Ouch

Why I love Berkeley

I did go to the Jejune institute website to investigate, having suffered from many of the issues they list. Berry Berry Interestink. If you can't read it, click on the image for a larger view.

I'm not crazy. Oh. Wait...

Cramming galore. Definitely not sane. Feeling excited that it's almost over and suffering from regular anxiety attacks because I'm almost out of time... two weeks left! My dream anxieties are completely focused on my hair. I've got bald spots, I'm completely gray, my hair falls out in handfuls. Fortunately, not happening in real life. At least not the balding part. As Lily announced to her kindergarten class and all the parents on the last day of school, "this picture of hair dye reminds me of my mom because she dyes her hair." I love hair dye.

Today I woke up at 3:30 in the morning and started studying because I couldn't sleep. At 8:45 am I started cutting down a dead tree. I was still wearing my bathrobe and nightgown. I was waiting with Molly in my driveway for my cousin Gabby to pick up Molly for Girls' Rock camp (Molly's band is called "Vomit Punks" except the shirt stencil didn't work so her band T just says "vomit"), and noticed that the dead tree was likely to fall onto our car. It's been dead (the tree) and next to our car for about four years, but today it seemed particularly problematic. It's actually on our neighbor's property so I TRESSPASSED on their land by removing the tree, but I had the defense of NECESSITY to prevent the greater harm of the tree falling on my car which would have resutled in the neighbor's TRESSPASS TO MY CHATTEL. These thoughts were going through my head while I cut away, so technically, it counted as studying. Gabby arrived to pick up Molly and yelled out the window "Emily, you look crazy" so I stopped.

Flashcarded for a while in the living room, but then couldn't resist the call of the dead tree. Showered and put on exercise clothing so I wouldn't look "crazy," then went out and tore the tree down with my bare hands. Actually I used a branch cutter and pretended it was my bare hands. It felt really good. It was a small tree, but just the right size to relieve some of my stress, especially when I beat the branches down so they'd fit into the compost container. I was under the delusion that I was totally in control until I got the chance to crush something... Then I went back inside and did more flashcards. Like nothing had happened.

Home Stretch

Flashcard Athlete has finished writing her flashcards. It took over a month, pretty much, full time - with time out for multiple choice questions and practice essays. I celebrated with a little dance when I was done. Then I realized I had forgotten to do cards for criminal procedure. Wind from sails.

Here they are as compared to a standard marshmallow, for perspective. I wanted to take the photo of the cards next to my head, and query: will it all fit? But I couldn't fit my head into the picture. I thought the marshmallow would do as a substitute. In a symbolic act, I ate the marshmallow just after I took the photo.

Irresistable Crap

On our car ride last Sunday, Jane regaled us with stories of she and her old housemate, Chesty, trying to one-up each other with surprise scare tactics (he won: she ended up naked in a fetal position on the floor when he surprised her just after a shower. That uncomfortable moment effectively ended the contest). Jane offhandedly commented that he had scared the crap out of her.

Lily, ever listening, picked up on the turn of phrase and asked in her innocent-sounding six-year-old voice, "Mom, has anyone ever scared the crap out of you?"

"Yes, but Lily, 'crap' is not a nice word, and even though Jane and I just said it, we really shouldn't have."

Lily wondered why it wasn't a nice word, and I explained that it meant poop, and that if a person gets really really scared, they can poop in their pants. Lily was impressed.

The next morning, on the way to camp, Lily turned to Molly in the back seat of the car and said, gleefully, "Molly, I'm going to scare the crap out of you today!"

"Lily, you're not supposed to use that word, remember?"

"I know, Mommy, but now that I know what it means (giggle) I just want to say it all the time! I love scaring the crap out of people!"

I tried to think of alternatives such as "scared the piss out of me" or "scared the pants off me" or "scared me to death" but after the literal explanation of the crap version, none seemed appropriate.

Lily helpfully suggested: "How about if I say "scared the crabs out of me?" That one gave me a nice visual.

This day successfully took my mind off studying

Flashcard Athlete

Progress made. Training continues:

The stack on the right is about 1/2 of the material for the bar exam. The small packet on the left is 100 flashcards.

***

Final Project

At Peet's coffee, I saw a Berkeley High school senior carrying a poster -- her final project for some class. All I was able to read was the heading:

That's Retarded:

Discrimination Against the Disabled

***

I really tried to see the photo collage, but she was moving too fast.

Kind of teddy-bear-ish

This man will be speaking at my graduation. If I were him, I would have chosen the same photo to represent me.

I think the extra name really adds to the mix

According to The Recorder (legal newspaper)

Faatuaiitaua Ofeira Tuani

is officially changing his or her name to

Faatuaiitaua Oferia Tunai Tuala

Bad Parents

"Mommy, this is the third night I've put my tooth under my pillow and the tooth fairy still hasn't come!"

Overheard in Berkeley

“People who are human are highly revered in the spiritual realm.” – Lady to her friend, Espresso Roma

“Recycler bandits reported on the corner of Prince and Woolsey.” – Police radio 8:00 am Tuesday morning.

Disturbing Doggie

On BART this morning I had to stand up in the back of the train and spend the ride looking over the shoulder of the woman sitting in front of me. At first I didn't pay much attention: she appeared to be messing around with her Iphone while plugged into her Ipod, much like the rest of the BART passengers that morning. But then I started to wonder what she was doing with her finger. She kept rubbing it in one place on the screen. I looked at the screen and saw that she was "petting" a digital dog. She pet it for a long time. Then she fed it. Then she gave it a bath. This required rubbing her finger on the screen for a good ten minutes, in one spot, while she lathered him up. Afterwards, she went back to petting him, gave him a treat, and put him to bed.

There didn't appear to be any point to the "game" other than taking care of the digital doggy. I checked. She wasn't earning any points.

I became concerned. What was she getting out of this game? There couldn't be any physical satisfaction from rubbing a cold screen with her forefinger for long periods of time. Neither could it provide her with any intellectual stimulation or physical challenge.

The only possible benefit I could imagine was an emotional one. The dog did emit some digital hearts. Did she think fondly of this pooch and look forward to BART rides when they could be alone together? If this were true, what did it say about her personal life -- that she felt emotionally connected to a half-inch digital image that she couldn't actually touch or communicate with in any way?

It made me sad. It also made me really curious and I tried to see inside her purse for more clues to her life as she put her Iphone away. I managed to glimpse a small plush animal before she checked to see if I was looking over her shoulder. I supposed it was her other friend.

I think I'll pass.

Lily

"How was your field trip today?"

"Fun. We got to see sea lions up real close."

"Oh! That must have been so cool!"

"Yeah, but not close enough to see their blubber or their external ear flap."

No fools working there

Sign in the Clerks office of Bankruptcy Court, San Jose:

"Chapter 7 Bankruptcy filing fee: $299. No personal checks accepted."

This week in Berkeley...

While I am studying in the reading room at the public library, a young woman eschews all the seats at all the empty tables in the room and falls heavily in the chair next to me with a big sigh like some kind of heat-seeking device. She doesn't open the calculus book she's brought, but opens a microwavable burrito and surreptitiously eats it with her head practically in her lap. I notice boxes of cereal in her backpack and that she smells like she hasn't bathed in weeks -- which explain her skin problems and greasy hair. She finishes her food then bangs her forehead down on the table inches from my arm. Two minutes later she stomps off into the stacks, leaving her smell behind her. It's almost time for a lunch break and I decide to weather the smell, because moving to another seat would be so obvious in this empty room, and I don't want to offend her (?!).

A well-dressed elderly man in a tweed jacket and slacks and neatly trimmed white hair and beard walks in front of me, leaning carefully on his elegant cane. He turns his head slightly and I see that he is wearing a bright red clown nose.

A man, approaching me from the other direction as I walk through a central Berkeley neighborhood, stops and inquires whether he could ask me a question.
"Sure."
"Are you Dutch?"
"No"
"Are you Amish?"
"No"
"Are you a pioneer?"
"No"
"Are your ancesters older than that?"
"Older than what?"
"Older than a Dutch, an Amish, or a pioneer?"
"Well, I suppose so."
"Thank you."
He turned and continued walking down the street, leaving me to wonder what his survey was all about and whether he asks everyone the same questions, or whether my appearance somehow sparked that line of questioning.

Intolerance

I am sitting in café trying to study but am listening to the three men talk at the table next to me. Even though I put on my ipod. It's hard to tune them out because one is an “important talker.” Everything he says is “important.” Any comment his friends make is apparently addressed to him (because he is “important”) and requires his “important” response. So damn annoying I can’t ignore it. Especially since nothing he has said in the ½ hour I have been eavesdropping has been remotely important. He thinks the bowling alley is a really great place to spend an evening because it has bowling lanes, video games, and food (not that he’s ever eaten there, but he imagines that they serve sandwiches and hotdogs) so there is something for everyone. He forgot to mention that they also serve beer. A truly important talker would have noted beer, as well as the beauty of bowling shoes. Important talker is in his late thirties. Hasn’t he ever been to a bowling alley before? He would be much more interesting had he noted his apparent inexperience with bowling alleys. Not that I’m a bowling expert or anything, but I’ve been to a few and they all have the aforementioned elements. But he seemed to find them important and imparted the importance to his friends in his “I am important and I know you are waiting with baited breath for each word I choose to share with you” tone of voice. I imagine what is running through the mind of the third and mostly silent friend. “Shut up you dumb fuck.” Maybe I’m just projecting.

Sometimes my children are nice

This morning Molly was tuned in to big-sisterhood. She helped Lily with her homework and she made, at Lily's request, oatmeal for breakfast. Molly loves to cook. Particularly she likes to copy her father's flare in the kitchen -- tossing in cinnamon and nutmeg from high above the pot, playing loud music and singing as she stirs.

She served Lily the oatmeal with maple syrup.

Lily took one bite and said, "Molly, this is really good. You should be a chef."

Molly ate up the compliment while Lily ate up her oatmeal.

Overheard on Halloween

Woman to her friend: "If I see one more happily married couple, I'm going to throw up!"

Wife of couple who just passed her by: "Hello, we're drunk!"

Logic

Lily, age 5: "Mommy, we are all connected to the Earth."

Mom: "Really, how do you know that?"

Lily: "Because when I jump, I always come back down."

Perspective

I have been studying wrongful convictions. It is heartbreaking to read the stories of innocent individuals who got caught up in a system that seemed to be more interested in finding (any) "culprit" rather than solving the crime. The average age of those wrongfully convicted is 26 years old and they spend, on average, 12 years in prison. Those exonerated have usually been accused of rape or murder -- DNA testing eventually sets them free. Witness misidentification, coupled with police and/or attorney misconduct seem to be the leading causes of wrongful convictions. Unfortunately, the system isn't set up to help innocents after they've been exonerated. They are not on parole so they do not qualify for any of the services that help them adjust to life outside prison, such as help with finding a job or housing. However, although proven innocent, they still face the stigma of having spent a significant portion of their lives in prison. They don't have resumes, they don't have work experience, their lives have literally been taken away from them.

Recently, after spending a day deep in the world of such injustice, I chose some light reading for the BART ride home to my kids: a People Magazine someone kindly left behind on the train. The feature article was on Jessica Simpson and how she has channeled her past heartache into a new country album.

Ms. Simpson "looked for inspiration in the spiral notebooks she uses as journals."

Fortunately for Ms. Simpson, "she didn't have to read the words inside.... In fact, she didn't even need to look past the covers."

She chooses the journal cover based upon her moods and then "picks a shade of ink from her four-color ballpoint pen to further channel her mood."

"'I have a lot of black [journals]. A lot of black and blue.' Yet over the last year, 'I went to pink,' says Simpson.... These days her journal sports a white cover, and inside it's filled with the red-ink musings of a woman in love."

I used to have one of those four colored ballpoint pens. I think that was in the fourth grade.

I'm concerned that Ms. Simpson only has four colors of ink to work with. I think that would tend to limit her ability to express the nuanced thoughts that surely cross her mind as she delves deep into her heartache. Imagine how great her album would have been if she had used this gel pen set instead.

BART Haiku - September 9, 2008

Tired plain-faced woman
Public metamorphosis
No beauty secrets

Something in the water?

I think pets are great. I just haven't wanted to deal with one and, until recently, have managed to convince my kids that the rabbit-furred stuffed cat was a great pet: it could be petted and then thrown into the toy basket without a second thought. I've also acquiesced to the few "pets" Lily has asked to keep -- an inchworm, a mayfly, and most of a spider. Each time I paused, considering the magnitude of her request, then solemnly said "yes, if you're prepared to take responsibility for it."

Molly spent the summer convincing me that she is mature enough to have a pet. She did laundry, made beds, hung up her towel, and offered to help with sufficient regularity to convince me that she was ready to take on the responsibility of caring for another life form. So, almost two weeks ago, we went to the pet store and picked out a couple of gold fish and all the acoutrements necessary to keep them alive.

Molly's goldfish, Pumpkin died after the first week, a few hours after Molly cleaned the tank. Molly was crushed. She buried Pumpkin in the back yard, under a gravestone strewn with fresh flowers.

This evening, alas, Lily's fish, Rainbow Sparkle bit the dust as well. Lily sobbed and sobbed, so much so that Molly crawled into her bed to comfort her and gave her a treasured stuffed bear to snuggle. I too tried to comfort Lily, pointing out that although Rainbow Sparkle's life was short, she was well-loved and had a happy week-and-a-half in her pretty fishtank. "I should have spent more time with her instead of watching TV," lamented Lily.

My proposal to get new fish this weekend was met with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Not quite clear on the concept

Today, at the school law library, I asked at the front desk where I could find a Blue Book (a reference used to correctly format legal citations). She suggested that I try a book store.

He was probably from Berkeley

I once saw a man driving a beat up truck with a loaded gun rack and a bumper sticker that said "I eat vegetarians." I don't think he was kidding around.

I can't wait until she's a teenager

Lily was mad at me because I sent her to her room after she bit Molly on the chest (apparently it was an accident). She shut herself in her closet for a while, then came stomping over to me with a pciture in hand, and said to me in her angriest voice:

"This is you. You're bald and you have too many eyes!"

Beware

I must admit, this notice on the cover of the menus gave me pause one morning when I showed up with four children. Turned out they were much better behaved than the young man flossing his teeth at the table next to us.

Rotary Club Event

My sister took this clipping from an Indian newspaper.

It Didn't Work

Yesterday I had a first visit with a Berkeley acupuncturist. It was interesting.

First, I spent half an hour filling out medical history forms which the acupuncturist did not look at before treating me. This answered my unspoken question, "is all this information really necessary for acupuncture?"

Then, as my arms and neck filled with needles, he asked me (after finding out that I am in law school) whether the word "must" in court rules indicates a judge has discretion. (I answered that "must" and "shall" usually leave no room for discretion). Interested, I asked what it was about. Turned out he's challenging a search warrant that was issued in federal court. As we discussed the law, I wondered what the feds were likely searching for. Out of pure prejudice and stereotyping I speculated it was for marijuana (he being an acupuncturist in Berkeley). I'm currently studying for my criminal procedure final exam which covers the validity of search warrants so the conversation was timely and interestesting on both sides (despite the needles)

He then turned on a "relaxation tape" and left the room. I was really excited to relax. (typical) The tape began with a man's voice:

"Picture yourself on a boat, on a blue sea with billowing white sails and a clear blue sky, with nothing to worry about and all the time in the world to enjoy the sun and the breeze."

Right on. I'm digging the boat scene. Starting to relax. Then followed the usual technique of relaxing the body, one part at a time.

"Relax your shoulders, feel the tension melting away. Relax your neck and your scalp. Now, focus on your foehid . . . "

Wait -- did he just say "foehid" instead of "forehead"? Yes. He did. And he did again several more times, "relax all the worry lines on your foehid," "feel the tension leaving your foehid." Every "foehid" brought me further from relaxation and closer to giggles (except that would have made the needles hurt).

After he "relaxed" the rest of my body, he indicated that he would pause for a minute so I could enjoy my new state of relaxation. Unfortunately, while he paused, I could hear him, on tape, take a huge gulp of whatever beverage he had beside him. This, alas created more tension as I had to hold back laughter (so the needles wouldn't hurt).

Then began a mantra of going "deeper, deeper" into relaxation and I realized that this was actually a hypnosis tape. Now there was no way I could relax because a) I have a dirty mind and every time he said "deeper" (practically every other word for about fifteen minutes) I found it sexually suggestive and therefore offensive because it was coming from a man who said "foehid"; b) I found it presumptuous of foehid-man to think that he could control my mind/body -- whether for good or evil (I had yet to see); and c) what the hell kind of caregiver tries to hypnotize you without asking your permission first? (Answer: the kind that has the feds searching his premises)

The hypnosis also didn't work on me because just before foehid-man had me go down the mental flight of stairs to a deeper state of consciousness, he mentioned that the stairs were carpeted in my favorite color. That caused me to wonder what my favorite color is (I've never been able to commit) and if I had one, would it look good as stair-carpet? And do my mental stairs have to be carpeted? Because I really prefer natural wood.

In case you're wondering why I had not yet turned off the offensive hypnosis tape, the answer is twofold. First, I was covered with needles and couldn't move without being unpleasantly poked. Second, I am perverse.

Once we theoretically reached the bottom of my mental staircase, and I had gone "deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper" (disgusting) into hypnosis, foehid-man's grand plans for me became apparent. "You will feel relaxed in your everyday life and be able to make decisions quickly and efficiently," he repeated over and over and over again, and over again for good measure. This I didn't understand at all. Even if I accepted foehid-man's presumption that I have a difficult time making decisions (I couldn't choose a carpet color), how would making efficient decisions help me with my repetative stress injury, the condition for which I was theoretically being treated? Shouldn't this hypnosis have at the very least been telling my body to stop hurting? Or telling me to stretch more often?

Eventually, foehid-man felt he had had a sufficient effect on my subconscious. I wouldn't remember what he said, but would simply make efficient decisions from now on. He counted to five to awaken me feeling refreshed, happy, and relaxed with a general sense of well-being. He said no more and I listed to static for the final ten minutes of my session.

Acupuncturist came in and removed the needles. This was the extent of our follow-up conversation:

"What did you think of the tape?"
"Not really my cup of tea"
"What about his accent?"
"Yeah! he kept saying 'foehid' . . . "
"You can get dressed now"

He hid in his office as I made casual conversation with the odd receptionist -- just long enough to see if he would come out and, perhaps, discuss the treatment/future treatment with me. He didn't. And that was that.

Good Will

Once in a while, Shaun and I threaten our children with donating their toys to Good Will. It begins with a simple request to clean their room. Hours later, it ends with the statement that anything they leave on the floor is clearly something they don't value and will be given to Good Will. It's an effective statement which has been challenged by Lily: "I don't want those toys anyway" and once or twice followed through with donations.

Today, out of the blue, Lily asked me, "Why does the guy Good Will want kids' toys?"

Sweet Talk

Lily and I were snuggling before bed.

"Lily, you're my favorite five-year-old in the whole world. I love you."

"Mommy, you're my favorite.... How old are you, Mommy?"

"I'm thirty-eight"

"Oh. You're my favorite -- (pause) You're really old!"

Awkward

I've created an awkward situation with my professor. He's not that much older than I am, and a regular kind of guy, so much so that I've considered inviting him and his wife and kids over for dinner with my family (but then I imagined her reaction, "do we have to go to dinner with one of your students?? Jeeze!! -- although I was probably projecting my own reaction to Shaun's inquiry about whether I'd like to dine with the family of one of his co-workers). Anyway, at graduation I saw him, came over to say hello, and before I thought about what I was doing, I gave him a big hug. Not that there's anything wrong with a hug, especially in California. But it didn't go well with the fact that I was still calling him Professor R., and that although I had imagined we could be friends, we weren't. But there it was. The hug. He didn't seem to mind or seem put off by it. So I decided to just forget about it.


Unfortunately, I hadn't thought through what that hug meant with regard to future encounters. Specifically, once hugged, can one return to a handshake? Or is that like some sort of demotion in esteem. I was faced with this dilemma a couple of weeks ago when I met him for lunch to discuss my future career plans and, as it turned out, a position as his research assistant. We met, and I had a split second to decide whether to hug, hold out my hand, or just say hello and not touch at all. Because it took me a hair longer than a split second to decide, it was awkward. Then more so when I went in for the hug. Then more so as his response was of the somewhat rigid variety. (Not in the dirty way you're thinking).


You'd think that would keep me from future hugs, but it didn't. I'm in some compulsive downward spiral of awkwardness. I had to hug him goodbye that day, although I managed to do a sideways shoulder squeeze which felt a bit less intrusive. And then I met with him last night to discuss my research work and had to hug him again as I said goodbye. I think I made it less awkward by apologizing for the hug and explaining "I'm just a hugger." I'm pretty sure that made things better.


Professor R. suggested that we "meet" in the future by email. I good idea, I think. I am really glad he wrote my recommendations before the hug-a-thon began.

Crazy Talk

Rumor has it that Ronald Reagan, while governor of California, emptied the state mental hospitals and sent busloads of crazy people to Berkeley. I always believed it was true, because growing up in Berkeley, one commonly saw individuals talking to themselves. Some quietly, some angrily, some neatly dressed, some in costume, some bedraggled by homelessness. Many of these characters -- primarily those in costume -- had names such as the Polka Dot Man (one day, I noticed that he had connected all of his dots), the Orange Juice Man (his son went to Berkeley High with me), the Hate Man (former journalist, turned cross-dressing, street-living character), The Screamer (she once yelled at me "you are a freak of nature!"), Rare! (he was a large man who would stick his head into various establishments and yell RARE! as loud as he could). More were just crazy and nameless.

When I was little, in addition to the safety basics of "look both ways before you cross the street" and "don't take candy from strangers," I was taught "don't look crazy people in the eye." It was sage advice, it turns out, which I tested later in life. Eye contact with crazies invites some unexpected form of interaction.

Crazies were fairly easy to identify, if not by their attire or lack thereof, then by their externalized, verbalized, internal monologues. They talked to themselves, and you'd give them a wide berth.

The onset of cell phone with earpiece has made this identification process much more difficult. At first, the crazies still outnumbered the cell phone users, and when I saw person talking to him or herself in Berkeley, I would assume, "crazy" then realize, "no, just cell phone." Then it became a quick seizing up: "cell phone or crazy?" These days, I simply assume "cell phone" while noting that the one-sided conversation often sounds crazy.

Recently on BART, a man with a blue earpiece sat talking quietly. All at once he announced loudly "I am talking to myself, but I am NOT CRAZY! I just have a lot of bills to pay!" Apparently, the crazies now have cell phones.

I don't know what to do.

Fun in the Desert

I've been travelling in Baja with my family. We actually are on our way home. The girls are so excited to be home again (lily misses her stuffed animals, molly her bed), that they agreed to a 12 hour drive from Loreto to Ensenada, rather than taking 2-3 days to do it. We only had two whiney moments which is testament to their dedication to the cause of home.

Driving through the desert, I suggested we play our usual car game of "I spy".

Me: "I'll go first. I spy, with my little eye, something green"

Molly: "a cactus"

Me: "right. your turn"

Molly: "I spy with my little eye, something blue"

Lily: "the sky"

Molly: "right. your turn"

Lily: "I spy with my little eye, something brown"

Me: "the dirt."

Lily: "right"

After the white clouds, the yellow signs, and the black road, the game was essentially over.

The things kids learn in school these days...

"Mommy, today I taught Delia how to eat her boogers. I told her, 'if the grownups forget to give you a snack, you can just eat these.' But I haven't taught her about eating the eye stuff yet."

"I'm sure her parents will be thrilled."

(discussion follows re: hygiene and public opinion)

Kids are like monkeys

Lily was in the bath. She rubbed her finger across the top of her nose, found something there, and put it in her mouth.

"Lily, what did you just eat?"

"It wasn't a booger, Mommy"

"Okay, but do you know what it was?"

"No."

Wonderings, and The Best Intentions Perhaps Gone Awry

"Mommy, do princesses poo?"

"Yes, Lily. Everyone poos, no matter who they are."

"Oh." . . . (long pause) . . . "Do princesses have fancy poo?"

"No. It's just poo."

(then added for my own amusement)

"I don't think poo could ever be fancy unless someone ate a lot of glitter, then maybe the poo would sparkle. . . "

(realizing my mistake - Lily might want her poo to sparkle - and backtracking)

" . . . but eating glitter wouldn't be good for your body."

"Oh."

What should I do next?

Molly recently gave one of her old bathing suits to Lily. It is a one piece, with multicolored hearts against a black background, with ruffles along the neck and a built in skirt. A cute girly-suit my stepmom, Shi Wei picked up in China a few years ago. Lily wore it this weekend. I was folding it up and for the first time really recognized that there was writing on the suit as well. As many words as hearts, but I'd never given them much notice as they just seemed part of the design. Well, I thought I'd read them. This is what they say, over and over, covering the entire suit.

"Love affair"

"Love affair was gone"

"Sweet Lovers"

"Gone Happiness"

BART Haiku, March 20, 2008

Man in a plaid suit
Swinging bag of bloody meat
Disturbing dinner

BART Haiku March 19, 2008

Franciscan friar
Robed in white, sits next to me
Dear God, I giggle.

Coincidence or Conspiracy?

Last week I read a book whose main character is named "Thursday." Imagine my surprise when I opened a new book this week with a main character named "Wednesday."

A Warm and Happy Place

We met this sculpture over the weekend at the De Young museum in San Francisco. Shaun and the girls and I were picnicking around Golden Gate park and found this happy spot directly in front of the sculpture. Actually, I saw the sculpture and chose the spot. Shaun came up later and commented, "of course my wife chooses to sit directly in front of the vagina." Which I did. And not only did I get to enjoy the artwork, but I was able to watch a slow but steady progression of children (including my own) who walked up to the sculpture, felt the vagina hole, and then climbed inside. One little boy, about four years old, sat for a moment in the vagina. Then a big smile came over his face and he exclaimed to no one in particular, "I love it in here!"

I wondered if the artist intended or expected this to occur, and if, perhaps, the artist ever spent time with his or her vagina, watching the public response.

The Amazing Power of Deductive Reasoning

A Bit of History

My grandmother (mom's side) died a few years back and while we were cleaning out her apartment (actually, we were looking for anything we wanted to have), I took several diaries and papers showing family history. They have been sitting in a bag on a shelf, unopened since I returned from her funeral. I've been thinking about them for a few months now and finally took a look. One of the diaries begins during World War II, when she was in her early 20s, dating my Grandfather who was about to be sent off to war. She hmms and haws about whether or not she really likes him, then a few months pass and suddenly they're married and pregnant and he's on a ship overseas and she's madly in love. I'm up to her eighth month of pregnancy (I'm a little concerned because she's happy about losing ten pounds, but I guess my mom was born and lived so I can let it go), he's landed in England, and has just told her that he learned that her brother made it there safely as well. They write to each other every day, sometimes twice, but the letters take a long time to reach each other. Most of the pages are filled with her daily doings -- cleaning, eating, teaching her mother shorthand, fighting with her sister. But the context is so interesting.

Anti-Music

Buskers often entertain us with blues, classical, mexican, bluegrass, rock, you name it, as we go to and from the trains through the BART station. The other day, a bedraggled man with matted hair and a long beard pulled out his violin. I actually doubt that it was his violin, only because it seemed like he had never played one before. He energetically (madly) drew the bow back and forth across the strings, making angry screeching noises. I did, at first, give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking perhaps it was some avant-guard performance. But after a few minutes of listening while I purchased my bart ticket, I came to the firm conclusion that he did not know how to play the violin, and was in fact purposely playing anti-music. I wish I had checked to see if he had the case out in hopes of dollars, because now I wonder if he were playing only to annoy, or whether he genuinely hoped some commuters would appreciate his (insane?) effort.

Lily, age 5

"How was school today, Lily?"

"No one played with me today."

"Really? Well who did you play with?"

"Just Sadie and Rosa, they were the only ones who played with me."

"And what did you play?"

"Pirates."

"Oooh. And were you a pirate?"

"No, I was a unicorn."

"I see. So was Sadie a pirate?"

"No, she was a unicorn."

"And what was Rosa?"

"A unicorn."

"Oh. Were there any pirates in your game?"

"No."

"Well, that sounds like a fun game."

"It was."

I still think it was a party.

On a beautfiful Sunday morning, Shaun and I and the girls made our way on foot from our house to the Thai Temple for a Berkeley brunch. On the way we passed the neighborhood halfway house and as we approached, it sounded like a gathering was taking place, with many gay voices chattering away. How nice, I thought, that they would do something festive on a sunny Sunday. But when I looked in the yard, there were only four or five people. Each was talking to him or herself.

If I Had My Very Own Parking Place...

Quickest Way To Heaven

In Erie, PA one can get fried cheesecake. So we did. It's your basic cheesecake wedge that has been rolled in egg whites and bread crumbs and then dropped into the deep fat fryer. The result is a tasty, warm and crunchy outside and your traditional cool cheesecake inside. Mmmmmm.

Christmas List

Molly suggested we get Lily a "time-out" chair for Christmas this year. I'm considering it.

I'm back

Or least I'm not completely gone anymore. Finished my last final yesterday. Maybe now I'll notice the world around me and have something to say again. I did notice yesterday evening after the last final (shouldn't every final be the last?), over beers with my fellow tired law students that we could barely speak to each other. There was lots of sighing, a few groans over remembered exams, then general commiserating over how it was time to rejoin the world -- do laundry, shave beards (not me). Alice commented that she might try to explore the city a bit this vacation -- she's been here two years and hasn't seen anything other then what occurs along the route to and from school. Caroline announced that she plans to go grocery shopping, noting she was reduced to eating old peanutbutter sandwich crusts for dinner last night. I also noticed that suffering is much more fun in a group environment.

I have nothing to say.

Gay Rights

My friend Jessica has a young, enthusiastic son whom she took grocery shopping the other day. They were in a bit of a hurry, made it to the grocercy store, where outside, as they gathered their shopping cart, they heard an activist provocatively question shoppers as they ingressed and egressed, "who has time for gay rights?" Theo turns to his mom, and says (enthusiastically), "we don't have time for gay rights, do we mom?"

Gardens in the Hood

I am a fan of low-maintenance gardening. In fact, I take it a step further to no-maintenance gardening. To my visitors who view my backyard, I simply explain, "I'm going for the wild jungle look."


I'm not alone in my endeavors (or lack thereof). I have come to appreciate certain neighborhood gardens which are vibrant, though infinitely practical. Take for instance this small front garden on King street:




It has become more lush (lushier?) over time, the flowers never die, and they never have to be watered. If you can't tell from the photograph, all the flowers are plastic. Across the street, is another garden which has gone one step further by adding plastic birds and paper butterflies (a more natural effect, I think).


There is, however, one garden, along the front of a house of iniquity (alleged), that makes me feel both hope -- someone had good intentions -- and pain. This garden has been there for about a year now. I think images speak louder than words:

BART Haiku, October 10, 2007

Black clouds sit above
rainbow over West Berkeley's
decrepit houses.

BART Haiku, October 10, 2007

Sprawled across two seats
food bag, newspapers, orange juice
tsk, tsk. Crowded train.

Suggestion for Halloween

The wonderful thing about the Internet is that one comes across things that one would not normally see in Berkeley. Such as the Bibleman costume:

"Nothing says "You Lose" like arriving for battle in flowing cape and warrior mask."

I guess it remains to be seen exactly who the loser is.

Non Traditional (?) Action Figures

In case you haven't yet visited the catholic action figure website, here is a bit of text describing the Jesus action figure:

"Jesus was the most important person in history. Ever. He was born in a manger, raised as a carpenter, and crucified on a cross. He healed the sick. He raised the dead. He fed five thousand men with two fish and five loaves of bread."

Impressive.

Mary's action figure description, however, leaves me with a few questions:

"Mary was just an ordinary girl, who got a visit from the angel Gabriel, and her life-and legacy-changed forever as she accepted this role of being the mother of Jesus."

I do recommend visiting the site for additional illuminating information about characters from the old and new testament.

BART haiku - September 25, 2007

Security Guard

His wheelchair rigged: police lights

Uniformed. Roll on.

BART Haiku, September 25, 2007

Thinning hair, dyed black

Tight, light blue velvet sweat suit

Sir, not attractive.

BART Haiku - a background

A friend of mine told me during a dine@ soiree, about a phone texting group he was a part of and one of the group activities is BART haiku. The poem must be written on BART or shortly thereafter when inspired by BART.

Last night, as Shaun expressed his distaste for public transporation, I told him how much I enjoy riding BART every day amid, amongst all the humanity (opposites do attract) (not that I am inhuman -- Shaun and I are opposites) (in case I confused you).

When I first started school, I was not a part of BART, and was amazed by the mass of people getting on BART during early morning rush hour; how they could, despite being crammed on top of each other, each plug in to their separate technologies to isolate themselves from the throng; how they get off the train en masse like ants heading about their busy busy business.

Now I am one of them (ant people), but I still enjoy the quintessential BART moments that happen nearly every day. And BART haiku seems to me to be a perfect format for sharing those moments of being (Virginia Woolf may nod, may not).

Thus, I share.

BART Haiku - September 21, 2007

Not standing in line

Pirouettes on the platform -

Should he get a seat?

Modern Times

This morning, Molly was looking through a folder of her drawings and other creations from kindergarten (she's a big fourth-grader now), when she came across a letter she had written to Santa.

"Mom! What is this doing here! How come it wasn't mailed??"

I paused before answering, wondering whether she was pulling my leg or being sincere, because by her age, I certainly had figured out the truth about Santa.

In fact, one year, long before I was nine, my sisters and I had forcibly disrobed "Santa" one Christmas to prove that we knew he was really Jimmy Curry, friend of our parents. His red plastic suit and cotton ball beard were completely unconvincing and easily torn from his body.

Molly asked me once -- probably around the time she wrote the letter at issue -- if I would tell her the truth about Santa. I said I would and waited for the question, "is he real?" but she never asked it. So we left it at that. I guess you could say we have a "don't ask, don't tell" Santa policy in our house. We have acknowleged that some people don't believe in Santa -- or the tooth fairy, or the easter bunny -- but that everyone has a choice in that matter. Molly continues to choose to believe.

Thus, Molly was truly miffed that her letter hadn't been sent. So I did some quick thinking.

"I think I must have faxed it to him. That way I could keep the original copy because it was so cute!"

She seemed satisfied with this answer -- at least she didn't ask any further questions.

Free Pre-Paid Cremation!

I received this in the mail the other day, addressed to my mother (in the interest of my privacy, my address has been deleted).

However, I'm afraid I didn't respect my mother's privacy and opened her mail. I was intrigued... if something is pre-paid, then how is it free?? Here are some of the highlights.

"WIN A PRE-PAID CREMATION!" (if you fill out and mail in their info card, they enter you into a monthly drawing. I guess it's kind of like winning a free vacation, which, interestingly, rhymes with cremation.)

"With everyone moving around these days, placing a loved one in a 'local' cemetery may not be as functional as it used to be."

"Like we said: 'Cremation just makes sense'. If you are not interested in spending your family's inheritance on embalming, caskets, vaults, markers, fancy funeral homes, or cemetery property, then we have the answer!" (guilt plus exclamation points -- good marketing strategy)

"Please accept our apologies if this letter has reached you at a time of serious illness or death in your family." (thoughtful. apology accepted)

Here's Jane

Just click here...

Half a Glass...

Life's really great here. Shaun had surgery on his foot last week and has been immobile in bed until today. (Half empty = Shaun can't do much to help; half full = when he heals, he won't be in constant foot pain.) Last night we discovered Molly had a major lice infestation which miraculously hadn't passed on to the rest of us. (Half empty = infested with lice; half full = only Molly). And I have Grampa's operation to look forward to (half empty = kidney removed; half full = cancer removed), and next weekend I'll be helping to clean out MooMoo's things (half empty = she's dead; half full = I might end up with some cool stuff).

As you can see, I'm teetering on the edge of positive thinking.

Four-Year-Old Wisdom

Everybody in the world loves you if you give them presents.

Missing Jane?

This is a fun video of Jane in Ireland. Too bad I can't figure out how to make it work on Blogger. If Jane read my blog, she could protest my next idea of posting it on you tube....

Moo reciting the ballad of Yukon Jake

Moo Moo's Christmas Message

Moo Moo, age 101.

(She's the one on the left)

Moo Moo is only 93 here. A spring chicken.

You can tell by the hat.

Moo Moo

A Loan From God

This came in the mail the other day, addressed to me. Though I don't believe in God, I was prepared to suspend my disbelief if God was going to give me money. I was impressed that God had figured out that I am deep in law school debt and wanted to help me out. And I figured that God's interest rate would be at least as good as the government's, if not better, because God shouldn't be greedy. I did wonder how these people got the direct line to God's finance department. Unfortunately, it wasn't a straightforward low-interest loan, but some complicated prayer process which, I began to suspect, would involve me giving rather than receiving. Alas.

Cameras

Last week I started my summer job as a law clerk. Things were going fine until I noticed the cameras everywhere -- in the hallways, in the kitchen where we eat lunch, in several of the main office areas. I've had a lifelong issue with cameras when they are pointed at me. I make faces. I cannot help myself. It's like a nervous tic. The secretary outside the senior partner's office has a split screen monitor with continuous feed from each of the cameras. I wonder how often she watches the screen, because now that I am aware of the cameras, I can't help but look directly at each one as I pass by, and I make a face. Sometimes just a subtle lift of the eyebrows, sometimes a quick and quirky smile. I work hard to not stick out my tongue. I really hope that after a while I get used to the cameras and can go about my day like a normal person. If not . . . well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see. I must admit, this is an issue I hadn't prepared for.

Berkeley Bowl Poet

A guy named Zach sits outside of Berkeley Bowl (grocery store) with his manual typewriter, offering poems to passersby. His typewriter ribbon is broken so he uses white mailing labels -- The keys make readable indentations on the white sticker. I asked him to write a poem about Lily. He did:

Lily is a little
and with her
whittling of the
years and days
she will be
some kind
of wonderflower
which is
relevant
to what
happened
to the
days
May
is
a very nice place
to stay and if
it must pass
at least it
is the nursery rhyme
with a lily grown
in winter.

I know you missed me

I finished finals and have been vacationing at home. Start a new (summer) job on tuesday. Either I'll be too busy to blog, or so busy I must blog. We'll see.

Geek Alert

Confession at the end of an email to my Constitutional law professor:

I feel like Mr. Spock on Star Trek when dealing with Con Law... "But Jim, that's illogical."

Law professor's response:

What does Spock know, anyway? Ask Data. He will run it through his positronic matrix and will come up with this same conclusion.

I've Been Here. Have You?

It is a lot like Switzerland. Except that there aren't any mountains. Or Swiss chalets (unless mobile homes count). Nor is it known for its chocolate, watches, bank accounts, army knives, or neutrality. I doubt that there are any Swiss people there either. But I suppose there could be some subtle similarities I overlooked as I passed on through. Like the name.

Freeway Driving Always Makes Me Sing

I drive by this apartment building sometimes on my way to school (actually, I'm driven). I wonder who would live so very close to the freeway, with thousands of people driving by, looking in the windows. And do the tenants worry that a car might hit their home? Shaun tried to explain to me how it wasn't likely to happen, based on some physics centrifugal force theory (which I suppose the building engineers probably thought of as well) but I just see cars within a few feet of the building and I'm not convinced.

Faki Me Spanaki

This is the name of a Greek recipe for lentil soup with spinach. It amuses me.

Berkeley

I used to have an Isuzu trooper, and one day as I was getting into my truck/SUV, a young man yelled at me as he walked by "you gas guzzling, communist capitalist!!!" Although my outward response was to look him in the eye and rev the engine, inwardly, I struggled with his words - they made me think ... I was certainly a gas-guzzler, but could one be both a communist and a capitalist at the same time?

Eight-Year-Old Wisdom

Some people think you're only on top of the world if you are a king or queen, but really, everyone is on top of the world unless you're jumping in the air or flying or something.

Nice Mommy, but...

Lily this morning: My mommy is a nice mommy. (Big Sigh, shaking her head), except she won't cut the crusts off my toast.

I'm sure could use this sign somewhere...

Tourettes without Regrets

I came across a flier for the Anarchist Slam "Tourettes without Regrets" that takes place in Oakland at the beginning of each month. It includes freestyle rap battle, hardcore slam poetry, dirty haikus, and my favorite: audience contests which have included milk vomiting, organ-meat hurling, and do-it-yourself Poloroid puppet pornography. I really really want to go. Who's coming?

Memory

When I was at Berkeley, I did an unofficial (and private) survey of the bathroom facilities on campus. During my four years there, I tried to use the bathroom in each building. Some were modern and dingy, others were marbled and dingy. Modern bathrooms tended to have better grafitti - pen works better on metal stalls than marbled walls-- and of those, Dwinell Hall, where much of the English department was housed, had the most interesting grafitti - although the philosophy building was certainly in the running.

This morning when I awoke, a bathroom poem I read 15+ years ago suddenly popped into my head.

"Some come here to sit and think,
and some come here to shit and stink.
But I come here to scratch my balls
and read the writing on the walls."

After I congratulated myself upon my remarkable memory, I then wondered why the heck that little ditty has remained so long in my brain, verbatim, while if you asked me to tell you the general plot from one of the many great works of literature I read during undergrad, I'd have to get back to you after I refreshed my memory with a back-of-the-book blurb.

I'm still wondering.

My future grandchildren

Lily told me this morning that she can't wait to have babies, that she is going to have three and their names will be "Naughty," "Funny" and "Stupid Head".

Confusion

The other day, Molly asked, "Is Jesus Butthead, or is Butthead Jesus?"

Her confusion can be explained by our kitchen decor.

It doesn't look like a water spout to me...

Graffiti

This morning on BART, I saw scratched into the window sill next to my seat:

NEENER
NEENER
NEENER

Subtle, and yet straight to the point.

I can't think of a more manly way to die

A school chum of mine told me today that his great-grandfather recently died at age 85. He suffered a heart-attack while manning a jack-hammer.

I confess, and I'm not even Catholic

In criminal law this week we learned about the bystander effect via a case in which a woman was brutally stabbed to death over the course of about half an hour while at least 38 people who heard her screams did nothing. The bystander effect being the belief that someone else is surely taking action, ergo, no one takes action. (yes, I did just use 'ergo' and I haven't even ever taken Latin, and I actually didn't learn it in law school).

I learned about this effect in college in a social psych class. Because of it I generally take action.

Except I didn't on the 23rd of December (do you remember?). At JFK, wating in line to check in at Jet Blue, hoping that I still might make my flight that was supposed to leave 20 minutes ago, I didn't report the suspicious computer bag that had been left unattended near the line. I touched it with my foot. I thought about reporting it, as all good amercans are supposed to report suspicious, potential bomb-carrying items since 9/11. But I then I thought again. If I report this unattended item, the area will likely have to be secured and I surely won't make my flight and get home in time for Christmas, and fuck it, I've been travelling since early the previous morning and I'll take the risk that this potential bomb will explode after I get my ticket and get on the plane and at least MY Christmas won't be ruined.

I think this was the bystander effect in reverse: no one else has reported the bag, so I guess it's okay if I don't report it either.

Later, when I had almost reached the ticket counter, I overheard a woman behind me comment "I think I should report this!" But she was stopped by the gentleman next to her who pointed out that if she did, none of us would make our flights. That seemed to quell her patriotic sense of duty.

Luckily, there were no explosions at JFK this Christmas, and some poor traveller is really bummed that s/he left her computer behind.

Well I really hate to post above Dance Off!, but WOW!

Woman, 27, found after two decades lost in jungle
by Ian MacKinnon, South-east Asia correspondent
Friday January 19, 2007
The Guardian

A woman who went missing 19 years ago as an eight-year-old in the remote jungles of Cambodia has reappeared after apparently living rough and scavenging food for almost two decades.

The woman, thought to be Rochom Pngieng, who would now be 27, was discovered by villagers who noticed that food was going missing and set a trap, only to discover her naked and painfully thin.

But the woman speaks no intelligible language, making it almost impossible to verify what would be a remarkable sequence of events. Her long absence and years spent in the dense forest leave many questions unanswered.Medical experts received permission from her parents to take DNA samples in an effort to confirm the woman's identity, but her father is convinced it is his long-lost daughter because of a prominent scar received from a knife wound as a child.

"When I saw her, she was naked and walking in a bending-forward position like a monkey ... She was bare-bones skinny," her father, Sal Lou, 45, told the Associated Press.

"She was shaking and picking up grains of rice from the ground to eat. Her eyes were red like tigers' eyes."

The girl disappeared in about 1988 while tending a herd of buffalo in an isolated region 200 miles from the Cambodian capital, Phnom Penh, on the border with Vietnam's rugged central highlands.

The woman was described as "half-human and half-animal" by Mao San, police chief of Oyadao district.

But her father, who believed she had long ago been killed by forest animals, said he recognised his daughter instantly, despite her blackened body and wild hair down to her waist.

Yet communication with the woman has proved virtually impossible, apart from sign language. When she was hungry, Mr Lou said, she simply patted her stomach. She has also found readjusting to normal life difficult, according to her father. She has resisted wearing clothes and bathing, fending him off by shouting and screaming.

"If she is not sleeping, she just sits and glances left and right, left and right," he said. "It is not easy indeed but life is waiting ahead for her."

Dance Off!!!

Oops

SYDNEY, Jan 4 (Reuters Life!) - An Australian bank has apologized for issuing a credit card to a cat after its owner decided to test the bank's identity security system.

The Bank of Queensland issued a credit card to Messiah the cat when his owner Katherine Campbell applied for a secondary card on her account under its name.

"I just couldn't believe it. People need to be aware of this and banks need to have better security," Campbell told local media on Thursday.

The bank said the cat's card had been canceled. "We apologize as this should not have happened," it said in a statement.

The Heart Attack Grill

If you happen to be in Tempe Arizona, please go to the Heart Attack Grill for me. Customers are called "Patients" and if you eat a Quadruple Bypass Burger (four half-pound beef patties, four pieces of cheese, and a mound of bacon), a waitress dressed in a skimpy "nurse" uniform will push you to your car in a wheelchair at no additional charge. Sounds like fun to me.

According to the SF Chronicle (my reference source of choice), some nurses have been lobbying against the grill's use of the sexy nurse uniform. In fact they are threatening to sue. The spokesperson for the Center for Nursing Advocacy said, "Nurses are the most sexually fantasized-about profession. We're asking people, if they're going to have these fantasies, please don't make it so public. Move these sexual fantasies to other professions."

That sounds reasonable to me. Let's see. What are some under-sexualized professions that need spicing up.... Politicians? That's actually the only one I can think of, although Clinton may have changed the image a bit, at least for men.

On the otherhand, grill owner, John Basso made a good point: "If anything, I think it glorifies nurses to be thought of as a physically attractive and desireable individual... Nobody wants to think of themselves as some old battle ax who changes bedpans for a living."

Righto.

Michiginian in New York, as interrogated by Jess and Emily

Jess: So, where are you from?

Michiginian: Well, I consider New York my home.

Emily: Oh, so were you born here?

Michiginian: Well, no. But I have been here a long time, and I really feel like a New Yorker.

Jess: Really? How long have you been here?

Michiginian: About five years, but I lived here before and then moved away for a while.

Emily: Well, where do your parents live?

Michiginian: In Michigan.

Emily: I see, and is that where you grew up?

Michiginian: Well, I lived there as a kid, but I've really spent most of my adult life in New York.

Jess: So, you're really from Michigan.

My Children

Lily was running around the house gleefully, wearing nothing but a stethoscope around her waist. Molly, stethoscope owner, tried to grab it off of Lily, which resulted in a fight. In her defense, Molly explained, "But mom, I really wanted to amplify the sound of my fart!"