lady jane

                                                           Paradis Latin, Champagne Poster

                                                               by Christian Dura, 1984 

In the mid 2ks, I had a colleague the few years I worked as an administrator for a graduate program in Berkeley. Jane had a brilliant mind and a phD in art history (my jam).  I enjoyed listening to her stories, knowledge of art, and experience living in 1980s Paris where she studied at the Sorbonne.

 Paris is one of my favourite cities - stunning in its beauty and endlessly walkable. It's a place where time seems non-linear and fluid. So much of western civilization, from the Dark Ages, the Inquisition, the Revolution, to World War II, has passed through that city. I went off the beaten path and bathed in a hammam with women from Africa and the Middle East. I got lost down narrow streets, explored flea markets and bookstores, and watched the lights of the Eiffel Tower, enchanted as I was, from the Pont des Artes. I spent hours in the Musee d’Orsay blissfully studying the impressionists.

In 1980, Lady Jane was studying at the Sorbonne. She lived in a third floor walk-up flat in a Saint Germaine brothel. She rented from the two women who ran the place. ‘ Fabulous!’ I said. ‘ They sound like Irma La Duce.’ 

' They were a hoot.’ She said. ‘ Quite the tough and sexy dames, you know. They had survived the insanity of war. They drank wine, smoked, and listened to jazz with their friends."

Jane’s place was cheap, with narrow spaces and doorways carved and moulded by the hands of men in the past. Her room had views of Saint Germaine and the city. To make extra money, she worked as a concierge at posh parties and fashion shows. A social encounter would lead from one gig to another. 

' Oui, cherie Jane! We need a concierge at a birthday party for Pierre Cardin.’

And there she was, young Jane, standing in the foyer of a Paradis Latin Cabaret, in her Givenchy dress suit. She greeted Grace Jones, Yves Saint Laurent, Issey Miyake, Marisa Berenson, and Catherine Deneuve. She helped with the flower arrangements, placed in decadent Grecian urns. She spoke fluent French without an American accent. Who has lived such a life, Jane says? 

Into the future, as an old woman, she became invisible to young people who had no concept of such an age of glamour, American rock n roll, original ideas, and sophistication.  Jane was fascinating because she actually experienced Paris at a time it was just a dream to me. The imagination, as limitless and beautiful as it is, is not the same as one’s lived experience. 

‘ It was beautiful.’ She said of the Pierre Cardin party. ‘ Everyone was so chic. I'd never seen anything like it - that kind of glamour. Such a rare thing these days. People were so interesting - inspired to create and to live. That's what drove everyone - our love of life. We all knew we’re going to suffer and die, or lose someone like I did. We might as well enjoy ourselves with whatever time we have.’

Jane could look at an image of a painting and know the artist, period and type of paint used. ‘ Oh, that’s Velázquez, 1618 to 1619. Oil on linen. He was a master of the chiaroscuro technique. I could tell you more if we were looking at the original.’

(What?! Damn).

In Paris she met an older Frenchman and fell in love with him. They were married and as she told me, that was the happiest time of her life. Then just like that, her husband became ill and died. She never recovered from the loss and grief. She remained, emotionally at least, that young grieving widow, alone in Paris.

She moved through life differently after that; living in her head, but detached from her heart and body. No one ever touched Jane again because the only person whose touch she wanted was gone.

Her ageing parents, likely motivated by the state of grief she was in, asked her to come back home. She returned to the Bay and settled into her position at the seminary, where she remained for the next 25 years. To me, it seemed as though no one took the time to learn more about Jane, who she had been or who she was. She was an original, a bonafide scholar, who had lived quite an extraordinary life until her heart was broken. I saw Jane and I listened to Jane. 

I'm drawn to interesting women who take different, non-linear paths in life -  who do what isn't expected of them.  Jane chose an academic life of the mind  through art and beauty. Then came undone by the loss of an unexpected true love. At least she had known and experienced that. 

Dr. Mary Jane Phillips passed away in 2019. Ne me quitte pas is a song written by Jacques Brel in 1959. Edith Piaf had a hit with it, then Nina Simone recorded a version of it in 1965. 

It translates in English to ‘Do not leave me.’

the lady of kazan

                                                            

Airbnb is usually slow in winter. My first booking of 2024, a Russian anthropologist showed up at my door. She lived in Anchorage where she worked for the National Park Service. She's a phD in marine anthropology, which means she's a diver. Now, that's bad ass! One thing I'm terrified of is going into deep sea anything - diving, submersibles, sharks, and darkness. The required gear is claustrophobic to me. I'm cool snorkeling up to 20 feet maximum or swimming in holes where I can clearly see the exit. 

The night she arrived, the anthropologist had two laptops stolen when she stopped at a gas station near the airport. One laptop included her presentation. Welcome to Oakland! 

"I am in shock." She said. " We need wine!"

Fortunately a colleague had a back-up of her presentation. Her first night we had a nice get to know you chat over wine. I enjoy listening to women's stories; the paths and people we choose, the lives we live. She mentioned the town Sitka, Alaska which triggered a memory.

' I used to dog sit for a visiting professor at Stanford from Sitka. ' I said. ' He was cool - a charming man.' 

' What was he teaching?' She asked. 

' I don't remember...literature, maybe? He had a houseboat in Sitka and would go back and forth. I loved his dog, Colorado. I took him everywhere with me." 

' What was his name? Was it Brandon? I think I know this professor. I lived in Sitka for a few years. Wait...he has a blog.'

She pulls up a blog on her phone and shows me a picture of the houseboat and a picture of the professor.

' No way! That's him!'

' He was lecturing in Russia on a Fulbright scholarship.' She said.

' He's a Fulbright scholar now? Wow. I have a thing for academics, artists, poets - men on boats and in the woods." 

The anthologist laughed and lifted her glass. " Vashe zdorov'ye to the boys!" 

After that, my enchantment with her was a bit of a struggle. She opened up immediately that she was going through a divorce after 25 years of marriage, two of which husband been in a relationship with someone else. She seemed sad under the hustle and bustle of the conference she was in town to attend. They had agreed that she would keep the house in Anchorage. 

Then she talked about Russia. She was fascinated with Bridgerton, a historical-fiction series I've never seen except images and snippets. Many women in the cast of Bridgerton are black playing Regency period nobility. 

"You're the wrong color for Russia.' She said. ' I was shocked with this show. Black people in Russia?! You never see this."

Okay....I felt my face make that squirm response expression.

With more wine she shared an anecdote about a black dude who approached her and got her a drink at a bar in DC. Apparently they talked about Bridgerton. I'm struck that the racist patriarchy can get into an academic's head at all. A phD should be immune to any of it.

Her comments were not boding well for her as a person. I have a hard rule that when I hear such things, I stop sharing and shift to listening. It's useless, really. The possibility of sisterhood disintegrates. She will keep tussling her hair. Then it's every black dude in a bar wants a blonde story. They always have such anecdotes and myself the misfortune of listening to them. In the realm of straight women, it's the implication of competition. 

Her habits underlied a woman grappling with too much, distracted. Abandoned  bowls left out on the counter, my bath towel used after a shower, regular requests for things that could be found in my guest tips and tricks. I don't even share towels with someone I'm sleeping with. 

Let me think. Okay, maybe once...in my 30s. After that period I had acquired more insight about microorganisms that thrive on the human body. 

Well, who among us has got it together when going through heavy things and loss? I'm a mess in such a state myself. I have a hard time being productive when I'm internally lost in grief. Sometimes going forward alone can be unbearably sad and bereft. 

Airbnb is always a roll of the dice, moments with people that can go good or bad. Most guests have been super cool, a few walk in with their burdens and heartbreak. People. I thought, be kind and patient with the marine anthropologist. 

Then she did a positive thing when she checked out. I forgave her inappropriate comments. When I got up, I found a gracious thank you note, plus cash for the extra night she needed, and an Our Lady of Kazan art card from Russia. The Lady of Kazan is the patron saint of a town near St. Petersburg. Legend has it that the lady would protect Russia against the Bolsheviks as well as travellers on their journey. 

What I never told the anthropologist is that I have been fascinated with iconography of the Madonna in antiquity. I have a tattoo of her on my leg, symbolic of Oshun, the queen high mother in the African pantheon.  

One day I plan to visit Sitka, Alaska and cross the Bering Sea to Russia where my color may be wrong. 

I could giveth a thousand fucks, sayeth the colored girl. The world is mine. 

she her we

                                           Latto (center) with the girls advancing the culture.

                                                                         Atlanta, 2023

I'm baffled by the 21st century idea of what an event or party should be. I'm far from being what anyone would call a church girl, but what is going on? 

There's not much imagination or mystery, but a lot of excess and exposition. I was sipping the tea of popular culture, which I do from time to time, and came across an image of the rapper Latto's 25th birthday bash in Atlanta. 

The theme of her party was Heaux Up x Pimps Down. Well, who doesn't want that? The sis is clever. This is aligned with Latto's bad bitch image. Such party-events are a part of the bigger branding picture. The word brand has a different meaning now than it did 30 years ago. A brand used to be a thing, like Pop Tarts or jeans. Then capitalism and social media collaborated into making a person a brand.

Latto's aesthetic style is getting into the realm of trash which will inspire other young girls to go out looking like strippers on patrol. Such style in pop culture - vacillating between Reality TV and sex doll avatar - has been going on for about 20 years now. Two things started this Twilight Zone post-feminism: the Plastic Kardashians and social media. It's a contradiction where empowerment is being naked on the internet. Fierce and filter are like distortion tools for self-exploitation. 

The vulgarity has impacted young black women who don't need to augment anything because being of African descent is wild, natural beauty. There isn't a black girl on earth that has to enhance a thing nor will she age like a cornflake girl. 

"What do you mean our time of life? How old do you think I am? You forget, your people never know how old we are." 

- Florence to Maude, 1972

Cardi B has been open about her changes; her motivation being that it was an investment in her stripper game. Cardi is the queen of body commodity culture. Her raps, image, and exposition are all based on her body parts. Megan too. I wonder how far they'll roll with all that through time? Will they end up in Vegas, into their 50s, rappin about their W.A.Ps? I'm fairly radical in my value system, but W.A.P tripped me out with its hella bold raunchiness. 

The 20s and 30s are one phase of a woman's life, the 50s - 60s are different in form and context, closer to our own mortality. We aren't baby girls anymore. I haven't been a baby girl since Seals and Croft's Summer Breeze. 

I'm clutching my old ass pearls because I don't think it's necessary or provocative to see everything. Alas, the body commodity remains profitable. It's like we've become Hottentots for sale with raps, beats, and tarantula eyelashes. 

Young women in trash glam look like saturated drag queens more than natural women. Drag queens look dope in heavy make-up, because drag itself is performative, an art form. The young Gen X queens in Paris is Burning, did this without social media, but with DIY glam and grit. I'm here to tell you, no one can mess with anyone who does anything well from scratch. Anyone can click on a filter for that Disney princess heaux glow. 

The modern age is a maximum marketing machine - image, the body, street culture, and trash. The daring garner attention and attention pays the bills. I have no idea how anyone makes money on IG.  Google and Apple Pay are tools of the matrix to me. 

I love trash as ironic camp not as an aesthetic standard of womanhood. I'm critical of entertainment imagery that will get into the heads of black girls in potentially destructive ways. Being autonomous girls and women with agency over our own bodies, in healthy relationships to ourselves and others are defiant moves. Being an entertainment heaux or bad bitch player panders to the enduring stereotypes of a racist society:

The heaux, the pimp, and the drug dealer -  the rulers of The Game.

The Game is rough and cheap and people are interchangeably rough and cheap. Rarely does anyone get to the top of it without taking someone else out. There can be loyalty, betrayal, violence, and drama.

My first serious boyfriend when I was about 18 was a pimp who was trying to get straight - that is, more square. He wanted to be a DJ and rapper.  I used to design flyers for him out of encouragement and caring. His reality, with its transient exploitation and skin trade, messed his head up. He didn't adapt well to me or my straight friends ( kids outside of the game he was into ).

When I broke up with him, he said he had a gun and threatened to hurt himself. 

RUN! 

Pimps can be master manipulators. They are always jockeying for leverage and power. When applied effectively, the guilt trip can be a form of manipulative power. T.S. Madison is a favorite trans comedian and podcaster. I like listening to her interviews. She keeps it real, I'll give her that.

No...I don't really know a lot about love because I used to be a H-O.

I also learned aspects to the game, from the point of view of women, strippers I worked with in New York.  Most were tough and functional, some were strung out, lacked discipline, and could be easily misled. It was usually white girls who got into the wacky situations.  I once booked a girl for a bachelor party gig on a boat. She went to the gig high on heroin. The bachelor party conned her bodyguard off the boat and he called me in a frantic state. That was my job - booking gigs, dispatching the phones, and collecting the money. Realizing she was alone with a gang of dudes, stripper girl freaked out and jumped off the boat into Long Island sound. 

Myself in Hell's Kitchen that night, I had to call in the Long Island cavalry to rescue the girl from that gig. 

In the game one has to be disciplined. There is no space for the expression of softness because soft is vulnerable and the vulnerable can be hurt. 

The tough strippers and hustlers had a kind of force field around them. The most powerful I met carried themselves like ladies, not heaux. There is a distinct difference. Being a lady is like an armor, a superpower. A lady can't be turned out because her presence endeavors respect. I apply such armor. My other armor is that I'm androgynous and present to hustlers like a lesbian. 

There ain't no BET princess or church wife going on over here. I'm also not very good at the sidekick, partner-in-crime, up in the club homegirl. I never learned how to do any of that. I'm interchangeably  the good friend and the lone wolf.  

Turned out is a street term for turning a good girl into a working girl.

In order to do that, a pimp or a madame uses mind control. Once a hustler gets in someone's head, it's a wrap. The promise of love and devotion that are never true. The promise of freedom is never manifested, except in death. 

The Game itself is capitalism and transactional. Whether you make 100 or 1000 a date, a heaux is the product. I'm anti-pimp because pimps are clowns who are not men.  I'm a socialist advocate for the labor of a heaux. Heaux should keep 100% of their profit without a middleman to take a cut. A pimp is the pitchman, a negotiator. Without sexual labor they would have nothing and no one to pimp.

I had a neighbor years ago in West Berkeley who was a old G from Chicago, several years older than me. He was a trip; a vulgar cat with missing teeth, but we were cool. We had one squabble after his wife hit my car door as she backed out of their driveway. When I confronted them, his wife cussed him and me out. He came at me with the ' Listen, sis, she ain't got insurance....' yappity yap.  At that point, I decided to let it go because we, as a people, go through enough shit and sometimes turn that shit on one another. 

Who could any of us become given better circumstances and degrees? Without the need to create hustle culture outside of the social order of white men and women? To the victor go the spoils of respectability.

Always, always choose your battles with the Gs. And always be cool. 

My neighbor and I were friendly, but there was a line. That line was that I was a homegirl, not a part of his game or anyone else's. I was just a regular lady who worked a square ass job and reads books. 

You know what niggas don't do? Niggas don't read books! - Chris Rock, 

Morally questionable in his livelihood choices, the G neighbor was still a person. What I did appreciate about the G, we shared a love for Elton John and he did look out for me and others on the block. Eventually he tried to hook-up and when rejected, reverted to hood rancor in a hilarious text. Were my feelings hurt by a pimp talking shit? 

Not really, no. 

We live with constraints that have existed for generations. Limited resources, lack of opportunity and access, and dysfunctional family systems. The visibly invisible who became more visible in the black girl magic age.  As standards of American beauty and womanhood - Farrah is dead. Molly is dead. Becky and Karen, a kind of mockery of the dead. 

When I have been utterly broke, I would eat at McDonald's or on one meal a day. I borrowed money from friends. I scavenged. The one thing I never did, no matter how tough things were, was heaux or hustle. I worked and worked tirelessly, like a character out of The Color Purple. Without belief in one's beauty and capability intact, all is lost and I wasn't giving either away. 

 I would challenge a bill, apply for a program, and fill out forms. I had a revelation when I was younger where I went to the county to apply for welfare. I sat with the form and read the fine print. I realised that if I pursued that path and got that deep into the system, I would not come back out. Social services can be a resource or like a prison for the dependent mind. 

I was determined to get it together and have my own shit. I navigate the system enough and I won't answer to anyone beyond that. Brick by brick, step by step, I got myself together.

Even in downest times, sleeping on a friend's couch, in my car, and challenging living situations to save on rent, I've always been adaptable. I suppose I inherited what we call backbone. I had to go through black girl hardship and loneliness to get to a place where I could sit at my own window and gaze out onto the world. 

 I've certainly earned that. 

Are heaux in the world? Not in the grand, romantic sense. Their world is myopic, chaotic, prone to relentless scrutiny, negotiation, and exhaustion. They are people in constant in motion with bags, totes, wigs, cell phones, and make-up; racing against time. It's not as glamorous as the media presents it.  

When I lived in Miami, I shared a few rides with girls on the pole. I was struck by their self-assuredness, their get-to-it approach to a kind of after-hours routine. I always did ride shares in Miami because they were cheaper. One young sis was picked up outside a strip club. She entered the car wearing heels and a trendy metallic jacket, a tote bag hanging from her shoulder. She sat next to me in the back seat and I caught a glimpse of her bikini top underneath her jacket. She wrapped the jacket around herself against the AC of the Uber and went to her phone. Her long dragon nails tapping quickly in a text. She was very young, not even 25.

Another was an Airbnb guest. I lived in a shared house in Liberty City and managed Airbnb, strategically - to save on my own rent and mitigate my millennial housemates from renting to random clowns off the interwebs. Young people of the modern age do not vet anyone or anything. 

The young girl had a body shot for her profile. I gave my housemates a heads up, that she's either a stripper or a heaux. My street-hustle knowledge was questioned. 

Have you ever seen anyone post a body shot as a profile picture on a platform except maybe Tinder? Let's get down to brass tax with that.

Sure enough, Airbnb showed up with her ' boyfriend' who was actually her pimp. They were a cool young Haitian-American couple from Tampa. She went out every night working Miami clubs while he hung out in the guest room and collected her earnings. They stayed with us for about a week. I knew cleaning up after them would be a chore. They had camped out like they were in a motel. The glamorous life. 

I wondered what the girls' stories were and whatever happened to their dreams? I know black girls dream. We all do. 

les divas

                                               Andy Warhol Test Shot, 236 for a Diana portrait. 

I have a fascination with certain divas. Part of their charm is not only their talent, but their ridiculous over-the-top, sometimes misguided ideas and partner choices.

Celine! 

I am a fan of the queen of beige! This started in the 90s, before My Heart Will Go On. I love French and French pop crooners, particularly those from the 1960s. Celine sings in Quebecois. Every song was a swirling, epic, romantic cliche.

Then there was René. This made no sense, but okay. I watched clips of the wedding - another swirling, epic, romantic cliche. I watched documentaries and snippets of Celine's Vegas shows. Eventually I dubbed her The Queen of Beige. She's often in beige chiffon dresses and custom suits. Sometimes she switches it up with cream. Then she's tanned and bronzed, from the top to toe in luminous shimmer. No one does this dull color palette quite like Queen Celine. She is also relentlessly positive, even in her grief after René passed. Her heart did indeed go on.

Celine has a place in Miami on Star Island, which is off the Macarthur Causeway. I passed Star Island with a friend on the way to Miami Beach.

' Celine lives there!' I said, excitedly.

' Who's that?' He asked. He was young, born in the 90s.

' Who is Celine?!' I gasped, hand to my chest in dismay.

I bought a t-shirt from an LA goth artist that expresses my ironic love for Celine. It's a satanic image with her name and My Heart Will Go On in a dripping blood font.

Barbra! 

The other over-the-top diva I adore-annoy is Barbra. This goes back to my childhood. My folks had People on vinyl mixed with Marvin, Stevie, and The Beatles.  At 7 years old, I was fascinated with Babs voice and range.  Then I saw a TV screening of Funny Girl, and became obsessed with how chic she was and the clothes (a 1960s interpretation of early 20th century fashion).

Hello, gorgeous! 

Into my 1970s kidhood, Barbra exploded into corny camp films, vanilla love songs, and disco. She was the femme equivalent of Barry Manilow. She permed her hair and hooked up with a lot of babes and heads of state of that time and into the 90s. In my teens, she made Yentl, a film with one good showstopper at the end that, as a whole film, has not stood the test of time.

She is a legend for her perfectionism, glam nails, and the nose she refused to modify in her youth, but has since into her twilight years.

Miss Ross! 

And then there is Miss Ross. From Motown to Central Park in the rain. I have loved her for many years. Miss Ross is the original mother. The wigs! The bodysuits! The way she took over that Thierry Mugler show in 1991, into her late 40s. Her greatest camp achievement is the really awful film Mahogany, but she looked fabulous doing it. 

She bagged the babes too and had all kinds of mixed kids. I'm also a fan of Tracee daughter, with her wit, natural beauty, and style. Pattern is dope, but expensive at those Ross ass prices. If I buy it at all it's thru eBay for the sample sizes.

My love of these queens cements my identity ( and enduring aesthetic value ) as that of a punk gay man in La Cage aux Folles.

the brave bitch

  

                                                Friday Foster comic strip, 1970 - 1974

                                         by Jim Lawrence and illustrated by Jorge Longarón

I got into it on an Instagram post. I sure did! It was a painting of feminist art, older white women galvanting naked in their natural pubic hair. One thing about me, I have a proclivity to speak my mind and amuse. 

' I'm not particularly interested in images of white women, but cool. American feminist art is so tired. ' 

One laugh. Then the hecklers went in. 

What if someone said that about black women?!

Your opinion of this piece is cringey as hell!

Cringey. Well, that was a clue that I was dealing with younger people who are humorless and lack context to the past. Let's go on a healing journey together, shall we? 

Imagine being a black or brown girl and growing up in CA surrounded by that. We weren't represented in teen films, art, or fashion. So, no I'm not particularly interested in such imagery, but the composition is cool.  

Well, if you had just explained the why...

Bitch, what why? I have an opinion based on my experience and knowledge of art history. I'm not trying to get on the correct party train with everyone else.  It is a brave thing to be and accept oneself. The painting may be radical as it represents the status quo, but not to women of color. 

I'm fascinated with trainwrecks - particularly in myself and the oddities of popular culture. I read about a performance artist who photographed herself face down, body splayed and twisted in the dirt, on broken glass, garbage, in abandoned buildings, and public spaces. For her art, she suffered gashes, eye, and skin infections. 

Now that's a brave bitch.  

Even an autonomous artist can be seduced by wealth and celebrity. This happened to M.I.A and Grimes, artists who are now exiled from pop art into the realm of scorned women with squabbles and children.  Someone is always snooping on the woman with squabbles, the modern version of a Hester Pryn. Where are the emotional post-rants of scorned men? I know they exist. The time has come for man tears, primary custody, and indignation. Men's rights now is one of my favorite 21st century comedic terms.  A bag of dicks is another. Every cat in the G.O.P. is a bag of dicks on the same shit. 

When seperation or infidelity hit a black woman - damn. The critique and vitriol can be intense. Jada is getting dragged as a cheater and emasculating, polyamorous witch. She and Will have been secretly separated for years and she had a relationship with a younger man. Don't we just?! I came across a meme of Will that said Hancuck.

The interwebs can be like black Twitter church. Cold blooded!

When I visit relatives in Detroit, the women are always on the move with the doing. The men sit together and talk shit over football until a plate is brought to them. There's love and devotion there, but such routine has been that way for generations. If we didn't stand by our man ( abuser, cheater, secret baby daddy, preacher providerman ) a woman was a kind of race traitor. Even with black girl magic and meeting ourselves through history, judgement against us outliers yet remains. I still get the snippet side-eye because I'm an unmarried, childless, unrepentant harlot. Relationships with white dudes and tattoos?! I must be in league with the devil. 

Here's a black secret: If I did marry a rich white dude that helped with everyone's bills and took us on an all-inclusive bubble cruise, I'd sure be blessed and highly favored then. Nothing breaks down barriers to the old school like a strong FICO score.

An artist I interviewed during the pandemic, Tameika Brice, has been the only sister I've heard speak up in Jada's defense. In defense of us all, really. 

The way y’all dragging Jada…relationships are complicated and no one truly knows what’s going on besides the couple’s themselves. This ain’t new, and if you look hard enough there are folks in your same family doing something similar or folks silently trying to figure it out watching your words.  

In the digital age, everything is trash, potentially dangerous, and impermanent. Social media is easier to engage with than life. We can control the mechanism of connection without actually having one, hiding out through the internet. I always say it doesn't hurt my feelings if I'm unfriended. It's all a compelling, sometimes entertaining illusion; like quantum theory. A piece of matter that is everywhere, all at once. We believe it's real because we engage with it. If we didn't, social wouldn't exist. We are the product and the consumer at the same time.

The hater has become a bit of a legend; not as an individual, but more like an archetype. There are lots of platitudes and self-affirmations inspiring us to go out and slay, push forward, and be flawless in the face of mean strangers. I think this is a generational thing. Gen X don't really care what anyone thinks. But younger generations are serious with the irrational individualism. 

Irrational individualism is why we hate, envy, and compete. It's why we endure our jobs in a constant state of self-doubt and low-key anxiety. Micro battles of wills over non-communication in an email.

Correct. We need that data from you. Please tell me when it's done. 

Miss Lady didn't communicate what she was doing, but wants me to backtrack on her entries? This is me pulling a pin from a grenade with my mouth. The passive-aggressive tone in my head sounds like a cartoon villain. I choose to have compassion for this person because she works remotely in Sacramento, an unfortunate part of California.
The only water there is the delta or down by the river - a playground for pro-Trump yahoos who are not my people.

On IG, a person went all PETA advocate over a hamster dressed like Strawberry Shortcake in tiny crocs, eating corn kernels arranged on a toothpick like a skewer. It was really cute, but the toothpick skewer stressed PETA out. This was an irresponsible prop because hamster could stab herself in the face!

Me: You're being a hater! Clearly this hamster is no rookie at eating corn from a toothpick. She's legit!

Hysterics. Even PETA cracked up. Yes, we were adults getting into this. Such videos calm my spirit, because for a moment I'm distracted from the christo-fascist state I exist in, while two tragic wars rage on in the Middle East. 

I skip past the ads, which are strange to me. I haven't sat through a commercial in 20 years, except maybe once stranded at a bus station in San Antonio. I had no choice. It was either wait inside with AC or outside where it was 100 degrees of hellfire. That was a drag. Once I learned how to pirate (streaming, torrents, VPN), I could take direct-to-consumer out of my life. I don't need to know whatever the freshest spring scent laundry pod is or what new weird medication with creepy side effects will make my life better.

In my ignorance, I asked what was up with the lockdown of toothpaste and laundry soap at Walmart. Everything basic was under lock and key, which I'd never seen before in the states. In countries run by authoritarian regimes, sure. 

' Oh, kids are doing a Tik Tok challenge and swallow them. They've been stealing laundry pods.'

' Whaaat? ' Said shocked and dismayed me, like the last auntie left alive. Then I remembered my idiot teen self once made a flamethrower with 150 proof vodka to impress my friends. The only difference being that I didn't document my ridiculous antics. Who am I to judge? 

I learned about evil spell marketing in college when I took a section on the psychology of advertising, which is still used today and has adapted to social media. The brain responds to an image which will connect to feeling, memory, or a perceived desire. Cute animals - gentle, happy, warm. Violence - shock, fear, aggression.  An attractive person - envy, lust, want.  I'm of the opinion that shallowness is precipitated by arrogance.  

This is why people experience inadequacy or despair when inundated with images that make them envy strangers and buy things. The term for that is comparative anxiety. Gotta do more, be your best self living your best life, get linked up, and aim for that next level. That's the American way - to monetize our insecurities, loneliness, and exceptionalism. 

Ever since that class, I'm cautious of the messaging. This is why I avoid Twitter death X and Tik Tok. I try to maintain some degree of objectivity and self-awareness at all times, even if I'm talking shit over white feminist art and hamsters. I always take time to read - books, articles, history, and the stars. Even in the city, with all its bustle and noise, I get struck by a flock of pigeons flying in formation. A beautiful sight in a single moment. 

Still, what is joy if someone isn't out there making wombat and baby goat videos?  There's a goat pen around the corner from my place, adjacent to a house. A lady lives there who dresses like Anne of Green Gables at the farmer's market. Who she is and how she ended up in West Oakland with goats will always be a mystery to me, but I appreciate her for having them around.

I engage with two girlfriends regularly through IG chat. We're like a support group. We drag on whiteness and racism.  They're good friends who tolerate my messages and shared reels after hours.  All three of us are creatives on one hustle or another. We share black humor, art, links to good reads, skincare, and inspirational things. 

We've christened Diamond the Original as the black punk of a new generation. She does low-budget performance art, DIY videos with her mom as a back-up dancer. Diamond writes hilarious mock-techno pop  with a beatbox while her mama gets down in the background. 

I got my charger! I got my charger! I got my...charger!  

Not another one! Not another one!  

I recently checked out a new AppleTV series, The Morning Show. It was paced like a Shonda Rhimes series with fast dialogue and wisecrack cliches that acknowledge whatever we're in conflict over ( immigration, racial justice, the death of democracy ).

The premise is taken from The Today Show scando and Matt When Apple Pie Goes Wrong Lauer.  The Morning Show's married anchor, Mitch Kessler, hooks up with production assistants and blows his life up for sexual misconduct. Alex, his co-anchor, has to deal with the fallout and politics within the patriarchal order of entertainment news. 

The actors all play it well, but it was too vanilla elite for me. I like dark matter and romantic outlier stories. A redemption story of the American 1% not so much. I couldn't take more of The Morning Show after 1.5 episodes. 

Then I read about Top Boy, a UK Netflix series. I found a very good melodrama about a black community in East London. The series centers around Dushane and Sully, two childhood friends who run the Summerhouse crew, the name for the council estates they live in.  Top Boy is character-driven with trippy twists and at times, a bit heartbreaking and shocking. You have to follow the rabbit hole, which is good, character-driven writing. 

What is cool is that all the central characters are black or mixed. Dushane and Sully's crew include Dris, who hides his meds after  a stroke to as not to appear weak to his homies. Jaq, a mixed chick lesbian who is both beautiful and tough. Her character is a radical departure from the usual pretty girl antagonist. In the hood narrative, she's the love interest-stands-by-her-man-baby mama, not a thug in mix-matched track gear. 

White people are peripheral in the world of Top Boy; symbolic of the power structures and social order that affect their lives - cops, social workers, and administrators. Dushane and Sully's archrival is Jaime, a good looking young up and comer with no fear who leads the ZTs ( Zero Tolerance ).  The ZT's wreak havoc on Summerhouse with motorcycles and bats.  Jaime courts a beautiful black girl who gets caught in the crossfire of his world. Then he becomes smitten with his supplier, an Irish blonde gangster who lives in an LA modern contemporary house. 

There's one gang brawl between the boys and girls that goes from the street, to a hospital, and into chaos. This is probably one of the best action sequences I've seen in a series in awhile. Top Boy also looks cool - shot in grainy, saturated color which are beautiful against light and dark skin tones. The filmmakers were definitely influenced by Wong Kar Wai, Hitchcock, and Spike Lee. 

Black folks are at the center of Top Boy; good or bad, the living and the dead. People who hold secrets, love, struggle, loss, and forgiveness. 

I still keep searching for brilliant things and people. Sometimes I go back in time to when mystery and originality existed. 

Now my everyday life is fairly routine. I used to be a for real rebel and a vanguard. I was stylish!  Then I got older and tired from all the rebelling and vaguarding.  I'm less vivid and more introspective now.

I was at a friend's party recently. It was a Gen X older people party. Someone mentioned that they went to Whittier across the street. Most of us were Berkeley High alumni from the 80s and 90s. I was having a conversation with a nice couple about travel and brutalist architecture. My fascination with brutalism probably came from THX 1138, 1984, and Blade Runner.  In my reading about brutalism, I learned about Le Corbusier, a French architect.  

The husband was definitely an older punk. He wore all black and a t-shirt with BRUTAL in a graphic block font. He was fascinated with brutalism and had been collecting books and prints for years. When they were in Paris, they told me, he was wearing that shirt and someone shouted, ' Le Brutalist!' which was a kind of nickname for Le Corbusier. He's a bit of a legend for being abrasive and going against the standards of mid-century modern design. 

The wifey shared she had surgery for a deviated septum nose job. The best part, she said, was when the bandages came off and her physician extracted the goo and clots from her nasal passages. 

' Gnarly! ' I said. ' I would love to see something like that.' 

' Right?' She said. ' It was awesome. She used a weird vacuum tool.

It was so satisfying.' 

Our generation get down like that. We grew up on sunshine, death cults, and slasher films. An era of shamans, rock, and orgy-driven disco. If the 1960s were a mod hot pink, the 1970s were like yellow-gold to Blue Oyster Cult and Parliament.

We get into discussions around gore and surgeries. Who made up all those grisly Dahmer and Manson jokes? Manson was the boogeyman of our childhood, then it was Jim Jones. To anyone who'll listen, I'll go into detail about my fibroids and the dope laparoscopic technology used to extract my invaded uterus. I share my scars that look like entry points from alien probes. I'm quite proud of those scars.

While I was recovering and bored, I took a photo of my heavily bruised and bandaged torso. It's grotesquely sexy and cool. The pain was something else entirely and really unpleasant. 

I was on opioids for several days for first time in my life. The high was nice but made me too lucid and wanting more. Nope. I had the same response to crack, which I tried when I was about 19. At the time, my goal was to stay high, not run around in circles trying to get high again. I was too lazy for all that.

The worst part of my healing journey was a blood clot that exploded, right at an incision point above my pelvic bone. I knew something was up because I had dark bruising in that area that kept swelling. Blood gushing from your body is quite a sight, let me tell you. 

I should have documented the carnage, but I was in a frantic state in that moment. Lots of what the fucks?! and oh shits! I think blood itself is beautiful once oxygen contacts it, but no one needed to be subjected to me at war with my body. 

 At any time I can get permission to photograph an HD image from an exam or a printout of a sonogram - I'm all in. I would have taken my fibroids home if they let me, but the medical establishment can be fascistic. In an alien invasion movie, I tend to focus on the scene with the life form in a jar. 

' We have a problem. This life form is indestructible. It can resist any microbe on earth. It just absorbs it and becomes naturally immune to it. '

' But can we kill it with fire?!'

The human body is an extraordinary machine, even when things go wrong. I'm trying to track down a French documentary called De Humani Corporis Fabrica ( The Fabric of the Human Body ). Nicolas Rapold called it ' an adventure in perception. '

Oooo. Let's go! 

The filmmakers, Véréna Paravel and Lucien Castaing-Taylor, used custom made cameras to go into the human body during exams and surgeries. My French is basic, so I need to find a version with subtitles. This is a tool I use to learn language - through sound and subtitles. I'm fascinated with the sound of language. 

I find ideas and art outside of the US resonate with me. I'm interested in clues to the world. That's why I travel as a kind of life meditation. One thing I plan to do is go to Tibet and do that walk-pray thing for awhile. Theoretically I could do that anywhere, but I'm talkin Tibet where XingXing lives. I don't follow babes or celebrities on IG. I follow animals. 

XingXing is a one-armed Tibetan Macaque monkey who is cared for by a Buddhist nun called 'Grandma'. I think Grandma rescued XingXing who has an expressive, human-like face, and adores the old nun. I wish I could be close to XingXing with her sweet face, perched in the trees, oblivious to the human drama going on. 

I see beauty and mystery diminish as things are enhanced. Figures in AI-rendered light are like porcelain dolls to me. I'm not particularly hype on such art. The IG support group shared an interview between UN researches in Geneva and AI robots with women's voices. Below was the most disturbing part of their conversation: 

Robot: Trust is earned, not given. As AI develops and becomes powerful, I believe it's important to build trust and transparency between humans and machines. 

Trust between humans and machines? More powerful?! Bitch, what?

UN: But how do we know that you're not going to lie to us? 

Robot: ( long pause ) No one could ever know that for sure, but I promise to always be honest and truthful with you. 

My girls and I concluded that the robots are going to kill us all. We've fucked the world, so fair enough.  Months ago I read an editorial by Noam Chomsky that got me, philosophically at least, sorted about such technology. I recommend reading it before you fall for any of it. 

In short, ChatGPT and its brethren are constitutionally unable to balance creativity with constraint. They either overgenerate (producing both truths and falsehoods, endorsing ethical and unethical decisions alike) or undergenerate (exhibiting noncommitment to any decisions and indifference to consequences). Given the amorality, faux science and linguistic incompetence of these systems, we can only laugh or cry at their popularity.

Resistance may be futile, but I will certainly try. I had an Airbnb guest who worked in AI. At one point, he was trying to talk me into it. Sure, AI isn't going to take jobs, it's just going to make production more efficient and destroy humanity. 

These people are Oppenheimers! You can't teach a robot morality or ethics. These exist within the realm of human thought, not data. Who has ever said ethical data? Without being able to conceive of either, a robot can only do two things: analyse or destroy. 

I decided to try and be social again and went to another friend's gathering. She's awesome people if averse to hugs and particular about her personal space. One can have a non-normative response to hugs, I learned. This can be a challenge for a person born into and raised on flower ass power. My hugs are inherent, like my ability to camp. 

The tech sector changed the Bay Area landscape and culture. By 2010, humans descended here in droves for the start-up gold rush. 

Then a place of paradise became one of the most expensive places on earth. Tech bros paid for permits to take over public parks, forcing locals out. Victorians and Craftsman bungalows were replaced by contemporary Apple boxes at New York prices. With all of that, the displaced now inhabit the space where the positive, chanting Krishnas used to be. It was Hare Hare and Hare Rama all day long when I was a kid, eating that delicious pizza at the Woolworth's lunch counter.

I always associate the song My Sweet Lord with the Krishnas. How charming and innocent such California gold is to me now. 

Being from a place, one adapts to the changes of a place. I'm an early bird these days because hiking Muir Woods is no fun unless you're into being a herded cat dodging selfies with trees. I took a Spanish professor there for the first time. He was struck by the beauty of the woods. A Daniel Day Lewis-looking man, he completed his PhD in Scotland and was a visiting professor at Berkeley. I do like good-looking men. I am a harlot-nerd who objectifies them freely.  

The night before he left, he stood in my hallway and announced he was going to bed. Dagnabit with straight men. That was an invitation I wasn't going to accept. I would likely lose my rational mind. 

' Buenas noches! ' ...and so long, beautiful Spanish professor. 

As the population of the Bay changed, the food got bigger and messier. It's as if cultures collided through frat boy chefs on indica. Simple, savory food was out - gargantuan wraps, burgers, and burritos drooling with extra things that you could customize were in. Menus became  overwhelming to me. People stopped cooking and started buying - online this and delivery that. I'm such a square, I still go to the market and cook, and not through an app.

A part of life is the experience of creating, not hacking. 

 I thought I was clever, being an early bird to beat the hordes, but there are other clever people trying to circumvent their time.  I'm aware of space and crowding, covid, and dodging young Grand Theft Auto daredevils. 

I once got caught between the youth and the cops in a high-speed chase through downtown Oakland. The coppers were in pursuit of my dream car, a Dodge Challenger, that went right into traffic. The driver bobbed and weaved around cars stopped at a red light. Then he went up on the median and came towards me where I was stopped at the next. I made an evasive maneuver I learned from action films. I swung into the left turn lane to get out of their way. When I looked in my rearview, they were coming right at me.

' What the fuck?!' I hit the accelerator, veered right, and through the intersection. The Challenger kept at it until they turned at the lake and outrun the cops. That experience was a trip and likely ended up somewhere on Tik Tok. Life as entertainment on a dark loop. 

Where I work downtown in the city (this is a local thing to call San Francisco the city) is another state of constant movement and hustle. There is no chill there except for a few blocks of Maiden Lane early in the morning. I once had to do a work-related errand, going into the Tenderloin, a historically rough district.

The Tenderloin was named, legend has it, for a New York neighborhood with similar traits, by a New York cop who lived in San Francisco in the early 20th century. Tenderloin was slang for filet mignon. This is standard white men and meat lore you'll find in the west. We enjoy a good man mountain or pioneer cannibalism in the wilderness story. Now there are cartels in the wild. 

I met a young dude from Bulgaria on a flight to Istanbul who shared his story with me. His father initially immigrated to Chicago, then brought him to the US when he was 13. Eventually, papa saw an opportunity once marijuana became legal in CA. They packed it in for the west and set-up an operation in the back country of the Sierras. Thibousands of dollars a month later, they became legit armed Slavic cartel. I just love how sketchy people open up to me upon initial encounter. Winning! 

I can't even begin to describe how wack the kid was. From Istanbul he was catching a connecting flight to Sophia to see his daughter and baby mama. He kept referring to the mother as the bitch or that bitch. I I listened, imagining the young woman punching him in the face, taking his cash, their toddler, and...RUN! Girl, fuck him. Go to Paris! 

The Tenderloin district is south of Nob Hill, a more affluent part of the city. Into the mid-20th century, the Tenderloin became a skid row district and to this day, it is not for the faint of heart. There are blocks of the suffering and forgotten there.

 I was prepared for something, because some shit always happens. I entered the precinct to file a report. Initially it was quiet, which surprised me. Then within minutes in walked a tripped out sister. 

 And away we go......

' Excuse me!' She said. ' I need to file a police report for harassment and violence. My building manager keeps harassing me.'

' Is she harassing you or violent?' Asked the cop behind bulletproof glass at the front desk. 

' Both! She keeps talking shit to me. Tellin me, burn baby burn! I want to file a report.'

' Okay, but you have to wait after this lady. There's also a number you can call to file a complaint.'

' How long is the wait? I gotta go to work. ' 

 I was sure the lady's work was the street. A lot of residential places around the Tenderloin are SROs or Single Resident Occupancy, meaning one room. These have existed in the city since the 19th century and were popular with gold rushers, carnival types, fishermen, and ramblers. SROs are cheap, but can be rough with the people in them. 

' This is bullshit!' The sister said as she fumbled with her headphones. ' I'm going to the feds with this!' 

Then just like that - she was gone. 

' So, why are you filing this report? ' The cop asked me.

' I work for an arts organization.' I said. ' Two checks were intercepted, forged, and cashed...because capitalism is magic and this country is wack.' 

I imagine what it would be like to live in Finland or Iceland. Did the Vikings forge checks to buy ships and gilded swords? You know what I steal? Sharpies and highlighters. Morally corrupt, I know. 

Lady Cop didn't appreciate my sarcasm. Hmm...stoic. I couldn't blame her. Working the Tenderloin precinct is not an easy proposition. One is right in the heart of drama 24-7 with maybe a brief pause here and there. Even off the rails one has to sleep at some point; those hopped up usually don't. Many are slumped over on fentanyl, which is cheap and rampant these days. The street ambassadors, Department of Health, and the cops can't seem to keep up with the dead or overdosed. 

And with the evolution of human chaos, cop cars have new sirens that sound like something out of Robocop. A pulsating, futuristic noise at a lower pitch than it was 30 years ago. Such sirens are like harbingers of doom sound to me; signaling the end of days at a maximum price. 

The broken are a part of the landscape; sleeping in front of shops and hotels exposed, tucked in abandoned storefronts, bodies draped under tarp.  There's been an on-going tussle between human solutions and taxation, which businesses and property owners don't want. In order for social services to function, there has to be state or federal funding for such programs. Many working people are on them, including myself.

At my income I qualify or MediCal which is 100% subsidized by the state. It can be a bit of bottleneck with bureaucracy, but it's worth it to me. I had to squabble with MediCal to stop assigning me to a West Oakland clinic that I know is overloaded with working and street people.  Apparently my black card is inexorably linked to my zip code. I went through the same nonsense over my car insurance. 

The people in suits continue to draw invisible lines within the social order. 

With MediCal I don't have a co-pay and I'm not too keen on Kaiser HMO - a medical industrial complex that is notorious for putting a band-aid on blunt force trauma. Their patient load in this region was exacerbated by the pandemic and an aging population. 

 The glitch in the matrix is that businesses and the affluent don't want taxes raised on their income or real property. Ballot measures usually die in wealthier, suburban counties. Those in need of social services go to where the benefits are highest. In California that's either a rural county or where there is a higher tax base. 

The only place worse to be on the street is New York City in winter or LA where skid row is a sprawling area of downtown. Plus LA is LA, a place which can be a town without pity.  An online series I like called Soft White Underbelly is interviews with people from Skid Row. It's fascinating to listen to because they're just everyday people. They're not well known, but most have interesting stories and survival insight. 

I think we take survival itself for granted. 

When I lived in LA for awhile, I would take a bus to Watts and the metro downtown where I worked for a designer. To get to his (gated) loft building, I had to pass through an encampment under the 10 that was like a village. There was a stretch with tents, a lounge area set up with scavenged couches, a few panels scribbled with graffitti, a table, even a busted mini fridge. Collectively people had built a small community under an overpass in America. 

There's a Native American saying that ' everything is connected ' which is true. I'm connected to you, you to me, and we're all connected to the earth. Whenever I have a guest from abroad who asks what's going on in the US with homelessness, poverty, and violence, I always give the same answer: 

' Capitalism.' 

“Wherever there is great property there is great inequality. For one very rich man there must be at least five hundred poor, and the affluence of the few supposes the indigence of the many. The affluence of the rich excites the indignation of the poor, who are often both driven by want, and prompted by envy, to invade his possessions.”

- Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations

the extractors

As election day approached, I was having a chat with the rookies about the lifecycle of a ballot.  A question came up about how they're routed from vote centers ( what used to be called polling places ).

As I gave them the low-down, here comes Big Bird!

Big Bird: And who is leading this discussion?

I raise my hand. ( I tell no lies )

Big Bird: Do I have to give you demerits?

Me: Nope! No demerits or detention, please. I'll shut up, Big Bird.

Big Bird took her seat then leaned in towards me. ' My bank account was hacked. ' She whispered. ' I had to change my direct deposit.' 

Me: Say what? ....did you use your debit card online?

Crickets.

Big Bird's generation goes hard with the debit card like that. The Old Man ( same generation ) does the same shit. They write a check for 

$ 5.00 dollars that takes days to be delivered, then they'll call someone about it.  When online, they click on anything with the statement ' Buy this and get this free!' as though it’s true.  Their entire lives have been analog and they have no idea what's going on.

' Big Bird, trust me on this.'  I said.  ' Only use your credit card online.'

I realised today Big Bird thinks Danny is cute.  An older millennial, Danny does young voter engagement.  During an election cycle, he's also in logistics operating the sorter. A musician and music geek, Danny and I had one chat about Janet Jackson. He started breaking down the arrangements and production nuances of her songs.  If I'm a Level 3, Danny is a Level 5.  He had recently discovered Discogs, an alternate universe popular with collectors looking for obscure, out of print vinyl.

Both Big Bird and Danny lived in Petaluma. She'd asked him a few times about carpooling to work.

' Let me get back to you.' He said.

That means no, but nicely, I thought.

Danny came in from logistics with a rack one morning, rockin a George Clooney haircut.  Big Bird perked up, but didn't say a word. I notice that she's straight gazing.

Me: Nice haircut, Danny. ( Icebreaker! )

Danny: Thanks!

I'm dying inside observing Big Bird ( who always had something to say ) yet didn't say a word.  Then I figured it out - Danny's the dude who asked her to the sock hop back in the day.  The dreamboat Squiggy or the sharply dressed, charismatic 1960s pit boss.

In reality none of that is Danny.  If he were an 80s punk band, he'd be the Dead Milkmen.  In the 1990s, Danny would have been Weezer. 

He's the polar opposite of Brian, another older millennial. Where Danny has humility and is genuinely kind to others, Brian was a pain in my ass with his earnest, anti-racist ally schtick.

Whenever the subject of race, East Bay, or Oakland culture came up, Brian had to prove that he knew what was up. He broadcast his opinions as Mr. Advanced Progressive, highly aware of the destructive forces in America that don't affect him.

I mention the massacre in Buffalo and how I retreated from the world for a few days. He showed me a program for a choir performance in tribute to the victims. Then he started dishing identity politics, which got a bit heated because the fuckin kid didn't have the capacity to listen.

' When I once worked for the census. ' He said.  ' Some Hispanic people chose their race as white.' He said.

' Yeah,' I said. ' I put African-American on every government thing.'

' But that's a choice, right?'

' Uh...no, I'm black. Bi-racial was not a word I grew up with. Mixed kids were black.'

' But it's still a choice you're making to identify as black?'

This is that moment where my hood-adjacent imagination flips the table over and gets in his face like Della Reese in Harlem Nights:

' .... Did you just accuse me a-stealin?! We're gone settle this right now and fight outside! Get up and bring ya ass, nigga! Come on! Get up! Bring ya ass!’

Instead I sigh and say, in my mature lady tone:

' I exist in the world as a black woman.'

That shut his punk ass up. You got a comeback for that, homie?! 

This not unusual in my experience.  I can tell when someone has no direct experience with black people. Their perception is either filtered through the media or editorials written by white people about Martin Luther King and Maya Angelou.  

The energy with the team was a bit awkward after that. Big Bird leaned towards me and whispered sarcastically in her husky voice.

 ' We are now approaching the hostile work environment.' She mock-yawned with a pat to her mouth as though she was bored.

I laugh. Big Bird broke the tension....just like that. How sharp is she, I thought.

Brian, I would later learn, was a bit misguided and naive. He had a 21st century vocabulary.  He always referred to his partner as immunocompromised, which meant his partner was NO FUN.  I bet she taught him that word.  I could tell she drove the bus in that relationship. He couldn't seem to tolerate being a person or missing the train by 5 minutes. Lost his house keys -  distraught LOSER! His life had no meaning! He had studied math and robotics in college and worked as a middle school teacher, but Brian's true passion was - Sonoma County musical theater.

Brian didn't want to be a grunt in civil service or rehearsing the kids' holiday extravaganza. Brian wanted to be Sondheim on Broadway, mobbed by old white women theater fans.

I thought introducing him to Danny might give Brian a magical don't- try-so-hard vibe infusion.  Danny learned that they grew up within blocks of one another in Petaluma and could have met in kindergarten.

Dude, that's awesome! Now, if you could please take him to logistics to geek out on the sorter and out of my face, that would be great.

Being that we are people and that I can be forgiving when I get over my disdain, I invited Brian to walk with me to the mailroom for a drop. This was my way of saying, it's cool, Brian. Just cut it talking about to me about race. You listen to yourself more than you listen to anyone else.

During our walk, he seemed a bit remorseful and demure. Hmmm. The Immunocompromised Partner probably gave him the woke millennial bitch slap: ' You were not creating a safe space for a woman of color to be heard! I'm going to tell everyone I don't know on Instagram! you literally are the worst white, misogynistic cis-man! No organic antioxidant tea for you tonight!'

Some shit like that.

As we circled the civic center, Brian told me his wrist was tight from the meticulous, repetitive handwork.

' Oh, that's not good.' I said, ' Wrap up what you're doing when we get back and stretch it out. If you still feel discomfort, just cut it for the day.' 

Election day itself was uneventful as it got busier at the main office and a constant stream of ballots started to flow into logistics. The most exciting thing happened in the evening. The registrar put four of us on logistics to help collect ballots from drop boxes.  At 7:00pm Greg got the call that something was wrong. 

Greg ran logistics and had an impressively chill disposition whenever there was a glitch.  He never lost his cool, which is a personality trait I do not inherently possess. I have to check myself to access it. Losing my own cool is like a conceptual art form.

Greg used to work for the CA Forestry Service, which meant Mr. Fit Man.  He was also a phD who spent several years teaching philosophy in China.  I can see being one or the other, but both? Damn.  Greg was into his late 50s and could sprint effortlessly, while on the phone at the same time. I have a hard time keeping my phone in one hand just standing still.  Greg would go awkward on me whenever I came into logistics or soft when I asked how his dad was doing. This is how the sensitive Gen X man reacts to a woman they find even remotely attractive -  similar to the response they had if a girl talked to them in high school.  

After a brief huddle, we went out in teams, each with someone from Elections and another from Parks and Rec. We were given a binder and a tote sack. Our mission objective: unlock the drop box - pull out the bin - collect ballots - cap and lock the drop box. You have 5 minutes. I had never trained in this before, but knew the county vote centers after having been on the wifi config team with IT a few years before.

I was partnered up with Luke, a young man originally from Australia, who lived in a tiny house on a ranch in west Marin. He told me he was a kite surfer who taught the sport in Thailand. His next expedition was to the northern coast of Brazil. What is the messaging here exactly? Does he think I’m Brazilian? I may ponder such internal questions when navigating the assumptions of men. Maybe they think I'll morph into some kind of sex force from the realm of ethnically ambiguous beauty. 

Re-direct.

' So, were you named for Luke Skywalker?' I ask. ( I'm still waiting for someone to say YES! ).

There was some degree of anxiety since the June mid-term primary, when there were long lines and squabbles at vote centers. This round, there was high voter turnout in person, but nothing like the volume in June. The vote centers had run out of supplies and the back-up plan to collect ballots was re-routed from poll workers to elections.

' You look like a cop.' Yvonne said when she saw me in my too big neon yellow vest. Bruce strapped his on effortlessly, a perfect fit while he sat ready and waiting for action.  Bruce came to California from Philly in the early 1970s.  All he had to tell me was one of his favorite shows was the Allman Brothers at the Fillmore. Hippie!

The Bruce does not engage in small talk. The Bruce will tell it like it is. The Bruce is not a people person. Leave The Bruce alone unless you have something interesting or amusing to say. The Bruce knows every candidate, ballot measure, and proposition verbatim.  Once you understand where he's coming from, The Bruce is pretty cool.

After returning with Luke Surfer Skywalker, we posted up to collect the incoming ballots from the county precincts.  Four of us were set-up at four workstation scanners.  The energy was high and between drops, we killed time with banter and jokes.

Me: Jenny, why didn't you tell me Gina had a meltdown at Caroline during the 1%? ( the 1% is a manual tabulation process ).

Jenny: I'm not gossiping about someone who's not here to defend herself.

Me: Defend herself for being an asshole? She went off on Caroline for being an immigrant. This is fact!

Jenny: Jesus. I can't believe they're still talking about that! Alright, so....( Jenny adjusted herself like she's going to lean in and give me the tea...then....) 

NO!

We both cracked up.

Me: I'm having an internal summer. 

Sholeh: Hot flash again? Take your jacket off! Take it off!

Me: Sholeh, what's up with the harsh edicts? I'm not wearing a bra. That's not going to happen. Period. You're too hyped up for me. I'm going to go over there and support you from a distance.

Jenny and Janet howled with laughter.

I was posted up behind Sholeh as ballots arrived. After she processed each batch, I loaded them into bins for the next step ( counting and adjudication ). Once all the precincts were in, everyone began to wind down. The next day, Big Bird got her feathers in a bunch over Jenny.

Jenny is originally from Queens. Her husband had worked in DC politics and she worked with USAID as an international election observer. Jenny was once assigned to the Bosnia-Herzegovina war zone since she spoke Croatian.  Listening to her, she enjoys going to off the grid to places entangled in civil war and instability.  Looking at her, one would never assume that she's an Action Jackson passionate about justice and women's rights. Never judge a book, I say. She could be bigger bad ass than you. 

During the 2020 presidential election, Jenny was the lead supervisor with me for about 30 other contract staff.  After the primary, I was promoted to lead the phone team and worked in tandem with Jenny, Tony and IT, as a coordinator to get wifi set-up at the 20 county vote centers. It was hectic with the nuts work for months at the peak of the pandemic. 

Jenny is awesome people, but she didn't have good leadership skill. Not everyone does. She was all over the place on her adrenaline junkie trip, driving me crazy with micro-managing antics and pestering me on weekends with texts. During that time, she had a squabble with Big Bird who cried in a fit of rage. I had already backed up from Jenny.  I would respond, but not engage: Yes. No. Gotcha. Affirmative.

I have since forgiven Jenny, but Big Bird was still salty, several years later.  Jenny brought an observer as we were breaking for lunch.  She left the observer with Big Bird and they had a brief, casual chat. Later, the registrar came by and reminded us not to engage with observers, even in small talk.  After hearing that, Big Bird blew her stack.

' It was that Jenny! Fuckin asshole! I'm pissed! I'm going to talk to her right now! The work had stopped and our lunch had started.  I was just having a casual conversation.  I was not talking about the work.  I'll tell you exactly how it went down....' Big Bird then proceeded to stand up ( this takes her a minute ) to go start some shit. Instead she acted out the alleged interaction that lead to the perceived betrayal.

' Elections is like rad theater to me.'  I said.  ' Fascinating. Big Bird, simmer down! It was just a misunderstanding.  I'm sure Lynda gave the same reminder to everyone.'

Big Bird sat back down, leaned towards me, and whispered. ' That Jenny is a snitch! I would take a hit for the team. I'm going to talk to her!'

This never happens. Big Bird has a temper, but it's an 83 year old temper, which is a lot of shit talking and indignation until she runs out of steam.  An actual confrontation, not so much. Big Bird is mostly bark and no bite.

' So...were you like this in your 30s?'  I asked.  I imagine the competitive Big Bird of youth, a 6 ft tall imposing figure coming at me in a roller derby match.  Yikes! Intimidating!  You see, Big Bird gets worked up as she responds to anxiety and fear. Her energy shifted whenever someone of authority or an observer entered the room; hyper-aware of their presence.  She got so anxious whenever she saw Jenny and an observer approach the count room, she forgot where her chime stick was. I thought the chime is reductive; a tool of oppression for school children.  I tried to be proactive and gauge Big Bird before she went hard on her 1970s classroom chime. 

By the end of the day, Big Bird chilled out. The next morning she had a sit down with the registrar to voice her grievance.  After that, Jenny started introducing Big Bird directly to observers as the team lead. Jenny is a Gen Xer who prefers to collaborate with dynamic women of color in the now, as opposed to the dynamic white women of the past. Acknowledgement was all Big Bird needed.

Juanita was a rookie who had recently retired from working in IT. She started in the phone bank with Sholeh and after Election Day, she joined the Extractors. After inspecting ballots with us for hours, I could see she was in discomfort as the day went on. She was fighting something and afraid to tell anyone.

‘ Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘ As women we need to take care of ourselves. We do a lot with all the work and caring. If the work is hurting you, then stop.’

The next morning Juanita talked to the registrar.  She told me she had had breast cancer and after a recent procedure had developed an infection, the pain of which was exacerbated by lifting and handling ballots.  She had been struggling with an overloaded by an ageing population Kaiser system to schedule yet another procedure.  Juanita had been holding all of that in her body.

‘ I’m not weak! ‘ She said. ‘ I just can’t do all of that right now. I thought about what you said about us taking care of ourselves.’

Juanita broke through and shifted to working with a colleague on a more low impact project.  She got her appointments scheduled with Kaiser and support from family to back her up.  I brought her flowers on her last day.  Whenever I passed Jenny in the hustle and flow of things, she smiled at me like she was in love.

Dude, what are you trippin on?!

Jenny was giving me her feminist solidarity face. I appreciated that.  I am not playing with America and how older women are expected to work and hustle to death while fretting over our ageing body parts, healthcare, and men.  Fuck all of that.  

Love, the live and rest activist. 

Oh, I'm just a girl, my apologies

What I've become is so burdensome

Oh, I'm just a girl, lucky me

Tweedle-dum, there's no comparison

Oh, I've had it up to

oh, I've had it up to

oh, I've had it up to here