It seems the only way we can celebrate wonderful occurrences in our lives is to remember the bad that preceded them. Why is that?

Example: Sally has a new boyfriend.

What’s your knee jerk reaction? “Again?!” or “Whatever…”

Now let’s change it up: Sally fell into some acid and burned off her nipples, then the next day she got a new boyfriend.

Reaction? “Oh good for her!” or “She deserves the best…”

Hm. I think it’s easier to believe bad things happen in order for you to have good things to look forward too… when really… it’s all kinda arbitrary. No one wants to go through struggle without reward, but in reverse we end up making excuses for all the good things that happen in our lives:

This new baby is a joy, because I thought I couldn’t have children.

Oh I got that job, because I’ve worked for years to find it.

I found this person, because I was screwed over by that other person.

I won this money, because I was homeless and had a leaky eye for three years.

I dunno, I’m not trying to get all soap box derby… but I think it’s a good idea to just work through the bad, and accept all the good as the pleasant gifts that they are.

oh… and No Nipple Sally should have stayed away from that acid.  

I marched out into the wind, feeling tingles of cold on my cheeks, and happened upon a group of children… a whole herd of them wildly pelting colored balls at each other.  I thought to myself,

“They’ve gone insane from the blistery conditions…” As I stood there, shivering in the wild winds of summer, I realized… oh. Dodgeball.

Dodgeball is the devil’s work.

Someone thought it would be an awesome idea to wrangle a bunch of kids and encourage them to throw balls at each other. For any child who has lacking motor skill capabilities… this game is a DEATH PIT OF DOOM. Kids basically fall into two types: Outdoor child and Indoor child.

The Outdoor Child

Likes: worms, salting snails, setting thing on fire, running, jumping, climbing

Dislikes: school, showers, napkins, combs

The Indoor Child

Likes: reading, video games, watching tv, puzzles,

Dislikes: all of the stuff Outdoor children likes…

Here’s a clue to what type of child I was… I broke six bones walking before I was 12… just from walking into things.

I hated Dodgeball.

Watching these children, I was reminded of my Elementary school days… shuddered slightly, but then remembered how fun it was to actually have a scheduled break in the day to just run around like an idiot. I take brakes, but never to run around… or draw with chalk on a sidewalk… but instead my breaks include disgruntled marches in the cold to get chili. These kids didn’t give a crap that it was a freezing summer day… they were having fun- well most of them…

One sad little boy in a giant green puff coat stood on the sideline desperately avoiding contact with one of the brightly colored balls. His hands tucked tightly in his pockets, cheeks a bright bold red. “Hang in there, kid,” I thought to myself, then trudged away to get my chili.

1. It’s something I, as a single non parent-y type person, am not used to witnessing.

2. Parent-y types think it’s normal, and get made if you make a weird face as if it wasn’t.

3. Sometimes the children look at you… while they are peeing.

4. Sometimes they are crying… while they are peeing.

Yes, peeing and pooping is normal and natural and whatever other hippie adjective you can attach to it, but it’s also rather shocking and a weird thing to encounter when you are at work. Can you imagine, cubicle dwellers, if you were to get up right now, head to  the bathroom and see a little boy whizzing next to the toilet, crying, and picking his nose at the same time?  No? Well, I can… and I’m not proud of that either. I didn’t know that this open bathroom stall door was a thing, and I wish I could go back to the pleasant time when it never crossed my conscious.

“I’m a child of the 60s” - I loved me some acid, being hairy is awesome, the a noodle-y electric guitar is my THANG, war is stupid, and I’m hella old… with a tiny earring.

“I’m a child of the 70s”- COCAINE!!!!!, I miss it when pants were incredibly tight and high waisted, I know how to do a dance that comes with a specific name, and I’m still secretly harbor my radical urgings to wield a semi automatic and a beret.

“I’m a child of the 80s”- COCAINE… still…, I sported a really awful and complicated hairdo, roller skating was my JAM, and I’m still trying to block out the politics of this decade by focusing on the ridiculous pop culture… Reag-NO-Rubix CUBE!

Now- here is where I hit my speed bump… some people don’t have it so neat and simple ahem* late twenties I’m totally talking to you…

I’m going to use me as an example, because… this is my blog.

I was literally a child of the 80s- but that doesn’t really count, all I recall of the 1980s was wanting a Kid Sister, wearing Oshkosh B’gosh overalls… and taping Michael Jackson videos off MTV. Simply put, when you use the phrase, “I’m a child of the…” you’re a talking about being a teenage/early 20s- Basically when you discover who you are.

Coming of age bullshit.

I was a teenager in the 90s- but here’s the jig… it was the late 90s.

le sigh.

What’s the difference you ask? Well… let’s do a journey through a visual recap:

Early 90s

Late 90s

see…

Let’s do another one!

Early 90s

Late 90s

… this is depressing…

Early 90s

Late 90s

That’s just the music…

Early 90s

Late 90s

Early 90s

Late 90s

So in a nutshell… shit got stupid by the end of the 90s…

Shit is hard.

I got the basic story, which is half the battle… I thought. Turns out actually writing the damn thing is INSANE. I can run off the normal kiddie gibberish for a while, but then I start to dive in to that weird rhyme non-rhyming bull crapola. It’s fun to write a short poem in weirdo rhyme time, but a book? Who the hell am I kidding. Which is why I started it as a non rhyming picture book (I know… the best drawing I can do is an elaborate stick figure… lucky for me, I know some awesome talent- who might lend their fantastical skills to my children’s book empire.)  The problem with a non rhyming picture book is the language, you want it to be so rich and wonderful that you don’t even need the pictures- but in combination with art are you are able to spin such a beautiful world that the child and the parent (pssst- also non child rearing adults) will get lost in.

phew.

Seeeeeeee? It’s hard. Also when using complex image weaving language you tend to rhyme… and a bad rhyme…. oh man… that can be cheesier and stinkier than a Gouda fart. I’m gonna finish this shit, though… and I (eventually… hopefully… fingers crossed… please please please rubbing on four leaf clovers) will become a millionaire and beloved by folks all over the world.

People you should google: Eric Carle, Maurice Sendak, Tomie dePaola, annnnnnnnd Leo and Diane Dillon (swooooooooon, swoooon, and double swoooon)

1. In every article leading up to the trial… the reporter weirdly stated the race of Mehserle and Grant, the victim.

“Mehserle who is white. Grant who is black”

Literally, just like that, all the time. I mean we can see the pictures, I know that race plays a huge role- but really…. it just seems like they are stirring the pot by constantly reminding us about their race. Making the issue represent some under current racial problems Oakland has. Which could be true or which could be far from it.

2. There were no black people on the jury. If every one is making this into a race issue let’s fucking mix the pot. Also shouldn’t the jury represent the dynamic of the city? Hello, Oakland is one third black.

3. The riots… foot locker? Really guys?! Way to play is super stereotypical…

4. Anarchist- you have to organize a ride to come from another city to perform chaos in Oakland… that’s not anarchy. Hey do us a favor and just go work at the your daddy’s law firm… we don’t need your privileged anger.

5. This is a quote from the San Francisco Chronicle, “Many of those arrested were “anarchist” agitators who were not from Oakland and wore bandannas, hoods or black face paint, police said.” Why is THIS the image they choose to go along side the article…

so yes, I’m hella 27.

Why am I making a big deal out of this boring, non-milestone age? Because something seeps into the consciousness at 27- especially for us, “adulthood what?” types. For those who have kids or experienced some out of the norm hard living- this is a moot point, but for the rest of us- run of the mill, working to stay afloat, drinking to have fun types, 27 is a wake up call.

THIS IS WHAT IT IS TO BE AN ADULT.

To which most of us reply with a deeply mystified, “What?! No way…”

Yes way, my dear late twenties, yes way… The shiny gleam of “when I grow up” wears off and starts to sound stupid, because as a kid , you never wanted to work in a cubicle. You never wanted to loose childhood buddies. You never wanted to struggle with dating. Yet, this is reality- being a adult involves disappointment- a lot of it, and this time around Mommy can’t fix it with a hug. When you’re in your early 20s- adulthood is fresh and wonderful, but by the time you’re 27- it hits you- this is the time you’ve been preparing for, going to school, working jobs, and getting all your social norms ready. You’ve jumped from the nest, now you’re flying… but where do you go?

Well you gotta go somewhere… hopefully somewhere important… or at least valuable to oneself.

Oh… it doesn’t help that a handful of famous people kick the bucket at this age either….

Green Light Red Light Green Light Red Light.

I wanted to pull my hair out and and bang my face against the steering wheel in sheer desperation. Then slowly day by day, I started to notice things:

A bedraggled tranny casually talking to a dude in a dirty suit- what the hell was the story behind that?! Were they remnants from the night before or were they getting ready for a lovely day of costumes?

A man with frosted tips riding a pink fuzzy bike. Did he make this bike or did his crazy ass girlfriend make it, and force him to ride it to work as a testament to her love?

A lonely woman sitting forlorn in a bunny costume.  Was she sad or high?

An ex-boyfriend- FUCK! Drive faster!

A few days ago, I sat mindlessly waiting at a light at Van Ness and California… I noticed something twitch in the corner of my vision, normally I wouldn’t look for fear of seeing a bum urinating, but I could sense it was blue and exotic, so I decided to turn my head. Wafting across the intersection was a lone vibrant indigo feather boa, delicately rolling like some psychedelic tumbleweed. My mouth hung agape as I watched it snake and roll against itself in the street. I imagined some bawdy drag queen hurling it at rude cab driver, but resolved that a wayward bachelorette party probably lost it from the limo ride home.

At this point I realized: Van Ness is probably the best fucking street to be stopped at a light, a never ending source of morning entertainment for which I will always be grateful for

In fact, I like movies so much, I watch trailers.

Sometimes when life is a complete drag and I need a little pick me up- I’ll take a quickie visit to the good ole Apple trailer website to watch some of the exciting  flicks that will be coming to a theater near me.

This time around I noticed that diversity in American movies are drastically absent, true this is have been a horrible problem since movies have been invented. I mean, when one of the great celebrated grandfathers of film is about the KKK, surely the film industry is going to have some racial problem, but come on people…. it’s 2010!!!!!

2010 is future time!!!!! Shouldn’t we try to aim for some harmony and shit? Okay I know, I’m coming from the hippie ass bay area where all races are pretty much represented and even here there is a lot of self segregation- but maybe if we started to show everyone getting along together in “FANTASY MOVIE LAND” we could start to imply to the audience that- hey it’s okay to have a splash of color during your party scene. Movies are cast within an inch of itself… each person is carefully picked and dressed to the director’s desire- so the fact that the majority of the movies that are out and representing AMERICA are so … well… WHITE, it leaves one to believe that the movie biz is PURPOSELY forgetting to acknowledge that other people live here and sometimes we like to hang out with each other without weird racial drama popping up.

ps- I am so sick of these 1950s everything was awesome coming of age smuck messes