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Lately

Speaking of old, I just made French toast.

We went and saw the Body last August at a metal festival in a shitty part of Oakland. Jacqueline, Orien, Myles and me. Turns out it was the first time Myles had ever been to any kind of metal or punk show in his life and he was amazed that "nobody in this place is giving me looks like I’m strange or out of place or anything," because my boyfriend is very white preppy dad-looking. I was like, welcome to punk rock dude. I asked him how it’s possible he’s never been to a punk show because he’s totally depraved and he was like, "We moved to Westchester for my formative years," so his understanding of alternative culture was informed by 80s movies about clique behavior. He really feels like he missed out. Of course the first thing he did was develop a intense man-crush on Chip which continues to grow with each new Chip Fact he hears. When I read John Mark’s review of the Body show out loud Myles laughed hard and long and insisted that I put the Oscar the Grouch photo as his wallpaper. "I can just tell he’s a sweet gentle loving dude," he says, "and I love his music."

Last night I went out in the Mission with my co-workers Blanca and Veronica. Blanca texted me that we would meet at 9 but I forgot she’s Mexican and that means 11. I almost stayed home because of my bedtime and because I thought about how exhausting it is to go to the bar when you’re old, but I stayed the course because I remembered Blanca is 45 and a total party animal. So we ended up in this huge latino nightclub full of pushy men who love to dance. At one point Veronica, who’s 21, was like, "Holy shit, that lady’s OLD and she looks GOOD," and we all looked and there was a 60 year-old woman with a body like Rihanna dirty-dancing with some young dude. She was wearing tight white jeans and a midriff top pulled down her shoulders like Baby in Dirty Dancing. At last call she was talking to some other people at our table and Veronica turned triumphantly to us and said, "Well that makes sense, she’s Colombian. Colombians always take care of themselves. They don’t even have quinceaneras, they get tit-jobs instead."

I’m paying for it today, but I don’t regret going out last night.

Autumn! Thank you for reviving some Billie Jean Phillips talk. I’ve been obsessed with that case since it happened, though I hadn’t remembered the "sexual jet ski" metaphor until now. (Really, what IS that? I want one.) I grew up in Washington County and have been interested in crime and mysteries and conspiracies since I can remember, so having Madison County right next door has always been great for me. I remember driving through Huntsville during the 90s and seeing the billboard that Phillips’ family paid for, with a tip hot-line and a blurry photo of Billie Jean with bleached hair. She was screwing everybody, including the county prosecutor, at the time of her murder, so pretty much everyone had a motive. Her young son found her beaten to death, and I always thought how creepy it was that he walked out of the house and told his dad, "Mommy fell when she was painting." I also loved hearing about Ralph Baker when I was little, a lawless redneck sheriff running marijuana conspiracies all over the same backroads that we drove to get to swimming holes. I liked those "Ralph Cares" bumper stickers on old pickups and cars around town, it made me feel like I was in on something corrupt like you would find in a Third World kleptocracy. I was thrilled beyond belief when Ralph died suspiciously strapped into his car at a low water crossing. There is a book called "When Money Grew on Trees" that was written and vanity-published by Ralph’s (alleged) former drug-running partner (name?) that describes all the rascally shit they were up to for decades in Madison County. A couple of years ago the author of that book apparently stabbed himself to death while in police custody in the security room at the Wal-Mart Supercenter on MLK Blvd. They had arrested him for shoplifting. Funny thing is, the police themselves gave the statement to the Times that he had stabbed himself to death while in police custody, apparently in handcuffs. I hadn’t thought about that in awhile.

In other news…

This exchange happened last night, as I was driving my mother and stepdad home from the Chinese buffet on MLK:

Me: So earlier today I snapped and I was rude to this Christian fundie guy who was trying to give me a pamphlet about how the homosexual conspiracy is trying to recruit teenagers into being homosexual and all kinds of crap. He came up to my car window as I was trying to pull out of the bank, and when I saw what he had in his hand, I put my hand up to block him and said, "I REALLY can’t handle your brand of bullshit right now," and I drove away.

John: Oh, don’t let those guys get to you, they’re all over, you just have to let it go…

Camilla: Or you could be more Buddhist about it and just roll up your window when you see them coming. You’ll have to be that way in the city because you don’t know who could be violent and start punching you through the window.

Me: Yes, I know all those things, I get it, I’ve lived in cities before and around crazy street people and I know the fundies are just trying to figure things out in their crazy heads like the rest of us and I get that, but I just couldn’t take that shit today and I snapped. It was not how I normally react. I just get mad, because the anti-gay Christians spend more time thinking and talking about gay stuff and butt-fucking than anyone I know, and it’s curious.

John: You’re right! They do talk about it all the time! Kinda makes you wonder who wants to buttfuck more…

Me: Exactly. And you know how you always think about the best zinger comeback like 30 seconds too late? I thought I should have said, "You should put down the goddam Leviticus and be a little more Christ-like, don’t you think?"

John: No, you should have said, "Aww, I buttfuck all the time, it’s not so bad."

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"She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot."

–Mark Twain

"Passive suffering is not a good subject for literature."

–Matthew Arnold?

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My mother and I just had this conversation:

Camilla: *sigh* I just keep thinking about all of the micro-tragedies in the bird world.

Me: What…are you talking about?

C: Well, I just saw this big chunk of ice fall off a tree outside and I was thinking, ‘What if there was a little bird perched on the branch below?’ It would be like a miniature version of J.B. Hunt. (thoughtful pause) Except there wouldn’t be any tiny ambulance to come roaring up with little bird EMTs to put the little guy on a wee stretcher and rush him off to the hospital.

Me: Wow.

C: What would the bird hospital be called? Suet Memorial?

Me: Kinda flat.

C: Peckerwood General Hospital?

Me: I’m pretty sure that’s racist.

C: (defensively) What does Peckerwood mean?

Me: I can’t remember if it’s a black guy or a white guy. It’s on that Richard Pryor sketch.

C: It’s gotta mean a white guy, so then it’s not racist.

Me: *sigh* Whatever.

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Are we talking about wacky grandma names? I don’t get on here very much. Mine were Grandmama and Granddad until that young upstart Alana came along and changed them to Mammy and Dad-Dad. But I think Leigh Wood takes the cake with Bee-Bob and Daddy Rat.

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