they put on this HIGH-larious video with people talking about how jury service changed their lives and how it "makes democracy real." The intentions were good but the execution--well--I'll just say it ended up sounding kinda like a FUBU ad, cause they kept repeating the phrase "FOR the people, BY the people" over the soaring crescendoes of generic patriotic muzak, and the effect did not particularly make me swell with pride. But then again I am cynical.

For one, there are soooooo many reasons why I would make a bad juror. First of all, I suffer from self-diagnosed severe ADHD as well as acute Restless Leg Syndrome. Secondly, I hate justice and as a, um, (part-time) Catholic I don't feel entirely comfortable with standing in judgment. Mmmkay?

Next came the part where they weed people out by asking questions to determine if you are a racist or have some other weirdo bias that would make you an unfit juror. THe thing is, though, that you have to state your bias in front of like 70 people, so it's not like you can really just stand up there and make something up like "I hate white people" or "I believe in capital punishment for every crime including jaywalking" (like on that one episode of Star Trek: the Next Generation. Did anyone else see that, where they have to rescue Wes from that death planet? I mean...not that I was into that show or anything...whoops.)

Because, hypothetically, you could piss someone off and get your ass whooped/confronted outside the courthouse. That would be awk. Plus, the judge was pretty sharp and could deffy tell if you are making some shit up. Fortunately, he was also real snarky and kept saying "thanks for sharing." It was great! And kind of fun. Except when I got kinda yelled at for texting.

I didn't get picked for the jury. I didn't even have to stand up and state my bias. It was a trial about a collision between an auto and a bicyclist, and I planned on saying that I get really bad road rage. Which is true, but we didn't get that far. Oh well...NEXT YEAR, YOUR HONOR...NEXT YEAR.

Aight. This post was kind of wack I realize but it's the weekend, mayne. Time to go home, shower and Trax it up. I have a feeling I'm in for a TraXXXy kinda nite. Most of you know exactly what this means.

TO THE FELLAS,

Tempist

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Filling in the Void

Man, you guys, it has been a whirlwind few weeks here. First Adam ditched. Now Erica has flown away to Thailand for upwards of 8 months. If it's anything like the time Maggs went away to Guatemala, things will quickly go south: within days we all go bonkers and start crying on MUNI daily; bitter fueds erupt; someone gets knocked up. I fall under the spell of Dr. Joycechild, who will then form a dangerous dream-based cult and leave me an empty shell of a person. By the time Erica returns I will no longer be able to talk casually about normal stuff like TV or Jackie Warner. Actually, I reference the fact that I don't own a TV at least twice during every conversation. I ascribe to a vague, bastardized Eastern worldview and speak in a baby voice.

AT THIS POINT THIS SCENARIO SEEMS HIGHLY LIKELY!

How to lure Erica home early? We struck the following deal: E comes home if LL Cool JCL learns to jump into the splits, or if I teach myself Cantonese. We could easily make this happen!!

Judging by Erica's first email--in which she compares walking around Bangkok to tripping on Ecstasy--she seems to be liking it so far. But we so miss her!