Oooh Bee-have

I saw a bee on the bus while on my way home from work.

She was by herself.

One night to early my friend.

You can vote however you like

Too bad these kids can't even vote! 6th and 7th graders? I don't even think I knew what a president was then! Props to them...maybe the government should make an exception for them? I think they know more than most people my age... but that's not really saying much.
(oh and...poor white kid in the back)





No more white kid :(

UNDECIDED by David Sedaris

I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”

Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.

I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?

To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?

When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.

“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”

I looked at the panel in front of me.

“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.

“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”

I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.

Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”

“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.

“Oh, well,” I said.

We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.

“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”

“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.

“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”

“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.”

She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he’d say.

“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”

When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circles.”

“We don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.

I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”

“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.

I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.

I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”

Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in. ♦

Pumpkin!

The plan was to have Obama on one side and McCain on the other, however I got a little lazy and my arm was getting tired. Still turned out kinda cool though!

Sip

So for a while now I've been thinking of stories to write about and this one seems to stand out, as it has a right to.

It was a random night in a little town called San Francisco. My roommates and I had made some arrangements to meet a couple of people at a bar downtown. Ready to get our drink on, we walk into an all too crowded bar where we were met by a ton of Asian folk (don't get me wrong, there is a place in my heart for everyone) and a ton of gangsters ( the type of people who remind me of home...NorCalers) I make my way to the bar and order myself a vodka tonic, my first thought is, "wow this drink is $9 it better be good" after one sip I'm thinking to myself...this could put a baby rhino on its back! Just what I needed to get myself through the night. A couple drinks in I am ready to practice my Jewish white girl moves on the dance floor. Bored of the crowd my roommates and I make our way to a Mexican restaurant to grab some midnight nachos, where I go on to convince them that I once held a job at the Garden of Eden right down the street. I was skinnier then and needed the money.

We make our way back to the first club to find our other roommate who we left there. We find her mingling with the "hommies" sipping on gin and juice...laid back. Making our way up the stairs my roommate Sarah turns to me with a look of surprise on her face and she whispers," that's the first grill I've actually seen in person!" and I respond, "It won't be your last."

There is dancing going on/ attempts to keep their pants up, when all of a sudden a crash...the smell of Hennesy fills the air. I step back to observe the scene only to laugh at the thought that I have just entered a Mac Dre music video (if he was still alive). Distracted by a rush of people, I notice my roommate Sarah the center of attention having slipped on this puddle of Hennesy. Gangsters waddle to her aid ..."grrlll, shoooot, you ok?"

After "the slip" we try our best to lay low for the rest of the night. We make our way outside, in hopes of a taxi to take us home. While waiting I meet a new friend who goes by the name of "Ry-Dawg" we talk and I pretend to be interested. A Cadillac bounces around the corner and when I say bounce, I mean literally bounce...music pumpin' car bouncing. "Ry-Dawg" interrupts the conversation with himself to tell me that his ride has arrived to come pick him up. I go on to laugh out loud, literally, thinking this is the best joke I've heard all night. He then turns and hops in his ride. This is when I finally realize I have to get out of this place.

Sarah and I post up against the wall waiting for our ride...a taxi...way not cool compared to a bouncing Cadillac, when she turns to me and says, "Is that guy wearing a kilt?"
"Yes....time to go...where is the cab at!!"

Gotta love The Hills and/or Heidi Montag...NOT

I've been wondering for a while now how much LC gets paid to stare? I swear half of each 15 min show has no words. I often wonder if my TV has frozen itself. A new drinking game is in order! Every time someone stops and awkwardly stares at another, take a shot! Man...let's get fucked up!

People crack me up (from Craigslist)

to the perv who groped me on my way home - w4m

Date: 2008-07-29, 12:04AM EDT

Me: caucasian, white yoga capris and tan tank top
you: Latino, 5'8, in your twenties, sports jersey, short hair, mole on your face.

You might have been following me for a while, Mr. Perv, I don't know - I was on the phone with my mother, venting about my roommate situation (we had to find a new one) and my job search (like, I need a job), when you snuck up behind me, and gently squeezed my ass. Not just the top of my ass, but kinda low, kinda close to my you-know-what, if you know what I mean.

You know, even my boyfriend needs permission to get that close, so having a perfect stranger attempt access so suddenly, so completely out of the blue, triggered my fight-or-flight response. And I *fight*. Did it hurt when I grabbed your collar and punched you in the head? I'm a little worried that I didn't get enough momentum in my swing to make you feel it, seeing as I'm kinda short (5'2"). But you must have felt bad when you took off running and I chased you down so easily - it's not that you're slow, dude, it's just that I run fast, as you might have suspected from the well-muscled form of my posterior, had you been viewing it with its athletic potential in mind.

It was all worth it when you realized you couldn't outrun me and so you stopped with your back to me in shame, and I kicked you in your hole. You might not remember, but I said: "Are you sorry? Are you sorry? Say you're sorry!", and you did. That was great. Then I said: "run on home, you asshole! Run home!" and you did that, too!

Ladies, these pervs are cowards who run in fear when confronted with any kind of resistance. They are weak and pathetic.

To the two guys who came out of their houses when they heard me yelling - thank you for being so aware and willing to help out-especially - Chris, was it? - who walked me home. It's great to know the people here care about the safety of others. Thanks so much.

My mom was really worried, because she heard me start swearing and then the phone went dead (I closed it so I could chase the motherf*cker down) and she thought I had been hit by a car. When I told her what happened, she told me not to be so agro, and pointed out that he could of had a knife or something. True. You're right, mom.

But you're unlucky if you're from this neighborhood, Mr. Perv. Cause I'm here ALL THE TIME (no job, remember?) and next time I'll MACE YOUR FACE.

STOKED

Hilarious (found on craigslist)

Looking for my SOLE-mate

Date: 2008-08-24, 8:19AM PDT

My name is Right Shoe. I am a right shoe - Skechers circa 2003. I lost my "sole" mate on Saturday in Otay Mesa. His name was Left Shoe.

You see, my owner, Left Shoe, and I were skydiving together, and as the chute opened, Left Shoe, my partner of 5 years, went flying away. I knew this would happen... I tried to tell my owner to tie us better, but he just wouldn't listen. (My owner has been learning how to speak Shoe... but talking to him is mostly like talking to a brick wall)

Left Shoe and I have been inseparable these past few years, ever since we got identical Made In China tattoos. It's like we were made for each other; we were even the same size & color, and we enjoyed the same activities. We traveled everywhere together, and we were even planning on going to Japan together in September.

Some people say Left Shoe jumped on purpose. Sure, we weren't in our prime anymore; Left Shoe especially got a lot of comments about being tattered and over the hill. But I know Left Shoe and he wouldn't do that to me. It was a bad day for Left Shoe because in the morning he stepped in gum, and then later he stepped in an unknown substance on the port-a-potty floor. But he was fine, and was excited to go skydiving. Left Shoe was resilient like that.

I really miss Left Shoe. I've come to terms with the fact that I may never see him again. But I really just want to know what happened to Left Shoe... Did he land in a lake? or did the winds carry him out to sea? or did he leave a little crater somewhere from the impact? or maybe he burned up on re-entry in a blazing fireball of glory.

If you know anything about what happened to Left Shoe, please contact me. I know I can't hope that Left Shoe is still alive, but I just want to know what became of Left Shoe...

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
--Alfred Lord Tennyson

All my thoughts & prayers,
Right Shoe

L.A. 270

Here I am sitting in a coffee shop down the street from my comfortable home. My logic...I will go down to the coffee shop and work on my online class, U.S. History!! I figure getting out of the walls of my own house and away from the never ending marathons of Americas Next Top Model could only help.

So here I am starting at the first page of notes for about 2 hours. I'm reading about the Indians and them living on the Great Plains woo hoo...NOT! I get to thinking about my major and how hi-tech everything has become...here I am using the greatest of technologies typing on my MacBook Pro eating a sandwich (not a buffalo). Look what we have become! Why must I look back to when they used buffalo fat to make soap? Or that they used buffalo tendons and ligaments as rope? REALLY! like a give a shit!! Soon enough people will be talking about how we used computers to send emails!! I hope I live to see the day when we are all in history books as people who lived in houses (as opposed to tepees). I wonder what life will be like in 200 years?

Wonders of the SF muni (old)

Now...I thought to myself today on my bus ride home from school that I live quite the interesting life (or everyone around me does and I just like to observe and laugh). If I would have started writing blog entries like 2 years ago I could have a fucking book by now.

SOOO here we go. I have to say that living in San Francisco has been quite the experience, but I love it! Besides the parking tickets (I won't get into that), my weakness is the bus, also known as moonie, or just muni...let's just say we have a love hate relationship. I hate it and it likes to take my money and on the muni I have witnessed some things that most people should never have to see.

There are too many past experiences to count, so lets just say in the past 5 months I have seen 3 fights, had about 800 crotches in my face (most action I've had in my entire life), a black man push a old asian man out the back door while spitting on him, another black man yell at an 80 year old man for having his bag on the chair next to him, which i guess is now considered a hate crime (which he made clear by telling the old man that he needs to catch up on his readings of Rosa Parks hehe), drunk 14 year old girls falling over on Halloween, homeless people trying to fit their shopping carts through the doors, and too many trannys (or transies, thanks Ash) to count.
Sadly the details of those events are vague, so I will start with yesterdays adventure.

So I get out of class dreading the fact that I need to go buy art supplies. Taking the bus and art supplies just don't get along. I have to buy a ginormous black board to mount my project on...seriously though, its bigger than me. Walking down the street these things take flight knocking people out that are in my path. I apologize to people for hitting them as I squeeze my way to the back of the bus.

I sit down in the back of the bus, black board in front of me, when all of a sudden I hear,
"excuuuuzee me, excuuuuzze me"
I raise my head slowly dreading to see whom this voice belongs to. To my "surprise" I see a cracked out lady with a dangling weave looking directly at me.
"You need to move that shit so I can sit down, I'm fucking tired."

I scoot my "shit" over hitting a couple more people on my way. It was then I noticed this lady is carrying a toaster, yes a TOASTER! What the hell are you doing carrying a toaster on a bus? And I thought ginormous boards were weird. She wouldn't stop scowling at me either (probably because I couldn't stop staring at her toaster).

The bus is crowded by now and a homeless drunk man enters the scene...he's standing up leaning against the chair.
"excuuuuze me, sir. You need to getchor ass off dat chair. How would you like it if someone's ass was on your chair?"
The drunk man ignores her as she continues to get more heated and rambles on under her breath. A couple minuets later toaster lady grabs her toaster and exits the scene.

Drunk man mumbles absurd things about god knows what...although I do recall hearing Bush's name (nothing new there). He continues to talk to himself and then to the older man across from him, who introduces himself politely. Drunk man goes on to ask the nice fellow if he smokes crack because he himself is fucked up. Drunk man continues and asks the guy to let him know when we get downtown. For those who aren't familiar with my situation taking the bus home from school is the opposite direction from downtown. I think to myself...we just came from there! The man informs him he is on the right bus but going to wrong direction, he simply tells him to cross the street and get the next bus going back where we came from. Drunk man isn't having this he gets super angry and can't seem to comprehend the situation. About 7 stops later he decides to get up and get off the bus...while doing so he falls on top of a kid who looks to be about 13! and when I say fall I mean every pound of smelly, drunk homeless man onto this poor innocent kid. Can you say AWKWARD? He stumbles off the bus onto the sidewalk...everyone stares out the window as he walks the same direction our bus was going!! We all look at each other and the kids friends laugh at him, as do I. I get home and wash my hands...it felt necessary...

Where to start?

I have been contemplating the idea of a blog for a while now. I've had this blogger thing for a good amount of time however have never written anything in it. I recently bought myself a domain name and plan on having a blog on that once I can actually get around to designing it...which knowing me will be a while.

Sooo....I have quite a few amazing stories I am hoping to eventually share with the world, however, I'm not quite sure where to start. I'm thinking a name for my blog is very important so I have been brainstorming quite a bit and am leaning toward, "Nikki, E! true SF story", "Days in the life of" or something to the effect of "you can't write this shit".

We shall see...