On Accepting the Results of This Election

Dear Republicans,

Demanding a recount does not mean that Hillary Clinton is not "accepting the results of this election."  Here's what a recount actually signifies:  that the integrity of American elections must be protected, especially when there are irregularities.  And always when the popular vote does not align with the election outcome.

Your unabashed commitment to lying to the American people has meant you have won many battles. One of these battles may or may not be the recount.  We will see.

Here are ten reasons why you will not win this war.  They all relate to your disdain for your disciples.

1.  You've doubled down on repetition as a truth-simulating strategy.

2.  As a result, you've made people feel informed.

3.  As they feel informed, you exploit their ignorance.

4.  The very ignorance you've help to create.

5.  You have abused the "equal time" broadcast mandates and used your time to spread misinformation to the American people.

6.  You have created a fake media industry to add legitimacy to these lies and foster ignorance.

7.  You exploit your elderly voters by capitalizing on their lack of savvy with new media.

8.   You exploit Christians by pretending that you care about abortions.

9.  But in your desperation to fight against your lack of relevance and integrity, you have made many, many  mistakes.  The biggest mistake has not been your strategy of prestidigitation.  Though the this-is-not-what-it-is strategy will not help you recover.  Later, it will hurt you.

10.  To achieve your desired results, you have made deals with unthinkable devils.  This has been your biggest mistake.  And soon, as you will see, the cannibalizing begins.

Here's an example of how you want your process to work.  When it functions smoothly, it looks like this:  You created the term Obamacare.  Your term distracted from the achievements of the Affordable Care Act.  Your term, Obamacare, enabled people to hate the very policy designed to help them.  You negotiated the single payer option out of the bill so that insurance companies could undermine its effects.  You blamed these failures on Obamacare.  You thought that if your constituents hated black people, and by extension their black president, perhaps they would be too blind (or stupid) to notice that President Obama had been everyone's president; he was interested in helping even those Americans who hated him.  (You hoped that people would forget that some of their bankruptcies were caused by medical bills).  You may have a laugh at your own uncanny evil when you overturn Medicare and blame this too on Obamacare.

What's more likely, however, can already be seen.  The cannibals have come to Washington, and Republicans will finally have something to truly fear. The young klansmen in their shiny new suits have set up camp in D.C.  In their hubris, the members of the billionaire boys club will reveal their true pathologies.  Even Paul Ryan won't make it through their trafficking.

Nasty Woman > Hollow Man

Lately, as I am sure you have noticed, there have been many headlines calling for Americans to stop protesting.  (Curiously, if you read beyond the headline, they tell you the OPPOSITE.  Go ahead, and protest).  Watch that newspaper click bait.

The president-elect's most impressive track record concerns his success in silencing opposition.  What happens when your tactics for relentless intimidation fail?  When your opponents aren't afraid of you?

I'm not reluctant to protest the president-elect because I know my constitutional rights. I am a peaceful protester and a patriot.  I respect my opposition, but I do not mindlessly conform to their ideals for the sake of their convenience.  I am not afraid of the president-elect because the writers of the constitution saw him coming.

Editorial writers, your voices are heard prominently on the front page of media outlets everyday.  You've been complaining that you've lost touch with real Americans.  You have absolutely no authority over protestors, but you do have a professional responsibility.  Most of you have very little expertise to justify your claims about what's best for this nation.  You have everything invested in giving readers "advice."  My advice to those writers, start an advice column and stop writing "editorials."  That way, your uncritical readers will be quicker in their analysis of your credibility.

I'm not sure if anyone knows for sure what's best for the nation at a time like this, certainly not I. Wouldn't it be convenient for the president-elect if we ignored the data and forgot that Americans agree on many things?  According to Gallup, only 32% of Americans think Trump has presidential qualities.  I've never agreed more with so many Americans.  Now, for that last, stubborn 32%.

I know one or two things for sure about what is not best for this nation:

Encouraging the rejection of reliable source materials so your constituents' fears are exploited. Forming tenuous alliances with white nationalist, terrorist groups because their votes will help advance your environmentally irresponsible agendas.

Nonviolent protest can function as an effective forms of opposition, especially at times when our system of checks and balances are not in line with the popular vote.

Personally, I would not hold a sign that read #NOTMYPRESIDENT in this situation (though I support the choice to do so).  I mostly would not hold that sign because it is not accurate.  I think that statements of protest demand accuracy.  I will be forced to live under the tyranny of voters who made an especially and unusually irresponsible choice.

14 Protest Signs Ideas
1.  Diane Feinstein, I expect you to protect DACA.
2.  Paul Ryan, Investigating Election Fraud Might Be Your Last Chance for the Oval Office (not a bad option for an under-performing, opportunist like you #BYANYMEANSNECESSARYWINK)
3.  Real Republicans Tell Republicans the Truth about the GOP Media Strategy (Hint:  Republican Voters, Your Party Hates You More Than You Hate Them)
4.  At Least Thirty-Five Years Old... Emotionally?  (Article II, Section 1)
5.  Narcissistic Personality Disorder = A Disability that Can Be Removed?  (Article II, Section 1)
6.  Article II, Section 4
7.  Article III, Section 3
8.  Amendment I
9.  Amendment IV
10.  Amendment XIV, Section 1
11.  November 28, 2016 (DT, don't be afraid.  In California, we adore deplorables).
12.  Filibusters are a bitch
13.  Yes, Elijah (D-MD 7th District)!
14.  Nasty Woman >Hollow Man

Nasty Woman > Hollow Man

Lately, as I am sure you have noticed, there have been many headlines calling for Americans to stop protesting.  (Curiously, if you read beyond the headline, they tell you the OPPOSITE.  Go ahead, and protest).  Watch that newspaper click bait.

The president-elect's most impressive track record concerns his success in silencing opposition.  What happens when your tactics for relentless intimidation fail?  When your opponents aren't afraid of you?

I'm not reluctant to protest the president-elect because I know my constitutional rights. I am a peaceful protester and a patriot.  I respect my opposition, but I do not mindlessly conform to their ideals for the sake of their convenience.  I am not afraid of the president-elect because the writers of the constitution saw him coming.

Editorial writers, your voices are heard prominently on the front page of media outlets everyday.  You've been complaining that you've lost touch with real Americans.  You have absolutely no authority over protestors, but you do have a professional responsibility.  Most of you have very little expertise to justify your claims about what's best for this nation.  You have everything invested in giving readers "advice."  My advice to those writers, start an advice column and stop writing "editorials."  That way, your uncritical readers will be quicker in their analysis of your credibility.

I'm not sure if anyone knows for sure what's best for the nation at a time like this, certainly not I. Wouldn't it be convenient for the president-elect if we ignored the data and forgot that Americans agree on many things?  According to Gallup, only 32% of Americans think Trump has presidential qualities.  I've never agreed more with so many Americans.  Now, for that last, stubborn 32%.

I know one or two things for sure about what is not best for this nation:

Encouraging the rejection of reliable source materials so your constituents' fears are exploited. Forming tenuous alliances with white nationalist, terrorist groups because their votes will help advance your environmentally irresponsible agendas.

Nonviolent protest can function as an effective form of opposition, especially at times when our system of checks and balances are not in line with the popular vote.

Personally, I would not hold a sign that read #NOTMYPRESIDENT in this situation (though I support the choice to do so).  I mostly would not hold that sign because it is not accurate.  I think that statements of protest demand accuracy.  I will be forced to live under the tyranny of voters who made an especially and unusually irresponsible choice.

14 Protest Signs Ideas
1.  Diane Feinstein, I expect you to protect DACA.
2.  Paul Ryan, Investigating Election Fraud Might Be Your Last Chance for the Oval Office (not a bad option for an under-performing, opportunist like you #BYANYMEANSNECESSARYWINK)
3.  Real Republicans Tell Republicans the Truth about the GOP Media Strategy (Hint:  Republican Voters, Your Party Hates You More Than You Hate Them)
4.  At Least Thirty-Five Years Old... Emotionally?  (Article II, Section 1)
5.  Narcissistic Personality Disorder = A Disability that Can Be Removed?  (Article II, Section 1)
6.  Article II, Section 4
7.  Article III, Section 3
8.  Amendment I
9.  Amendment IV
10.  Amendment XIV, Section 1
11.  November 28, 2016 (DT, don't be afraid.  In California, we adore deplorables).
12.  Filibusters are a bitch
13.  Yes, Elijah (D-MD 7th District)!
14.  Nasty Woman >Hollow Man

Fraudster Cons American Voters with Support of GOP Doubt Machine

Dear American Voters,

I am working on a set of projects that might improve our ability to perform our civic duty and become more informed voters.  Later, we can debate positions. Now, we need to unite.  Whether or not you voted for Trump, it's time to recognize that he used his fluency with the media to manipulate the American people.  I WISH I could only point fingers at Trump voters, but liberals fell into similar patterns of skimming, clicking and scrolling through this election.

For now, the most important thing to recognize is that American voters elected a con artist.  There's no taking back your vote in a representative government with fair elections.  However, our constitutional writers designed this republic to function well in the face situations like these.  It is important to exercise your constitutional rights and communicate with your representatives in congress in addition to protesting.  Tell them what you expect them to do to protect your rights.

I am outraged at the fact that gender inequality still dominates much of the election discourse, but I am not surprised.  I am disgusted that so much hatred, racism and institutional inequality still dominates our local and global environments (this, my friends, is as much of an urban as rural problem), but I am not surprised.  It will be awhile before I have any energy left to educate my male peers about all of the things they are doing to silence women's voices on a daily basis.  Bill Maher, I love your show, but do not ask a woman her opinion only to talk over her.  Last night, I watched you and Thomas Friedman dominate the conversation about gender.

More on that later.  Right now, we need to pull together.  Kellyanne Conway suggests Obama should somehow silence protestors, but perhaps she needs to do more reading and less talking.  I do not think Kellyanne Conway (or President-Elect Trump for that matter) have appropriately grappled with constitutional law.  They must immediately stop using logical fallacies to advance their agendas.  I do not need to be disciplined by a statesman.  I voted for President Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, but this is not a partisan resistance.  Frankly, I wish it were a partisan resistance.  How the President-Elect must wish it were.  However, I feel like I am obligated to contribute to fixing this because so many Americans have failed to perform basic due diligence before exercising their right to vote.  Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Apathetics, even a cursory examination of authoritarian regimes will reveal that you are all responsible for intervening in this or you eventually will learn to become more fluent readers of propaganda.

Let your representatives know that you expect them to defend the constitutional of the United States of America.  Let you state government know you expect them to defend your rights on a local level.  Tell your representatives that you expect them to demand and follow through with investigations into President-Elect Donald Trump's offshore accounts, fraudulent businesses and many conflicts of interests that inhibit his ability to function as an effective head of state.

If you are a Democrat, stop analyzing why Hillary Clinton lost this election.  If you are a Republican, stand up to your party.  Your party, in the name of your values, has played an important role in this disaster and you know it.  Politicians, if you continue to participate in politics as strategy, you will always see citizens as obstacles, and they will not appreciate it.  If you made a mistake in this election, do not defend it because you are afraid to look at the gravity of the error.

For my family members who voted for Trump, at some point, I would love to hear you apologize to the young girls in our family.  I am personally offended, but I am an adult.  Do you understand how disturbing and confusing it feels to hear that men in your own family do not take sexual assault seriously?  I do.  Again, I disagree with Bill Maher, if you are offended by a close friend or family member's behavior, go ahead and unfriend them.  Votes have real consequences and some Americans will feel those consequences more than others.

But we do not have to be friends to share a common goal.  We do not have to like each other, or agree with each other's politics to respond to this together.  The long game, I think, will involve teaching every individual a method for finding facts and making informed decisions.  Then, we will be able to agree to disagree. For now, wake up, read the constitution, and recognize that what you're seeing is a disaster.

Congrats America

You are much more idiotic than I ever imagined.

Nice job.

Yendo y Viniendo

This just in...

Research shows that "maxipurses" cause damage to neck, shoulders, posture and overall wellbeing. A prominent doctor, or actor wearing a labcoat, recommends keeping the load in your purse under 1.5 kilos to prevent permanent damage. Various handbags are emptied and the contents weighed on screen.

No acknowledgement of manpurse in report.

Hardly anyone can pass a television without checking the score of the futból match, even serious, shaggy-haired, peacoat-wearing, man purse-toting jovenes. Authorities have responded by installing portapotties and an impossibly large HD television in the main plaza.

1. Words I learned from the bar:
matafuego
trago

2. Words I learned from Facebook:
cargando
pérfil
nivelado

3. Words I learned from Cortázar
cómodo
agujas
bestiaro
apenar
rechazar
esquivo

Three men play Don't Cry for Me Argentina on wooden Andean flutes on Av Florida. There's a white man with a head that's mostly shaved except for the sprout of dreadlocks growing in a firework configuration from the crown of his skull. He is a mediocre breakdancer. Yes, he is dancing on cobblestones, but he also has a mat.

Location:San Telmo

Field Notes from Argentina

LAX AIRPORT:
Man sitting next to me at the Redondo Beach Bar and Grill (more bar than grill unless you count Jodi Maroni sausage kiosk) says he drove his pickip from Central California at 5:00am. His flight was delayed. Unclear whether he is departing or picking up. Claims to own the biggest property in Panama which is both visible from space and guarded by Noriega's former assassin who he calls, "Noriega's right hand man."

HOUSTON AIRPORT:
Makes me want to visit NASA when they sell shirts that say, "Houston, We Have a Problem." Much needed Caramel Frappuccino Light with an add shot and no whip. Okay, whip. Reprimanded for boarding out of order.

EN ROUTE:
This is the first I've heard... An onscreen wax figurine tells me of the United/Cuntinental merger. Should have taken LAN, even if there is that 12 hour layover in Lima. The inflight entertainment module is frozen in my row and we have to wait until everyone finishes The Adjustment Bureau before the agent (no longer attendant) thinks it's ethical to reboot. Upon rebooting, our row still doesn't work. The woman next to me decides to take the one empty seat on the plane, jonesing for entertainment, but returns just as I'm lifting the armrest to get comfortable. Her rationale is that I take up less room and don't stink like the other guy. A compliment? She wakes up with breath so rancid, it's hard to give her directions without dry heaving.

TRANSIT EXPRESS:
Jersey kid behind me in customs worries that they'll give him hell for not filling out immigration documents. Wants to know what 'vuelo' means. Boy next to him is coming to Argentina to "put off being an adult for awhile," and there is a new reciprocal fee for US$150, although they've eliminated the departure tax. Transit Express takes me to my apartment for 150 pesos. Exchange rate 4:1.

Alas! Poor Yorick

 Packing

(Part 1 of 2)

Upon leaving Ecuador, my friend Tanya, who had been traveling for three months said, "If I see one more backpacker, I think I'm going to lose it."

I knew what she meant as in my hostel 20% of male backpackers (a generous estimate) come to breakfast wearing shoes, and I would argue fewer than 10% have showered, let alone shaved.

Tanya and I could both be stereotyped as backpackers.  We came to Ecuador with nothing but backpacks, one large one for our clothes, and one small one for the plane.  Valecia also could be mistaken for a backpacker.  She sported an even more traditional look.  Her bag was a highly elaborate camping number that was as long as her body, and equal to her weight.  Valecia's backpack was the kind of backpack made for the most backpacking-iest of all backpacking adventures like camping in the Andes, or biking along the Pan American highway.  At first glance, Valecia looked the part of a backpacker, but since the idea of Malaria pills and Yellow Fever shots paralyze her, it's merely an illusion.  Instead of being filled with first aid kits, water purification tablets, moisture wicking clothing, and mosquito nets, Valecia's mochilla was filled (at least from what I could decipher) of hair products, and shoes.

Valecia would take exception to this, and point out that I am in no position to talk.

I'm not. 

On our first (and last) camping trip to Joshua Tree, I brought only my down comforter (from my bed), a yoga mat I had thought might serve as a makeshift air mattress (it didn't), and a travel kit of Dermalogica face products (the desert is dry after all). 

At my worst, I can be that minimalist traveler who arrives at a place to find that I've forgotten a jacket, or money.  Worse, I often don't notice until three days later when I wonder why I'm freezing, and have no money.  I also often forget real shoes since I like to wear flip-flops on the airplane (and everywhere, honestly).

This time, I came to Ecuador with a backpack of clothes, and a plan.  I filled the mochilla with the type of outfits that have major advantages, and major disadvantages.  You know, the kind of clothes that you pull in and out of the Goodwill Donation bag because it's difficult to weigh the cost benefit of them. 

I chose clothing I felt mostly ambivalent about.  Gifts I've never worn with the tags still on them; Capri pants; the type of clothing your family buys you when they find out you're a lesbian, she's a lesbian, she must wear khakis, or she's a lesbian, let's femme her up a bit by buying her a horrible blouse with gigantic roses all over it; the off color items from Banana Republic's (no pun intended) sale rack, I liked it in black, but the bright peach is 75% off; my favorite pair of yoga pants that have a hole in them from when I fell and broke my elbow in three places; several other items of clothing with tiny holes in them, but holes that are apparent enough to worry my father when I visit him, why do you insist on wearing clothes with holes in them; flashy clothes that make me fit in with other Latin Americans like the white shirt with silver snaps and zippers down the front; a perfectly good, cute raincoat with torn lining because my cousin, Eloise was so astonished when I asked, does a raincoat have to be dry cleaned, and she said, listen to yourself, it's a fucking raincoat, it's meant to get wet (no it wasn't); a cashmere sweater that is just too damn hot for California and makes me feel like I'm being strangled; the last piece of clothing left over from my late teens; the cute blazer I bought at a street sale in Santa Monica for twenty dollars, and couldn't figure out why it was too big, even though it was labeled a size medium with a tag that said, made in Italy, but also, when I was paying closer attention, trying on the blazer with shirts and sweater combinations underneath to make it fit better, read the receipt, stylish clothes for the mother to be; two cute sweaters my housemate shrunk by putting them in the dryer; anything black that had faded; anything white that had yellowed; everything I own that is made out of fleece; and a pair of board shorts I wore only once before the dirty pacific ocean stained them with just a little bit of tar.

I know what you're thinking, I must have wandered around Ecuador looking like and indigenous orphan, but by combining these items with some of my basic all time favorite pieces, I was able to assemble a somewhat-workable wardrobe while giving me the chance to deliberate once and for all if these clothes truly belonged in the Goodwill pile by forcing myself to wear them... everyday for two months.

Plus (between you and me), it's astonishing what a good bra can do for a hideous shirt.

I found a place to shed most of my clothing (except for the favorites) at El Centro de Accíon Social's donation box in Cuenca, where people waded through old, dusty, stinking shoes, so they could fight over the American brands that had just arrived. 

This plan, I thought, would make room in my backpack for exactly two hand woven indigenous outfits:  one from the Northern Andes, with an ornate blouse and long, conservative falta, topped with a Humphrey Bogart Hat; and another from the southern Andes, with a green velvet falta, sequined shawl, and Panama Hat.

I would still have room for ridiculous regalitas for my friends in North America.  In addition, surely, by the end of two months, I could shed all of the face and hair products I brought with me because they will have been all used up.  I could also throw away the bottles for my anti-depressants, because I brought just enough pills for the number of days I was staying in Ecuador.  (I under counted, but that's another story).

Used up sooner than I expected was the only soap I'm not allergic to in the whole wide world, which I had to share with Valecia who admitted upon arrival, "Babe, I forgot soap."  To her credit, she tried to buy soap at the farmacia, but came out gagging from the floral smell.  This reminded me of my winter in Mexico with my grandmother who yelled down the street when I was on my way to the mercado, "Make sure you don't get the toilet paper that stinks like roses!  It's hard to tell at first because the whole store stinks like roses, so take it another aisle and smell before you buy it!  Remember, SMELL BEFORE YOU BUY!  SMELL BEFORE YOU BUY!" 

Valecia says, "you'll break out in hives just sleeping next to me if I buy that soap," and follows up with, "Babe, I forgot toothpaste," and "Babe, I forgot deodorant," and "Babe, I forgot a razor," and "Babe, we're out of toilet paper, so I'm using your witch hazel pads to bridge the gap if you know what I mean."  Thankfully for Valecia, there was absolutely no danger in having to bring any products home with me.  And for that, I am eternally grateful.

What Valecia didn't forget was face cream (and I didn't either so we were overstocked), but after being blistered from the Equatorial sun, and wondering why Valecia's skin looked even more perfect than normal, I asked, "Isn't the sun bothering you?"

After which she replied, "No, because my special face cream has 30 sun block in it because I anticipated the sun at the equator would be quite strong," and then she rattled off a mathematical estimate supporting her hypothesis.

It's important to note here that Valecia is a master anticipator of sorts, and having never been to Ecuador remembered sun block.  If needed, she probably would have counted her own medication more accurately with the precision of a pharmacist (a pharmacist, of course, not my pharmacist who often under fills my prescriptions, and says things like, take a free diet coke, and I'll owe you ten pills for next time, baby).

Back to the soap. 

One of Valecia's romantic statements is, "Hmmmm, you smell like nothing," which I know is a compliment, after she clarifies, "you know, like nothing.  Maybe fresh is a better way to say it."  And I've heard of worse gaffes.  For example, I have a friend whose partner told her wife, similarly, "Hmmmm, you smell like corn," only to follow up the gaffe with, "What?  I really like corn.  You know how much I like corn.  What?"

As Valecia lathered herself each morning in the shower, she'd come back into the room saying "Hmmmm, that soap is really special.  I smell like nothing!"

Four days after Valecia's departure, I found myself washing my body with shampoo, which worked just as well (albeit more expensive), but I would have no danger of having to carry anything home.

So, one day, after buying both a guitar, and considering a replica of a human skull for my desk at school (so I can fit in with my fellow English professors), Valecia Skypes me.

"What are you doing?"

"Right this second?"

"Yes.  Right this second."

"I'm thinking of buying a full size, wooden replica of a human skull," I say.

And then, my lovely girlfriend who hasn't questioned anything since my 121 Commutes on a Vespa (social experiment last December) says the dreaded, "Are you ever doing anything normal when someone calls?"

The first (but not last) person to say this was my cousin Eloise who also called to say, "What are you doing?"

"I'm bidding on 9 burkas on ebay, to fit the mannequins I bought in Portland, so I can finish making a new menorah for Hannukah," I say.

"Are you ever doing anything normal?" Eloise says.

"Like what?"

"Like I don't know, watching television, or opening the mail?"

Opening the mail?

She should see the list of face book statuses that didn't make the cut.

So, Valecia continues, "I anticipate, you'll have to buy another piece of luggage because you won't be able to fit a skull in your backpack.  I saw a place at the Mercado 6 Diciembre on Mariscal Lamar that had some pretty cheap bags," she says.

"No, I don't think I'll need a bag," I say.

"Why, are you reconsidering the human skull?  Do you really need it?  I'd probably pass on the human skull if I were you.  The guitar you can carry on the plane, but a skull is a little creepy, no?"

" I can absolutely not pass on Yorick," I tell her, "You know I just got tenure.  I absolutely need Yorick," I say.

"True," she says.  "I'm afraid you do need Yorick after earning tenure."

And then for the first time, I reveal my plan to Valecia that I plan to leave most of my clothing in Ecuador, replace it with indigenous clothing, a skull, and regalitos for friends and family.

Valecia, ever more anticipatory, decided to buy her friends jewelry instead of maracas made out of coconuts and filled with beans from the Amazon.  As she packed, she happily reminded me that maybe I should reconsider a couple things because jewelry fits easily into luggage.

"Can you take home my New Year's Eve mask from the effigies?" I say.

"Okay," she says.

Since most of my friends are gay men, artists, or academics.  They tend to appreciate the stranger gifts.  For example, I think many of them would appreciate a giant box of sheepskin condoms (useless FYI) that say together in our love without worry with a naked Ecuadorian couple fucking on the front of the box.

Valecia understands the regalito dilemma because last year, we came home from Chile with 24 bags of Carne Asada, onion, garlic, and tomato flavored potato chips, 18 boxes of cigarettes with the package covered in a full size mouth of rotten teeth (the back of the box said, go ahead, smoke, and it will rot your body, organ by organ, a little bit at a time.

And two kilos of Nestle's Little Black Girls...

"You'd think I'd be more surprised to hear that you're planning on leaving all of your clothes in Ecuador, but I'm not," she says.

"That's what I love about you," I say.

"Well, where are you going to donate them?"

"I don't know, I think I found a place near the university called Accíon Social on the internet, but I'm not sure if they take clothing because their website says they desire household clothing, and I'm not sure exactly what that means."

"Probably clothes.  It's probably just a bad translation," she says. 

"It's not translated, it's in Spanish," I say.

"Okay, well what's your back up plan because I'm not sure I consider your clothing household clothing."

My back up plan is to walk into a sketchy neighborhood in late afternoon, and leave the clothes in a bag on the street with a sign that says, libre, exactly like I would do in Los Angeles.

"I don't have a back up plan," I say.

Stay tuned for Packing Part Two

Still Coming Soon... Catholic Existentialists and Other Entrepreneurs!

The Smoking Man

I know many of you are waiting for me to follow through on the promises of last blog's cliffhanger, but unfortunately, the stories did not pan out as interestingly as I expected.

Cliff Hanger #1

Habitacíon #9:  Serial Killer on the Lamb

He looked like the Smoking Man for those of you old and nerdy enough to remember The X Files, and just for the thrill of it, I have moved into his habitacíon, Habitacíon Number 9.  He moved out suddenly six days ago after being visited by a young, pretty Columbian woman.  I plan to search the room for forensic evidence (which can't be used in a court of law in Ecuador); nevertheless, if I find evidence, I will lift it with the tiny tweezers from my Swiss army knife (before I trade my Swiss army knife and Swiss army watch for some antiques and curiosities on Monday morning- after all the Swiss army is largely ineffectual (perhaps neutral is a better word), and its products are overpriced in Latin America), and put the evidence into the little cellophane bag my antique postcards came in.  I will label the found evidence (exhibits A, B, and C) with the green, square stickers taped to the communal refrigerator; residents are supposed to use these green stickers to label their groceries (habitacíon #3, habitacíon #9, etc.), so other guests don't accidentally eat the wrong food. 

Note to self #1:  Don't eat the wrong food.

Note to self #2:  Change green stickers to reflect my room change, even though the only thing I have in the refrigerator is a diet coke, and an empty bottle from a Fanta purchased at Bodega Toni.

Note to self #3:  Return the empty bottle to Bodega Toni (Calle Mariscal Lamar y Padre Aguirre).

In my new habitacíon, I hope I will not find an underground tunnel that leads to a red light district in the Eastern Block, or another sinister human trafficking operation like the ones found in at least half of the states in the United States.  I'm obsessed with human trafficking ever since my friend Robin read me an article in 2002 about the sex slaves found in Westwood, California, four miles from my house (youngest slave 7, oldest slave became a madam after 15+ years of forced servitude).

But enough about the State of the Union... while they try to figure out if possessing a human should carry a sentence (29 months on the low end, 30 years on the high end) that is greater or less than the sentence for possession of crack cocaine (5 years minimum for 5 grams), there are less important investigative journalistic efforts to pursue right here in developing Ecuador (the first country to grant Mother Earth rights under its constitution- Ecuador also recognizes same sex unions, by the way).

The following is an exact transcript from my conversation with the alleged serial killer on the lamb in the communal kitchen 3 days prior to his departure.  He was tying plastic bags into tight knots and labeling them meticulously with his room number.

Him:  hmmgrrmmmmhmgrrr

Me:  Excuse me?

Him:  hmmgrrmmmmhmgrrr

Me:  I'm sorry?  I couldn't understand you.

Him:  Oh, I wasn't talking to you I was talking to myself.

Me:  Oh, well don't let me interrupt you.

Him:  I do that sometimes.

Me:  Okay.

Him:  Sometimes it's the only way you can have an intelligent conversation.

Really?  Really.  I could not make this up even if I tried.  I am not creative at all, and regardless of what my grandmother, cousin Eloise, and Maya believe, I'm not even an exaggerator.  If anything, I'm the type of apathetic, under reactor who tends to take 8 years longer than she should to tell someone to fuck off.

Fortunately, for me, things ended there between the serial killer and me.  I resisted la comida typico of a woman from Los Angeles who might otherwise respond with the low self-esteem, self-deprecating, inner monologue, but what about me?  I can't believe he thought he couldn't have an intelligent conversation with me.  I'm intelligent, and I can talk.  I can't believe he just said that to me.

For you hyper realists out there (http://lftblank.blogspot.com has indeed reached a far wider audience than originally expected), I really moved into the serial killer's room because it's in The Big House, one of the palatial rooms in the converted mansion, Hostal Maconda (Tarqui y Mariscal Lamar), and my adorable garden room where I sat on the porch and played my $70 handmade guitar (case included) sold to me by a charming teenager, was also the same room where every morning I woke to a new mosquito bite (37 at last count).

Even if the former occupant was a serial killer, the new room has 16-foot ceilings, looks over the atrium, has handmade and painted wooden furniture, contains 2 absolutely amazing local oil paintings, and (admittedly) smells just a little like pee.  

Last night, I made an evening out of smelling the mattress and pillows (not the source), opening the drawers and armoire and smelling them (to no avail), smelling my own underwear and feet (just to be sure), and sticking my face in the toilet (nada).  I had to conclude what our tour guide in Egypt, Amr, once said when a similar smell couldn't be located on our bus in 2001. 

"Friends, I believe that it's not the bus, it's the area," and he motioned like an umpire calling a runner safe at home base, indicating the area-ness of the odor was more wide spread than originally thought.

Solution:  Buy incense from Dubai's Shwarma and Pipe (Calle Largo y Presidente Borerro) + 4 candles from the blind man in front of Cathedral Vieja (Parque Abdón Calderón) + spill a bottle of tea tree oil in the steaming shower.

Cliff Hanger #2

Broken Finger

This was just another long, boring story about me breaking another finger (slammed it into the door), and not going to the doctor (because they don't do anything for a broken finger anyway).

Coming soon! 

Catholic Existentialists and Other Entrepreneurs

Le Presente Su Botella

Le Presente, Su Botella

(Allow Me to Introduce to You, Your Bottle)

            Before reading further, for the Thought Police out there, let me assure you I have exhausted all possibilities for my novel today before beginning this blog.  In fact, today was one of my most productive days in Ecuador on all accounts.  It seems my readers fall into four major groups:  those who want me to finish my book; those who want me to finish my blog; those who want me to finish my blog and book; and those who would like me to finish anything.  Can't please everyone.  Please forgive the numerous typos and formatting errors in this blog.  My cousin, Sheriff of the Thought Police, has forbidden me to edit anything but my book until I return to California.  (She thinks I'm stuck).  So here it is.  Any typos, or sentence structure errors, or wordiness will bring readers closer to the quality of my Spanish.

Part One

KOOKABURRA CAFE & ACCOMMODATION

First, after nearly five weeks, I found a place that serves real cappuccinos (ironically, Australian-owned).  I did try several Ecuadorian establishments first, as is my eco-tourism practice, but Nescafe, I'm sorry to say, no matter how it's fashioned, does not a cappuccino make.  Unpasteurized (for which there are no spelling suggestions in my American version of Microsoft Word) milk is a risky venture to begin with (dry heaving as I write this), but combined with Nescafe it creates a grey, toxic, room temperature matter (solid? liquid?) in which clear circles of fat congregate at the top of your mug, assembling a coup which with overthrow your previously-democratic digestive system. 

One of my favorite quotations from Valecia in Ecuador is, "It's so weird.  I can drink coffee here and it doesn't even give me the jitters."  (Shhh, it's because it's not coffee).

Loyal readers may remember a similar espresso predicament in summer 2008, in Chile, when lovely Valecia was served a soy latte with soy sauce (not kidding).  To jar your memory, this was the trip where I had to learn how to make my own espresso on a stovetop contraption for which I'm eternally grateful, and gave myself Botulismo (my fault – unplugged refrigerator).

     I can only blame North Americans and Europeans for the failure of perhaps the largest coffee-producing region in the world to not enjoy a good cup of coffee.  After many interviews with Ecuadorians, the consensus seems to be that coffee beans are such a cash crop that there is absolutely no reason to hoard it.  Incidentally, the same goes for coca leaves in Bolivia, Peru, and Ecuador.  Export, export.  The United States and Western Europe are the two biggest cocaine consumers in the world, and while there is the occasional Bolivian crack head- a self-destructive lab genius who has learned how to manufacture a high, and lord knows the Columbians and Brazilians surely have their consumers- for the most part most South Americans are not willing to risk 15 years in prison (not kidding) for a line of cocaine.  Export, export.  For the poor quality leaves, mixed with a little ash and stuffed in the adorable cheeks of the Andean indigenous, you have an instant cure for altitude sickness.

For the most part, peppy highs are not conducive to Latin America.  The cracky productivity that comes with a Fair Trade Double Tall Grande Two Pump Skinny Vanilla Latte would be entirely wasted on a culture whose collective favorite word is, espera.  I have heard the word espera 179 times in 5 weeks, and the word mañana 83 times.

And yet, how is this espera community the same culture that wakes me up at 7 am with fireworks and celebrates Christmas from November until March with parades of equal enthusiasm every day?

I, for one, could not carry a toddler in a hammock/backpack at high altitude all day while pushing a wheelbarrow full of cherries, chanting cerisas cerisas meditatively without a little coffee, or even better ack-cray (no worries, Mom, I don't touch the stuff- wouldn't risk the aneurism or the prison sentence).

Because the Australians are not exactly known for their cuisine (taste Vegemite on white toast if you don't believe me), I had to interview the corky co-owners of Kookaburra Café and Accommodation:  OPEN 7am EVERYDAY, and ask them about their acquisition of an expensive, authentic, cherry red, Italian espresso machine.
Co-owner #1:  Well, mate, we couldn't get a good cup of coffee anywhere in Cuenca.

I also ordered lunch which was a micro waved frozen pea and square carrot tamale wrapped in a Eucalyptus leaf, and an agua con gas.  Because they didn't have any change for a five-dollar bill, I also ordered the Ecuadorian beer, Pilsener.  The cuenta then was $3.25, and with the help of some friends the co-owners were able to assemble change.

I must admit, when I saw the "& ACCOMMODATION" part of the sign, I wanted to live in this friendly Australian espresso oasis.  After hearing virtually no English since Valecia left, I barely recognized their accent as English, and until my ear acclimated had to converse in an Australian/Spanglish pidgin.

Me:  I'd like to order a seltzer please.

Co-owner #1:  I'm not sure if we have an Alka-Seltzer, but I'll check in my personal medicina cabinet because you are honestly officialimente our first real customer.  Otherwise, I'll hold your table while you have a run to the farmacia down the street.  Lo siento you're mal.  Was it something you ate?

Me: Lo siento, señor un agua.  Un agua con gas.

Co-owner #1:  An aqua con gas.  Ah, see, you mean a soder walter?

Me:  Yes, a soder walter.

Co-owner #1:  Well, that, my friend, we have.

            Co-owner #2, the chef, admitted that she had no idea how to cook, but was giving it a go

because why not after all, and I got into a conversation about the genius of the frozen burrito. 

            Co-owner #2:  Do they eat frozen burritos in California?  I must say, I miss them.

            Me:  Not that much, but a little.  They sell them in vending machines at community

colleges and employee break rooms usually.

            Co-owner #2:  That's crazy.  It's like selling an antelope in a vending machine.  The

frozen burrito deserves quite a bit bettah.

            Me:  I agree, but there's just not a market for it because you can get a regular burrito

pretty much any time you want.

            Co-owner#2:  Really?  That's the states for you.  A burrito, fresh, any time you want? 

You're putting me on?

            There's a rumor in my family that in the 80's my grandmother brought the frozen burrito to Australia, and it was a lucrative business.  I rarely test the rumors in my family because they're mostly lies, but since we were discussing the frozen burrito, and I was eating what was essentially a frozen burrito (still partly frozen due to a sudden power outage), I decide to probe.

Co-owner #2:  Apologies my friend.  It's still a bit frozen, but tastes alright?
Me:  Sure.  It's fine.  You know, my grandmother sold frozen burritos in Australia in the 80's.
Co-owner #1:  You mean Diamond Moran?  Your grandmother is Diamond Moran?  Unbelievable.  You know she's credited with importing the frozen burrito to Australia!
Me:  Really?  I always thought it was a family rumor.
Co-owner #2:  A rumor?  Absolutely not, my love,  Mate, bring the granddaughter of Diamond Moran, bringer of the frozen burrito to Australia another Pilsner on the house!"

Part Two

Una Cuaderno entre Otras Cosas

(A Notebook among Other Things)

            Buying a notebook might not seem like much of an accomplishment to most readers; however, it's virtually impossible to find a notebook with plain paper that doesn't have some strange, unknown cartoon character and a poorly translated American phrase on the cover.  For example, the most common notebook has a pig emerging from psychedelic rainbows, and it reads:  All of the days taking happiness.  The second most common notebook seems to be two cartoon children in some sort of romantic relationship (as indicated by the background of pink, purple, and red hearts), which reads, Birds in common is everywhere.  I don't mean to be a notebook snob, but I can't imagine Pablo Neruda (who apparently was absolutely obsessive about his turquoise ink) drafting a poem in a notebook with two puppies and a chicken that read, Tomorrow are the days that might tell a future. 

Upon asking for a plain notebook:

            Store #1:  ¿Porque?

            Store #2:  No lo tengo.

            Store #3:  Takes out a pad of watercolor paper for ten dollars, but inspects my money like

a Peruvian (Peruvians prefer US dollars to sols, but only accept them if

they've been steam-cleaned and pressed.  She says, cambio el diez dólar!

(Change the tenth dollar)!  But I don't have a cleaner tenth dollar, so there

is no sale.

            Store #4:  We have a blue one, but it's only for accountants.  ¿Are you an accountant?

Store #5:  Me: Buenos Tardes, Señora.  I'm a very serious accountant, and am in need of

a very serious accounting book to keep very serious, and accurate records.  Have you an item that suits this description?

                             Her:  Absolutamente.  Tres dólores.

                             BINGO.

            Along the way, I find a good translation of Tropic of Cancer in Spanish.  $11.93.  I'm over budget today by $13.00.  Tomorrow I will live on continental breakfast, Nescafe, and cherries.

Part Three

La Botella

            So as not to lose the trust of the local bodega, I return three glass bottles that have been in my possession for six days.  This is no easy task because I have to explain to housekeeping that these bottles don't belong to the hostel, and that they must be returned to their original owners who will never sell me anything in glass until I return them in tact.  They understand completely. 

Bodega #1

One bodega sells only soda, and I have an empty Fanta bottle that belongs to them.  Deposit 15 centavos.  (The Fanta itself is 25 centavos).  This is my favorite bodega because it sells gummy sharks, and I can't afford to lose this bodega as a source of orange Fanta and gummy sharks.  I present the Fanta bottle to the owner who sees my two Pilsner bottles in the bag.

            Him:    You're cheating on me?

            Me:      You don't sell beer.

            Him:    Of course we do.  You said you wanted Fanta and gumidas.

            Me:      There's no beer in your refrigerator.  I didn't know.

            Him:    You should have asked.  I have a refrigerator in the back that functions on a

generator, keeping the coldest beer in town, even during power outages.  Give me

those Pilsner bottles, and I will give you a full beer for you to taste the coldness

of at no charge.

            Me:      I would love to, Sir, but I promised the woman down the street that I would return

these bottles to her.

            Him:    Next time you come to me.

            Me:      Okay.

Bodega #2

            Her:     Where have you been?

            Me:      Writing, walking.

            Her:     And how many days have you had my bottles?

            Me:      I don't know 4-5?

            Her:     4-5 days is not acceptable.  The normal amount of time to finish a large Pilsner is

1 day, 2 days maximum.

            Me:      Well, they're pretty large beers.  I guess I don't drink that much.

            Her:     Next time, you take one beer at a time.  Not two.  Not if you can't finish them.

More to come... Serial Killer on the Lamb at Macondo Hostel & Broken Finger

Introducing: I Feel Like Allison!™

From the makers of Diamond Bra, the only brassiere trusted to bear the burdensome breasts of the elite, comes a more practical bra for more practical times. Because when it's time to cut back, there's no need to let your breasts down, or pull yourself up from your bra straps. Not when you have the fiscally conservative, and financially sustainable, I Feel Like Allison!™

The I Feel Like Allison!™ proves you can say goodbye to strap marks, and hello to support without sacrificing a single mortgage backed security.

BUT HOW DOES IT WORK?

Our team of scientists ventured out of the laboratory and into the heart of America. Because the real lessons in life can be learned not in the universities, libraries, or Wall Street, but by paying attention to good common sense, and returning home to the heartland. Yes, indeed, our team of scientists did their field research on the good old, small town, factory farm. And here, they found answers.

ANSWERS TO A FASHION DOWNTURN, ON A FARM?
(You Can't Be Serious)
But we are! By applying the process of elimination, and the principles of Trickle Down Economics, our team of scientists discovered invisible natural resources at work on the good old, small town, factory farm.

And what better way to apply these resources of support, comfort, integrity, and invisibility than to the brassiere, the longest standing-symbol of women's liberation?

LADIES, THIS IS NOT YOUR MOTHER'S UNDERGARMENT!

As underwire pains and strap marks vanish into thin air, what remains is the security that comes with knowing that you are supported by America's working class heroes, their heads held high, and their hands firmly wrapped around your breasts.
ON THE SURFACE IT LOOKS LIKE ANY OTHER BRASSIERE!

BUT TAKE A CLOSER LOOK...

You will find embedded in that comfortable underwire, the innovative material that makes The I Feel Like Allison! ™ unique. The source of all of that comfort and support? Well, it rests in the tiny, well-worn, hardworking, honest hands of The American Migrant Farm Worker. MAGNIFIED BY TWELVE, EMBEDDED WITHIN THE SEAMS OF YOUR BRASSIERE, LIES THE TRUE FABRIC OF AMERICA Every carefully constructed garment is made by integrating 23-46 Lilliputian workers into the underwire (actual number of Lilliputians may vary depending on cup size). And these miniature workers, packed like sardines, with raised arms, use their collective strength to hold your breasts high into the air. Fearlessly fighting gravity and time, these migrant workers will make sure your breasts migrate no more!

And here at I Feel Like Allison™, we take our social responsibility very seriously.

Could there be a faster, more convenient, and efficient method to foster the migration of lilliputian laborers off of the farms, and where they belong... in the homes of the American Middle Class?


THE I FEEL LIKE ALLISON™
BECAUSE ANYTHING ELSE WOULD BE IN POOR TASTE.

Why Teachers Should Eat Twinkies, and Begin Building Their Defense

Now that using my cellular phone in the car is illegal unless I succumb to the bluetooth brain tumor implant that allows me to drive and talk legally, I must find creative ways to curb the boredom caused by my commute.

Today, on my way to work, I counted exactly 651 For Rent and For Sale signs. On the reverse commute home, there were 667. This is approximately my credit rating, I think. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what my credit rating is. To be honest, I'm not sure I even know what a credit rating is, in the concrete noun sense. In other words, I wouldn't know a credit rating if it slapped me in the face.

I know how a credit rating is used: in order to judge the content of your character. In fact, I know by heart the credit rating of at least 24 out of 53 of my facebook friends. I know this because they have told me their credit ratings, reporting proudly 750s and 800s. (This information was unsolicited, and in one case listed as a status).

Now, after receiving gmails and facebooks from upstream-swimming friends my age in other parts of the country who are buying homes, the margins of my computer screen now assault me at every opportunity, telling me that I'm entitled to know my credit score online from a variety of reliable sources. The assumption behind this target marketing must be that I'm in a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses relationship with my Facebook friends because I have congratulated them on their successes via these free services. However, the marketers are using a flawed assumption.

Instead of mimicking my friends, I embrace that they are often stronger swimmers than I. In addition to swimming upstream, they have the ability to thrive in both fresh and salt water. They are strong, adaptable, capable, FICA people, and I acknowledge that I can't compete with them. On a scale of 300 to 850, they are 800s to my 652. While I'd like to dismiss this measurement completely, I also have to acknowledge that in many cases, their FICA scores, while indeed meaningless, often parallel their virtue. I'd give them 800s too. They are virtuous, voting Democrats, who buy a series of Yoga classes, recycle, believe in public education (outside of LAUSD), and wear Che Guevara T-shirts. They are working very hard. They wake up early in the morning. They are on time.

It's easier for strangers to get my credit rating and purchase history than it is for them to access my academic transcripts, the latter of which are protected under the Buckley Amendment to the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act. An unofficial credit rating is free. An official academic transcript is $10 ($20 for rush orders), and available only to the student. This is true unless the student is "foreign," or a "suspected terrorist," in which case The Patriot Act trumps The Buckley Amendment.

California, as reported in the Sacramento Bee, is in danger of having its credit rating reduced from an A to an A-, blurring the boundary between credit and GPA, just when I was about to understand it, and further confounding my sense of "official" vs. "unofficial."

I'm ashamed to admit that ratings, in general, are too abstract for me. I am the type of eccentric who cashes her paycheck, and asks for it in one dollar bills. I like to touch the edges of objects, and have a hard time believing in something's officially exists unless there is a combination of logical and empirical evidence.

As an experiment last semester, my students were asked to cash three consecutive paychecks, and then compare how they spent their cash with how they spent three directly-deposited, consecutive, virtual paychecks. In every case, students held onto their cash more firmly than they held onto the abstract money spent on their debit cards.

At the Apple Store last February, I bought myself the requisite bluetooth device (which doesn't work). I tried to pay in cash, and six sales associates didn't know how to "process cash." They all used handheld, credit card scanning machines, and only the manager of the store had "Till Priviledges."

California is considering paying its workers in official IOUs, like they did in 1992, while under the leadership of Republican Governor Pete Wilson. Governor Schwarzenegger doesn't believe in excessive spending, excluding recall elections that cost an estimated 30-35 million. According to The San Francisco Chronicle, "the IOUs will look like regular state checks except they will be printed on darker green paper and bear the issue and maturity dates and the word 'registered.'"

A strange aside, did you know the former president and CEO of eBay, Republican Meg Whitman, is running for governor in 2010? Tangentially, Ronald Reagan believed that the only pure, objective way to be a civil servant was if you didn't need the salary. It kept you disinterested.

I Wish I Were a Chicken

On the Westside of Los Angeles, here's a view of what it was like when CNN announced Barack Obama as President Elect of the United States of America.

I was sitting in my friend Bryant's living room. He is the only person I know who is even-tempered enough to make a pot of chili on the day of this historic election. Bryant is also self-assured enough to not take the flake factor of Angelinos personally. While the majority of my friends were anxious, neurotic, sloppy, sleepless messes, Bryant described himself as "anticipatory." While the rest of us had become YouTube and Huffington Post junkies and were emailing each other frantic links at 3:30am with the word "scary" in the subject line, Bryant was calmly gathering information, interpreting date, and analyzing strategies. It is safe to say that Bryant is the Barack Obama of my small circle of friends- except that unlike what we know of Barack Obama, Bryant dressed as Sarah Palin for Halloween- and therefore, Bryant's house is just about the best place to watch the election.

In honor of the biggest economic crises since The Great Depression, he also served bathtub gin and government cheese.

There were signs of change early in the day. It was the first time in 15 years of voting that there had been a line at my polling place. A party guest admitted that this was his very first time voting, and he was in his 30's. I waited an hour and 45 minutes to vote, and was happy about it. I knew only one of my students would be voting for McCain, and that student claimed it was because he wasn't a "socialist."

Mostly we all thought Obama could win, and would. But in Los Angeles, there was still a lot of fear. Liberal Democrats have their own fear to contend with, mostly that perceptions of public opinion and actual public opinion change like how I've heard the weather changes in some other states. But after all, it was both windy and rainy in Los Angeles, could this be a harbinger of change in the rest of the country?

I arrived at Bryant's house at around 7pm (traffic, blah), and allowed my friends to update me on the recent predictions of blue and red states. Ohio... blue. Pennsylvania... blue.

"I told you Pennsylvania wasn't just filled with a bunch of racists," I defended my home state, proudly!

McCain couldn't win at this point. Why were we still so scared?

Then, that blinking noise came up on CNN that suggested another state was about to be called. (Everyone glanced at their iPhones first, to make sure it wasn't an incoming text message). We were all multi-tasking. Communicating with relatives and friends throughout the country, giving each other minute by minute updates, and factoids from the polls.

Obama was at just over 200 electoral votes at the time, and we all expected him to gather a few more right away. Instead "Barack Obama President Elect" flashed across the screen. We all looked at each other, and my girlfriend said, "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

People did it? The polls were accurate? Seriously. The United States really was ready for a change? Was a black man actually going to be the president. Was Barack Obama really the first BLACK PRESIDENT?!?!?! Was Michelle Obama going to be the first First Lady with an actual ass?

"I want to cry, but I can't," my girlfriend said. (Soon, she would, of course).

And then, it sunk in and we all went onto the balcony and started celebrating. Pouring Champagne. Toasting. Screaming. Neighbors coming outside is not a common thing in Los Angeles, and neither are pedestrians, and everyone was in the street screaming, "Oh my god! Oh my god!" And then (as is more typical in Los Angeles), the phone calls and text messages started flooding in, "OMG! OMG! OMG! We did it!"

Seriously? There would be no stealing this election? We didn't have to watch another excruciating manual recount?

And then, shortly after, I noticed that Bryant had stopped watching the television, and taken out his laptop computer. He was starting to gnaw on a hangnail with the intensity he usually reserves for an episode of So You Think You Can Dance, or Project Runway. Bryant was calculating. Strategizing.

And then, it hit me. Proposition 8. California's Ban on Gay Marriage Initiative. What was particularly disturbing about this conflict in California identity was not entirely (as the No on 8 people put it) "unfairness" or "wrongness" of changing the California Constitution to discriminate against Gays and Lesbians. That was both bad and obvious. However, the juxtaposition of Californian values in this election was particularly disturbing. Let's face it, Californians have always been contradictory in their legislation. After all, we have a governor who rides a private jet to Sacramento each day, yet purchases carbon credits to offset his footprint. Our education system went from among the best (and cheapest) in the country to one of the worst in a relatively short period of time, mostly because we hate property taxes. We have a public housing crisis, and hire taxicabs to drop our homeless off at Skid Row.

Sometimes, we're generous about immigration, touting slogans like "Legalize L.A." Other times, we're nearly fascist, threatening to throw illegal immigrants' children out of school entirely, or banning affirmative action in the name of equal rights.

So what was particularly disturbing about this day? California, like always, was a living contradiction.

Barack Obama's candidacy mobilized young voters, diverse voters (racially and socioeconomically). The voters were finally telling us that they were moving beyond race. This climate of hope and change, which is so exciting and promising, reminds me that Americans might have a future. Also (although I know it sounds cold), the racist politics and G.O.P. values may finally be dying out and being replaced with a more modern, global way of approaching the world. However, as Californians voted overwhelming to allow chickens to spread their wings and turn around in their cages (I voted in favor of that too), they also voted to amend the constitution to define marriage as "between one man and one woman." Californians helped elect the first black president, the first president I can recall who actually acknowledged the diverse "real" America in his acceptance speech. Not "real" America, but REAL AMERICA.

Another generation indeed is coming of age. Thankfully. And they are capable of change. They've proven it. They helped elect the first black president. They are capable of viewing the world in complex ways. They are capable of action.

Yes, another generation of voters has already come of age, and is finally displacing the old style of politics.

They believe in change.

They believe in community.

And, they (like the generation of voters before them) is anti-gay.

¿Toma Leche?

Cow's milk is among the most perishable 

of all foods, due to its fluid form and

excellent nutritive composition.  As it 

comes from the cow, milk provides an ideal

medium for bacterial growth.  To protect

milk's quality, this food is handled under 

rigid sanitary conditions, resulting in low

bacterial count, good flavor and appearance,

high nutritive value, and freedom from

disease-producing organisms and foreign

constituents (National Dairy Council).

Acknowledgements:

Click the title of this entry, ¿Toma Leche?, and you will be redirected to the animated Got Milk website (in Spanish), where you will learn many interesting facts about milk, and pick up useful, dairy-specific, Spanish vocabulary.  This cheerful site takes you on an inspiring virtual journey (think Disney's It's a Small Word) from milking a cow, through production, pasteurization, packaging, distribution, and ultimately consumption.  Conspicuously absent from the site is the final step: evacuation.  This propaganda piece, promoting the merits of cow's milk was an indispensable resource for the following essay.

For the sake of journalistic balance, you might also want to visit the www.notmilk.com website, a propaganda piece in its own right, hosted by the self-appointed not-milkman, Robert Cohen, whose mission statement includes, "breaking down the greatest myth in America:  that milk does a body good."  While I'm not convinced that "milk does a body good" is the greatest of American myths [enter late model capitalism], www.notmilk.com is an exhaustive hyperlinked world of testimonials and gold mines that include conspiracy theories dating back to Marie Antoinette.  One of Cohen's biggest gripes is with the ubiquitous milk moustache campaign, and he blends famous real moustache adverts with charming "What's Next?" paranoid predictions, including painted-in white moustaches on both God and Adam in the Michelangelo piece above. My favorite image (suited to my Nixon obsession) is the following, It's Good For You, Trust Me.

Thank you to both sites for helping me find a journalistic balance in this confusing world, where one cannot decipher myth and reality.

The question remains:  Milk.  A virture, or a vice?