"If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." Goodbye Katherine Hepburn. Thanks for everything.
...because well behaved women never make history.

A FIREMAN INTERVIEW GOES LIKE THIS:
Did you always want to be a fireman, you know, as a kid? No, not at all. I decided a year and a half ago that I wanted a career that made 35, 000 a year. I'm tired of jobs like waiting tables
Do you itend on posing for a calendar to distribute as Christmas gifts for family and friends?
I hadn't considered it, but I do have the suspenders and fireman hat.
Great. What sort of life insurance policy do you have?
I don't have one yet. What do you think a funeral costs?
10-15
(yadda yadda)... throw me in the ocean (yadda yadda)
What do firemen do while waiting for fires to happen? Does the fire station have a very extensive library?
(Wild laughter) I don't think so. I don't know what they do, I'm really just in training right now. Well...I'm wondering if this is really for me after all...
So you don't think firemen read? It sounds like a frathouse without any beer. Do they still have fireman poles in the firehouses? Do you have to take a class on that?
Yes, I think that training lasts about a year to a year and a half.
Can you be vegetarian and be a firefighter because it seems like they grill an awful lot.
That's a very good question, and I'm actually a vegetarian. (pause) Yeah, I think I'm probably going to get my ass kicked.
Can you be a fag and be a fireman both?
I'm sure that they're out there...I mean fags like to work out a lot and pump iron which is something that firemen like to do- but something I don't like to do.
What was the fireman interview like?
They had a normal interview, then they had a part where they tried to put a lot of pressure on you about how gross some of the victims were, they're like 'Have you ever seen a dead body' and I'm like, well, yeah at funerals and stuff like that. Then they had a polygraph part where they ask you about all the drugs you've done, and you know, you're cool as long as you tell them the truth. Like I told them that I did crack, crank, regular cocaine, LSD, mushrooms, valiums, ludes, and you know, pot every once in a while. They asked other stuff too, like if I'd ever had sex with an animal or whatever, like it's any of their business or whatever.
I think it's against the law.
Yeah, I think you're right.
Are there any women in your class?
No, and I'm really pissed- all women that work for the city are fat and ugly
Maybe you can start a campaign to recruit better looking women to work for the city.
Whatever...hey, I've never seen two cats doing it before.
(Loud meowing in the backround, compliments of Kirk)
My neighbor -- his girlfriend screams like that, but his old girlfriend was a lot louder
Like she's in pain or something?
I dunno
Well, do you think that he asks them to do that or do you think that they just do that on their own.
I dunno.
I don't think I've ever known any guys to be 'screamers'.
(dead quiet)...that was really a wierd thing to say.
Hey ...why can we talk about women screaming but not men?
Because dudes don't scream.
Why not?
Because it would sound something like this: (Kirk and the fireman preceed to hoot and hollar like a redneck at a live sporting event with swimsuit models at half-time passing out free Coors.)
So, how was Xpo lounge- the wedding tonight?
I just wanted to go home, I was sort of tired of my company.
You just wanted to get rid of the bitch right?
Well, it's just that she's into stuff I don't want to be into anymore you know...and she just fucks with my head.
Yeah you've got to be careful now that you're a city employee and stuff because the headlines will read "Area fireman caught with an underage prostitute and dead in his own vomit."
Yeah, but I don't care. Life ain't fun unless you're getting into a little bit of trouble. I don't want to just sit around in my apartment you know bored and stuff.
I guess you're right.
Come on Big Red. Come on Flea, time to go home.
Good night guys.

San Francis! Ayudame!
Misu, my sweet baby boy. My sad little soldier. My tough little ham. Last sunday he came home with his face a bashed up mess; his eye half swollen shut, his cheeck puffed out, his tiny head oozing puss. On monday I wrapped him in a soft towel and carted him to the Rutherford Animal Hospital to see what they could do to keep his little kitty face from exploding. Three options: 540 dollars of surgery, 250 dollars of surgery, or 100 dollars of antibiotics. Insane- half my friends and family have no health insurance, no doctors visits, and here I am paying good money on a little creature.

What this means is twice a day I feed the hideous little monster oral antibiotics with a medicine dropper- drop by slow lazy drop. Next I take a plastic tiped syringe and shove it into the green oozing cut atop his shaved head. I find a nice little pocket under the skin to slide in the tip and to douse the absess with more antibiotics. When I feel like the cavity is full of medicine, I tilt up his head and douse the cavity under his chin with antibiotics as well. We do this before breakfast and before dinner, because if we eat before hand, we'd probably loose it. I call it Time for torture.

This is perhaps the toughest thing I've had to do. I'm no nurse. Shoving plastic syringes into cute fluffy absessed kitten heads leaves me feeling a little dark and sullen. My mother says I should have put Misu to sleep and gone to the SPCA to get a better one. She says that if that is too hard for me, I should pull up to the animal shelter parking lot and kick him out of the car. My mother also slaughtered chickens as a small child so we must forgive her warped sense of compassion reagarding such things. For her animals are things which are made up of meat.

Today: my new favorite band Schneider TM
So beautiful. Sublime. Perfect. I could live with no one else.
om shanti

Dear Ria....
It's morning and summer and cooking in the apartment. He mumbles in the morning a lot- the same way you might have in an attempt to pull all the greatest poetry ever contrived- from dream state through a needles eye into conciousness- into truth- into life. You can't hear it through, but you know if someone were to overhear it - it would be sheer brilliance and the key to every heart inthe world. But what he says, lying naked in the bed- wrapped in twisted white cotton- arms and legs jotting out everywhere 'Oh yeah that's it. RightRight. I couldn't remember why I turned this way; away from you'. And you ask for clarification because you kinda know this to be the hour the sublime subconcious peeps out. He repeats 'I was wondering, why I turned this way, but then I remembered...it's because of...the gulch' And with that being said, you really wake up now. Your eyes get big staring at the wall, staring at nothing, and you leave the hot room for a minute. Your brain starts chugging in wombanly ways. Was that a reference to the matress that sags- unaccostomed to the man weight? It drives you crazy too- or it a morning after metaphor? That word- gulch.
So you cast off the sheets, go to rinse the smoke, booze, and dried spit off your check, and set about making some tea. About the time the toast is jumping and the egss are tap dancing below the gurgling water, you see him sitting up out of the corner of your eye. One egg or two translates to: Good morning Precious. To: Time to get up now. To: Tell me about the morning. About last night. About this afternoon. 'Two' he says. These are the only sorts of questions you have for him that you don't already know the answers to. It's your own secret twin language that makes everyone believe you're dating ...or related. You both know the weight of words. Words like 'gulch'. And both of you are okay with that.
You scoop the eggs out of the boiling pot, and rinse the heat off under the smooth steady tap water.

rassafrassarassafrass
Morning. Hungry. I'll be eating pop tarts again soon. I should be grateful for that as I barely scraped up the 65 cents between my wallet and top desk drawer. Glancing over at the coffee cup...Disgusting. Red clotted lipstick all around the top and the whole white mug, stained a dingy thick tar. ...what's another day.

Art with Kirk...well...I worked on art. Kirk wasn't feeling it. Something about prostrate problems. Something about needing a man doctor. With soft hands. Long fingers. That's what he said anyway. It really bothering him...and so, no work. All doubt. All fumbling....

Making Progress Every Day
Been studying up on lots of people's blogs and am totally blown away...check out the cool links there too!

I give the gift of the following appendages
I have a strange sense of being relieved of the weekend, and how incredibly sad is that?

Alberto decides to move into my little place for the remainder of the lease. There are several conversations on this to reassure him that I fully understand what it is that is going to happen. We know I am easily suffocated under such arrangements, however I'm hoping that with the time limitations set, I can keep my composure. He's like a brother to me, and I tell him what is on my mind clearly and completely... The deal- he'll pay me a little money and teach me Spanish, and I'll share my space. Two months. I can do this....because Barcelona might not exist if I cannot...

Father's Day-my mother has forced me to sit down and sift through the crates of the highschool years. I hollow them out until I have a stack of a dozen or so books, and 2 boxes of letters, old jewelry, broken desk chunks, painted bridge momentos, and cheesy valentines. Other noteable discoveries include: my first communion rosary, the hood ornament from my first car, marias letter to me about her parent's divorce, a chainletter from the 8th grade, and a letter written to an El Paso friend by an ex-boyfriend asking her to provide authorities with a detailed alibi and closing with vague mention of being in big trouble. (nothing of this exists in my memories)

Also noteable- a stash of old love letter's and pictures from my brother's ex-girlfriend, the GinaMonster. I'm wondering if he's hidden them amongst my things for safe keeping (my collection of letters and notes-each one from 2nd grade on- is prolific by conservative estimates.) What does one do with the tangible things left from old loves? Especially with fiances in ones life?

It exists only for you to brush up against it when your mother forces it's removal, or maybe show and tell for your childhood stories in the event that you have children. It's so silly that I keep all this stuff. Things I discarded this weekend never to see again- my hot pink caboodle (did I ever really have so much makeup?), my hot pink Chuck all stars, countless stolen ashtrays, plastic bugs, hall passes, doctors notes, and season football schedules. No big deal.

Peep Peep Peep Mr. Peeps
My paternal grandmother's name is Vogeli. Vogel is german for bird.
_
Wed. night- was art night. I liked the work- drilling, twisting, twirling, but maybe not the piece...so I kept going, and it got a little better an a little better. Before, my pieces looked like a twisted female version of Kirks- the two-headed baby travel shrine for instance. Now things are starting to look a bit like my apartment...a bit more like me. I still think the crock pot babies are a good idea...even though I've been advised that such pieces imprint mental illness upon others...I like to call it...whimsical. They are the dream pieces. But now, my pieces are neutral, non confrontative, and hold some interest only upon closer looks...yet from a distance it seems obvious. Writing about it helps me appreciate them a bit more too I think.

Perhaps this is true of all artistic expression- the criticism is what gives pieces real dimension. Yet another reason why we demand audience- sort of like prayers and remembering the dead helps them to live on- talking about it makes it exponentially more intricate then the artist alone could ever establish.

Sometimes at art shows though- I like to think about how I wish some pieces were-- maybe an extra little knobby thing on the side, or more scratches, or more red in that little angle right there. I love this game... I like to imagine that the great artists realize the absolute of their creation, and some just overlooked a little something I have the insight for...but despite my plithy cynical art world experiences, I think that there is a divinity to it. The spirit manifests itself, and if the man is quiet enough and focused enough, it comes

Good to be a Girl
Made jam for Fathers Day with Claudia last night. It's just precious how we know EVERYTHING. Wonder twin powers unite to form....unstopable think tank.

Spoke with a friend about how the blog is supposed to work- who gets it, who doesn't, but even more important...and this determines everything...what is said, and what gets left out. I've always believed that if you can't admit and talk about the decisions, choices and experiences you've had, then you've probably been living all wrong. Even still, we don't have to talk about them here. If you do- you're like Uncle Bruce- the city streeker. People know you, like what you're doing, buy you a beer even--but they probably won't come to your birthday party.

Today in the office I found a bright yellow canary outside the office door and peering in. I recruited a woman in the office next to me to verify the honesty of the vision, and she having a way with canarys went outside, caught him, and wrestled him into a big brown box. We decided the bird needed air and some light too, so we took a pair of sharp sissors and started stabbing away at the box; the little guy flapped and freaked. Another woman in the office ran out during her lunch break and bought him a cage and some food. Now 'peeps' is the office mascot, the hero encouraging morale. Mr. Peeps is also the girl friday mascot who sits pretty in a cage next to my desk...irony of ironies. Bird and cages. Chirp Chirp.

My new deardiary twinkle stage fright, and I can't really decide upon a way to begin giving birth to this thing. I suppose I will just open up and push with the contractions and call up a friend to come by and visit everyonce in a while. Sometimes it will smell like talcum, sometimes it will not stop crying, and sometimes I will beam with pride over it's sentiments. I think I'll name it Calluna after myself. It will flush out the lessons of the maya.
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Currently at work on an art program with a friend. We decided over breakfast that we would begin right away to put together a show. An opening. Invite friends over to talk and drink over it. Maybe try to put some dollar value to it for laughs sake, and talk about it like it ment something. We'd construct it out of found objects since we have no funding and Kirk has a knack for finding cool stuff in trash piles and junk houses.

Lessons learned:
-designate a day or two to work on your art otherwise it will end up in your closet with all the other crap you've given up on
-don't drink a lot of wine before you start your art or else you might forget to do your art and start playing video games, destroy your art, make something that get's you committed to the hospital where other sick artist types end up, or start making out with your art friend
-pay your electricity bill. It's really hard to work on art in the dark.
-just keep working and don't think too hard about whether so good or no good. you've got a party to throw, a deadline to meet, and you've got to crank out that art.
-when working with a friend, only one person in a single given day is going to have the mojo.
-meds help that mojo happen.