Thursday, December 3, 2009

Wednesday Night was Meant for Social Butterflies.

Who didn't I get to stop by and see last night?  On the list of friends I actually did get to see... there was Lucy working at Specs and my old friend Jason whom I ran into there.  There was a whole crew and band of lovelies at Caffe Trieste with everyone from Cafe Americain and Romalyn inside to Sam and Mr. Cuddlebunny outside.  I was finally able to chat with Gaynor over delicious mulled wine at the Mr. Sean Dick (great nephew of Phillip K., of course) hosted open mic at MELT!.  My Wednesdays are so busy these days.  Thank goodness I am finally out of my "Boring Period."  I would definitely not call it a "Blue Period."  It was more like a... I-need-to-play-a-lot-of-Cake-Mania period.  As I said, thank goodness it is over.  Boring is so very not me.  Hee-hee!  We all fight our battles in the ways we are expert.  Living well is the ultimate revenge. 

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

CAUTION: This post contains some truth you are not allowed to acknowledge.

I had a wonderful and kind invitation to my Tita Levy's house for Thanksgiving.  I, sadly, did not make it there and slept most of the day instead.  It has been happening a lot lately.  I had thought it was because of my lack of food to eat which, of course, is always exacerbated by the testosterone that people still sneak into my room and inject me with.  When you inject a natural woman with this much testosterone, it raises her metabolism AND moves her natural fat storage around to make her look pregnant... among many other things that are undeniable indicators.

Well, during that evening I made some major conclusions about the level of personal privacy and terror in the US these days.  When was the last time anyone out there did NOT feel the burn of a camera on the skin?... particularly "security" cameras.  Did nobody else remember how the Rodney King trials cemented the inability of any camera footage of any sort to be considered any sort of credible or conclusive evidence of anything?  And now, all of these years later, with all of the special effects and photo-manipulative technology we have today, why would anybody believe any sort of supposed "camera-captured" image as anything but interesting to look at?  We all know none of it has any credibility.

Anywho, the voices pumped into my ears told me Friday morning that I had again been attacked on Thursday night.  For months now I have been regularly physically violated by what the voices in my head so eloquently call "ass restrictors."  It basically means that for about three days after that particular rape my body is too locked down to allow anything to escape from my backside.  It is highly uncomfortable, to use the art of understatement, and a blatant form of torture.  I barely noticed this time, not just because of the frequency at which these attacks occur on my body, but because I barely have enough money to eat any food these days, anyway.  That was Thursday night.

Friday, after sleeping in hours and hours later than usual due to the drug they inject me with in hopes of making me forget it happens, I actually went dancing that night.  It is so difficult not to be my natural self.  I, of course, did not sleep Friday night.  That is what happens to most people after we are raped.  It is a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Hmmm.... yes, Saturday night I went dancing, again.  And I did actually sleep that night.  Sunday I did not dance, but I did fortuitously run into Mr. Cuddlebunny at Specs.

Sunday night, again in my sleep, I was raped for the second time this last holiday weekend.  I knew that the voices pumped into my head through nanotechnology were and still are not mine originally because of their ineloquence.  For example, Monday morning they told me that the "ass restictor" was still in effect while I had been violently (to put it mildly) "ass raped" the night before.  I, of course, did not sleep Monday night nor last night due to the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I did notice this morning that the bruises are still on my left arm and that the reinfection of my face with whatever it is that fails to scar me anyway is already receding. 

My rapist these last two times was not who it used to be.  That was obvious not just due to the increased level of cruelty in the act nor because of the increased amount of remaining physical evidence.  I will get to that reason for apparentness in a moment.

Monday night while out dancing (It is so difficult to deny who I really am.) I met a man named Tory.  He was in town for complicated reasons and really wanted to take me back to his hotel room with him.  I did not take the time to explain that recent rape victims are not often known to willingly participate in sex.  I merely did my best to explain that I have never been that type of lady ever anyway.  Not that such really is a type of lady, anyway.

Last night I went dancing AGAIN.  Have I mentioned yet that I cannot be anyone but myself?  I went back to Mojito, the same mostly Latin dance floor I had been on Friday and Monday nights as well.  The Teague Trio was scheduled to play, but more and more local musicians kept popping by to play with them.  I knew Joe, Teague, Brian, and Toby already.  Jordan introduced himself to me, an I meant to introduce myself to the lady saxophonist Peggy who slipped away before I could.  The bartender was a bit out of place.  He kept talking to his friends over the beautiful music.  Also, my newest rapist self-identified himself while I was there.  I know his face now. 
Among the oddest bits of all this, Teague kept making anal sex references all night.  They were really rather insensitive to me, seeing as I am a recent violent "ass rape" victim.  Seriously?  A song about KY jelly used for anal sex?  We all know my most recent rapist did not have that common courtesy for me.  Also, we all know I have never made pornography... at least not willingly.  So how would he know that such a song would help traumatize me?  Besides, making unwilling pornography of someone is a further form of rape, and selling it for money (including any advertising or commercials) is forced prostitution.  Hypothetically speaking, of course, if it were occurring regularly at the hands of a governing body or any other organization, it would make it many forms of war crime if there were a war and many forms of crimes against humanity if there were no war.  We all know I don't get the news.  Then again, we know that any and all forms of photo or video are noncredible, anyway. 

The oddest tidbit of all this is how the voices pumped into my head keep saying "Colorado" now for no apparent reason.  Huh?  The government has no better place to spend all of its debt money?

At least, it has been verified by our government that I am still the only person who speaks only the truth about myself.  That, at the very least, is comforting.  I wish more things were.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Hmmm... Well, that was boring.

I just went through a fortnight plus of being as boring as possible.  It ended abruptly on Friday night when I magically appeared at Mojito for the Manicato show.  Whew!  I knew better than to dance that much when I can barely afford enough food to do nothing but sleep all day, but my "Boring Period" of two weeks plus was the first time of my life I actually tried to be someone I am not.  I had to break out and be myself again.  My soul couldn't take it... and neither could my Latin-ish hips, apparently.  I am constantly amazed at just how far these hips can swing without spilling the tequila in my hand.  Yey!

Oh, I hope to post a better update soon. 

Thursday, November 12, 2009


Yup, nothing new here.  I still need a whole long list of things taken care of... let's start with getting me privacy and a day job.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

I Need a Job.

Okay, Universe, this lady really needs some sort of worthwhile employment.  It would be one thing if I were just bored all day... but being completely useless in society, feeling like I am not allowed to better the world, and not being able to support myself is a whole other issue.  I would rather sell my writing, but until my complete and total lack of any privacy (including intellectual) happens to miraculously end, employment in an area where I actually do have some job skills will have to find me.  I have been incapable if finding it.  Please click the monkey below.

Monday, November 9, 2009

A Bunch of Whining and then Links

I have felt so useless since I came down with this cold. I can’t concentrate on anything anymore. I don’t even know why I try reading anything right now. My ability to dance is pretty much gone until my body morphs back to its normal shape after this stupid testosterone imbalance finally runs its course. And writing. Writing? Really? Who wants some sort of immortalized turn of phrase documented when she is so run down? It’s just a cold. I know it’s just a cold. But my personality really shouldn’t be expected to glow until I can get over this ridiculously ugly problem. Until then, here are some bits of media recommended for public consumption…

Bridge of Birds by Barry Hughart—I have only two pieces of advice: Seek cover, and beware divine light.

Serenity—“She always did like to dance.” “I can kill you with my brain.” “I aim to misbehave.”

Eets—You try to get this adorable little creature to the puzzle piece, but you can only control his environment, where he walks, and what he eats.

Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein—Sometimes, aliens are benevolent.

Stardust—Every walk of life seeks her; she is used to staying up all night; and, she glows when she’s happy.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Somethings Gotta Give, and I Have Given Too Much Already.

In the immortal words of Burt Bacharach via Dionne Warwick:

"Don't tell me what it's all about
'Cause I've been there and I'm glad I'm out
Out of those chains, those chains that bind you
That is why I'm here to remind you."

And, of course, in the immortal words of Shirley Bassey:

"Men are mere mortals who
Are not worth going to your grave for."

 I assert my freedom.  Sweet freedom!

Friday, November 6, 2009

Accidental Soapbox

The rain is rather beautiful today. Sigh… I have had some things on my mind lately. Sometimes a gentle rain helps. I have this long list of mundane things to do today, but I have had some problems concentrating. Someone ticked me off last night, and I cannot seem to get over how quickly I let him offend me. Normally, I am so good at staying calm.

I was sitting at Sam’s (a local diner) in the wee hours of the morning, and some man type person with no ability to flirt with intelligent women sat down next to me. The next thing I knew, I am actually making an effort to verbally put him in his place. It takes a lot (pardon the understatement) to offend me enough for it to show. It were as though he though being a superficial and degrading bastard might charm me. What self-respecting woman would ever put up with that?

It did make me miss my Mr. Cuddlebunny a little more. I know and trust that sometimes he has to go romp and play in the field with the other wild cuddlebunnies, but if this thing with bastards flirting with me becomes a trend, I fear I may have to adopt a new name of Penelope… or start a new writing project about a woman named Penelope. Huh, that might actually be a little fun.

Well, until my Mr. Cuddlebunny of twists and turns or my personality crush of Mr. Johnny Depp feels like stopping my way and saving me from my lonely existence, I suggest that only people with actual charms try humoring me with flirting. Of course, right about now they are the only two who can lay claim to my subconscious romantic desires (or even the conscious ones for that matter). Please keep failure in mind if something about me drives you with an irrational need to vie for my flirtatious attention. I will try my best to be gentle, but if you insult me into shooting your intentions down in flames, I cannot be held responsible for the condition of your broken heart.

“If you can’t stand the heat, then wait for the chicken nuggets to cool off, goddamnit.”

Oh, and don’t even let me start about the Egyptian named Pierre!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

My Mundane Details

I have resumed the quest for part-time employment with someplace completely local.  Anyone know of any place that can deal with my eccentric ways for a few hours a day in return for brilliant insights of my own fashioning?  Hee-hee.  I know I can't take a full-time gig, yet; I have far too much on my mind these days. 

Speaking of which, my mental gears kept spinning on something last night.  I tried writing and couldn't concentrate.  I tried reading and couldn't concentrate.  Well, that should have been no surprise; I have problems reading most of the time anyway.  I tried the ritual of applying makeup to my face to distract myself from dwelling on it too much.  Even that didn't work.  The weirdest part is that I don't even know what my mind is spinning on.  I don't know exactly what the problem is that I am trying to solve.  My internal processor isn't caught in a loop... it's just running some sort of complicated process right now.  Who knows, maybe I will wake up and have discovered a new prime number in my sleep.  The only other time I felt this way was early this May.  Oddly enough, when that answer presented itself, I finally learned what the problem was.  Luckily, I woke up well rested despite having accidentally left my light on all night after pacing for a while.  I'm a kinesthetic thinker.  We pace.

After a relaxing afternoon involving my losing a game of Scrabble and sitting around having delightful conversation with Gaynor and Mark at MELT!, I decided to try my hand at writing a serial based on that particular green and purple coffee shop.  I am thinking about dramatizing the actual day to day life there.  You know, I won't make it fiction, just a stylized reality.  I could use that kind of literary challenge.  I'll keep you posted. 

Also in the land of mundane details... I might have lured myself a leading man.  It had been so long since I even tried.  This one is named Mr. CuddleBunny.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Sleep. Sweet Sleep.

I have not slept so much and so comfortably in so long.  It feels marvelous.

I am sitting at the Caffe Trieste this morning feeling all well rested, caffeinated, and fed.  The morning conversations were quite wonderful today.  I sat a table with three quite charming and handsome fellows, all of which had quite a bit to say about the world.  It was marvelous.  YEY!

Saturday, October 31, 2009

The Last Three Nights Followed by Today

Three nights ago, I felt my heart stop while I was sleeping. I have no idea how many people have lived through such a thing. It hurt. There was no sharp pain in my left arm, so I knew it was not a heart attack. It hurt until I noticed it was my heart. I don’t know how to explain it. The voices in my head claimed that they were trying to intentionally slow my heart to kill me and how dare I actually retain any control over my own body. I actually felt my heart physically stop. It felt like a lifetime before I could start it again, but for all I know, it was as instantaneous as the thought, “Oh, hey, my heart just stopped. That’s what that is. Well, I hope it starts again, soon.” Really, that is all I did to start it again.

Two nights ago, I was physically attacked in my sleep again. I am still working the things they left in me back out of my body again. All the tell-tale signs were, as usual, present. What else was there to do? I made myself beautiful yesterday morning and went out to enjoy the gloriousness that is life. Living well is the ultimate revenge. Okay, I did that, AND I spent hours downloading human rights treatises and declarations off of various websites most of them associated with the United Nations. Has anyone else heard of ICTY and Rule 96? Or know that human rights include not only political, civil, social, and economic rights (among others) but also silly things like basic dignity and freedom from torture and slavery?

Apparently, living well worked. I actually managed to lure myself a cuddle bunny for the night. Yes, all we did was cuddle. Don’t start reading projected innuendo into my statements. Luckily, or maybe subconsciously strategically, my choice of snuggle bunny guaranteed that I was not attacked in my sleep last night. Yeah, he was snuggly.

Not so long ago, I interrupted my “walk of (misplaced) shame (since I only literally slept with the man)” at the Caffé Trieste where I partook in a delightful trinary conversation before heading home to change into my Halloween costume. Happy Halloween, everybody! Today, I am a glam rock star complete with faux fur and soon to be with Kiss-style Demon makeup in red. Sigh, I meant to stop in the library sooner to post this and check my email, but Gaynor and Vrαnαs distracted me with yet even more delightful conversation before I could breakaway from MELT! and venture the extra block and a half down Columbus to do this. YEY! I hope the glitter in my hair doesn’t get all over everyone tonight, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Thursday, October 29, 2009

They Still Sneak Like Ninjas.

I have been attacked in my sleep so many times.  Last night was the most recent.  All of the normal signs of being physically attacked and violated in the night were there when I woke up, and at least, there were none of the extra ones.  My body knows when it is violated.  It knows when it started, in the psych ward at the University of Minnesota-Fairview, and it knows every time since: at my parents' house in Iowa, at my friend Carmen's home, and at the residence hotel where I stay now.  The obvious thing about it, though, is that is serves no purpose.  There is nothing to benefit from attacking an innocent woman in her sleep.  You cannot use physical abuse on someone to suddenly make her guilty of something she never did.  I mean, really, anyone who could survive that psych ward where they electrocuted me while asking me content free questions, among other things that violated the Geneva Convention, cannot be phased by being continually physically abused and violated after the fact.

Funny, though, how removing someone's quality of life, forcing her to live pennilessly, making sure most days go by when she does not know if she will eat and definitely not sure if what she its will or will not be contaminated, removing her ability to financially support even a basic living, taking away her ability to ever be employed in the country where she is a citizen, making sure she has no sense of physical safety nor mental security anywhere, and physically violating her repeatedly to maintain that she will not have any privacy of any sort makes her value certain things differently.  Yes, I want peace and love in this world.  However, if we cannot ALL have it, if I must suffer as everybody's public victim alone in order for the world to never have peace and love, and if I am denied any more of the things for which I wait in order to maintain some openly acknowledged program of oppression against me that has already been proven time and time again to be completely ineffective at reaching some goal it has likely lost sight of, I have nothing I can do but fight for the things I believe in.  I have nothing else.

Just imagine what might have happened had you been gentle.  Just imagine where we would be had you asked nicely.  Just imagine what this world could be if you had bothered to be humane.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

An Update to the Things for which I Wait as Posted Here in this Blog on October 1st, 2009...

1.) Finding a real place to live-- someplace that is not a residence hotel with "co-habitants" in the shared kitchen
UPDATE: The "co-habitants" are usually babies as if someone were planting eggs in the microwave. I would still rather have a real home.

2.) Someone to publish (or at least buy) my writing-- be it my memoirs, my fiction, my poetry, my board game, or even my half-baked TV pilot
UPDATE: I am still waiting.

3.) The City of San Francisco to clean up its water-- I mean, really, children drink this water.
UPDATE: I am tired of feeling slowed down, and I am tired of constantly sleeping.

4.) Some form of employment-- preferably writing related or something else suitably intellectual
UPDATE: I don't want my brain to fester. I need to keep sharp with a (as previously stated) suitably intellectual occupation. I would prefer one in another country. I am told that global climate change has left the UK less harsh in the winters.

5.) The voices forced into my head to go away-- You try keeping yourself together with people screaming at you constantly.
UPDATE: The voices are at least quieter now. I would prefer them completely removed.

6.) A sense of physical safety-- I would like to be able to have a trusted friend touch my hair or back without it making me cringe in pain.
UPDATE: I also need to be able to sleep in peace without worrying about being attacked as my REM cycles.

7.) A sense of privacy-- I would like to someday have the security to know that every moment of my life is not watched, listened to, or recorded.
UPDATE: Even "third party" cameras annoy me. Do I need to quote certain US Supreme Court rulings about our right to privacy here, too?

8.) News that someone at the Iowa Board of Medicine actually cared to investigate the medical malpractice I was forced to endure
UPDATE: I need justice to be less slow for the wicked.

9.) The FBI to take me seriously when I say that I was physically, emotionally, and mentally wronged and violated while in a psych ward at the University of Minnesota-Fairview this last May
UPDATE: I know they know. I know how they know. They know I know their faces.

10.) Someone to tell me the truth-- preferably Mr. Johnny Depp
UPDATE: I am still waiting. The truth is enough; however, if the beautiful personality of Mr. Johnny Depp should also choose to woo me (and it is his decision on that, after all), that would be frosting. I do love frosting.

Speaking of frosting, the best way to keep from having to fight these battle on my own is to have someone else take care of--
a.) love through equality and equality through love for all humanity,
b.) ensuring humanity's survival of global climate change without altering any natural cycles of the earth on which we all live (You know, no altering of nature through any biochemical, carbon dioxide-base, or any other molecular or sub-molecular methods.),
c.) educating our world about other cultures and all of their inherent beautiful aspects in order to save us all.
What did you expect me to say? Take the US off of its petroleum dependency? Not that I would complain...

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Headache... I think I am in water withdrawal.

I saw my old friend Rita yesterday morning for the first time in YEARS.  She looked amazing.  It was wonderful to learn that she is still out traveling the world and living well.  We sat outside the Trieste and caught up in much overdue fashion.

My mom's visit came to an end Sunday morning.  Oddly, I just received a call from her minutes ago.
MOM: Is there something you want to tell me?
SQUID: Mom, I really think it's the other way around.  I'll talk to you later.
And with that I got off the phone. 

I did successfully accomplish organizing, notarizing, and mailing a great deal of paperwork yesterday.  It felt great to have all of my details finally in order.  Now, I feel like a responsible adult in writing.  Yey!

My list of writing projects has neither increased nor decreased as of late.  I am still frittering away at this keyboard in an effort to finish a.) my first full-length novel, b.) a project that I think might end up short story length, c.) my first Science Fiction TV pilot, d.) a screenplay set in Chicago, e.) a transcontinental children's fairy tale, f.) my third and fourth volumes of memoirs, and g.) my lowest priority--a young adult fiction project.  Oddly, never actually finishing anything and just cycling through and around each of the projects continually makes trying to convince people to pay me for writing them rather difficult.  If I could just finish one of them!

I was thinking about venturing into sustainability and helping build homes out of compressed earth bricks in Chiapas.  It sounds like that project is quickly coming to an end, though.  Where might I speed off to in order to help the world (through the means I am allowed)?  Sigh... if only... if only...

Monday, October 26, 2009

Here I Sit, Again, at Caffe Trieste on a Monday Afternoon.

... and in brilliant company at that.  Yey!  I actually tried taking a nap after lunch and couldn't get my REM to cycle.  So, here I sit, typing away.

Friday, October 23, 2009

The Sleepiness Still Makes Me Angry.

I have been constantly groggy lately. I can't explain it a all. I am prone to doing things like writing manifestos and crafting inflammatory blog posts when I feel like someone has made an effort to slow down my brain.  I wonder what sort of battle I will choose today. I can't stop yawning... this one will be quite a wave-maker, I hope. 

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Mom is in Town.

Sunday night my mom flew to town.  I assume she has been worried about me.  I did, after all, fly to a foreign country and beg for political asylum less than a week ago.  Sadly, I feel like I worry her more about my life than I worry myself about my life... That is saying a lot. 

It is great to see her, and we have had some oddly entertaining errand-running, coat-shopping, downpouring-rain-avoiding bonding time since she arrived.  I suppose we will get up to some museum-going today.  Thank goodness she never takes issue with how much coffee I drink.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Yet Another Long Overdue Update

I just tried fleeing the country and seeking political asylum. This is what you do, I had assumed, when your own government refuses to protect you from being physically harmed and violated, mentally tormented, and emotionally abused. I was sent back to the States by the US Embassy in Mexico City at my father's expense because, although I felt safer in Mexico, they insisted I be here instead. Here is how this all happened...

Wednesday the 14th of October after being here in San Francisco again for 1.5 days, I found an amazing fare online for a Mexicana Airlines flight straight from SFO to MEX. I asked my exboyfriend to switch his birthday gift to me from a delicious dinner at Gary Danko's to a roundtrip ticket to Mexico City instead. He kindly complied after a bit of convincing.

At some point that afternoon after procuring bibimbop that made me physically ill at a place called Golden Gate Perk and before dropping off my room and mailbox keys for a friend to be able to check on my things, I happened to download and install some Windows XP updates that incapacitated my tablet. I am trying to update my blog from a library computer, so we will see how many tries it takes for me to finish it. The computer now does not allow me to login nor does it allow me to access the BIOS during startup. Curious, isn't it?

Well, I took the flight from 10:40PM on the 14th to 5:00AM on the 15th from San Francisco to Mexico City. The voices in my head were screaming and screaming all day and night until the plane reached a certain altitude. After that and until I returned here in the States, there were only two intermitent, normally-volumed voices in my head that could comment on everything around me my eyes could see.

Anyway, I arrived at 5AM and immediately tried using my debit card at the ATM in order to obtain local currency. It did not work. Huh. I had money in that account when I boarded the plane. When I checked my account's AVAILABLE balance (note, not ACCOUNT balance) at an actual Wells Fargo ATM the previous afternoon, it indicated that I had enough money to carry me through living in Mexico City until my next direct deposit would come through from my insurance company. So, I exchanged what cash I had on me and took a taxi straight to the embassy of an EU country that I was sure the US would not pick a fight with should that I seek asylum there.

I arrived too early for them to be open, but following the advice of two local men, I stayed in a well-lit, public place until the time that their doors would allow visitors. I bought some coffee and water, and I waited. Once the sun had brightened the sky, I walked back to the embassy where I was greeted outside the doors by a representative who asked me for anything he could bring inside to present my case. I gave him what I had, and I waited. Eventually, a gentleman from the embassy came to me, told me I did not present enough grounds for gaining political asylum, and sent me to my own embassy.

So, I walked through the neighborhood crying until I could find the US Embassy. Trusting that my own government would do anything at all ever helpful for me was my first mistake on that trip. The US Embassy told me that they only deal with visas, notaries, blah blah blah... (The implication being that they could not help me convince my home country to ensure my physical, mental, or emotional safety.) In fact, help with visas, notaries, blah blah blah was all they offered me. They refused me any real help.

So, I left and called a newspaper in Mexico City called El Universal and asked for a reporter. We agreed to meet at 1PM right there at a coffeeshop next door to the US Embassy. That just meant I had to keep myself awake until our meeting. I sat on a couch in a neighboring hotel lobby, scratched out some notes of what I wanted to say, and waited for our 1PM meeting. The reporter's name was Doris, and she was thorough, professional, and respectful.

After my meeting with the reporter from El Universal, she pointed out that people were amassing nearby along the major boulevard near the angel monument for what she called a “rally.” The U.S. Embassy later called the same thing a “demonstration.” All I know for sure is that if there were no injuries, which I am told is true, it was peaceful and therefore NOT a “riot.” Because the rally was about to bring hundreds of thousands of people to the angel monument and move to fill the Zocalo, the reporter suggested that I take refuge in the U.S. Embassy. We parted ways beside a group of police officers in riot gear lining up along the street, and I proceeded to the front gate of my own embassy. They turned me away at the door. In recap, the first time I approached the U.S. Embassy they refused to help me, and the second time I was turned away at the door.

I walked down the main boulevard past many various groups of police officers who were out and about, it seemed, because of the large amount of people that were about to march by. I took a right, as the directions the lady reporter had given me required, on Juarez and soon found the Mexican Office of Foreign Relations. At the main desk there, a lovely lady tried to help me sort out my bank and ATM mess. I ventured forth to speak with representatives at a bank who could not help me but did help me exercise some Spanish vocabulary that I had not used in over a decade. After returning to the giant building marked Secretaria de Relaciones Exteriores and after a great deal of trying to figure out what to do, I was allowed upstairs in the building to use a phone authorized to call the United States in a final effort to reach my bank. My bank, of course, refused to help me.

The next thing I knew, the entire office was looking after me. They called the U.S. Embassy on my behalf, and after much passionate dialogue, they convinced my own embassy that they needed to actually help me on some level. They fed me my first and only meal of the day and found me a place where I could spend the night. They called my family. They even tried calling my doctor here in San Francisco. They took care of me in every way possible, and for their kindness I will always be grateful. I should do more for them than merely mail thank you cards. This I know. However, I have nothing else I can offer them as thanks, yet.

The place that took me in for the night was a shelter for victims of domestic violence, I think. If I translated the postings on the walls of the office properly, that was the main intention of the facility. There were two sets of police guards that one would have to pass to get in and a 24-hour medical staff. I slept for over 10 hours waking only once in the night.

Oddly, when I awoke, the once clean table had a mostly drunk plastic water cup on it with cigarette ash inside. I pointed it out to the lady who came to retrieve me from my room once the representative from the U.S. Embassy arrived over two hours late to pick me up. I was groggy all morning despite all of that sleep. The representative from the U.S. Embassy told me that it was due to the altitude. Funny, I didn’t feel that sleepy at Yosemite even while or after driving over the 9500 feet high Tioga Pass.

The U.S. Embassy told me both that the hundreds of thousands of people in the peaceful “demonstration” had no injuries and that Mexico City was and unsafe place for travelers from the States. It made no sense, but what could I do in my groggy state? I was in their hands from the time they picked me to the time they escorted me to the security screening area of the International terminal of the airport that afternoon. They had managed to convince my father to buy me a one way ticket back to San Francisco.

I had an uneventful flight to Houston, an uneventful layover, an uneventful flight to San Francisco, an uneventful taxi ride into the city, and rather unceremonious (thankfully) arrival in North Beach. The neighborhood was in full swing when I got here. It was as though the entire city were in the middle of one giant party.

Saturday morning I reached a few conclusions about why I should never have allowed the U.S. Embassy to convince me to return to the States.
--My first cup of coffee of the day already had a sleeping agent in it. As did the glass of water served to me by hand at my local coffee shop. I had expected so much more from Sally.
--I am no safer here than I am in La Ciudad de Mexico. I did try to flee this country for a reason. Those problems had clearly not resolved themselves during my short absence.
--People actually openly and honestly tried to help me there. I know most of the neighborhood I live in, and I know people all over San Francisco; however, with the exceptions of Gaynor, a collection of bartenders, and some old friends, very few people here are outwardly and genuinely friendly towards me. If I am singled out specifically here, it is for irrational maliciousness against me. People go out of their way, as if those strangers could recognize me, in order to specifically be cruel to me.
--By Saturday afternoon, my skin was already crawling with the antagonism I could feel in this city directed towards me. I was free of that while in Mexico City.
--The money my father was forced to spend to bring me back to the States could have easily supported me in Mexico until my next direct deposit from my insurance company. I know I have to pay back my disability insurance once I am finally able to, and I know that it is even not enough to support myself on here in San Francisco. However, money goes so much further in Mexico City. It is some place both where I can afford to live and where people treat me well.

Right now, it is Sunday night. My mom is expected to arrive, oh, about right now at the Oakland airport. She will go straight to her sister’s place in the East Bay, and I will probably see her in the morning.

My efforts to seek political asylum from the United States did not work, but I am staying in contact with the friends I made while in La Ciudad de Mexico. Maybe I could find my self a job in a foreign country. Finding a job (and therefore a way to support myself), finding a real home, finding a non-assholic significant other, finding physical safety, and even finding a sense of usefulness in the world is not happening here. I am ready to turn away from the San Francisco I have done nothing but care for and support for years and find a place to live that has the ability and moral convictions to actually care about its own people.  Don't get me wrong.  I know that not all people have an irrational need to persecute me on a personal level, and I know that there are also a great many people here who are already fighting the good fight through whatever means they are expert.  I have just fought too long and hard for the health of my mind to let it slip away in a body that has neither privacy nor physical safety. 

I am going to post this now without double-checking it for typos.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

A Long Overdue Update

Now, let me see if I can keep straight when it was that I last posted to this silly blog thing. I believe I need to start with Fleet Week Friday, my last night in town before I zipped off to Gold Country and Yosemite for a wedding reception and my birthday, respectively. Hmmm…. what an odd odd night was that Fleet Week Friday.

Just in case anyone doesn’t know, Fleet Week is the, well, inappropriately named weekend when the city of San Francisco fills with sailors, the Blue Angels make the buildings shake, and there is a great bunch of revelry in general. I was only here in the mighty San Francisco for the first official night, last Friday night. In order to support my troops whom, by the way, I get to know very little about due some sort of lack of national and world news here in San Francisco, I wore my navy blue dress with all the fringe, a pair of sparkly tights, and my red spool-heeled t-strap Mary Janes, and I went dancing.

I couldn’t help from shaking my fringe; even though, some twatty little girls kept trying to physically infringe (pun intended) upon my solidly held dance space. I mean, really, the only thing that can usually move me off a dance spot is a man trying to hump my leg. Let’s be honest, if I wanted my leg humped, I would get a pet dog. My friend Helen even introduced me to the bassist Dave for the band at Maggie McGarry’s that night. He subsequently kept shaking his head at me as if to say, “No,” while he played and didn’t even acknowledge me when the music was done. Needless to say, the evening ended uneventfully, and I went home to sleep until it was time to pick up the rental car for my drive.

In the morning, I walked myself over to the Avis on Fisherman’s Wharf to pick up my rental car. Low and behold, I know the owner of that Avis office. She looked at me and said, “You look familiar.” The only response to that, of course, was, “Are you Andrea?” I knew her from years ago when I still lived here in San Francisco permanently the last time. She has only gotten prettier and healthier looking. I tried to tell her that, but I didn’t want it to come off as though I were flirting. She is married, after all.

The drive out to Sonora was rather uneventful, though, full of beautiful country scenery. I was tempted with the idea of buying a pumpkin from a local produce stand. Luckily for my ability to transport my luggage, I did not do so.

The wedding reception was that afternoon. I walked through the dining room in my red dress as though I were a Spanish lady with an orchid behind my left ear. ‘Dabs and Evilia looked all stunning in their big-city wedding clothes. Michael and Kathrin looked all gorgeous in their (Marine) dress blues and rousched (Is that how you spell that?) white gown. ‘Dabs and Michael’s parents threw a mighty fine, intimate party for us all.

After the reception, we met in Sonora’s historic downtown for various drinks and tasty Mexican food. We tried The Sportsman, the first place I have ever seen where you can buy beer and guns all at the same place, before settling in at the Office, a Clamper bar. The Office had a wonderfully well-stacked jukebox that I neglectfully spent more time perusing that chatting with my friends. Whatever. They still love me.

I slept oddly that night. I thought I heard the audio from a television show broadcast directly into my room at the charming Spanish mission-style Days Inn while I tried to sleep. My ears are prone to playing tricks on me.

Sunday morning’s breakfast was spent at Michael and ‘Dabs’s parents’ place there in Sonora. It was quite the breakfast feast that their mother spread for us, and we chatted lightly outdoors at the patio table while we ate. When I was finally ready to head out on the road, their mother also gave me almost bugged-out eyes of worry about the drive on SR-120 to Yosemite. Their father also double-checked that I knew the route. They really are such a wonderful family.

Once I hit the mountain-hugging highway, I understood why they worried. Little did they know, my sporty hybrid could hug curves like an eighty-year-old letch. That drive was more fun that it should have been.

Yosemite was gorgeous. I don’t know quite what else to say about that. This particular National Park has epic landscapes, majestic monoliths, and some of the biggest trees this world has ever know. Due to the drought (which no one told me about until I arrived there), the waterfalls were dry. Sigh, global climate change. We all really ought to do something about that. I drove into Yosemite from the west that day and out through the south.

The B & B I stayed at, the Hound’s Tooth Inn, was adorable. Despite how packed the park was, it was also rather vacant. For the amount of charm you get for the price, I found that odd. I happened to be able to photograph a stray tuxedo cat while stopping to smell the wares of their rose garden, and my room (#7) was clean, new, and too romantic, I must admit, to be in alone. I mean, really, it even had a fireplace.

After a quick nap in my room, I found myself chatting over complimentary wine in the common area with a cute (taken) Brit traveling across California with his life partner while they were both on holiday. I asked him about his research, I chatted about my diagnosis, I even recommended that they see the Racetrack Playa while in Death Valley. It was quite a comfortable and delightful chat.

After not finishing my half-glass of red, I sped off to the Jackelope themed bar & grill at the Tenaya Lodge for dinner. The coffee was nothing to be messed with, and the cute, tattooed bartender seemed more shy around me than the cute, non-tattooed bartender who met me when I sat at the bar. While I ate, the bar filled out with cute, manly types who all ignored me. I tried sitting outside by the fire; however, it was rather chilly, and the coffee was making my hands shake. I was in bed (alone and) early that night.

Sleep was much more comfortable that night than at the Sonora Day’s Inn. I heard some rustling around from what seemed like the attic above me, and my rest was only interrupted by the sound of a door shutting that occurred sometime in the dead of night. I’ve needed that kind of restful sleep for quite a while.

I quickly enjoyed a light breakfast, seemingly, right when it hit the serving area in the common space. Then I was off to Yosemite! It was birthday, you know, that Monday. I spent it driving all over that amazing park. I hiked the Mariposa Grove in my black dress and red heels, and I made it all of the way across Tioga Road to Lee Vining and Mono Lake. With any luck, I will have photos to share some time soon.

Mono Lake has an amazing, alien-looking landscape full of salt. I know my photos could not bring justice to the beauty of that, apparently, mostly avoided lake, so I bought postcards at the visitors’ center before heading back across the Sierras and the snow-speckled Tioga Road. I had somehow managed not to notice any snow on the way there. Well, I’m not know for being the most the observant person in the world.

The fog rolled in, and a few lonely raindrops fell, shortly after I passed the Toulumne Meadows and the White Wolf turnoff. I tried to stop to photograph the fog, but that romantic weather phenomenon moves around with a mind of its own. It cleared to a regular level of visibility when I finally found a turnout upon which to stop the car.

I made it to the valley floor just in time to photograph the monoliths I have managed to forget how to tell apart in the glow of the setting sun. Beautiful. There is nothing more to say about that. I hope my photos turn out as well as I think they should. This was all on the way to the main dining room of the Awahanee Hotel (if I spelled that correctly) for my birthday dinner. The three-course prix fix is quite the steal there. I chose the boysenberry pie for dessert. My night’s sleep at the Hounds Tooth Inn after my birthday dinner was some of the soundest sleep I have had in a good long while.

I was up at 3AM to dress for my drive back to San Francisco. I had planned on getting in earlier than I needed to in order to return the car, but (thankfully for the detriment of the drought conditions) the rain, the fact I could get myself lost near Modesto (How did I end up asking for directions at the Kaiser Permanente in Modesto?), and the eventual morning rush traffic, I arrived just a little late. The conditions turned what should have been a 3.5 hour drive into a 7 hour one, after counting the time spent unloading my luggage before dropping off the vehicle. It’s a good thing I left as early as I did.

I stopped by to check on some friends at various neighborhood establishments, checked my mail, called a hospital about a bill I never received, and ended up putting together some mail to send tomorrow morning. Gaynor is doing fabulously at MELT! . Peg even stopped in to chat with us before a group of regulars appeared to sing me happy birthday. The BBC radio chattered in the background as I typed away at this silly machine trying to write a specifically and multiply addressed letter.

I quickly stopped in Ireland’s 32 to say, “Hello!” to Grasshopper and Ruce. I just wanted to make sure they knew I made it home safely after such a long, mountainous drive. There was, oddly, a group of pool players in the upstairs bar, something I had never seen there before during the Tuesday night open mic. I believe there were more yuppies playing pool upstairs than there were musicians playing music downstairs.

From there, I meandered my way on mass public transit back to the neighborhood in order to sit here at Specs, drink bourbon, and compose this entry which I plan on posting later. My mind is full of all sorts of beautiful things I need to get done with my more immediate future and, or course, vastly beautiful things I plan for my distant future in this world. San Francisco is such a beautiful city.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Stretchy Stretchy

I am having yet another day when I feel like someone else’s walking chemistry experiment.  I have had this raging hormone imbalance for days now.  I am so choc full of testosterone that my natural ladylike figure, personality, and demeanor are starting to go by the wayside.  I have a sneaky suspicion that some unknown, invisible enemy has been trying to turn me into a violent person by injecting me with testosterone in my sleep.  Well, it didn’t work.  All it has done is make me drink too much and act like a calloused bastard. 

Sitting is Specs last night, I actually found myself going out of my way to be mean to people through brutal honesty.  Once I got drunk enough, though, I wandered into Vesuvio, found the closest Johnny Depp look-a-like, and flirted the living daylights out of him.  It didn’t hurt that he happened to be an old friend of mine and a local musician named Caleb.   He is (still) as cute as can be, though, sadly, has a girlfriend. 

I used to think that my natural, ladylike ways could never been turned asunder.  I was wrong.  Inject me with testosterone and I get obnoxious, mean, and funny-shaped.  Oh well, at least it has helped what I have started to think is an anthrax breakout on my face from living at Carmen’s for two weeks get itself under control.  It also lowered my voice to make me more of a sexy, husky alto.  Most importantly, it couldn’t harm my charms with the menfolk, as any man near me could attest.  It just made shooting the non-charming ones down actually enjoyable. 

I am toying with the idea of going abroad some time in November.  It would be a short trip to someplace affordable.  International travel is easily done on pennies if you know what you’re doing. 

Speaking of travel, I leave for a trip to Gold Country and Yosemite tomorrow morning.  YEY!  It’s a combination wedding reception for very good friends and birthday gift from my parents.  It is going to be so much damn fun.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Food Poisoning

Yesterday was mostly delightful... until the food poisoning. Grasshopper, Lee, and I just hung out, ate some soup, and sang some songs last night. I think we all contracted food poisoning. Mine was out of my system before the night was over, but those two seemed to have a slower reaction. I should really call to check on them.

Before the food poisoning attack, I had a mostly wonderful morning and afternoon.  I stopped at the Vesuvio for some morning (Amaretto and) coffee.  I stopped by the Tel-Hi Neighborhood Center for their Breakfast for Books event.  I stopped by the Caffe Trieste for coffee and wi-fi.  I stopped by the Nature Stop to buy a few grocery odds and ends.  All before stopping there at Grasshopper's place for some dinner and singing.

Huh, when I arrived at my shoebox last night after visiting Grasshopper's place, the main screw that holds the lock and handle in the door fell out and landed on the floor. After breakfast and before I paid my rent, I asked my landlord to fix it for me. He is such a sweetheart; he took care of it immediately for me.

I stopped here at the Caffe Trieste to drink some coffee and use the internet. And now, I am off to volunteer at the J. Porter Shaw National Maritime Library. It should be a good day, assuming the city water doesn't get contaminated any time soon.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

The Update

The Update...

... on cute boys who carry guitars: I met a new one for the collection on Thursday night. He was named for an African country.
... on the voices pumped into my head: They're still there. There are just fewer of them, and they are a bit quieter, now.
... attempts to kill me: Nothing new to report here that I know of.
... the progress of my writing: I have revisited "CALIX, Set Sail." I should really call my friend Christian to see what else it was that I was supposed to add... other than another entire hour.
... my paranoia and delusions: I still love the world and wish it would save itself from wallowing in its own excrement. Take that as metaphorically as you need.
... Grasshopper: We are friends. We are friends who do NOT have sex. Yet, we are friends who sing for the fun of it. Yey.
... the music: I am trying to help Grasshopper find a regular weekly gig on some evening for a psychedelic jam he can host.
... my physical health: I'm alive and kicking and feeling fine.
... the city water: Now it makes me "hyper." Two cups of coffee this morning with Amaretto in them were much too much energy for me.
... all that I wait for: There is still nothing to cross off that list.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Gandhi's Birthday

I was awakened this morning from a tenuous sleep because my heart was pounding pounding pounding, my body was shaking, and something was coursing through my veins.  The voices in my head told me that as I slept yesterday in the late afternoon and early evening enough timed-releasable cocaine had been shoved into my body to kill me with an overdose this morning.  I am very grateful they failed.  It is hard to fight an enemy that even your friends will not acknowledge.  Just like, it is hard to learn a truth that even your family will not tell you.  The only way I have to fight an invisible evil is to never let it hurt me, to never let it ruin me, and to never never never let it stop me from seeing, living, and experiencing all that is beautiful in this world.

There is no end to what I can accomplish. And the more that the invisible evils harm me, the easier it becomes. This world will never be mere sorrowful, miserable ugliness so long as am here. And should that something kill me, all my dreams will force themselves true upon this world. Should that something kill me, my beauty will live forever, and the world will break under the heel of all the fantastic and wonderful things I want for it.

Even if this be mere paranoia and delusions of grandeur, at least they are beautiful and want nothing but love in this world.

Thursday, October 1, 2009


This is a list of things for which I wait.

1.) Finding a real place to live-- someplace that is not a residence hotel with "co-habitants" in the shared kitchen
2.) Someone to publish (or at least buy) my writing-- be it my memoirs, my fiction, my poetry, my board game, or even my half-baked TV pilot
3.) The City of San Francisco to clean up its water-- I mean, really, children drink this water.
4.) Some form of employment-- preferably writing related or something else suitably intellectual
5.) The voices forced into my head to go away-- You try keeping yourself together with people screaming at you constantly.
6.) A sense of physical safety-- I would like to be able to have a trusted friend touch my hair or back without it making me cringe in pain.
7.) A sense of privacy-- I would like to someday have the security to know that every moment of my life is not watched, listened to, or recorded.
8.) News that someone at the Iowa Board of Medicine actually cared to investigate the medical malpractice I was forced to endure
9.) The FBI to take me seriously when I say that I was physically, emotionally, and mentally wronged and violated while in a psych ward at the University of Minnesota-Fairview this last May
10.) Someone to tell me the truth-- preferably Mr. Johnny Depp

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Okay, What is Wrong with the City Water This Time?

Water is supposed to hydrate not sedate, right?  I cannot be the only person who notices these things.  Ack!  The yawning won't stop.

Maybe, I will go for a walk before I properly update this silly blog thing.  The excercise is necessary to wake myself out from under whatever I just drank.  I'll catch you all here in a little while.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Too Loud to Sleep

Yesterday’s activities consisted mostly of drinking coffee at Vesuvio courtesy of my bartender friend Tony, expanding my noggin at the library courtesy of global climate change, lunching at MELT! courtesy of the gracious Gaynor, and athletically dancing to amazing music at the Saloon courtesy of the Bachelors. It was a fantastic day that led straight into a wonderful evening. I just wish I could be more chipper today that I actually am.

As the song goes… “I couldn’t sleep at all last night.” The voices in my head kept me awake until I resorted to playing music to put myself to sleep. Thank the heavens above that my old friend Patrick Liddell sent me his (at the time) newest CD/DVD, audio/video, music experience a few months back. It’s not that his projects are in the habit of putting me to sleep, but I needed something soothing to help me drift away.

It is odd, I must admit, being (alphabetically) Asian, Hispanic, Pacific Islander, and White all at the same time. I think my Czechapina heritage is a healthy mix that has left me genetically predetermined for madness, resistance to sunburn, immunity to still undiscovered diseases, possessing skills at modern (completely interpretive yet slightly Latin) dancing, an obsession with both science fiction and professional tennis, an addiction to microwave popcorn, intellectual ease with mathematics, and who knows what else I have yet to discover about myself.

The most worrisome thing about my ethnic background, though, is my face’s inability to age itself. In a society where a youthful appearance is so treasured, I know this is the last thing I should be complaining about; however, wisdom and knowledge comes with age, and with wisdom and knowledge comes respect. I would rather be known for having a strong mind and an unstoppable wit than for having the face of a teenager here in my thirties. It is a source of ire for me, honestly, that people can only see the surface when they meet me. I think. I write. I theorize. I analyze. I create. I wear the face I grew for myself with pride, yes, but if I could, I would rather wear my soul. If bourbon and makeup can’t age me, I’ll find something that will… as long as it is physically painless. I’ve had enough pain for a lifetime.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Photos of Friends with Varying Degrees of Focus

Here are three of the menfolk from my recent adventures.  (Hmmmm..... it seems I don't know how to format these things properly.)

He in the green t-shirt is named Tony Lioce and is a bartender over at Vesuvio.  He just asked me this morning to go on Yelp to review him... I shall do that anon. 

He with his back to the lens is "Mi Bandido Carino," or so I prefer to call him.  We were out dancing one night when I took out my camera and asked him to do something profound.  He turned his back to me, so I snapped the photo. I doubt he heard me properly. 

He in the photo where I look simultaneously drunk and Hispanic (They were technically both the case at the time; though, many other adjectives also fit me as well.)  is Tony Mackrell.  If I spelled and capitalized his last name correctly I will be completely shocked.  The photo was taken moments before we were both dancing on top of the bar at Amante together.  I had never seen such a sense of rhythm and balance in someone so drunk before.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Music, Music, Music

So, Grasshopper (better known as Mr. 'Hopper) and I have split ways. The details are far from being worth sharing, but it suffices to say-- making music is like making love, so both had to end. Maybe he will stop sending me emails I cannot make sense out of one of these days.  Not that I could ever complain about still hearing from him, or something like that.  There have been enough childish adult males in my past who never speak to me anymore.

Now, what is in the city water lately? Every time I drink the stuff, I start waking up and falling asleep all at the same time. Yeah, City of San Francisco, you really need to fix that!

Sigh... Ruce is playing the feature slot on Tuesday, and I promised to bring my friend (and astrological expert) Vera to see all the hot musician types that show up out there. So, yes, I will again be attending the open mic that Grasshopper hosts this coming week; though, I promised myself I would not sing.  Maybe I might read something.  I have been writing again as of late.

The last two nights of music I have caught have been fantastic, in a rock'n'roll sort of way. Let's see, Friday night I was able to see Superbad at Maggie McGarry's up here in North Beach. They were a bit more like pop rock than actual rock, I know, but they were a damn good show. 

Last night I had the privilege of seeing the Butlers play again.  Now that was about as brilliant a rock band I have ever had the joy of experiencing live.  There is something about the combination of their music with their energy that just makes me dance.  I even took BART all of the way out to Berkeley and back again in order to see them.  Mmmmm.... tasty rock music.  Why must you feed me so deliciously?

I know I had promised to see Forget About Boston last night too, but I did not have enough time to go the extra few blocks to see them.  If only BART could run all hours... then I could dance all night anywhere in the East Bay that it reaches.  Maybe next time I'll be able to sort out a ride home.

Speaking of Vera (which actually occurred a few paragraphs back), she really is a great friend.  When SynSyn, Annie, and (if all goes well even) Amalia come out to see me here in February, I hope we all get to spend time together.  We would all benefit from having a bit more of sagacious Vera in our lives.  We had some amazing girl talk the other night after I spent most of the wee hours of the morning sitting in Sam's eating chicken nuggets and fries and studying academic abstracts on global climate change.  Now, if I could just find a Benicio Del Toro for her.  Vera could definitely benefit from some Mr. Del Toro in her life.

Global climate change.  Yes, global climate change.  I don't plan on dying just because the weather changes.  Joy of joys, though, the San Francisco Public Library system allows access to academic journals on just about any topic you can name.  "Global Warming" still pops up with more hits than "Global Climate Change" in the database, but the papers and articles I can access make amazing brain fodder on sleepless nights.  Who knows, maybe I will even reach some sort of brilliant conclusion about it all someday.  We'll see.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


And now, a selection from "The Penumbra" by Squid B. Varilekova...


As I shall prove in this section, we as legal residents and citizens are also guaranteed a right to knowledge that is necessary to protect ourselves, our minds, and our bodies under the penumbra of rights created by the Bill of Rights of the Constitution of the United States of America.

In the Second Amendment, we are told of the necessity for the “security of the free State.” Surely, keeping our country safe begins with keeping ourselves and our loved ones safe. The Fourth Amendment acknowledges “the right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects[.]” Well, how could this be possible if we do not know when we are in danger?

Most importantly, according to the Fifth Amendment, we cannot be “deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.” It is only the governing body that may distribute a legal, harmful punishment. Also, if we are levied criminal charges, the Sixth Amendment guarantees that we get “to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation” and “to be confronted with the witnesses against [us.]” Clearly, in a case where harm may come from the government by methods of due process, we are guaranteed the known information necessary to protect ourselves. And in these occurrences, the Eighth Amendment makes sure that we do not receive any “cruel or unusual punishments[.]”

Finally, the Ninth and Tenth Amendments open the door for the existence of the already established overlying penumbra by stating that we have rights as a people that have not yet been enumerated in the Bill of Rights.

Hence, between needing to protect ourselves, having the right to protect ourselves, being guaranteed due process, and being assured full knowledge of all harmful agents in times of due process, it is safe to conclude it is also then the responsibility of the governing authorities to dispense necessary knowledge of when we are in danger of harm to ourselves, our minds, and our bodies if the governing authority is in possession of knowledge that could prevent that harm.

Spilled Milk

Yet I still cried. Look, World, start fixing your problems. I'm tired of crying over you.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Music Tastes Yummy.

Mmmm... yummy, tasty music. I just wish they also served food at Ireland's 32 during the Tuesday night open mic that my darling Mr. 'Hopper hosts every week. Music would taste better with a side of curly fries.

I have got to admit, I'm coming around on this making music thing. It really is fun. I am fast making friends there at the Ireland's 32, and nothing (musically) beats having a stellar support system. Even at The Hotel Utah which I did attended two nights ago and which is somehow a little higher stress for reasons I never understand, making music was fun. I have had near-debilitating stage fright for so long; it's quite nice to have a room full of love to help me get over it.

This morning was a joy, as always, at the Vesuvio where I did get to spend quality conversational time with my bartender friend Tony Lioce. There was a tourist in there in a suede jacket that I recognized from the Condor (before the naked ladies came out to dance) this last Sunday. His name was Kevin, and although I thought I chose the correct piece from my writing portfolio to share with him, it was apparently quite uninteresting to him. At least he was a gentleman, though. I also met a tourist couple from Colorado which was also similarly disinterested in my writing. Well, I probably just chose a bad fit for each of their reading interests. My works are quite diverse.

I met an energy healer on the way to the library. I worked to my heart's content there at the North Beach branch of the SF library until I completely killed the battery on this little ole computer. I did have enough juice, though, to set up my birthday wish list for my parents. Did I mention yet that I am going to Yosemite for my birthday?

My travel plans have left me in need of a new pair of hiking boots; even though, they have granted me Mr. 'Hopper as a travel companion. Are hiking boots as well as a disarmingly charming (where charming really does mean the same thing as adorably socially awkward) travel companion too much to ask from the universe? I don't think so.

Now, this afternoon and evening I plan to visit my doctor's office for a brain check-up, Kader (Yeah, I spelled his name incorrectly last time.) up at Caffe Cento, Mr. 'Hopper at his humble abode, Vesuvio again for what I think is a book release party, and then Caffe Trieste for some (YEY!) even more tasty live music. Datiko should be around there. He always makes for interesting conversation.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

In the Land of Gooey Cheese

Yey! Right now I sit at MELT!, a local cafe and wine bar. The owner Gaynor and I are the only ones in here at the moment, and I do feel a bit guilty about typing away at this silly keyboard instead dedicating my conversation entirely to her. I do so much better when over stimulated, though. To concentrate on anything, I need to have street noise, neighboring conversation, and background music to all ignore in order to get the voices in my head to an low enough attention-sucking level to be acceptable. However, if I have all of that going on and am trying to hold a verbal in-person conversation, internet chat, and talk on the phone all while writing an email, I might actually be in my element. The last time I tried that, there was also professional tennis on the television as well.

When I sit at home and have nothing to listen to but the voices coming in my window and the voices in my head which somehow get their volume turned up by the mere fact I am in my (highly understated when I call it) humble abode, I can't get anything done. Of course, also it doesn't help that I feel like everything I type on this computer gets immediately publicized. I mean really. It's one thing to feel like people watch me while I type; it's entirely something different to feel like my entire portfolio of copyrighted material just lies around with the whole public able to read it. With all the verbal manure that the voices in my head spew at me, it's a wonder I can function at all.

Sigh... if I were to hazard a guess at which of my current works in progress I might resume laboring with first, I would say it would be the notes for my fourth volume of memoirs. Though, I know I really need to finally finish one of my works of fiction, so I can sell it. Writing is my only viable future livelihood still, unless Mr. 'Hopper has his way placing singing in my life. How is that any more practical than a writing career? As I already said, I might as well just move to LA and announce I want to be an actress.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Caffe Trieste

You never know whom you might meet here. Really. From Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Jack Hirschman to silly little me or a celebrity look-a-like (Or are they not mere look-a-likes?), Papa Johnny still packs a talented house.

I made the mistake yesterday morning of staying at Vesuvio for coffee when Tony wasn't there. He must have been on hiatus. I swear every metaphorical grease-ball [c]hristing mother of hell was in there running his mouth. By no means, though, does that mean that everyone in there was a bastard. But by the time the three loud-mouthed specimens of masculine inadequacy who had been at the bar since I arrived finally left, I felt like I needed antiseptic.

Oddly, I ended up having to go out and buy antiseptic to bandage some poor foul-mouthed, scruffy-looking nerf-herder of a skater's hand for him. Yes, he lacked every last notion of a gentleman, but my internal mother hen is instifleable. Really? If he really believed that his inability to answer 8th grade level math and logic questions was the real reason I wouldn't take him home with me after I had to be the one to buy him a drink to stop his whining, he is even more sorely deluded on the necessity of men to conduct themselves like gentlemen in public than anyone I have ever previously encountered. Instead of bandages and anitbiotics I should have given him a copy of the latest Emily Post guide to etiquette.

Luckily, after that, I wandered in here, to the Caffe Trieste where I ran into Amy and Kedir and, even later, Sean. Sweet, gentle humanity is rare these days, and they were breathes of fresh air to me. I even had a chance to catch up with Amy after years of not seeing each other. What a wonderful way to save a morning.

I spent the afternoon visiting my friend KC at an open house for a beautiful home up near Union and Taylor. I worry sometimes whether or not my friendship with him is in his own best interests. I gave him a book to read the other day, and he finally just reached the part about the dancing girl.

From there, I sped off to the Condor. Yes, that Condor. On Sunday afternoons before the naked ladies come out to dance, they have an amazing band that calls themselves Los Diablos de Amor [sic] play near the open windows. Something about them makes me dance, dance, dance. They play from three to six every Sunday, and I do what I can to stop by every week. I must have mentioned them already...

Last night, I walked up Nob Hill to visit Mr. 'Hopper. I don't know what I would do if he weren't around to feed me tasty vittles every time I see him. He takes such good care of me. I know we're not meant to be, but he is so sweet to me for just working so hard to have food to feed me that I have insisted on guilting him into spending my birthday with me in Yosemite next month. I know he wishes I would leave him alone, so he wouldn't have to hike Half Dome with me... I don't mind doing the hike alone, but he has some need to protect me from something, I know not what. Maybe someday I will know how to properly thank him.

I wandered home at about 1AM and went to sleep.

This morning I woke too late to make it to Vesuvio to see if Tony were around. I came straight here to Caffe Trieste instead, and I have been in fine company ever since. Yey!

I'm not going to double-check this post. You're all going to have to just deal with any typos.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

So sleepy...

I'm sleepy.  I wish I could tell you my stories.  But it's the water.  They have ruined the water.  It's the city water.

The Weird

Okay, at this time I was actually asleep.  This is an acknowledged back post.  If I had been awake, though, this is exactly what I would have had to tell you…

(Supposedly) Schizophrenic Assertions:
1.)    Someone else is still putting voices in my head.  It is NOT comforting.  It makes concentrating on everything difficult, particularly conversations.  I am prone to giggling at them when they sound like morons… or embarrass me.
2.)    People are keeping secrets from me.  Yeah, well, I would like to tell you what THE ENTIRE WORLD doesn’t want me to know.  However, you are all successful.  I don’t know what I don’t know.  (How is that for a spin on an old turn of phrase?)  I just know that there is information to which I am not allowed access, and what I don’t know is already hurting me.
3.)    Celebrities and celebrity look-a-likes stalk me.  Well, that is all self-explanatory, isn’t it?

And people wonder why I still take my anti-psychotics.  It isn’t just so the LSD in the water supply will make me fall asleep.

Major Projects I should be Working on Every Day:
1.)    The Kalevala— I recently assigned myself to make a public domain recording of a (public domain) translation of the Kalevala for  It is a fabulous epic adventure through a fairy tale Finland that never was.  If I really plan on recording all fifty runes in now less than a year, I really need to get one of my more voluptuous body parts in gear.
2.)    Finding a Literary Agent— I figure that if I send a query letter everyday, I should find an agent somewhere for my creative writing.  I need all the help I can get at finally getting myself published.
3.)    The Creative Writing Itself— My current list of works in progress include my first television pilot, two still unfinished novels, my third and now fourth volumes of memoirs, my children’s fairy tale, a young adult fiction about candy engineering, and my first feature length screenplay.
4.)    Singing— I know, I know.  Who put that devil of an idea in my head?  Singing?  Really?  It’s the last thing anyone with an academic background should ever want in their future.  Pursuing a career in music?  Really?  That’s about as logical as moving to LA to become an actress.  However, I have found that singing, beyond being something I do in the privacy of my own home as a form of therapy, is sort of fun.
5.)    Independent Research into Global Climate Change— Now, this is something that an academic background is meant for.  If humanity is going to survive, we need to make major changes.  We need to know what we’re up against from the cosmos at work, and we need to start as soon as possible.  “Be fruitful and multiply, so evolution can see us through!” will only get us so far.

After finishing my back post above, I wrote the following blurb this morning as the ending to my third volume of memoirs…

     I adopted wearing a particular flower in my hair a few months ago.  I always said it was in honor of Johnny Depp, my personal symbol of inner beauty.  Now, this white silk orchid is a symbol for what I assume would happen if ever I and that Mr. Johnny Depp should ever converse.  This flower is a symbol of the end of waiting.  Johnny Depp will be my bringer of truth.
     Yes, right now I still wait.  I wait for the truth.  I wait for the end of my externally imposed ignorance over why I was forced to endure so many tortures.  I wait for the knowledge to keep myself safe.  I wait, I wait, and I wait.  And I wait with a flower in my hair.

And THAT is everything I would have told you, if I would have been awake.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Sweet Loving

Yeah.  (Squid giggles.)  Yeah.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose

Apparently, Mr. 'Hopper had something left to lose.  He flat did not accept being set free of me and even behaved quite gentlemanly when I stopped by the open mic he hosts at Ireland's 32 every Tuesday night.  He behaved so gentlemanly, in fact, that I even sang the midnight set with him.  The next thing I knew, I was sitting at his place eating homemade soup at 1:30 in the dead of morning. 

Before stopping by Ireland's 32, though, I spent the afternoon with Gaynor at MELT! snacking on coffee, a brownie, a mimosa, a homemade Cornish pasty, and (there must have been) something else before stopping by IDEALe to see Tessa.  She's the IDEALe bartendress.  And what did I order there?  Mmmm... tasty orecchiette in broccoli rabe with pecorino... Someday, I should order something new when I stop in.  If it weren't so tasty, I would have by now, I suppose.

I had originally intended to stop by last night's open mic in order to return CDs to Mr. 'Hopper... but when I saw and heard the musical talent that had turned out for the night, I couldn't help but stay.  I am making an assumption, I know, when I say this... but I believe there has not been such musical talent in the City of San Francisco in decades.  We are experiencing a bit of a musical renaissance these days.  I wish I could keep better track of all the amazing music I have experienced.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

A Rollercoaster Sunday, an Informative Monday, and the Start of a Tuesday

Except for the fact I was to miss the entire weekend's worth of stellar tennis due to my refusal to own a television (which I would only use to watch professional tennis anyway), Sunday at least started out strong.  I wandered off to Vesuvio to see my bartender friend Tony and to have delicious morning coffees with my best friend in the City of San Francisco, 'Dabs.  Sometimes two people are friends for so long that the art of conversation between the two of them can do nothing but get more beautiful.  'Dabs is that sort of friend for me.  His and his brother's joint wedding reception is in Sonora, CA this coming October, and I should really get on getting a room out there for that night.

Then I was off to the Royal Grounds on Polk to meet Jimmy for some coffee... Of course, Jimmy never showed and didn't even call to cancel.  I suppose that is probably due to my insistence that we stay completely Platonic friends.  He was quite honest about his intentions towards me, and those intentions were not Platonic.

Sometime in the late afternoon I showed up at the Condor back in North Beach.  Before the naked ladies come out and dance they have a live band called Los Diablos De Amor [sic] their on Sunday afternoons.  I really did get some good dancing in while I was there, and they even asked me to sing one song with them.  Such sweethearts.  I asked for "Ain't no Sunshine." 

From there, I climbed up the hill to visit Mr. 'Hopper.  He was in a bad mood when I got there, and I could not deal with how he was treating me.  I was sure that keeping in my life was ruining him.  I broke into tears, and I set him free.  We are no longer together.  It was my choice.  I did it for him.  And, yes, I broke my own heart doing it.  That was my rollercoaster of a Sunday.

Monday I finally learned about the weekend's worth of tennis--sans audio, sans commentary, sans anything but the visual-- while sitting at MELT! chatting with Lynn Ruth, Gaynor, Johnny, and various British ladies.  Does anyone else think Del Potro looks a bit like Colin Farrell?  And that Federer, he was as artful and graceful as always.  Congrats to Clijsters, and Ms. S. Williams, wow, lady... I thought I had a red attitude problem.  If you're going to get angry, that is the way to make it a good show.

I meant to stop at the National Maritime Library yesterday, too, in order to re-volunteer with them; unfortunately, I failed to get myself out of MELT! until well after they were already closed.   I did manage to get myself out to see the Jugtown Pirates last night, though.  They play every Monday night at Mojito, and I try to see them every week.  And, yes, I did get some good dancing in there, too.  Yey!

I woke up late today, Tuesday, and I went straight to MELT! which was not open, yet... so, I stopped in at my dry cleaner's place, the Doo Wash, to hit up Stanley for some chatty chat chat until Gaynor could let me in to MELT!.  And here I have been trying to take care of some details, heal my broken heart, and, of course, eat some tasty food ever since.  Hmmm... I should really call ahead to the Maritime Library and tell them I am finally stopping in today, shouldn't I?

Saturday, September 12, 2009


So, here I sit at the counter at MELT! clicking away at my keyboard and trying to converse with the fellows beside me... though they both seem quite taken with the Bay Guardian at the moment.  They're from Scotland.  Apparently, I passed through their hometown on the train once.  Okay, twice.  Once up and once back.  Apparently, they find Hoover Dam to be a marvel of modern engineering.  Did you know that 9% of Las Vegas's power comes from the Hoover Dam?  Apparently, we all saw the lightning or at least all heard the thunder this morning.  As the song goes... If the thunder don't get you then the lightning will.

Yesterday afternoon I even had two cups of coffee sitting around here at this counter, too.  I had hoped to see my friend Karen yesterday or today, but the time is sweeping by rather quickly.  Such is the case though, isn't it?  The longer that people are friends the longer they can go without seeing each other.  Sigh... too true in my life.

I was up early this morning.  Well, more precisely, I still couldn't sleep well last night.  I even found an odd patch of rug burn on my right shoulder to match the gargantuan mystery bruise on the back of my left knee.  So, I found myself wishing I could dance in the rain... but the rain was sadly merely drizzle when I finally made it outside in my raincoat.  The thunder and lightning are an odd treat around here in San Francisco.  People actually go out on rooftops to watch, or so I learned when I made it to Caffe Trieste for an espresso dopio and (of course) an almond croissant.

Well, yeah, there is probably yet another coffee and chocolate story in me from late last night.  But you're going to have to wait to hear that one.

Friday, September 11, 2009

You Know, If You Would Move Forward, People Might Actually Dance.

Where were you this morning at 11:09? I was the cable car turn around with good ole Mr. 'Hopper.  I really need to rename him.  What do you think?  Mr. Underrated or Prince Socially Awkward?  Let the debate begin.

Last night was and odd odd night for me.  I caught Honeydust and Forget About Boston at Maggie McGarry's.  I cannot express how truly enjoyable it was to dance to their music, and I cannot describe how horrifying it is to see a dance floor left empty because some guy is standing in the middle of it with a video camera.  When I felt the burn of that particular lens's eye on me, I ventured next door with hopes of dancing to Floozy at the Grant & Green.  It was early, anyway, barely even midnight.  However, they were turned up to eleven.  I went home to get some earplugs and pathetically ended up staying in.  Mmmmm... tasty hummus.  What do you do to me? You make me miss damn good dancing.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


After a delightful night of gypsy jazz, I spent late last evening, my magnificent Wednesday night, standing on the partially-crenelated ramparts of the delivery entrance for the Mark Hopkins Hotel with a certain fellow as we stared up at the starry sky.  I am thinking about renaming my Mr. 'Hopper something far more romantic.  I am currently wavering between Prince Socially Awkward and Mr. Underrated.

Also in the starry sky update, we are apparently in the International Year of Astronomy.  There is going to be a star-gazing event in Millbrae this coming Saturday night.  I think I might just go.

Does anyone remember the original Super Mario Brothers games?  You know, the ones with the stars that bounce around the screen?  Anyone remember how long you are invincible after you catch one?

Better yet, anyone remember the oldish Chinese fairy tale about the Star Shepherd?   It is such a beautiful story; I wonder why more people don't read it.  And on a final note about that, may life grant you more than a star-crossed dancing girl or even a flat-faced peasant. 


Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Another Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (and a Bit Beyond)

I woke up late yesterday morning after a mostly sleepless night.  What else was there to do except stop in a local bar for an early coffee drink?  I wandered off to meet my friend Tony whom I knew would be behind the bar at Vesuvio at that fine hour.  It proved to be a truly delightful morning full of witty conversation and other forms of verbal manure.  He's only there on the morning shift Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays... so I cherish my precious time with his protective bartenderly ways when I can get them.

A few coffee drinks later, I was off to run a morning's and early afternoon's worth of errands.  Hmmmmm... lunch.  I did have the foresight to drop off my recently laundered dry cleaning, newly re-heeled shoes, and other sundries at my shoebox of a domicile before finding my darling friend Renee at the U.S. Restaurant for lunch.  She always takes such good care of me.

I had agreed to tutor her daughter in whichever 8th grade-level topic she would need each week, and she had also procured a book on the subject matter covered in Catholic high school entrance exams.  It's so odd sometimes how standardized tests of all grade levels tend to still be built in all the same way.  At least the COOP seems to test whether a student can think rather than just memorize facts and algorithms.

As if I hadn't had enough coffee at lunch, I soon found myself sitting at the counter at MELT! sipping on yet another tasty, caffeinated beverage and brandishing my shiny, new tambourine.  After the initial "Anyone know any Carpenters' songs?" teasing, the typical and quite local (if not at least newly so) collection of regulars calmed down around my weapon of mass percussion.  Oh, wait, maybe that was a different time I was in MELT!.  Maybe this time at MELT! was nothing for me but a long afternoon of disturbing phone calls mixed with an attempt to plan my birthday travel.  Either way, the first story is better.

Regardless, I was soon off to buy a brand spanking new dress at Annabella's (if I spelled that correctly... "Annebella's" maybe?), sit in the park for a moment, and then head off to tutor the youth of America... well, okay, one youth of America.  She is such an intelligent young lady, a quick learner, and joy to converse with.  She is going to get a merit-based scholarship to Catholic high school.  I can feel it.

Dinner.  What was dinner?  I believe I snacked at home before running off to Mr. 'Hopper's open mic at Ireland's 32 in the Inner Richmond.  Sigh... what a beautiful night.  I fear my friend Ruce may have blushed when I pecked him on the cheek, but that is hardly anything that should distress me.  The music there is just as high strung as it is casual, and I am fast filling out my list of local musicians.  Here is to an enduring tradition of music.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Song Bird

Hee-hee!  I had intended to spend yesterday afternoon reviewing the content on which I was going to tutor my friend's daughter Jess.  My friend had just procured a book on the standards for Catholic High School admission, and I promised to help her daughter study for the admissions exam.  Well, it turns out I am going to do all of that reviewing this afternoon instead, so I spent yesterday afternoon at the Hyde Street cable car turntable singing with my busking friend Mr. 'Hopper.  It was truly quite delightful.

I had barely slept at all the night before, so I returned home afterward for a long (overdue) nap, ran some errands, and then met Mr. 'Hopper yet again at the open mic at the Hotel Utah at which we sang a little Motown together.  "Second that Emotion" never sounded so sweet.  I was so shy after we sang that I could barely handle the compliments we received.

I met a fellow named Jimmy while I was there who wanted to talk my ear off while I tried listening to the music.  I was already out of whiskey when I met him, so I couldn't sip quietly while spinning my glass in my fingers.  I had to merely ask him politely to allow me to hear the music after politely accepting his phone number and politely finding a future polite occasion upon which we could go get some polite coffee.

From the Utah the evening's adventure took me and the handsome and sweet Mr. 'Hopper to North Beach for some safely vegan self homemade cuisine in my boudoir (where "boudoir" means "shoebox size room") before stopping to see the Jugtown Pirates at Mojito.  Yes, I was even able to get a little dancing in before the night was all over.  Yey!  For dancing!

The night ended in the wee hours of the morning with me yet again recently left alone in my room hoping for a chance to try all that over again.  It was a night for a song bird.  And the bird had sung so sweetly.

Monday, September 7, 2009

They Sneak Like Ninjas

Wednesday morning, September 3rd, 2009, I was all groggy. I almost never sleep well, but that morning it was so difficult to get out of bed. The first time I remember feeling that way was my first morning of in-patient care. Both times, yes, all times, even on the similar mornings at my parents' house, at Carmen's place, and even other times here in my shoebox, I awoke with severely hazy and cloudy medicine-headedness. This time, though, just like the time in in-patient care, I had whiplash.

Not so oddly, on the night where the evening of the 3rd met the morning of the 4th, I couldn't sleep at all. I kept lying in bed with my heart pounding in my chest and echoing in my ears keeping me awake. I kept looking back over my shoulder so damn sure I would see people ready to attack me in the night. What else was there to do but go to the all night diner? I found little comfort in "pancake puppies," but I did find time to pay my medical bills.

All I can say now about it, after testing the voices in my head: The world need beware my eyes. If only you could see everything I see in the context of history in which I see it. If only...

Sunday, September 6, 2009

And so I have returned to the land of the blog...

Greetings, curious passersby,

After a long, only partially dull hiatus, I have begun to blog again. For those of you who remember this site from days long gone by, I promise to fill these pages with many more colorfully honest adventures, tales of boy-hearts by the wayside, and of course, friends more exciting and dear to me than could ever be imagined. I never disappoint, and please keep stopping by.

Thank you most sincerely,
Squid B. Varilekova