Baseball and Brioche

Okay, okay for real this time.

2010-01-05T14:25:00.001-08:00

New webiste - about to hit the wire...after I can figure out what a dang directory/path is...

kisses and see you there soon.

mzmeg.com

The Pride of the Giants: A True Story

2009-04-13T13:42:00.001-07:00

**this was for a class assignment of writing about Barry Bonds in the influence of "The Pride of the Yankees"- focusing on how we develop "heroes" through narratives**

It was easy and fun for me, I hate to see what all my Red Sox and Yankee fan classmates do with it....

The Pride of the Giants: A True Story about the Bonds Family Legacy.

In this dramatic sports and family narrative we meet Bobby and Barry Bonds, a father and son both famous to the world through both their public baseball successes and their private personal failures.

The film begins in the 1950’s in suburban Riverside, California where a high-school aged Bobby Bonds is falling in love with the game of baseball alongside his older-wise teammate, Dusty Baker. Both excellent players, Dusty is drafted out of high school by the Braves and Bobby, after graduation, signs with the San Francisco Giants farm system.

Bobby is thrilled, he has everything he’s ever wanted in life: he’s hanging out with big leaguers like Willie Mays, he’s met and married beautiful Patricia Howard and she’s given birth to his first son, Barry Lamar Bonds.

In one particularly moving scene we see Bobby on his first day at “the big show” in San Francisco. Barry is two and is bouncing on his mother’s lap. Willie Mays comes over and pats the young Bonds on the head, he is-after all- his godfather. Willie and Bobby shake hands and head into the dugout together, Bobby following Willie like a nervous puppy.

When it’s his time to bat, Bobby emerges to his name being called over the loudspeaker at foggy Candlestick Park: “Bobby Bonds!”

The San Francisco crowd in orange and black jumps to their feet in applause for the first-timer. “C’mon, Bonds, let’s see whatcha got!”

He steps up to the plate, bases loaded, and knocks the fast pitch out of the park.

Over the next twelve years, Bobby Bonds becomes a star ballplayer, beloved by the fans of San Francisco and dubbed “the next Willie Mays” by the media and front office staff. Barry Lamar grew up on the Giants outfield, competing for fly balls against his father and Willie Mays and often times winning.

Playing alongside Mays, his hero, and his son, and raising his family in San Francisco, Bobby thought he was living his dream: playing in the city he loved, with and for the people he loved.

But then in ‘72, Mays was traded to the New York Mets. Bobby himself, was horrified and shocked to be traded in ‘75 to the Yankees: the next “Willie Mays” for the next “Mickey Mantle.”

The news rocked San Francisco, losing their long-time favorite; news rocked the Bonds family and Bobby himself could barely understand the betrayal, the casting-out of a member of the San Francisco family. The game was changing. It was becoming a monstrous business.

And for the remainder of his bitter and highly transient career, Bobby never forgave the front office of San Francisco, nor did he forgive the media for turning their backs on him after he was gone.

Baseball is fickle, he taught his son Barry. Don’t trust anyone. Bobby and Willie would sit together and talk about the business of baseball, the racist and corporate institution.

And though they pushed Barry to succeed in the game, sometimes a little too hard, they never let him forget that he should never trust the game or the people who ran it.

When Barry is a star-baseball player graduating from high school in Northern California, Bobby refuses to let him sign with the San Francisco Giants. He shakes his head and fights every word of the contract they sent over. So instead of signing with a team, Barry instead goes to college, develops further skill in Arizona and then is drafted by Pittsburgh after graduation.

In 1993, after Bobby’s old friend Dusty Baker is promoted to Manager of the San Francisco Giants, Bobby agrees to encourage his son to return to the Giants, the institution he’s never quite forgiven. “You’ll take care of my, son?” Bobby asks Dusty. “Like my own,” Baker promises. The men shake hands. Bobby trusts very few people but Dusty Baker is one of them.

Headlines: "Barry and Baker, San Francisco’s Dream Team” "Barry wins NL MVP AGAIN" "Barry Bonds, San Francisco Super Star" "Pacific Bell Park: The House that Barry Built"

In 2001, Barry breaks the record for homeruns in a single season. In 2002, the Giants host a ceremony naming "Barry Bonds Day" in honor of their superstar player. Dusty Baker and Barry take the 2002 team on to win the NL Pennant. Barry tells the newspapers: I don't care about my records, I want a World Series ring.

The Giants lose the 2002 World Series in game 7. In the team's hotel bar GM Brian Sabean throws a temper tantrum and announces he plans to rid the team of Dusty Baker. A few days later, Baker's contract is not renewed.

Bobby continues to nag Barry over the phone and in person and Barry, in general, has become a very standoffish person, not trusting media but also never really feeling accepted by his dad.

Extra Extra read all about it! “San Francisco’s Golden Boy caught rigged up in illegal steroid scandal!” The papers line the edges of San Mateo General Hospital where Bobby Bonds sits on his death bed. With Barry at his side and Willie Mays on the other end of the phone line, Bobby loses his battle with cancer. The papers continue to come in, the reporters continue to thrust their microphones in Barry’s face as he exits the hospital. "Losing dad is the worst thing in the world,” is all Barry can say. “But Barry, what about the steroids?” “BALCO Barry, tell us about Balco.”

"My career is an open book, but my life is not.” Barry says as he scowls at the reporters and walks away.

The Mets are in town and Barry steps up to the plate. “Boooo!” screams a man in orange and blue holding up a sign that reads, “Barry’s a lie!” “Cheater!” chants a group of visiting fan’s children in the bleachers. The Giants fans hold their breath, knowing this is Barry’s first at bat since his father’s death. The pitch comes and Barry lofts it out of the park, splashing the white pill into the San Francisco Bay. He slowly trots around the bases to a combination of boos and cheers and silence from the fans who don’t know what to think. When he reaches home plate he points his fingers to the sky in honor of his dad, a tear slides down his cheek and he walks to the dugout.

Headlines and media frenzy take over the narrative. “Barry Breaks Aaron’s Record, Aaron not pleased,” “Barry Indicted.” “Bonds Scandal Murders the Dreams of Children.” “Bonds personally responsible for 9/11, Bush calls for expensive investigation.” We see images of Barry walking in and out of the courthouse. We see Marc Ecko’s campaign to add an asterisk to Bond’s name in the Hall of Fame. A courtroom scene: Barry stands, says “Not guilty.”

2007. AT&T Park in San Francisco. Fans hold signs that read, “Goodbye Barry”. His name is called from the line-up and he trots out onto the field. The crowd stands and cheers. A group of cub scouts yell, “We love you Barry!” Newspaper headline crumpled on the ground under the feet of bleacher fans reads: Barry’s Giants Contract Not Renewed. Goodbye Bonds.

It’s a fall day in a cemetery looking out onto the SF Bay’s peninsula. Willie Mays walks up to Barry Bonds who is standing over his father, Bobby’s grave. Barry is no longer employed by any major league franchise and his indictment is set to begin in Federal court. He’s somber as he stands and Willie Mays tries to comfort him.

“If that was what baseball is, how could you have ever pushed me to do it? All I ever wanted to do was please you and my father, to win a championship and to be the best baseball player I could be. Now, instead, I’m the scapegoat for everything that’s ever been wrong with the game. They’ve painted me to be a fool.”

“Barry,” Willie Mays asks softly as he leans over the top of his cane, “Remember the night you broke the homerun record for the season?

“Yeah, but-”

“Remember how it sounded at that exact moment, like a rocket shot of cheers?”

“Uh-huh,”

“Somewhere in the middle of the ballpark, a little girl grabbed onto her father in the most excitement she’s ever felt in her life. And another man somewhere in the park looked into the eyes of the woman who loves him most as she leapt up from her seat.”

“So?”

“So? Barry, that is what baseball is. Those moments, what they do for people. And you’ve given baseball to those people, Barry, nothing the papers or teams say will ever take that away from them. That’s something that your father never learned and something I still struggle with to this day. But I remind myself that those moments are what baseball is, Barry, the rest, the rest of the mess is just business.”

“Willie,” Barry asks in a small voice of his godfather, “do you think my dad would be proud?”

“He always was, son,” Willie answers, “He always was.”

The film ends with Barry and Willie looking out over the valley of California’s great bay as the sun sets over the cemetery.

Baseball and Brioche is MOVING!!!

2009-04-10T11:36:00.000-07:00

stay tuned for the deets. i'll tweet and facebook folks who are in the know. find me on twitter @mzmeg

Nostalgia-trip

2008-07-12T14:09:00.000-07:00

How many times have I driven over this bridge?

The Golden Gate is what people associate with San Francisco but my story begins and continues on the Bay Bridge, connecting Oakland with San Francisco's Financial, SOMA and Mission districts.

It started as an undergrad, living in Berkeley's sorority houses, commuting to Pacific Bell Park; Piedmont to College, Highway 24 to Highway 80, bridge and exit at Folsom Street. That time also included various ventures to the Richmond District and home : Geary to Stanyon and then the magic of the stoplights of Oak Street, turning green on command and allowing you to zip across town in the late night hours.

One time coming home at 3am on the lower tunnel of the Bay Bridge, a car pulled up next to me to display a creep with his hand down his pants, keeping in line with my Buick Century's ebb and flow on the lonely stretch of highway above water. I jammed on my breaks and shaking, realized I was a young woman alone in a car.

And that's who I continued to be when I moved into a duplex off San Pablo in South Berkeley, right off the University Ave on-ramp to 80, 6 minutes from the toll-plaza. Serena, Jayne and I shared a three bedroom, split level and ate a lot of Jack N' the Box. Our apartment was broken into right before we moved ourselves in but after we'd moved in our boxes of college crap.

I was the first to move in that house on Allston as I slept, the first time ever alone in a house, in a city, with my right hand wrapped around the neck of a baseball bat. My father had tried to give me a hand-gun to keep. I wrapped my hand around it's grip but couldn't take it out of the holster.

"If the safety comes off, you're pulling the trigger," my father established of the hand-gun's rules.

That concept shook me as I realized I wasn't ready to keep a gun.

"The bat's the next runner up," my father said before leaving me alone to ponder my third home in the Bay Area.

That winter break I continued to commute to Pacific Bell Park, this time in a green Ford Taurus, aptly dubbed, "the Little Mermaid" for her ability to glide through the rain and look as wide as a whale.

The Mermaid came with me two years later when I moved into my breathtaking studio apartment on the Best Street of San Francisco, in the BEST neighborhood of San Francisco, saddling the top of it's BEST park with the most INCREDIBLE views of the city.

The Mermaid was now commuting the opposite direction on the Bay Bridge, getting to know the stress of rushing against straffic, a salmon under the top deck, spawning towards the cute towns of the East Bay that were now the places where I worked before I returned home, the the city I liked better all along.

As I got to know the city better, I got to thinking a lot about her streets and avenues; which lane one should be in while taking Franklin instead of Van Ness and why Guerrero just might be the vein of the city's auto transportation. The Bay Bridge became a burden and once I moved to the Mission District, the Mermaid sat parked while I explored the underground snake of BART.

BART is an entirely new perspective on the repetition of city-to-city transport. Instead of the splay of cars from the mouth of the Eastbound tunnel into the four separate freeways which feed the East Bay and a sometimes hopeful sunset over the downtown views of 80 West, BART pops your ears under the water of the San Francisco Bay before thrusting you in the lap of West Oakland. There in a parking lot to your left, sitting before the aggressive blossoming of condominiums, is a Burning Man collective that, depending on the time of year, displays large burnable statues and animal-shaped mobile art. It's weird and also slightly annoying but it's also distinctly Bay Area and there's some charm to that.

When BART dips above ground again at McCarthur, I look to the left of the train to the underside of the 580 interchange and see how many people are still sleeping there or, if the area is empty, wonder what time the police did a "clean out". As 2008 unfolded and the ecomonomy slips more and more obviously into recession, there are more people sleeping outside, there are more people sleeping in cars. Oakland, like my neighborhood in San Francisco, starts to play host to a series of fancy condos with people still sleeping outside them.

From 16th Street BART station to downtown Berkeley, the number of people living outside, panhandling and using scarier and scarier amounts of drugs becomes worse. And the condo market becomes shiner and the coffee shops more abundant. The middle class, what's left, rides BART and ride bikes and those living inbetween the very rich and very poor find ways to survive by picking up a second job or relocating to a rural area.

But this story is about the Bay Bridge and the promises it makes and keeps, the places which it has taken me and the way it has held me up, somehow kept me driving straight, especially when I've felt a strong urge to veer my steering wheel hard right and push my weight into the gas pedal.

But the Bay Bridge always got me home.

When I was a young girl living in Tahoe, I loved nothing better in the entire world than to come to San Francisco and the drive there was the best part. The city unfolds right in front of you, the pink and yellow houses of Nob Hill and the asymmetry of the downtown triangle. I would cry to myself when driving home, even then knowing that act was slightly dramatic but using it to pay homage to the kinship I felt with the city.

The City. Living in the City, the City of San Francisco. A City Girl. It's hard to reconcile the act of leaving this city and of loving her and the memories and people she holds. The memories in every stretch of pavement, every store front and parking space, the feeling I get around 11th Avenue and on Embarcadero at the foot of the Ballpark, and the bridge is just a monster of memories. So many stories were bookended by her stretch between the towns she holds apart. And the radio was always on and the window was always down, even just a little bit.

95% of my life will change in 3 weeks when I move across the country. There's a lot to do, there are a lot of people to see and yet, the only image I have is of that final moment I'll have, looking back over the bridge to the city I hate to leave. I know I'll come back and that the feeling, just as it can be incited while exiting, is reversable upon re-entry. I know I'll be back but still dread the image of leaving; the connotations of catapulting East.

I just wonder what song will be on the radio.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeds, Broski.

2008-06-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

hehehehehe. Season 4 Premiers Tonight. FINALLY!!!!

The Good and the Bad

2008-06-16T00:29:00.000-07:00

This posts theme-song is brought to you by Daniel Powter.
For maximum effect, play this song as you read my blog. It is what I like to call elementary multimedia.

As what I can only assume was a fond farewell from my neighborhood, my car was keyed last night. As I slept soundly above my Mission alleyway, some person scribbled an illegible script onto my green Taurus and then slipped into the night. Also someone pooped in front of my gate. I do not think the incidents are related but the thought crossed my mind this morning as I noticed both of my Sunday gifts.

I noticed the poop and key-job, then skittered out to Kragen Auto parts where the salesmen were uuber helpful due to the fact that I was the only woman in the store and the only customer sporting purple stretch pants. Upon returning I washed the "Little Mermaid" and buffed the scratches out with the recommended ointment. They looked a little bit better and as I stood back in the delicious sunlight of the inner Mission, I stepped into the large pile of feces I had noticed, remembered and loathed. At that moment I knew the gods, the neighbors and my blog audience would all have a great big laugh at me.

Then I went to work at Gialina where everyone who came in decided to wait by the door. I went up to a customer and said, "there is a great place to stand over there by chalkboard or perhaps you could wait outside." He took advantage of my passive aggressive proposition and retorted, "We are fine here unless we are in your way." I said, "well...um...okay then" and skittered off to talk shit about him with the host.

Honestly, people, I know that it is imperative that you take your asshole tendencies out on the service people around you and in this faltering economy and blame the local businesses for stealing your money but just remember- if you treat me rudely when I wear the apron, I swear, if I ever see you out on the street, I will fucking kill you.

After work I filled my car up with gas and noticed that I had only washed one half of the roof. The racing stripe of dust continued to taunt me as I looked up to see that filling my tank at the cheapest station in San Francisco had cost me $67, easily double what it cost me a few summers ago.

Oh and I said good in the title of this post. To assist you in making sense of that, I should mention that my therapist suggests I start to find joy in the most minute of my daily interactions, including the difficult and taxing ones. My joy in these particular occurences comes in two forms.

1) Last week I was really losing my shit about leaving San Francisco. I was starting to second guess my decision and anticipate a nervous breakdown when crossing the California border. Today was a gift. And while I do plan to move back here in a few years, it is nice to know that I will be moving to a place with cheap rent and where the chances of my car being broken into and vandalized as well as finding people poop outside my door are significantly lower. And with the cost of living low in New Hampshire, I can afford to not work 7 days a week around the pleated, dockered assholes who ate our pizza tonight.

2) I knew it would be a great story. Stepping in the poop was the worst and best moment of my day. Totally funny and I had a nozzled hose in my right hand to immediately remedy the situation. I am a woman who has humor and resourcefulness in plenty and if I have those two things, I feel like I am doing alright.

Thoughts for the Day

2008-06-11T14:38:00.000-07:00

1) Ira Glass is dead sexy. I love listening to him; his methodic, melodic voice takes me to new levels of rear neck sweat. I imagine him saying those assertive, dirty things we all need to hear sometimes and let me tell you, I don't have to imagine that hard. If you're thinking of any presents to buy me in the near future, nerdcore it out and light me up a little Ira. Get creative and pair with a battery operated machine or some expensive rubber. No need for a wink/wink/nod/nod here. I'm not ashamed. I want Ira Glass and his thigh numbing voice to take me into my 30's and back. Nough said.

2) My always a tastemaker, never a taster tradition continues as two of my favorite hangouts which I can never afford to patron, won James Beard Awards for 2008. The prestigious honor for best chef from California (or Hawaii) went to Craig Stoll, executive and co-owner of Delfina (on 18th Street). Also on the JB Awards list were Elisabeth Prueitt and Chad Robertson, owners of Tartine Bakery in San Francisco, as the best pastry chefs or bakers in America. Tartine Bakery is also located on 18th Street.

So what's exciting? Well. No longer is this little dispatch of pavement, which saddles both Dolores Park and the 17th Street, "Upholstery District" of San Francisco.

Well, we have a new neighborhood on our hands. Please join me in knighting the 18th Street spread between Dolores and Guererro as the "James Beard District" of San Francisco.

YOU'RE NEXT BI-RITE ICE CREAMERY!

San Francisco Values

2008-05-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

Wow, Nancy Pelosi throws my kind of parties. I'm having a BBQ this afternoon celebrating many of the same things and I'm hoping that Beto will wear his cutoff yellow tank and cowboy hat.

Yes to Same Sex Marriage!
Yes to Abortions (on demand, and on pay per view)!
Yes to Amnesty for Illegal Immigrants!

I mean, really, what's the alternative to this kind of party. Who wants to have a party full of straight, white people who's ancestor's were uuber euros. And partying with people who don't believe in abortions on demand is a total buzzkill.

I'd love to have a chit-chat with the marketing group that came up with this ad. The whole goal is to pitch to voters that "San Francisco Values" are bad and Kay Barnes is NancePo's bestie, making them both bad. This Kay Barnes vs. Sam Graves is going down in Missouri where I guess a term like "San Francisco Values" is thrown around a lot as a negative. And the three dancing friends in front of the irradescent bar are meant to inhance the negative feelings we're supposed to feel towards San Franciscans, Nancy Pelosi, Kay Barnes, pink tank tops, cowboy hats and cosmopolitans. Oh and also illegal immigrants and gay people. WTF?

If I were living in Missouri, wouldn't my chances of wearing a cowboy hat and sleeveless tank be higher than if I were attending a Kay Barnes fundraiser at NanPo's NorCal estate? If I were living in Missouri wouldn't I just DIE to attend one of those fancy parties where people wearing neon grind against me drinking cosmos and looking like they're having fun fun fun! I don't understand who this ad was for but now that abortions on demand are synonamous with quaffed hair and neon yellow, I'm feeling like chilling at Lime in the Castro this weekend

What July will Bring

2008-03-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

Dude, this is going to be so tits, I can't even stand it.

I've always wanted to drive across the country- most specifically, I want to go to every major league baseball stadium. Since I'm not 75 and retired in an RV (yet), I might have to put that on hold - or at least not attempt to drive in Florida or Arizona with no air conditioning.

For this Stupid "Holiday"

2008-03-17T10:47:00.000-07:00

A Preemptive Breakup

2008-03-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

So Fretty-McFretterson here, anguishing over the wait for MFA program acceptances and rejections. After a long haul of self-doubt and pity, I had nowhere else to go except to the bottle...a big bottle of George Costanza.

He's right, I'm the same as him. I have no power, I need "hand" in my relationship with these graduate programs. Accepting a tiny graduate class of nonfiction writers I imagine is a lot like entering a relationship: one must be perceived as desirable. In the academic and publishing world, they'd like you to believe that this has something to do with talent. I believe otherwise. I think, that every issue in the world can be directly linked to the quest for affection and sex. This argument can be expanded but then where would the fun be? The goal for me is to play the same games with these admissions committees that I've learned to play in my sexual relationships- and of course, as a woman who came of age under the banner of Elaine and Jerry, I've turned to Seinfeld to asses the situation.

I have no power, don't you understand, I've got no hand, I need hand!

Meg: Uh, yes hello is this the excellent MFA program that I applied to?
P: Yes.
Meg: I understand you're reviewing my portfolio.
P: Yes.
Meg: Yeah, I'm just calling to say, I am rescinding my application, I don't want to come to your program.
P: What do you mean? Things seemed to be looking good, you were half-way up the list.
Meg: Yeah, I don't think so, we're obviously not a good fit.
P: Not a good fit? What can we do? I can put you to the top of the list, maybe.
Meg: Eh.
P: How about an assistantship? We can guarantee financial aid?
Meg: This is what I'm talking about, clearly we are not-
P: A full ride! Immediate acceptance! Publication! Massages!
Meg: What? I can't hear you!
P: We love you! You're the only student we want. You're talented, we'll do anything for you!
Meg: See, was that so hard?

Final thoughts: A (wo)man without hand is not a (wo)man. And I've got so much hand I'm coming out of my gloves.

How to have a Graceful Nervous Breakdown in Public: A Guide for Proper Young Ladies

2008-02-26T18:40:00.000-08:00

Walk quickly and do not make eye contact with people
Make your gaze soft and keep your head up, watching the fuzzy world around you
Hold a book with both hands, palms flat.
Use all your strength to flatten the book, even if your fingers turn white with strain
Breathe with your mouth open. Even if you are gasping for air, do not close your lips.
Keep your open lips in a rounded pout. Do not close your lips. If you do, you will resemble a dying fish.
The scream that hurls itself to your throat must become circular. When it dives up, push it down. Imagine it forcing your toenails to scratch the leather of your shoes. When it thrusts up again, repeat.
Wear sunglasses inside.
If you happen to be near a wall, coyly lean an elbow up against the brick and press your weight in. Imagine punching and pushing but do not make a fist.
If somebody speaks to you, find an excuse to laugh.
If somebody asks you how you are, answer, fine, how are you.
Always remember that proper young ladies do not punch strangers or hurl themselves in front of BART trains.

What's Important

2008-02-25T23:36:00.000-08:00

The end of February and the coming of March does not only signify the tremendous horror that is hearing from MFA programs for big Meg; no. You forgot pitchers and catchers are reporting while NCAA brackets are gearing up for the Madness of March. I would anticipate spring but my landlord cut down all the trees around the property so the only thing blooming on Natoma Street is my desire to focus once again on the benign hope that Barry Bonds will emerge as an Oakland superstar and I can watch him assist a World Series ring.

And also, I want a pony, straight hair, tan skin and a full ride to every masters of fine arts writing program in the country.

Neeways...here's some medicine for the cold and cranky.

Final notes: this clip is FULL of juicy one-liners I plan to use for years to come when referring to BLB. I'd like to point out that while some of us battle booze, Sports Dummy Billy points out that "strong minded Bonds" battles boo's. Important distinction, one that I will reminisce on while I'm sitting on the sand in San Diego on the 366th day of the year.

Hunter

2008-02-25T17:03:00.000-08:00

My phone lays silent as I read on the interweb that two fellow blog-geeks I've never met have been accepted into the only MFA program I really want to attend next year.

MFA programs call you. Unless they reject you. Then they don't call, they make you wait by the phone all month until one day you walk into your house and there is a thin rejection letter waiting for you. And the wording is cold. And you don't feel better by thinking about all the talented applicants competing with you for the six spots. All you want to do is fling yourself under the covers and wake up a week ago when nobody had heard from this particular MFA program, the only one you wanted to be in; the only urban, public, non-fiction program that matters to me.

This is much worse than my college rejections. This is worse than when I graduated from Cal and couldn't find a job.

This is the most singular and specific thing that I have ever wanted in my life. I'm so afraid of not having it that I can barely breathe.

I would give up every memory of every kiss, I'd give up Barry Bonds and trucks full of Diet Coke, I would give way to gaining 30 pounds and give up vacationing for 10 years, I would give up Big Sur and San Francisco and I'd splinter every painted fingernail down to the bone and walk barefoot down Mission Street if I could just have this one thing, this one phone call from Louise DeSalvo, this one person sitting in a desk on 5th avenue reading my work, thinking "this woman is the one for us!" and calling California - oh please, please, please Louise.

And I will not beg, will not cry on BART, will not pace and beat myself up and knock my fist against the wall, I will not pray and I will let it all go; I will stand straight with a stoic face and if and when I am told NO, told NO, told NO I can't have the one thing I want and the only thing and place and where else will I go?

I'll fucking go anyway and sit my sullen ass down outside the building and wait for someone to change their mind.

Podcast for your Monday Face

2008-02-18T12:16:00.000-08:00

Ned, arguably the most Yelped about server at Gialina, is not just a pizza slanger like yours truly. He produces a weekly podcast over at NedPR.org.

This week's podcast was produced by Nick, our illustrious server assistant and recently transplanted rock legend. Nick asked me to read something for the podcast and so in my car in the parking lot of Gialina, I recorded some of my "Requiem for Barry" piece.

Check it out here

A Prayer for Sober Servers

2008-02-18T00:17:00.000-08:00

I've talked of this before and as I approach my repetition on paper I realize there is a scary, tangible pattern in my life. I work in the restaurant feverishly, pushing all boundaries of mental and physical capacity. Then I shakily get in my car in the cold, empty Glen Park neighborhood. I drive down San Jose till it spills onto Guererro and I race over the hills of Noe Valley and fall into the lap of the 16th and Mission to watch the hipsters spill themselves out of faux taverns. I get home, park outside, clamber up the stairs and sit in my apartment wondering how I could possibly recover from my masochistic experience of employment. My whole body is tired and I feel bloated and fat. It takes extra effort to sponge the makeup off and finally I sit in my apartment and write down verbatim the excess that spins around my mind in an attempt to exorcise the compulsions pulsing beneath my temples. And that's exactly how I get here, realizing that I've written this all before; this exact same series of events.

And the Juno soundtrack strums in the background of this room:
The flower said, "I wish I was a tree,"
The tree said, "I wish I could be
A different kind of tree,
The cat wished that it was a bee,
The turtle wished that it could fly
Really high into the sky,
Over rooftops and then dive
Deep into the sea.

So the scoop is that there was neither host nor busser tonight. Our chef was out sick so Abel, the host/manager/bestest, was working the salad station while Shannon and I took orders, took plates, took parties of 6, told people to wait outside for an hour, ran down the street to the bar to find people (more than 10 times), answered the phone...and the phone never, never, never stops ringing and people walk in the door and stand in it blocking the way and then they say, how much longer..um,there'll be 18 of us, do you have half baked pizzas, can I just have a coffee and salad? And then after a while Abel's friend Amo came to help us and Amo used to work with us for like a week but then she was over it and she's in a band and went to Princeton and we love Amo and she totally had our backs and bussed tables, filled water, boxed pizzas and all that good stuff. It was fucking nuts.

And honestly, when I do 16.8 things at once with people coming at me from all directions for 7 hours, I have no idea how anyone can really manage to not drink after work. I couldn't believe that I had to go home sober and drink tea and diet coke. I mean, obviously I'm not going to go have a drink but fuck me, I wanted to have one to really knock me on my ass. I think its an adrenaline thing like go as fast as possible and then crash into a brick wall. Maybe I'm not looking for the high or the low but the impact; that moment when the madness just stops. When I go home sober I perform a series of rituals to replace the drinking ritual; all of them built on making me as happy and relaxed as possible in a short amount of time-like a shot of Jack Daniels would but instead of being Jack Daniels, it's tea and bathwater and lavender and music and writing and television, bad television. And once I'm here doing these things it's not so bad, it's good actually.

I sit here clean in a clean apartment with Gardenia candles burning and Beirut now wafts in the background:

the lights go on
the lights go off
when things don't feel right
I lie down like a tired dog
licking his wounds in the shade

when I feel alive
I try to imagine a careless life
a scenic world where the sunsets are all
breathtaking

And these things that I do here, these repetitive rituals of my Saturday or Sunday nights; these are the soft cushions that catch me when I crash. I'm not looking for a brick wall tonight. You've read this story before and I plan to tell it again, probably many times. This story, the cotton against my skin, the music, the tea- these are my active prayers to the servers not drinking tonight. This is for the hard working people who bust our asses against the masses only to face a sometimes harder task at the end of the shift. Let us find the things that bring us peace on these cold nights.

2007-12-05T22:53:00.000-08:00

The elegant sickness in me manifests everyday in different direction. I think about that bitch subletting in my bloodstream and I wonder about scratching my skin to free her. If it were as easy as the trigger that alcohol pulls and if me not drinking were the answer, I would feel healed. But this well-dressed disease has a key to my apartment and flutters around when I’m not there. She sits next to me on BART and announces herself with the indicator-bing of my email arrival.

Her hands are thicker than mine and her wit overpowers me. Sometimes when the lights are off in my room she slithers up next to me and wraps her arm around my pillow. “We’re in this together, you and I,” she whispers and I swear her grey eyes own the truth in that sad little statement. She is the heavy, old backpack I carry and I sometimes wish she could carry me, somewhere other than face down in the driveway of someone who vacation sublets and won’t find me if I don’t wake up. She rolls her eyes at my mother pulling my dead weight off the bathroom floor. She’s glamorous and lights a cigarette with her head tilted in disapproval. She knows best and I’m so uncool.

The sickness declares that I created her or she tries to blame my parents or ex lover for her power over me. She’s got a thousand excuses and talks faster than I can; she tells me that writing about her is cliche and that she’s seen this after school special before. I wish she would whisper and wish her voice wouldn’t carry so far. I hate when she follows me to my neighbors house and acts annoyed when they drink wine without me. She laughs and calls me old lady and she’s not being cute, she wants me to feel like I’m boring her; like I’m boring everyone.

“You’re a drunk!” She shrieks, her eyes wide and excited like she just crowned me Miss America. She tries to make it sound beautiful and natural, like “We’re redheads!” She acts like we’re suddenly best friends and flings her arm through mine wanting me to give up on my pledge to sobriety. She’s convinced that if we drank a bottle of wine right now, after work, no one would ever know. “And fuck them if they do find out!” She doesn’t care, doesn’t think that a 27 year old woman who pays her own bills should have to answer to her perception of my whiny family or protective friends. “They don’t know you in the least!” she laughs and does her best impression of my father, wagging his finger in disapproval.

She doesn’t want to sit here while I write this, she’d rather make a list of people to call. She’s in love with someone who doesn’t love her back and she knows that if we reach out to him and feel disappointed, we’ll have an exciting dilemma on our hands. She wants me to drink and fuck and dance with my head flung back, she sees this as the only part of me that really existed, the only time anyone really took notice. She’s worried everyone has already forgotten who I am.

At night I blast the heater and sleep without covers. I want to stretch out on the bed and know I’m alone. I want to feel her move in me and beside me but I don’t want her to get comfortable. Sometimes, if I’m really tired, I can kick her out of my room to sleep on the couch. She pouts but if I’m having a good week, i don’t care. I’ve been compiling a list of my own, I’ve been thinking about everyday in front of me and planning where I need to go to not feel like a nobody.

I can’t get her to move out, this is a lease that will never expire. I remember she was there during my childhood, while my parents worked, while I sat in my room not wanting to study. She held my hand in fear when I looked down at my pubescent body and realized the ugliness I was now stuck with forever. She’s right, I know, we are in this together, her and I; my sickness and my self. When my aunties tease me about getting married, I roll my glance at her in silence. She sits on my left side eating popcorn. She smirks back. She knows I can’t ever have anyone else; that sometimes the bad things in us are the closest things to home we’ll ever know.

Yo Soy El Beto

2007-10-29T15:24:00.000-07:00

For those of you who remember Ollin.net

He's back. And it's a fine thing.

Check out Beto213

Flit around the icons to find some of his poems, the site is still being built. Read 'On the 10th anniversary of the los angeles rebellion'

Welcome Back, B!

The Santa Anas: a working draft

2007-10-23T18:43:00.000-07:00

I sit with my feet in hypnotic sand; black and white morsels of earth shimmy against the blue ocean and I sit, my plastic sunglasses mirror the sun. I'm in Leucadia, California and I can count at least 37 surfers in my distance but other than me, the beach is empty. It's 2:30pm on a Sunday and I've somehow finegled an early-evening check out at the Leucadia Beach Inn, two blocks away, so instead of rushing to the airport, I can sit and ponder the wind. When the Santa Anas blow in California, everyone knows it. And though these mystic warm winds are only inherent to the southern region of the state, the ripple effect can be felt throughout. There are tales and stories of the Santa Anas, steeped in destruction and irrational decisions. They’re enough reason to kill someone, they, like the moon, cause our blood to dance a tango we’ve never before learned.

What also lie in the distance, this particular Sunday afternoon in October, are fires. Malibu burns as does inland San Diego County. But from where I perch and without internet or TV, I am clueless. I do not yet know that Brad's family, the people who hosted me the night before at a wedding, are evacuating. I do not yet know that 225,000 will simultaneously fear for their property and heirloom photos. I do not know these things; the sky is not yet damp with orange haze. I do not know anything of the destruction that surrounds me, I just know that the Santa Anas blow hot from all directions. They are unpredictable; their force streams steady against my skin, they whip your insides out. This wind causes me to imagine the whirring and churning of butter; I meditate on gates swinging open. I think of Torrey Pines housewives lying restless next to snoring husbands, their bodies wrestle with thousand-count sheets. I think of Joan Didion and how she demonized this beautiful mystery saying, “The winds shows us how close to the edge we are.” I wonder if I’m close to the edge and if the wind attempts to take my mind, my self-control, any grasp I have on keeping it together. I wait for something awful to happen to me, I think about abrupt changes and disruption. I wonder if I’ve already gone crazy. And so I do the only thing logical for a situation like this, when sitting on a random beach in California: I stand on my head.

Upside down, I face the wind and decide I cannot be left alone with my mind and the wind. The truth of the matter is that when the wind whistles around my ears, I do ponder my scream; the one that remains under my skin during business meetings and train rides and other people’s weddings. And what would it matter; what would it disturb if I were to unleash my shriek? What influence do I have on the surfers or on the cliff-side homes? What influence do I really hold on the world? I am a morsel of white sand, incomplete without my surroundings. I am a narrator to this verse that’s not about the fires, the destruction, the significance, the story. I ramble in this tangent, without a thesis, wasting attention away from heat and melt and tears and screams; screams attached to a face of someone who’s actually losing something and not standing on their head in a beach town called Leucadia.

Women are akin to these elemental influences. Our hormones creep with time and the moon; the tides, the seasons, they mediate our vessels. I know because I started my period during the last full moon, setting my clock to connect with the spin of our planet. And 19 days later I did a headstand on the Leucadia beach and watched the ocean stand on its shoulders against the perfect kaleidoscope of sand. We ache in 26 to 32 day cycles; we bleed on schedule, just like we know the sun will rise each morning around 7:04am. As women we constantly collide with criticism regarding our irreverent emotions. To some we are are moot mysteries, to others, hysterical tornaedos. But we exist in sync with the elements that dominates our surroundings. We're mapped to the waves, to the woven sand and to the fires that warm and destroy. And the wind, we already know it, the Santa Anas already live in this skin.

So when the winds come right before winter, we recognize their arrival, we feel the pricks of weather and calendars and ticking seconds. We sit like rocks against the tide and time knowing our bodies are clocked to something outside our minds. And there we find eerie comfort in unpredictability.

Mother Earth and Mother Time, the Santa Anas are burning the houses in Malibu and San Diego. The steadfast fires will inevitably run to the Pacific Ocean. And just like I did, they’ll stand with their back to anything they’ve destroyed, and satisfied, they’ll wonder where to go next.

Normal

2007-10-23T13:33:00.000-07:00

My pink cell phone rings in my office. A private number is listed. I answer anyway because my parents are out of the country.

Hello, Meg?

Yes.

This is Doctor Chow.

Oh. Yes?

I'm calling because I have the results of your pap-smear test and they are abnormal.

Excuse me?
It seems that they were abnormal. You tested negative for Chlamydia and other STD tests but the pap-smear was abnormal.

So, what does that mean?

Well the pap-smear, it tests the cells in your cervix area for irregular cells. And you have an abnormal reading.

What does that usually indicate, what is the usual outcome of this?

You will need to come back in 4-6 months for a follow-up pap-smear. If we have an abnormal reading again, we can then perform a colposcopy, which will give us a better indication as to whether or not this is cancerous.

Can I schedule the colposcopy now?

No you will have to wait until the second pap-smear to know whether or not it is needed. It is an expensive procedure so we don't usually perform them until the second pap comes back abnormal. We'll see you in 4-6 months.

____________________

Phone call over, I google all the vague terms that were rattled off, really only certain about : 4-6 months and abnormal. I find a webpage that has categories of abnormal pap-smears. I call the doctor's office again, this time I am connected to a receptionist who cannot spell my name and cannot find my file. After 10 minutes on hold, she finally returns with my information.

Meg?

Yes.

We do not have a reading on the category of your abnormality. There were not enough cells.

Well can I come back and give more cells this week? Tomorrow, maybe?

No, you have to wait 4-6 months before you will have enough cells to have another pap exam, otherwise, it'll just be a waste of time.

Oh. Okay.

Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Uh, yeah. Can you please grantee me that I'm not going to die of cancer?

___________________________

So, that's it? Just wait for 4-6 months while my body slowly fills with cancer?

Hypothetical
Abnormal
Appropriate
Potential
Growing
Inexpensive
Cancer?

This is how June died, this is how women die. Our doctors cannot find the cancer quick enough, we are dismissed as normal when we are really abnormal. There are no answers, just 6 month waiting periods and Valium prescriptions. I am 26 and physically fit and therefore no one seems concerned, my chances are low right now, things are probably fine.

Fine
Cancer Fine
Chill
No worries
4-6 Months
Probably
Normal
Cancer Abnormal
Cells
Cervix
Probably
Normal
Probably
Normal

the word

2007-10-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

on the street is that I'm going back to school. Yippee! I'm knee-deep in application essays, portfolio requirements, letters of recommendation and the horrible, horrible GRE test. Only two of my schools require that I take the GRE and neither of them will review my scores as part of my consideration for admission but still, it must be taken. And oy; the math, the geometry, the horror! The most stressful part of it all is assembling my portfolio which will consist of 30 pages of my best, most hilarious and articulate arguments in the non-fiction and memoirist genre. So that means, I'm cut-paste-create-editing work I've done over 3 or 4 years and eliminating egregious errors and the word, "fuck" from essays you've read of mine, mostly about Barry Bonds. It's obscene, really, that I think my hybrid voice of lyrical baseball opinions, haterific views on fashion, histories of insecurity about gender and of course, my crack humor are going to be put up against my peers for review. Unless I get an admissions committee that collectively thinks that Barry Bonds should run for president in 2008, I'm toast.

But I'm going to try anyway.

I want to be a writer and that means I need to train. I need to stretch and tone my written word and I need to be around other fucking writers to do so. A lot of you, bloggers specifically, think "oh, why waste your money on an MFA, just write" and I agree. But I'm afraid and I want to wrap myself in the cloak of academia and hide from the big-bad world to realign my priorities and coax a writer's ego from my shell. You smell me?

So if you happen to still be reading this blog, I'd like to enlist your assistance. I'm going to start posting like mad in out-of-sequence, unedited fashion. I'm going to post half-essays, flimsy arguments and typos. I'm going to post random sentences and phrases and thoughts and nice-sounding theoretical bullshit rants. And if you want to leave me feedback, I'd love some. And if you want to hear the rest of the story, tell me and I'll head in that direction. All I know is that I've been holing up in my apartment with my cat, writing for hours and emailing my cranky "editor"-in crime and I'm going to jump off a cliff if I produce another 6 page essay that he thinks is "too pop-culturey" or "politically in opposition to anything he could begin to rearrange the paragraph structure in". I'm not complaining about it, I need that, I need it from many people. I want to write shit because sometimes there's a fabulous gem; a one-line masterpiece, that lies inside a thesis that everyone agrees is both verbose and clumsy (see I'm already ready for grad school).

So leave me a comment, give me some guidance.

Love you.

2007-10-14T14:40:00.001-07:00

In the Octembers of San Francisco, we are blessed with warm weather, clear skies, blooming tomato plants and whistling birds. BART riders snake underground in their colored apparel and sport the California Gold and Yale Blue of Cal, change into their green and gold for Athletic baseball, underneath their Giants orange and reds and golds Football and the 49ers collide with the A’s and Giants games,

the Bluegrass festival comes to town and there is a stong feeling of hope in the air, before the expected darkness that is winter rolls into town. layers of fat naturally coat our bodies and we hybernate and dream of spring when it all begins again. The fingers that clap announcing the arrival of teams on the field are the same that flip the calander pages, whimsically cateloguing the teams that will arrive next season. And winter,w e have no heartbeat; the basketball fans cram indoors and stadiums cover their grass and we hybernate.

This is nothing new. This happens every year.

What we learn to depend on are the returnee’s the blood that matches our own. Coach Tedford signs a 5-year contract and we breath a sigh of releif. We depend on him, on Barry Bonds to imerge each March on a spring training field, in full bloom like our rosetta trees.

Shades of White

2007-10-14T14:39:00.001-07:00

I am a white woman; a woman of whiteness. There is no shade debate, no mistake that I might be a person of color. I have learned to place my identity of female alonside my white identity because both are obvious and both are important. It’s a difficult identity title in that when I say female, everyone knows what I mean but when I claim whiteness as an identity, it startles people. To say; to claim white, one is placing an obvious word to make a point about something and this makes many people uncomfortable. To say white to communities of white folks brings up a racial identity most do not confront. It is seen as unnessicary and in some cases, racist. A lot of white folks see race as a thing of the past, something that is both causes divisions instead of uniting peoples and something that adds an element of self identification that the masses do not want around. Also, the claiming and naming of whiteness has a history of hate attached to it. White Power is what is associated with using the term white as a white person and that’s ridiculous in my case as White Power is repetitive. White = Power and therefor to need the two terms together is redundant.

2007-10-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

I have a platform of wood at the top of my stairs just before the entrance to my house above the landlord’s woodshop. Among the disheveled Victorians and neo-conversion condos of the Mission District, I live solo in this crumbling unit, complete with its own concrete garden hidden by a walkway to Natoma Street. I have a desk by my washer and dryer, by my collection of bikes and under my makeshift clothesline tied between the top of the house and the rosetta tree. And on good mornings and afternoons, I perch there to write or read and drink coffee and diet coke. On every other morning and afternoon and evening or late at night, it is on the platform, perched on a barstool, that I sit and contemplate the Tuesdays and pizzas and neon purples of the Universe. This platform is where it all goes down, where life takes place for me. In between diet cokes or poem stanzas or to change the track on cd 4, I go inside,I refill my mug with tea or coffee or sparkling water, I sit in the center of my shredded love seat and watch tv, I sleep, but the platform is my mecca, my vortex, my curse. It is here that the wine drinking took place, where I’d go to drink, to make phone calls late at night. And now it isn’t wine, it isn’t a blast of cold white grape wiping away the afternoon’s office traumas, it’s coffee and it doesn’t make a whole host of a difference, the entire world has changed and I stand still and sip on my house. When I look up, I imagine that the lowercase b shape; the boot of Italy that defines my square footage rented on Natoma St in the third quadrant of the northern hemisphere translates to a vast lower b shaped; a million mile Italian boot that I feasibly rent from the Universe. And because I am the only one living here, I take my piece of the sky, very seriously.

2007-10-14T14:30:00.000-07:00

My apartment is dark. The shades are drawn and even the slightest inkling of the early spring evening light does not seep through. I have my windows closed not because of chill but because I currently fight to keep two neighborhood cats from entering and declaring siege on my own grey housecat, her food and my mismatched furniture. Around me and throughought the three room flat, there are stacks and piles of clothes, all systematcally sorted by color, degree of dirtiness, need to be drycleaned or boxed and given away. The ratio of clothes in the closet and drawers to clothes decorating floors, couches and surfaces is roughly 1:5. I have too many books to shelve.

It’s March, mid-March and I have far too much to do for April or May’s arrival to be cherished. Usually the impending baseball season is enough to drive me to lose weight, get fit, change my attitude and see brighter colors but right now, I feel stuck in the darkness of the apartment. I’ve eaten lunch and consumed an early evening snack before leaving my office but now I must focus on cleaning the dishes so that, if I wanted to make noodles and tomato sauce, I would have the space and utensils to do so. There’s a good chance I might eat Burger King. I fight the urge to buy and drink a bottle of red wine. I fight the urge since I’m not certain I want to break my near-9 months of sobriety and also because if I do so, I’d rather do so with a firm grip on a whiskey bottle. Most of my 130 pounds craves whiskey. I might be incomplete without it. The thought of that statement secures me another day of sobriety. I wonder what’s on TV tonight.

I wonder what it would be like to quit my day-job and open a restaurant. I looked for books on exactly that subject at the downtown Berkeley library but I could not find one listed under that subject. Additionally, I envision the book, once found, consisting of a page between two plastic sheaths and with one word in bold font: DON’T. That would be a funny trick, an expected outcome on a postmodern sitcom. I wonder what it would be like to quit my day-job and write for a sit-com. I’m sure it would be just as shitty and commit myself to waking up tomorrow and going to work, this time with a better focus on the tasks at hand and less emphasis on finding a way out. The good part of this dilimna is that it mirrors my quest to become thinner and more succesful than all the new partners with my ex-boyfriends. On my way to the library I pondered this thought: would it make them more jealous of me if I were an extremely successful restauranteur or married to a great guy. Seeing that it would also make my high-school female rivals jealous if I were a restauranteur, I can now fixate on a positive. I don’t have a boyfriend but I work in a restaurant and am clearly on my way to dominance of all comparisons to the new girlfriends. A close friend was accepted at NYU’s writing program. She’s a brilliant poet. I doubt she ever sees herself working a day job or worrying about something so vapid as making your high-school boyfriend’s new blonde girlfriend seeth with jealousy. A loud cat scream and scramble interupts this idiotic train of thought (of course she wants to make her exboyfriend’s new girlfriend seethe with jealousy). I go to my door to separate the two snarling felines. My grey cat is the aggressor. I’m so proud.

2007-10-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

When I stopped drinking I immediately began to lament certain cultural aspects that romanticized alcohol. I had trouble imagining myself as a single woman out on the town without a martini; a symbol that, thanks to shows like Sex and the City, was nearly impossible to fathom. The part of my life that occurs in the restaurant world is disrupted as well. How could it be possible to love food and to discuss ingredients with customers if I could not sample and wisely suggest a wine pairing? And living in Northern California is a problem as well with the wine industry permeating every inch of discussion about anything hip or relevant. Art openings with the free wine and mingling conversations: out. Birthday parties and all traditional holidays could not be rescued. I am left to celebrate alone, emerging only for Flag Day or some other obscure holiday to wander sober and cry. I felt I was losing all that was interesting and wondrous. The scene from Sideways kept playing over and over in my head. Mia and Paul Giamatt’si are sitting outside and he asks her what she loves about wine.

I never tell people that I’m an alcoholic. I say, I don’t drink and leave it right there on the floor. Most folks don’t follow that up with questions and if they do I just shrug and shake it off like it is perfectly normal for a 26 year old, single white woman living in the city to not drink. I know that it is not normal that there are not, in fact, very many young women in tank tops living sober, I am an anomaly, I am weird or religious or square. And I let myself absorb whatever people assume because I choose not to say alcoholic so I don’t think they make that connection. Alcoholics are dirty men in bars or fat divorcees. They do not go to baseball games or dance clubs, they do not work in bars, they do not date or socialize with sexy singles in San Francisco.

I do not go to meetings and when I did I never spoke up, I never told my story. My story is simple, really and like most alcoholics in meetings, begins with my first sip as a teenager and ends blacked out in on the floor of a stranger’s basement. It’s riddled with headaches and one-night stands and embarrassing scenes with ex-boyfriends. Its the cute image of a girl in heels being shipped home in a cab, except she can’t speak, can’t tell the cab driver where she lives, can’t open her front door, collapses in her own piss and rely’s on her fellow drinking buddies to save her from herself. In my story, there is so much love, so many poems written with my arm around my beloved bottle. There is red wine and late nights and sex spent licking whiskey off the teeth of a family friend. I do not dissolve into the drinking; I cannot distill into the 10 years of my life spent slurring during morning business meetings. I don’t like recounting the shit, the bad stuff, the ridiculous situations and my mother crying and pulling my dead weight from the bathroom floor.

The Sum of my Parts

2007-10-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

*Ahem* Is this thing on? (sets audio recorder on table) Yes, hello, hello, hello, test test, hello, hello this is Meg Glasson recording on October 11, 2007 from Natoma Street in San Francisco, proper. This is the first of many interviews with myself. I hope to obtain insight into the life and desires of one Ms. Meg Glasson, also known as me. For the purpose of clarity during this interview session, I will refer to myself as subject, “you” and encourage me in my responses to relate to said subject and self as “I”. Meg are you ready?

Meg: Yes. Thank you for this opportunity to get my story across correctly.

You’re welcome, I’m only here to translate the story as you would like it told. Can we begin with an informal dialogue about your childhood?

Meg: Sure, I’m ready.

Great. Now growing up in Lake Tahoe, what was that like?

Meg: Well, at the time, I thought the whole thing was atrocious. I knew from an early age that I was stuck in a small town. My family and I spent a good amount of time in San Francisco because my father’s family is from that area so I had a dramatic comparison and frame of reference for my location. I felt tiny, I wanted to shop in a mall; I wanted an urban or even suburbian story of life, walking to the market, meeting friends, those were things you couldn’t do in the mountains, without a parent to shephard you in a mini-van.

What was school like?

Meg: I graduated in a class of 70 and about half of the people that graduated with me had gone to school with me since pre-school so that’s about 35 kids that I knew like family but pretty much I hated everyone. In high school, I was a joiner, a club starter, a leader. I hated class itself, but I looked forward to ways to make myself active and productive in differnt avenues. Have you seen the movie Rushmore?

Yeah, Wes Anderson, great stuff.

Meg: Right, totally, The Royal Tennenbaums is my favoriate movie, it beat out Fight Club for the top spot, i could watch it every day. Anyway, Rushmore, yeah, that kid from the movie is totally what I was like in high school. My grades were average but I was captain of the debate team, captain of the soccer team, editor of the newspaper I helped re-instate, president of my class. I acted in the school musical, Grease. I was in an a-cappella group that met before school started. Our school was so small that if you wanted to participate in something or learn something, you had to create that opportunity for yourself. We had a real meat and potato situation going on there; we had math and biology and english but no AP classes, no fancy electives and no outrageous clubs. I think the biggest sport we had was the Ski Team.

Were you on the ski team?

Meg: No, but I think if I went back and did it all again, I would have joined it. Actually, maybe not, I’m a good skiier but I dispise being unnesscisaciry cold. Speaking of that, I was obsessed with moving to New York City. I thought it was my spiritual home.

Bread

2007-10-14T14:21:00.000-07:00

There are two types of argument makers in this world: those who think the world should be divided into two types of people and those who think doing so cause faulty arguments. I’m in the former category as is Jeffery Steingarten. In his collection of essays, “The Man who Ate Everything,” Steingarten sets his tone immediately on the first page of text. He proclaims the world is in two camps, those who survive on meat, bread and potatos and those who survive on bread alone. Steingarten and I share a tent in the second camp, on bread and on making arguments.

indiana

2007-10-14T14:20:00.000-07:00

I first saw the blueberry stand forty four miles into Indiana on Highway 64. The road shack was blue and should it have been any other color I would not have thought about stopping, which I do not prefer to do when I drive in anticipation of things I do not understand but rivit inside my blood pushing me to deadline myself to a destination. I’m sure this story would have purpose should I have actually stopped at the blueberry stand on Highway 64 but I did not, thinking of blueberries for the remaining 127 miles of my journey to the Vietanamese wedding ceremony in the cornfields and cowboy barns of Indiana’s heartland. I thought about blueberries and I thought about Serena, my crazy friend from Berkeley, who once the remainder of our friends had graduated, decided to start her undergraduate degree over in New Mexico and whom I have talked to weekly since that time. When I say weekly, I do not mean it in the conventional sense because sometimes my voicemails to the crazy friend would go unanswered for weeks, sometimes her phone would be disconnected and I would not hear from her until the summer had ended and she’d found my number on a phone bill from 2001. But when we discussed these things, it became apparent that although we might not have actully corresponded directly during these missed connections, some part of our spirits had hung out together, smoking and laughing and causing the men of the world distress on our behalf. It’s like being with a sister really, although I’ve never had a sister to speak of until now, driving past the blueberry stand, thinking of what to say to her once I arrived at her fiance’s house inthe pastures.
As the sun went down on Indiana, I realised I was very lost because north, south, east and west were hidden behind miles of corn and duplicate farm homes and I hadn’t been on a major road in an hour. The directions I recieved were comprised of a seemingly random assortment of numbers like 11045 N 34 S in Claypool, Indiana. I was lost and I was hoping that my destination would have a tire swing because tire swings and corn were what I thought of before I came to Indiana and since arriving I learned that Indiana was also a place for fireworks, which suited my tastes just fine. I figured if I didn’t have a blueberry but was able to swing on a tire while watching the sky explode, it’d all be worth the trip. All 300 miles into the cornfields, somewhere left of the blueberry house, the trip, the wedding, the loss of my single sister in solidarity to a cowboy, it’d all be worth the trip.

Requiem for Barry

2007-09-27T01:35:00.000-07:00

A full moon over San Francisco; a warm September evening and just like every fall we gathered at the gates of the yard to sing our men into the end of this season of baseball. But September 26, 2007 lies thousands of games away from the game as we remember it was played when the park first opened in 2000. It was sunny then and full of hope and Barry Lamar Bonds stood tall as the man who built Pacific Bell Stadium on his home runs and stolen bases and broad shoulders in orange and black. We came to see the Giants but we came because Barry called us, individually, in our own ways, we returned to see what magic would occur when pitcher met batter. We craved the transition of a thrust becoming a collision, becoming an arch, becoming a cheer. Mr. Bonds created a legacy of memories, chasing records and dominating offensive plays, catapulting an average team into years of successful illusions of ultimate sport.

And here is where life coincides with capitalism. As Americans, we have no dreams or realities that occur separate from the packaged goods industry. Baseball, no matter how it exists as a purity in our hearts and words, is a business, a creeping, scary business that builds itself on the muscle and sweat of human beings. There are no real happy endings, our favorite players get injured or traded, they grow old in sponsored uniforms sitting on benches, spitting tobacco and we wonder what happen to the way we felt as little leaguers. Sometimes the illusion takes over and we’re whisked away on a the marketing frenzy of a National League title, an MVP award, the number of bases stolen during in-season games and we close our eyes and jump in time with the thousands of people wearing similar colors that we imagine for a moment, are just like us. Sometimes the illusion is what we have to look forward to as we pay for our $12 sandwiches and buy our $200 jerseys and root for players who’s salaries quadruple what we’ll make in a lifetime. And the owners, the owners sweat pink bullets down their starched shirts, they pinch pennies and call in consultants to quantify and qualify the tout skin around an 18-year old Dominican’s pitching arm. They arrange and rearrange budgets based on biceps and on base percentages, they trade people like pong chips, they toss out the old men with the recycling they don’t separate and then they retire a number on a wall to up the value of the corporate sponsor’s naming rights location. And its fitting that they retire a number and not the name of a player. They reduce the element of human potential: the dreams and sweat and buss rides and double-a cowpoke towns and new cleats and tears it takes a person to get to the major leagues and they assign it a number and then they file it away with all the rest, in most cases, redistributing the number to a younger player once they purchase the ownership rights to his name before they mispronounce it over the loudspeaker. They bought Barry Bonds and now they’ll sell him. Just like they bought and sold his father, just like they bought and sold his godfather, Willie Mays. Bonds will be put up for auction, shut out on his own and yet he, much like the cast of Friends, directly contributed to the success of the organization that owned him. There is no way to erase these dark facts from the face of baseball, the business of balls and strikes, and we cannot remember the game as clean or pure or beautiful without remembering that what we believed in for so long can be sold with a smile and a hot-dog in hand.

There are three main types of people in which to sell this game of balls and strikes: the purists, the baseball fans and the romantics. Issues like steroids and player contracts divide the baseball fans from the baseball purists. A baseball fan readily accepts the game for what it is; a business. The fan will root for one team or many teams but will always remain true to the fundamentals that will allow the game to grow bigger and more dominant in American culture. The baseball fans are the academics, the book-takers and number crunchers that track a certain history and quote statistics that make the game seem plausible and obtainable in theories. The purists are the one’s who keep the game a “pastime”. They’re the reason the National League and American League are still separate, they wear hats for teams that don’t exist anymore: the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Giants. The purists exist in a dreamlike state, making players into legends, cheering for their hometown team even when they lose. Purists will always side with the essence of history, will always root for the underdog and want to see the hometown man stay in the same uniform he was born into. I am not a baseball fan because I hate The Man. I am not a baseball fan because for many years I worked in a baseball front office and I’ve seen first hand how the business of baseball can ruin the game and the people who love it if that’s what Chevron would like. I am not a purist, for I question tradition. I am not a purist because I’ll take home runs whether they come juiced or not. I’m a baseball romantic. I live for the rush of adrenaline that pumps through when white ball becomes firecracker. I want to whistle, to scream, I want to hide the problems in my life behind the score of the game, I want to dance in the streets, I want to wear my team colors to sleep and wake up with them again in the morning and go back to the ballpark and do it again. I’m a romantic because I fall in love with my players, I take their backs no matter what the circumstances and Love to win. I want to see them happy, I watch them in the dugout and imagine what their current emotional states are. And Barry contributed to my romanticism of the game in a direct way. He brought me many evenings and afternoons of pure, undiluted joy and excitement. He allowed me, seconds at a time, to feel exhilarated in a way I’ve never felt before. I, through his efforts on the field, obtained inner peace as the remainder of the world stood on its feet to watch another record crumble under his power of bat.

I think that it is extremely important for us to remain present in our love of baseball. I think that history is important, but I can only watch what happens in front of me. Bobby Bonds and Willie Mays exist to me through Barry’s actions and personality. They’re own efforts on the ballfield are things I cannot attest to as a Giants fan because I was not there. I was, however, there when Barry broke timeless records. I was there when Barry crossed the plate on his 40th birthday, there when he homered and then pointed to the sky in tribute to his recently deceased father. I watched Barry hug his son after hitting the most home runs ever hit in a baseball season. Those things are burned into my memory because I was there. The goose bumps and dry throat resonate, they are part of my history, my homeland, my story. I own them and I will continue to take them very seriously. I have futures of baseball romantics to pass them down to and I’m blessed with the tangible echo of what I have seen.

Every year I return to the ballpark that gave me my first job as an independent adult, I return to the scene of the crime-where my heart was stolen and replaced with a rubber core with red stitching. Every April I praise the gods of green grass and 6 months of hope and every September I bemoan the void that lies when the gates close. The last pitch is thrown, the last ball is hit and as it lingers in the air. At that moment, I guess we all: fans, purists, romantics and Barry included, wonder what’s going to happen. The purists will go back to their windowsills and wait for the winter rain to commence. The fans will negotiate better seats and get new jerseys with new players. And the romantics, the Megs of the world, what will we do? I assume we’ll do what anyone does after losing a lover. Losing Barry will not be easy, the ripping off of the band-aid is just the beginning to the years of voids I have left to bear with him gone. I will write poems, I will sing love songs, I will cry and make collages of his pictures. And Barry will move on, will move out will look for something new or transferable and he will always be great, no matter in what uniform. And the ball hangs in the air and we sigh. And the ball falls or it is caught and at some point the players walk off the field and into the dugout and back to the arms of their families and we go home, alone, with the sounds of the ballpark echoing in our ears and the receipts folded into our wallets. Each September the game closes and the front offices rearrange their rosters and we wait, sitting on our thumbs to be told which numbers to root for in 2008. I do not know where I will be next year and I might be reaching the conclusion that we cannot rely on the game of baseball to help us into the afterlife, we can only reside in its moments, its tiny frames of innocence that parallel what I think heaven might be like. To explain what Barry brought to my life would be to retell the stories that make me a woman. I came of age in that ballpark under the screaming sirens for Barry. I garnered a hero in believing that he would be timeless, I fell astray to telling potential lies on behalf of his status as a hero. For in my eyes he must always remain that essence of obtainable, tangible greatness; the creation of magic, the illusion of joy, all in front of the backdrop that is the fog of San Francisco.

So tonight does not belong to the greenbacks and budgets of a baseball front office. Tonight; the full moon, the earthquake weather, the fall of the 2007 season, tonight belongs to Mr. Barry Bonds, who was not a perfect man but who deserves every ounce of attention, every clap echoing in San Francisco. Tonight belongs to the fans and the dark conclusions of goodbye. Tonight belongs to the children and grown-children who grew up thinking that the only thing good in this nation of lies, this time of war, this crumbling economy built on consumerism and dreams traded in for cash; the only thing worth it all is baseball and home runs and the moments between bat and ball, the intimate moments before the eye could catch where the white pill would land and hope, hope, hope that could just go on forever.

Head South, You Bitch

2007-07-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

Big Sur calls like the ocean sometimes does
all night on repeat
and she doesn't leave messages
just lets it ring
and lets me say hello to hollow
crashes of water against
rock
her emails aren't words just
.jpeged pigments of the
sun coloring my hair red
with my aging ford behind
the road
the road
sends long letters to my house
my front door is covered in
paper and clutter
they pile up her typed words
nonsesical they wind
and draw on in run on sentences
she does not cease her blabber
for a second the road
is relentless
she keeps secrets and then spills them all
at once
and even when i hold both hands
against the steering wheel
hold down my weight against
the passing of pavement
the rushing black tar
shooting out of the city's arms
and even then she'll lie about
all sorts of shit
and spit dust against the hot
hood
talking of places
just round the corner
south of here
west

on wednesday
before the silicon sun rises
my fingers'll tap the side car n i'll
dive each digit against
july's fog
my palms open
will answer their calls

Barry's Lucky Hippy

2007-06-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

Every ballplayer has his/her own superstitions. Some players will not shave or remove socks during a particular time of the season or while they're on a hitting streak. And even though the sticking Giants are last in the NL West, 10 games out of first place halfway through the season and even thought yours truly has seated her plump rump for two 10 inning losses in one week and is tired and crabby, Barry is still chasing a record that makes us all forget the imps and losses and losers and cramps.

Barry's going for the biggest record in history, most home runs in a lifetime, a career, and it's a pretty massive deal even for those that hate the gunner's guts. For those of us with BLB tattooed on our plump rumps, it's as close to heaven as we're ever going to get in this game, especially when we've never seen a series win, a ring, a glorious jump in the air and a triumphant shout of true champions. Barry is what we have, all we have and we'll take him, every piece, every stretch of skin, every grimace at a reporter's camera. He is our love, our heartbeat, our meat and potatoes.

And you know this all well if you read what I write. Barry is Lord, untouchable, unshakable, true blood and game and sweat and the embodiment of everything good that can happen at the yard.

So last night, as the Giants were losing. And losing because they were winning until Dave Roberts erred a two run gain by the Diamondbacks to create a loss out of a win, which is the style of play by the SFG's this season. So the loss darkened the ballpark and it's true citizens sat, under a full moon, contemplating the months ahead; the agony, the agony of defeated baseball fans.

So last night, under the full moon, a messenger was sent, probably the lord's second son; barefoot, longhaired and smiling, this messenger catapulted himself onto the outfield grass and walked briskly towards a smiling Bonds.

Security, as they do, went crazy, scrambling around and chasing him. Bonds extended his hand and the two met, and for a moment, under the full moon, it was only the two friends, Barry and the Hippy, standing in the outfield. I don't know what happened or what was said but Barry put his arm around the man in shorts and walked with him, escorting him to the foul line.

The two friends parted ways, one to resume dominating the outfield and one to be transported to the county jail; our tax dollars clearly hard at work here in San Francisco.

What do I think? I think that for a moment, under the full moon, Barry was with the person he needed most, the man sent to give him a message. A man sent by the baseball players of time past: Rod Beck, Kirby Puckett, Hank Bauer, Buck O'Neil, Buddy Kerr, Jose Uribe and his own father, Bobby Bonds. The words that were exchanged were not important, just his presence let Barry know that the Universe is watching him chase this record that even those beyond the living are standing behind Bonds as he steps up to the plate.

This Hippy was not a drunk fan ogling for attention at the Friday night yard. He was a symbol, a note carrier, a representation of what Barry needs right now, his fans.

The lucky Hippy disappeared into the night's full moon and Barry stepped up to the plate and on a full count, swung a magnificent swing and catapulted the white round dove into the clear sky. The ball's arch, a dance against wind; the ballpark still and meditative on its destination. The timeline is vague, only the 30,000 person simultaneous jump into the air marked the moment that Barry reached position on the all-time home run list, shy only of 6 dingers to greatness.

I say, bring back the Lucky Hippy and let him dance, dance, dance with this great man under the outfield stars of San Francisco.

Silent City

2007-06-16T23:58:00.000-07:00

On nights like tonight when the wind dies down and the city is quiet, I have to write. The air hangs heavy, like clear fog waiting to turn white in the morning. And despite the hipsters on the street, heading into dive bars around Mission Dolores, their hoodies securley snugged around their expensive haircuts, my drive home from work was silent. And my neighborhood is still and I can almost hear the last BART trains charging underneath my rickety house.

There is no agenda, no script for what needs to be put on this page, only that I transfix on this screen; focus only on the sound of my fingers hitting the letters in front of me. There is this calm around me, such a dramatic quiet compared to the bustling of our restaurant tonight. The SF Weekly reviewed after the Examiner reviewed and word is spreading as the Yelpers yelp and people need to eat our pizza...now. The act of serving is meditative, all else is forgotten as immediate needs like salt and lager are met at a rapid fire pace.

The movement does not stop, the sounds are alive but not understandable. You have to sense they want a potato pizza, the movement of their mouth and the muted p and bared-teeth t must be noticed, or you will fail. And you must have a pen in your hair; the table behind you needs to place their salad order and attempts this as you juggle two bottles of wine and disguise your eye contact with the food runner. She needs salt you must motion with your cheekbones to him across the section of tables, your eyebrows hunching toward the people that just walked in through the front door, indicating for them to talk to the host -the man in blue you call him all night to strangers that never know your name but monopolize every molecule of your energy. And it's so fast and unending and your 5pm just transformed into 11:30 and the last couple walks away full. You count your money; arrange the bills to face the same way and stack piles of 100 counts in opposite ways in front of you. The kitchen and front of house staff receive their calculated percentages and the dishwasher drinks beer as the cooks hose down the kitchen floor. The chairs are stacked on top of the tables and the phone doesn't ring anymore. I head out into the slightly warm air of Glen Park's minor elevation above the city's wind. I drive down the vein that is Guerrero. The cat is elated, runs in circles around the carpet and mew mews. I turn on the soft light in my living room, I do not put away my bag, just sling it across the kitchen table knocking a series of diet coke cans aside.

Now this would be the time I would be in a dark bar with a loud jukebox with my coworkers talking shit. We would swing triumphantly onto barstools and press newly folded finskies on the wood surface. We would nod to the barkeep, industry looks abounded, they'd nod back, ask how business was, scoff at the idiots we have to face and pour heavy, whiskey heavy- like we drink it in the business. An extra finger for the service family, well deserved, the only answer to the loudness of the restaurant is the loudness of the bar. And the whiskey turns the trigger, releases every inch of skin against tired arms and you slouch in your chair, lean up against the bar and sigh. Surrounded by noise, the bourbon warms your thighs your stomach- and in an instant you feel quiet. This is what is done. But this is not what I am doing tonight.

My living room is dim, the pillows look the same as they did in my last apartment and in the apartment before that. 5 years of apartments in this city, 5 years this week. My knees hurt, I wore cheap flats at work, big mistake. In a minute I'll draw some bath water, hot and bubbly. I'll take my watch off and my shoes. I'll stand in front of the mirror in my underwear and check out the situation before me. I'm sure my mascara has smudged and my hair is still back, swept up and stinking of bread and garlic. I'll sink in the bath and look at the ceiling; life is good, I like to work hard, I love that fucking restaurant, I'm happy there. Not everything in the 15-16 hours I'm awake is good. I can sometimes debilitate myself with negative thoughts and dismissive behavior. I struggle to not drink, it's not always easy for me. When it's easy it's easy but sometimes I sit in this skin restless, bitter and resentful for what I can't have. Sometimes I feel like I built this world, this character around a bottle of wine and I have to re-train myself to understand the universe each day; why am I around this person, what am I doing in this office; who the fuck is this blonde in her underwear reflecting back at me? I had a thought while driving that alcohol helped me share my genuine self with those around me while sobriety helps me share my genuine self with myself. Whatever, I'm just fucking tired, at this point- too tired to want to drink anyway. I just need that bath and a long stare at some soapy tile. I need silence as much as I need this city, loving every spectacle of her grind and rush, needing to run at a breakneck pace just to keep up with her constant thrust. But there is a place in my life for the quiet, the relaxation of my skin around tired arms, the muting of the chatter inside my skull. There is no whiskey to rock me to sleep, no wine to help me rest my shoulders against this couch. So tonight, the city, her majesty, is helping me out, her hands clasped firmly over her mouth. On nights like tonight, she sits by my side silent, waiting for me to finish this sentence so we can have a go at it again tomorrow, as conrades, as opponants.

Opening Day

2007-04-01T12:01:00.000-07:00

I’d like to thank Solmatic for metaphorically stealing my couch, remote, front porch chair and laundry as means for procrastination. Her post conjured a buttload of feelings inside me, stirred up excuses I’ve been using for my absence and neglect from my little online project. I go through phases where the things going on in my head and life can’t seem to transfer themselves to the permanence of the Internet. Sometimes it has to do with laziness, sometimes with self doubt; the thought that no one wants to hear what I have to say or what on earth DO I have to say that’s important, and sometimes it has to do with the fear of needing to speak specifically about what’s going on with my life knowing that people involved will potentially read this and feel weird about how they were represented. I’ve considered dropping this blog and starting an anonymous blog, which I’ve done before but never diligently posted. I want to write about some of these stories and the blog helps me write to an audience and I want both. But, in the past, such a move has not helped my distance from my writing and I need to solve problems as they come first instead of moving onto another project where I’ll quit once it becomes difficult.

So here I am.

So don’t expect play-by-play details of my personal life, there are always hints, if you dig. But whatever, you’re here for the baseball part, right?

Baseball: Tuesday is Opening Day. As you’ll see here my love of Opening Day is what most feel for Christmas or, I don’t know, Pride or Burning Man or a new season of American Idol, or however others worship a day and
build it up either to be sorely disappointed or joyously surrounded by loved ones and photo ops.

Yes, I’m going.
Yes, I returned as a season ticket holder in Section 144.
Yes, Barry is still my co-pilot.

But for some reason, my excitement about Opening Day has quelled. Perhaps it is because I won’t be pounding beers and thereby screaming, “woo!”. Although sobriety definitely has a functioning role in baseball; it’s a slow game with many details, there’s always something going on and talk about, it’s a thinking game, a poet’s game. So I don’t think my non-drinking has a big influence over my ambivalence.

The past few years of Giants baseball have been rough and I’ve used up all of my positivity so that might be a cause, but as much of a hater as I am, I’m a loyal hater. There are far to many other teams and players to hate on to pave the way for Giants superiority.

There’s the sometimes forced interaction with people I don’t always want to see or baseball season and Giants games as catalysts for my negative view of myself in a certain past relationship and how I don’t want to be that person anymore and I dread that each new season represents a new chapter, anyway. And I used to work there. But I think I’m okay with all those things, comfortable enough to enjoy motherfucking baseball in the San Francisco sun. So I’m not sure where my relaxed attitude about Opening Day and the impending season is coming from.

I’m concerned, I’m perplexed.

When I was a young girl, baseball represented a host of things and early on, it was connected to ideas of gender. I wanted to play baseball, but I was the only girl at a time when teammates, opponents and parents were vocal about this fact, “their team has a girl. don’t let the girl have it.” Basic kid stuff, we were young, but there was no inversion for these remarks, no bounceback of positivity. I wasn’t a natural player and so I ended up playing teeball long after boys in my grade were already playing pitching machine or coach pitch and I heard about it at school. 2nd graders are young and stupid but they articulate gender roles with a keen observation, a black and white perspective and though small anecdotes of feminist teachings were available on Punky Brewster and in Girl Scouts, I quit before 3rd grade. In third grade, my teacher was Mr. Roth. He pushed he entire class to succeed in Math, to join the science club and make rockets, to play baseball on the blacktop above the school. It was fun and everyone participated and I wanted to prove myself so bad. It was the first time when I consciously remember the desperation of wanting to be accepted by the boys. There was still a part of me that thought I could become a major leaguer. That changed as the years went on and I watched the boys in my class join competitive baseball programs, I used to wistfully watch their games while my little brother’s teams were playing. Part of me was pining for Erick Knudsen or Josh or Alex as attraction to guys was innocently developing, but the other part is the part that’s distinctive: I wanted to be them.

And at this point of my life, I still try to separate the two: my attraction to men and my need to be accepted as “just like them” “just one of the (genderless, of course) boys”. And if you know me, or if you knew me, you saw this pattern strongly develop throughout middle and high school and even now, some of my best friends are guys and in Section 144, there are not many like I, with boobs and vagine. But there are always lines, big lines, think lines drawn in the sand between men and women as friends, as comrades. There are no groomswomen, no m4w friend ads, no casual platonic conversations with men in bars, there are lines and I’ve been trying to cross them since third grade. These lines make me who I am, I’ve been aware of them for a long time, they are very connected to baseball and my need to be a player and then later in life, a success in the field of sports, a shot-caller opportunity that I had to let go ‘cause it was going nowhere. And it’s hard nowadays when I deal with men that I like: do I want to fuck them or be them? And that’s a thought that makes me want to run from therapy, let alone sit in the bleachers wallowing in my metaphorical existence as a woman dealing with gender.

So there you go, it's baseball season and I’m 26. 10 years ago I was planning my life as a high-school athlete, steeped in the teen-queen-scene and 20 years ago I was on the field myself, taking hacks at a tee. And where am I now? And where will I be 10 years from now? Will my daughter be sitting next to me in the stands in Section 144? Will I be at her tee-ball game? Or I could be dead, or a running a business or be in a lesbian relationship in New York. I guess it’s silly to sit around pondering the future, almost as silly as lamenting on the past. Opening Day marks a day where I do that, where I can stack all the Opening Days on once side, catalogued as indicators of my existence.

And I’m glad I wrote this remembrance today and marked where I am on April 1st, 2007. I always wanted to live in San Francisco, my parents were very strict growing up and in Tahoe you’re not very mobile and there’s not really anywhere to go. I used to fantasize about living in the city, being able to have this nameless freedom where you could walk to the store, buy whatever you wanted, cook any meal, eat at a restaurant, meet friends by yourself, sit at games, party and ride skateboards with boys. These are the things I thought were cool when I was younger and now I have them, I have all of them sans the skateboard and add a bicycle or two. I’m pretty cool, or I would have thought so if I were me 15 years ago, I’m doing pretty well considering my number 1 goal was to live by myself and do what I wanted. And while I’m never going to be a boy, I live in a place and I’m surrounded by folks that for the most part, accept me as Meg in a sort of genderless way. They appreciate my “masculine” qualities as a part of my very feminist and strong personality. They go to games with me and don’t patronize my knowledge of the team as “really good” just because I’ve got a vag. And I still want to make out with half the team. And also I want to be on the team and be a fan and be a woman in a Giants jersey and pop out or adopt babies that will say, like I did, “HUMMM baby!” or maybe I don’t want to do that but that doesn’t make me less of a woman and it’s all solved and there is no gender and no war and we can obsess or we can shut our ears and talk on-base percentage for the next 6 months. Yeah, me! Yeah, baseball season! Yeah, Opening Day! Life is good, sometimes you just have to shake that conclusion out of a hella long blog post.

I’m excited now. Go Giants.

New Woman

2007-03-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not really sure how it happened since I was so busy brooding and sulking through the bouts of rain and considering moving into a rural cottage in the North Bay and telecommuting from home. I wanted nothing to do with the outside world: no contact with work people since the universe is my boss, no attention from the opposite sex, no maintenance of friendships that are dying out anyway, no radio station updates since they all suck and no email outside of email I'm forced to do for shitty job. And NO blogging. Stupid readers, stupid Internet geeks and yeah, stupid lame-o self hugely included.

Yea! Bitchy Ranty Run-On Sentences; Meg, where have you been?

Exactly, I'm not sure exactly how it happened. How I jumped from funk to that weird transitional bridge in between funk and life-awesomeness. I think the sun came out.

And I'm also not really sure how it happened but apparently I'm good at my job, like, weirdly good. Especially for someone who spends all her time bemoaning the existence of said job and wishing the universe would just swallow up all things revenue generating and all students wanting to be taught.

It shouldn't swallow the pizza place though, since I'm in love with being a waitress at Gialina. I love it so much people ask me EVERY DAY if I'm the owner. Probably because I wear nice lipstick and smile-smile-smile genuinely.

Yeah, exactly, weird-I know. Well, so long Funkville U.S.A. and Hello bizarre transitional bridge between winter and spring where the Universe falls on its side and allows strange things to seep out of its pores. Strange things because they are not necessarily good things, though they could be bridges built to lead into good things. Strange things that are not bad things. But strange, nonetheless.

I'm getting off topic. The topic is: March is weird.

And since Brad is no longer allowed to use the Internet anymore, I can lay claim to the following statement: March Showers bring Fuck You.

And yes, I know it is supposed to be: April Showers bring May Flowers but the actual implementation of rain in the month of April is enough to put me over the edge of the Golden Gate.

Baseball season starts April 3rd. Life begins. You will get that post very soon so get a new pair of panties ready, 'cause its always a winner.

Until then, consider me on the bridge or road or whatever transitional metaphor you like's to another phase of my life. This means in the next month you can expect me to do the following:

change my hair color
lose 10 lbs
blog more often
go to the grocery store a lot
develop a new fav. saying (already did: "anyheez = anyway"
make a new friend
run the steps at memorial stadium
make a new friend who has a boat
make a new friend who has a beach house
plan a vaca for may (already did, lex and i are going camping up the Washington coast)
change my hair color (you're beginning to realize now that this entire post is a sneaky way of approaching the fact that in 15 minutes i leave for my hair appointment with the goal of doing something earth fucking shattering and my metaphor of the bridge as transition only represents my fear of committing to the potential new color so it could be great and catapult me into the fantastic life-land of spring where i'm skinny and in a cute outfit and looking real good or it could throw me back to the dark corners of winter where i tell the world to fuck off and hide in my apartment for another few months eating cheeze-its).

Um. I guess it feels good to have gotten that out. The metaphor wasn't going anywhere anyway.

Quick-Bites for Clarity

2007-02-16T10:23:00.000-08:00

1) Beware kiddies! Rollerblades are BACK in Style. Just this morning I saw two adults utilizing the blade technology to transport them from destination to destination. This was before 9a.m. I've been waiting for the return of the blades, haven't you? I still have lace-ups. Beat that.

2) My calculations tell me that between my day-job, my restaurant job and my poetry class, I'm working over 70 hours this week. And by working, I mean working it!! Just kidding. I am officially not 22 anymore. I think I used up Thursday's energy on Wednesday afternoon and took a big chunk of my Friday's energy just to get out of bed on Thursday. I'm supposed to go to my therapists office at noon today and I think I might fall asleep on her couch. Now THIS is what I really need, I'll say as I spend my $12 copay and let her take an early lunch. Or I could stop by Peets and inject caffeine into my bloodstream and be good to go, plowing through any spot of energy I have saved for this weekend.

3) Speaking of wuh-wuh-wuh-weekends. Didge-ya'll hear that the end of this week, this weekend and the beginning of next week would bring Spring-like weather. Wooo-fucking-hoo. Seriously, I'm over it being sunny and freezing all week long only to rain all weekend and I'm also sick of fog and cold and ugliness and being dark at 5. Bring me some Spring, Mama needs her Spring.

4) Oh, and in case I didn't point this out to you in person, everyone gets to be "Mama" or "Daddy" as in, "yeah, Daddy, Mama likes." I flip between both, but am most regularly Mama. I will usually gender-assume you with this so please don't take offense and I'd be happy to assign you with your own title. So long as it's either Mama or Daddy.

5) Jaime moved to Nashville. Now she's shouting from rooftops, "NASHVILLE! I'm here now and I ain't neva leavin!" If you don't know, you don't know. Her Spots@Typepad link is broken. Maybe it's because her douche-bag exboyfriend who's seriuosly dating his sister-in-law started posting comments. Maybe now he'll come read this site. FUCK YOU, daddy!

6) Wait, new rule. No assholes, douches, chotchkies, lame-ohs, sell-outs, wanna-bees or rude brats get to be called, Mama or Daddy. That way it's a secret club of the anti-assholes. All seventeen of us.

7) And yes, EVERYONE is an asshole. Except for you, Mama.

8) I'm boycotting the Chron Sports section until they can figure out what to call Zito. You don't just house the best baseball player of all time in your city, Barry Bonds, and write about him everyday and use the term BARRY BARRY BARRY BARRY BARRY in everything like:
The Giants are having a BARRY great season
Barry Christmas in June, It's Interleague play
Barry-Carey: Barry Bonds to Wed Drew Carey in City Hall
Gavin Newsom is a Barry Big Slut (couln't help myself): Barry Bonds works for Gavin Newsom for 50k a year and then Gavin sleeps with Barry's wife.

Okay that was too much.

Finishing my thought....Now that the Ace-Pitcher, Daddy Zito, is in the Mission-Bay outfield, the Chron thinks it can say, Barry reports to Pitcher and Catchers and I'm like WHAT?!

Figure it out, you're professionals for Godsake.

M.I.A.

2007-02-02T10:08:00.000-08:00

I guess part of me doesn't feel like updating this blog. The other part of me admits I'm too busy. And either way, I figured I owed my readership (all four of you) and explanation.

There isn't one.

Gavin Newsom is a whore.

Blog for Pro-Choice Day (or Night)

2007-01-22T23:52:00.000-08:00

Why I'm Pro-Choice (in 7 minutes)

I was born to two fairly liberal, college-educated folks, my maternal grandmother is a politically active Democrat and it was never an option for me to believe that there was another option but a woman's own choice over her reproductive actions.

I went to Berkeley and continued my study in humanities, I was surrounded by like-minded folks speaking a liberal language, avidly assuming that everyone around us naturally adhered to liberal policies like gender equality and freedom of sexual identity.

I know that the fight is not close to won, I know that there is a lot of groundwork that still needs to be done in order for us to live in a society that protects its citizens equally, in justice and access to healthcare. I worry about people that take this for granted.

I live in San Francisco. I have three Planned Parenthoods within 30 miles of me. If I were to have an abortion tomorrow, any one of my friends or family members would come with me or support my decision. I am rarely questioned or limited in my pursuit of sexual health. I am fully insured and could obtain nearly every legal proceedure within hours.

And I am likely in the tiny .0001% percentage of the American female population that has access to this network of support and access, this comfortable community of liberals and perceived freedoms in San Francisco. It might be an illusion but it's a lot more than most women have.

There is an injust distribution of these basic human rights of health access, of choices.

I'm not just Pro-Choice. I'm radically pro-choice. I'm ready to march tomorrow for the cause and the furtherment of the cause and the talking about talking about the cause and anything that can get the words: Women Access Healthcare into the news or the public eye or some tourist's photo lense or a person on BART's ear.

The National Abortion Federation reports: The most recent survey found that 88% of all U.S. counties have no identifiable abortion provider. In non-metropolitan areas, the figure rises to 97%. As a result, many women must travel long distances to reach the nearest abortion provider.

I march and speak and scream and Blog today for that 97% and beyond who fight hurdles I don't have today as a 26-year old, fully ensured and socially supported White woman. And for your daughters and theirs and thiers.

2007-01-06T19:54:00.000-08:00

Because I didn't get to do a Holdiay Photo, I thought this would suffice.

This was 1st Runner-Up

We work for Berkeley

Barry Zito Signed. Immediately Touches My Boobs.

2007-01-05T15:20:00.000-08:00

* I sort of stole this idea from SFist. But c'mon, if you were the new face of the Giants, wouldn't you touch my boobs, too?

Servitude.

2006-12-30T22:32:00.000-08:00

Tonight I covered a shift at Lime for Fish. It was my first trip back in seven months, the first since I stopped drinking. The first time in six months that I've been covered in booze, my hands wrapped around cool glasses. Most I didn't dawdle over, but the Manhattens, the mandarin vodka on the rocks or *gulp* chilled and up. It was a lot easier than I expected. The hard part was twenty minutes after my shift, as I drove through the cool, clear that is winter in San Francisco. The hardest part was my mind racing thinking of what to do. In the restaurant world, post-shift is defined by what coats your throat. How do you come down from the buzz of waitressing without a drink?
Well, you're reading it.

It was great to be back, it felt a little funny putting on white knee socks and noticing that when I bend over, you can pretty much read my palms from under my skirt. But once I was back in the restaurant, back with the bartenders and kitchen, back bumping tush against some of the people I'm fondest of in the world, it felt really good to be back.

I know I've talked about the musicality of waiting tables before on this blog. It's true. It's refreshing to be doing something, making money, and have it be instinctual. Both Beto and my father always suggest it's important to have a lot of different hustles. Especially living in a city. Unless you're working 15 hour days for a consulting firm or embarking on your law career, it's doubtful you feel comfortable with your income helping you survive long term in San Francisco. But plenty of people do it, every day. Some of these people are living paycheck to paycheck or unemployed or padded by daddy's pocketbook. And some of these people get by fine, with a little extra for the frilly life and these people most likely have more than one hustle. Be it growing your own marijuana, picking up a second job landscaping on the weekends, selling second-hand sweaters on Ebay or bartending all over the city, these Hustlers are most likely those people you see walking through Dolores Park in the middle of the day on a Tuesday and then dissapear for a week during the holidays to work. The good thing about the multi-hustle is that you are exposed to several different communities throughout the Bay. You're not trapped in a social sphere where you live around and socialize with people who work in real estate or the only people you ever talk to are your family and your fellow I-Bankers. It's actually to your advantage to work with people of different walks of life, it's good to expose yourself professionally and personally to as many people as possible. To embrace the multi-hustle is to enhance your life from many different angles, different perspectives and will open doors of possiblity like a motherfuck.

Being back in the restaruant reminded me that there's something in my blood that feels very comfortable behind a table, working with the restaurant people. It's more like family than any other job, regardless of how many hours I put in behind a desk or a project. There's no group of people that have to work together and alone like restaurant people, even the new folks tonight were instant brothers. And as much as I romanticize the feeling of someone elses chive mayonaise squishing underneath my weekold manicure, I am terrified that there's nothing I've ever done professionally that makes me feel as natural as waiting tables. It's intrinsic, built in.

Tonight Sharona came into Lime with a party of folks celebrating Miss Emma's 80th birthday. Sharona ran our kitchen until a month ago when she left to finally open her own restaurant in San Francisco. She's been a hot chef on the scene for awhile, always making it work for other owners, other managment. She's a hard-core lady with an aggressive sense of humor and I love her. I love a woman complex like when she screams in your face about a dish, then tells you a joke about the babyfaced busboy and then lets you know it's time to take care of your dye job. Sharona is the type of woman there need to be more of: intense, hillarious, smart and human. For Sharona to pick up and leave, making a huge move towards being an entrepreneur, her own boss, the queen of her own hustle, was a wake up call for a lot of us. To see her do it makes me want to help her in anyway possible, makes me want to support her in the ways I hope my people will support me when I choose to do the same, finding a niche and just running with it, taking ownership and not making anyone stone-cold cash on my time. It's fucking awesome.

So, I'm going to help Sharona. I'll work her counter or serve. I'll call newspapers and dictate openings and get ahold of Michael Bauer and coyly convince him to make her place a priority in 2007. I'll do whatever I'm good at to help Sharona because she's my friend, a true partner in the hustle of life and because she asked. It's exciting when a new window of opportunity comes up like this, a new restaurant in San Francisco, how fucking grand! Nothings better. Nothings better. I'm lucky I've got my life together enough to appreciate it. I do.

RIP Jose

2006-12-08T14:54:00.000-08:00

I've been a baseball fan my entire life. My first song was, Bye Bye Baby and, since I didn't grow any hair until I was three, I fit in well with the other little boys when I rocked my throwback SF jersey and tube socks, toddling around with a wiffle bat in my hand.

When I got to middle school, the player's union went on strike and the whole world turned thier backs on the boys of summer who lived every person's dream each spring. And did so, mind you, with about quadruple the salaries. It was about this time (1994) that the NBA was becoming a huge deal as well and we started to really see trends of highly paid athletes running the show. We saw salary increases, we saw Nike and other product placement deals, we saw ego. Athlete became synonomous with ego and salary, so much so that by the time we got to the year 2000 and teams were leaving perfectly good stadiums to play in mini-malls, we were not shocked by anything. Including Barry Bonds and everything he represents.

When I was growing up, I loved the Giants (shocking, I know). I love love loved the 1988-89 teams. I loved Candybar Maldonado, Chili Dog Davis, KMitch (who at the time, we called Kevin Mitchell because JLo had not set the name-shortening bar, yet), Brett and Will and of course, Jose Uribe.

The team was magic. They had magical names (especially to my 8 year old self) and this was before I realized that gender made a difference so I actually thought I would grow up to be a Giant (or join the Army like Private Benjamin). Then a boy in my 2nd grade class told me what-was-what and just like that, my femininity appeared and my self worth went down. I digress, story old as time.

Jose Uribe. Jose Uribe. One of the most fantastic and first major players to come out of the Domincan Republic. Now, professional teams set up shop outside of the hospitals so they can sign the unborn sons of pregnant women to pre-school training camps.

It's nice to look back on your childhood and remember your memories as facets of truth. It's nice to imagine that Jose represented a pure baseball player who played for the love of the game and was never exploited by the amazing sport of baseball or the fantastic, never-do-no-wrong Gigantes. It's special to remember that all your childhood heroes were in it with good intentions, were treated well, were good men to their wives and families and then they can live on forever in our minds as our heroes. Not like these athletes today, that we have to deal with as grown ups.

Barry Bonds signed a one-year contract last night. Barry will finish his career as a Giant. We will see Barry break the record. It will be great. I'll be 26-year old, size 4, sitting in the bleachers at a ballpark I was at when it opened. I'll be Meg, a fan but also a sceptic; sceptic about the way American baseball operates in other nations, afraid that my daughter will grow up playing softball on an expensive traveling team consisting of only white girls from the suburbs, tired of the sports media, the cost of tickets, the freaking build-a-bear workshops, the parking, the drunks, the Doodges. Barry is my hero as an adult because he's brought a lot of joy into my life. I've been there when he's created magical moments, been there to watch him at very pinnacle times in my life, using Barry as the focus when all else goes to shit and I have nothing to say and I just want to sit in the ballpark and hope for a homerun so I have something to say to the person next to me. Barry is my hero because who the fuck else can I idolize? I'd rather admire someone not-human, who's only duty it is to hit homeruns and isn't succeptable to real time criticism about how he treats the women in his life, what his views on the public school system, whether he likes Leno or Letterman or whatever I will judge others on.

But it's nice that I remember the innocence of growing up a baseball fan. For a couple years of my life, I was not Meg, the 26-year old professional with a drinking problem and the constant desire to lose 10lbs. No....

Standing in the middle of my elementary school's blacktop, I was 8 and neither male nor female. I had no glove and it didn't matter what I wore. I was shortshop. I was Jose Uribe. I announced myself coming to bat and bounced one over third. My team cheered. We were the Giants. We played for free. No gender, no age, no value added by an on base percentage. I was Jose Uribe.

So today is for Jose, not Barry.
Today I'm going to attempt to be an 8 year old with no concept of what makes me weak. I'm happy there are professional athletes out there, whatever they stand for, however they act.

I'm happy that Barry's still a Giant.

I just have to remember, so am I.

Thanks, Jose!

I See White People

2006-12-06T17:13:00.000-08:00

Okay, I realize that I opened up a Costco sized can of problamatic with that header.

I know, it's like, "who quotes Bruce Willis movies?"

WHO CARES ABOUT BRUCE WILLIS?!

Our first non-Ray Durham Giants news came in today!! Jason Schmidt signed with the Doodges!!!!

First off, I was the FIRST voice of reason that said, Schmidt will not be back next season. Although a few people backed me up by saying he shouldn't have been around last season, I digress. So I'm right. Right and rewarded.

And now it's officially open season to rain hate on LA and I'd like to get your juices of hate flowing by starting the following social trend:

The Dodgers harbor racist, rednecks and traitors. They're all afraid of Barry. Um, well, I say it "okay". But these will say it better.

Please feel free to start calling LA, Los Aryans. And perhaps make shirts. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! SCHMIDT!

How's the hate taste? Salty and delicious. I'm rolling in the hate juice. ROLLING!!! ahahahahahahaha!

No, I Like You, Like You

2006-12-05T16:21:00.000-08:00

Happy Tuesday Afternoon!

First let me start off by saying

And then there was Yul Kwon.

I heard a lot of things about this season's Survivor. Mostly, it was about the fact that the producers decided to split teams up by race. There was a LOT of buzz right before the show started and all the critics watched the first episode, blogged about it and left it for dead. Then once the "tribes" (see WATCH THE SHOW OR YOU'LL have no idea what I'm talking about, wait if you haven't ever seen Survivor (ever?) you're a fuckcadet and how are you able to read blogs and put on pants in the morning?) "merged" then there was even less speculation because :

1) it was all, segragation never integration NOW! (if you don't know, you don't know)
2) nobody cool watches network TV anymore
3) except for heroes and ugly betty
4) Survivor is very 1999

But then there was Yul Kwon.

marcos told me, "watch it, you'll love it." and I was all, "I've missed half the season, how can I appreciate it?" And he answered, "Watch it on someone else's OnDemand" and so I did. For a couple hours.

Transfuckingfixed.
On Yul. Yul Kwon.

And the critics are all, "Heroes is the greatest show!"
And I'm all, "Is Yul in Heroes?"

Because he should be. He is my hero.

Yesterday there were some hottie-boom-bottie firepersons putting out a crackfire in the TLoin and for a second I thought, "real heroes...", until I remembered Yul existed and then I glared, just GLARED at the firepersons like they were taking up space next to me, space that should be reserved for Mr. Kwon.

I'm not even referring to the season as Survivor, Cook Islands. I'll be calling it the Hour-Long Yul-Logy sponsored by my love and devotion to all things Yul.

Not only is Yul super hot in that, "Hey sweetie, let's run a triathalon tomorrow and then go for whole-wheat blueberry pancakes after," sort of way, he is also very mellow and in-tune with other humans. In the three episodes that I've seen of the Hour-Long Yul-Logy sponsored by my love and devotion to all things Yul, Yul standsout primarily because he is a genius and listens to the women on his team. And although Yul has done two things that have turned me off, one being when he told a woman to "let me finish!" in a stern tone, I'm forgiving because he is human and he is stuck on a deserted island with a bunch of wannabe actor nimrods.

Can you handle a little more?

BAM!

I do see two problems with Yul and my relationship. He went to Stanford and he likes techno music.

But I am an openminded person. I am warm and comfortable and caring. If Yul wants to stay in on a rainy Saturday night, we'll just put on our bathrobes, turn the Cal/Stanford basketball game on the radio, snuggle up next to the fireplace and wrapped in his arms he can tell me all about how techno music has changed the world. And I'll listen intently and without objection or snarky eye-rolls.

And that's what love is, you guys. Hey, Amber and Rob found it on Survivor, why can't I?

File Under Vaca-Part Uno

2006-11-28T16:47:00.000-08:00

Oh man, what a TRIP!

Of course, I have absolutely no pictures since my camera is a piece of crap so you’ll just have to take my word for it all. If there’s anybody out there?

I haven’t felt like posting anything because I got really insecure about my writing and thought, “fuck you! I’m not going to put any effort into anything that people are just going to skim through and not read and appreciate meaningful puns or side references to 2001 Giants outfielders” and also it was my birthday and I was feeling very locked in my head.

So here it goes. A rundown, if you will. And no apologies for the length, you got something better to do?

November 8th was the last day I posted. The next day I packed forty-five sweaters and my yoga gear into a carry-on bag with some delicious cheese and I flew up to Oregon to see what Oregon is all about and also to eat delicious cheese in the State of Oregon.

Here’s what I think about Oregon: Oregon has a good vibe. And it’s close enough to California where you can say things like “vibe” in a sentence and no one blinks, they just smile genuinely. People in Oregon are very genuine. The service at restaurants is nice but not in a haunting way because you get the feeling that the waiters WANT to be there serving YOU things like BLT’s and they smile and say things like, “welcome to Oregon!” and they mean it. And also Oregon has really, really good BLT sandwiches which is important because it’s cold as fuck and you’ll need to put on 15lbs just to not die in your sleep. Someone should have told me this as I lost 8lbs before my trip because I am a SKINNY GODDESS. (birthday month, bare with..)

In addition to delicious cheese I baked an apple pie from scratch. See Domestic. Skinny. Goddess. Filed under Meg.

So with Oregon under my belt, I arrived back in the Bay Area all revved up to never work again. I was all, “Yeah! Vacations! Bring it, more, more, more!” So I went to work on Monday and put my nose to the grindstone. I had to crank out a black-tie event by Friday and I also had to alter a vintage dress bought on Ebay to wear to said event. See domestic/goddess/stylish/retro-throwback/skinny/meg and also File under Pin-up, ‘cause why not?

Friday comes and goes; hob-nobby CEO-in-training types sipped red-wine with name-tags at the Ritz Carlton at the top of the hill while retro-styled Mz.Biz type sipped bubble water and chatted Cal football with the likes of the young consulting sect of SF, casually teasing gentlemen in stripes for living in the Marina all the while bashing SC. Event over, Mz.Biz heads home in high heels and pantyhose, layers of white lace stream out the bottom of my brown corduroy jacket (with punk geek-type pins) while I wait for BART soooo excited because my vacation starts….NOW! (well, then, but bare with…)

And then it’s Saturday. The car is packed and juiced, the girl with newly dyed brown hair slips on a T-shirt, jeans and a pair of vintage Rays and gets her Cali map laid out across the front seat of the green Taurus (formerly known as the Little Mermaid, newly named Tahoe Tessie) and gets on Highway 5.

(SIDENOTE: It is very important to make this distinction. It is HELLA SoCal to say the word “THE” before the Highway/Freeway/road that you are referring to. Example: I’m going to take 5 (Hecka Bay), Take the 101S to the 405, (straight SoCal sucka). Just an FYI)

And don’t diss on AM/FM radio either. Sometimes if you take what life gives you, you get a beautiful soundtrack. Sometimes when you’re cruising down 5 right before you hit Kettleman City, you can only get Christian rock and/or Spanish radio. Sometimes, sometimes you feel the clouds part just for you as a three song set of Journey comes on right before you hear Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” and right after you’ve facilitated a sing-along with the open road to “Friends in Low Places”. A little Garth Brooks never hurt anyone. And just when you think that the magic goddesses of the soundtrack to your life couldn’t get any better, just when you hit the peak of the Grapevine, getting ready to dive your hefty vehicle into the SanFernan Valley, you flip to AM and the sounds of Cal football permeate the cracked windshield and NO it isn’t some SC announcers, it’s the Cal station all the way down south, a taste of home. Even the commercials are for places like Momo’s and the Power Exchange. And you remember before you dip into the smoggy sunset that no matter how far you go, home is just beyond the steering wheel and to the right.

So after a stopover in the SanFernan Valley (extra syllable not needed) to watch the Cal/USC disgrace on a big-screen at the house of some script writer that I don’t know but let me drink 3-4 diet cokes and cheer for the other team, I headed to Santa Monica where I checked out Brad’s newish digs.

(SIDENOTE: Here is the definition of BRO. If he’s/she’s your bro they will always pick you up at the airport or leave you the key to their apartment. Brad left me the key to his apartment and he’s also picked me up at the airport except for that one time where I neglected to call and let him know that my flight was going to be delayed by four hours)

Dropping my bags in Santa Monica, I took full advantage of the fact that Brad was not living in his apartment to make very detailed mental notes of everything so that I could snarkily report back you all of you about the not-so private life of Brad Sharp. Since I didn’t find any porn and I don’t drink, Brad’s apartment was useless until I tried out his amazing shower with fantastic water pressure. I didn’t use any of his body soap because I’d brought my own but I did appreciate his selection of hand soaps in the bathroom. His apartment is very small and very cutesy. He has a guitar up on the wall that looks like it’s ready to be pulled off and strummed. And my only critique is that all I wanted to do was drink some tea but Brad had no teapot. So then I was like, okay, I’ll drink some coffee. So I found the coffee (Peets, nice!) and the coffee pot (suspiciously clean, does Brad even live here?) and then I found the coffee grinder…
(SIDENOTE: Hey are you ready for pure class? Yeah? Okay well it’s all in the details. What you drink and how you drink it is Vee-Imp. For example: drinking coffee is for the lame-os in PacHeights who have normal day-to-days and aim for middle-rung acheivments. However drinking espresso from a percolator shows that you have lots of time on your hands to come up with creative things to say. Like me! )

Anyway, that said, drinking coffee that is made of whole beans is so very utmost necessary and Vee-Imp that it’s not even funny. Grinding your own coffee shows that you are mad awesome. So obvs Brad grinds his own coffee or we wouldn’t be friends. (He also keeps it in the freezer, so Vee-Imp). But here is why Brad is weird!

Brad obvs drinks coffee. A LOT! And I know this because both types of Peets he has are halfway gone. But his coffee grinder is sans grinds. Meaning the grinder has either had a good, clean scrubbing or Brad can grind coffee with is mind. Freak.E. I found this super strange and made sure to scub the coffee grinder before I left the apartment as not to disturb this strange and interesting bro of mine.

I’ll finish my story later as I’ve got to run to another meeting.

Please review your megcabulary for the day.

The 405: Driving while Southern Californian
High on 5: Driving while SanFranciscan
USC: Sucks
Vee-Imp: Shortened, capitalized, and partially phonetically spelled for your delicious delight.

I'm a Trendsetter II

2006-11-08T11:04:00.000-08:00

It would be different if it was a belt.
Or a style of earrings.

But vintage men's Ray Bans???

Who is stylish enough to discover this gem of a fad, this super flattering, fabulous look of all looks?

Kristen Drunkst, Uuber Cool? Or trashwhore poser? You decide.

KDrunkst: November 7, 2006

OR
MzMeg: Lifestyle Choice, Living the Trend since 1980

Or as Style Magazine would ask: Who wore it better?

And just in case Vintage, Men's Ray Rays become the hottest trend of Fall and all the Hollywood Whores are rocking them, just remember where you saw it first!

Proof 1
Proof 2
Proof 3

Ring a Ding Ding

2006-11-03T10:23:00.000-08:00

It must have been when I turned 23.
It was a natural shift,'
Many of my friends secretly admit to similar tendencies.
It's now a habitual part of my life.
I'm ashamed it's a part of my social rituals.
There is no cure for this.

At what motherfucking point of being an adult woman does it become standard procedure to check for a wedding band immediatley upon coming into contact with another person? It started quite innocently as something that was approapriate when checking out what I considered to be "older men". Now that my brother (23) is married, and my cousin (22) and best friend (25) both have babies, the "older gentleman" rule doesn't apply anymore. Anyone that I'm attracted to is/will/can be married or engaged which, of course, changes the rules of interaction. It seems like a nice gesture at first, aka: I'll check to see if you're available and if you're wearing a gold badge of "off the market" around your left "ring finger' then I'll obstain from rubbing my vagina all over your face. Simple rules for social exchanges. Totally normal, if not prefereed.

But this has gotten out of control. My attention to left-fourth fingers is over the top, unnessesary and extended to everyone, EVERYONE that I see. Which makes me an expert on judging people on their marital status FIRST and their poor choice of pants SECOND.

It also means that my hypersensitivity to print and ad media mediums can focus on marrital status as an important catalyst for our society's brainwashing. For example, if some good looking person in a commercial is trying to get you to do something or buy something, there will always, ALWAYS be a subtle ring finger, gold band shot. Always, test this theory out when watching TV commercials tonight (on Friday, losers). It translates to married=trustworthy status figure.

And by the way, this attention to detail also derails a lot of pervy, married guy's agendas. It's like, "dude, I know you're married, I'm sooo not going to accept that leer from you, pervy McPervason."

Well, most of the time anyway. Homey McHomewrecker here has no comments about that one.

AND, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to a wedding right now. No, I'm serious.

Oh Jeez!

2006-11-02T10:39:00.000-08:00

Did I mention what a trendsetter I am? And by trendsetter, I'm not talking about UGG Boots. I'm talking about stylish lifestyle choices. Yaghts and Seven Jeans are so 2002. Sobriety is the new black. All the young Hollywood somebodies are jumping on this bandwagon. AHAHAH Get it!? Literally, well not literally but yeah for that phrase working two different ways.

I don't collect those chips and wear them like boob jewelry but still, I beat LiLo by one month.

Anyway, is LiLo a poser, is she joking, could she be mocking me? Why must the world mock me?
And not to be a judgemental brat, but I think that if LiLo is Sober, she only has 40 secret sobriety days. I'd investigate proof of that online but I'd rather let you do it. Just sayin'...

Manifesting a Womanifesto

2006-11-01T11:39:00.000-08:00

I'm writing a womanfesto. It's long and not that funny. It must envoke humor, it must be immediate, it must be dramatic, well written, witty, wearable and wanton with lust (like, yours truly).

I am not Carrie Bradshaw. Fuck Carrie Bradshaw. Buuuut, It is the Womanifesto of of of of Single status. As in, non-married, non-partnered, non-live-in, non long-time, non-gf/bf/bs, non-monogomous, non-valentine and otherwise it is NON-committed to fit in a pigeon-hole of what those things mean. I've never written a womanifesto before but it's quite tedious. (And exhilerating and honest and sexy like, yours truly)

Here's why this must be written: Because FUCK Carrie Bradshaw aka Sarah Jessica Parker in a Gap ad singing "it's so lovely to be a girl and get flowers and BARF" aka Candice Bushnell, the woman behind the chicklit books, aka Greg Berhendt, a writer behind Sex and the City and the creater of a book called, "He's Just not that Into you" and Berhendt is a straight male a MIND BEHIND the single girl's guide to life and AKA now when I SAY SINGLE people see me with a Martini instead of a MIND people see MANOLOS not minila envelopes full of manuscrips and worst of all WORST OF ALL they see sexually available, open, free, independant of man/woman/child/parent as socially unacceptable outside of cheap poly-blend skirts, cosmopolitan magazines and the cultivation of a bar-side girl to girl chat about who's going to ask you out and whisk you away from the lifestyle that defines you as a NON (see above).

And some of us aren't just sitting on our thumbs waiting for Mr. Big or what-have you and this isn't about some late 90's show on HBO it's about things like:

-Professional benefits given to men and women who have children
-Unequal distribution of parental guilt on a sibling that is single
-Poor ettiquite and bediquate and when are people going to learn how to be normal human beings around me and my friend and PUT THAT BACK IN YOUR PANTS this instant!

and things like that. Stay tuned. It will knock your real/theoretical balls through your teeth.

Whip Out your Halloweenies

2006-10-31T16:17:00.000-08:00

Oooooooooooh so what are you going to be for Halloween this year?

I'm going to be something slutty. Or Borat. Or Steve Erwin (too soon! too soon!)

Eh, nothing, I'm going to be a crabby old lady with a cat who locks her doors and disses the drunk teenagers romping through the Castro. "Hellians! A pox on you!!" Scowl.

I'm not feeling Halloween this year. I actually tried to throw something together (in typical Meg fashion) that completely bombed and was like the worst timing and taste ever. Let's pretend everyone goes out dressed up on Friday and Saturday night. Now let's try to motivate them to put their stank-ass costume on again for Sunday. Now let's send that text message at 9:15 on Sunday morning. People hate you. People think you're crazy, stop planning things.

So no Halloween and ABSOLUTELY no candy. I'm on a diet. I decided that for my 26th birthday I want to weigh what I did on my 13th birthday (1/2 my age!) and hang out in LA wistfully trying to pretend to be Jenny Lewis (soooooooooooo delish, saw her last night at Fillmore, I'm officially a country-loving lesbian). Skinny- In! Halloween- OUT! Costumes-Out! SF-Out! LA-In! Cute vintage dresses and boots-in! (Hey, remember doc's and flower flowy dresses, they're almost back-puke in mouth-except with footless leggings).

I can't wait for Halloween to be over so people stop finding my blog because they searched tags "Halloween" and "sluts" on Flickr and somehow found a picture of me from Lime. (Uh, Fish, I wouldn't laugh too hard at that, since you're sooo in that picture). It's embarrasing. It's so very 2004 where it was HOT HOT HOT to be slutty and the Amish lifestyle was not so like totally IN IN IN!! (too soon, too soon).

Halloween is dead to me, it never happened, I've fallen asleep during this post and I'm planning to wake up November 1st, the beginning of the Month of Meg where we can all contemplate how amazing I am and all the things we should do to celebrate me. I've got to save my energy for Month of Meg, which starts tomorrow.

Now I realize most of what I just wrote sounded crazy. Eat me.

The Secrets that Kill Us

2006-10-25T17:17:00.000-07:00

It's Autumn in the air, on the calendar, reflected in the dryness of my skin and skalp. It's Autumn but we knew that in August. We knew that when Barry took his last swing of the season and we glanced at each other wistfully thinking, "was that the last time?"

And it's like this every year, the cliche of leaves falling, images of plants dying and (repeat after me) the thin layer of fat that WILL coat your body biologically protecting it from the Winter cold. And we know this. We know this well. We know that as soon as we purchase our first sweater of the season, as soon as we put away our Giants jersey, the sun will come out and we (Bay Area represent) will sweat through our polyester blend suits and silk shirts. We'll be caught in this trippy pomo world where it's cold but actually we're experiencing the best weather all year. And one morning you'll wake up and it'll be dark and foggy and the next it'll be 90 degrees and I've been talking about the weather for an entire paragraph and still haven't gotten to the point and now I'm chickening out about what I really wanted to say.

My life. It's dramatically changed in the past four months. I know that sounds extreme. It's true, though. My being, my spirit, my existance on this planet has shifted, to a more aware place but also a really, really good place where I've been catching myself loving myself a little too much. I'm ridiculously happy, my body is in better shape than it was when I was 21, I feel (for the first time, ever ever ever ever ever ever ever and I'm almost afraid to say it because if it's real it could go away at any moment)...I feel at peace. DAMN it feels good to say that and to really believe it. Even that I know that in saying it makes half of you hate me with jealousy. You don't believe it? I don't care. At least I don't think I care. It's all so new.

I always thought that I intrinsically could never find "peace" within myself. I believed for a really long time that my personality would never let me rest; that as soon as I accomplished a goal, my mind would immediately rush to the next one, ignoring my triumph and setting a new standard. I saw it as an extremely productive version of self loathing. My lovely plan enabled me to befriend the coolest people, obtain the "sexiest" jobs, position myself professionally so that in case I ran into someone from high school, from college, from a past life or an ex, I could throw down the trump card of "what I did". This served as a difficult task when I waited tables and served bitches that made my life hell during sorority days. ('nother post). For me, 125lbs was good but if Person X didn't want to date me I was worthless. There were a lot of loopholes for failure, deepening the self hatred and adding to a laudery list of things I'd have to accomplish before being happy with myself.

Yeah, yeah I know...Classic Mid-Twenties Crisis, EVERYONE has it, get over yourself, Meg.

But that's not the point. The point is that regardless of the actual issues I had, have and are still to come, my coping mechanisms were never actually there. In fact, I'm not sure, outside of booze, what I really did to work through problems. I remember saying, "fuck it, fuck him, fuck off" a lot. And since I stopped drinking, not MUCH in my day-to-days has been affected. But my approach to my life has changed. I like myself a whole lot better, I appreciate my friends and loved ones like 10,000 times more because I'm fully present in our relationships. I can't say that I'm in love. I do have a better idea as to what I want from love or where I want to find love or who I want to love and it's a master plan that includes all of you. I'm at peace because I'm happy with tiny, tiny things. I'm happy with myself, like truly yippy-skippy in-delicious delight with my near 26 year old self. I'm not any smarter, richer or better looking, better dressed than I was before. I still have the same job, still see a lot of the same people and still have the same problems. (I still have MAJOR problems, don't be an idiot.) But my skin feels softer, the colors of the Autumn leaves and sunsets feel brighter, I notice them more, I inhale deeply and pause for a moment and appreciate my goddamned blessed life and all the beauty I see and encompass and interact with on a daily motherfucking basis.

I mean, it feels good to say it and to believe it. It feels good to think about the people in your life and want to make them happy 'cause I think that's what love is and I'd really, really like to learn how to do that, even with just the friends and family I already have. I want to make a CD full of "Morning Music" and one full of "Wednesday Music" and I'm making plans and non-plans to be with those I just want to wrap my arms around. I will enjoy every second of this beautiful season, I will because the alternative does not make me happy. There's amazing stuff going on right now, right out your window or inside the phone to your right, pick it up, open your windows, let the Autumn breeze in and exhale. You're a sexy and lucky motherfucker so get over yourself and enjoy it.

Go Bears!!

2006-10-24T09:46:00.000-07:00

I neglected to post about the game on Saturday because I neglected to watch the game on Saturday. But hey, a little Go Bears action on a Tuesday morning never hurt anyone.

**Sidenote: Any of you pinche USC fans out there want to take me to see the Cal/SC game for my birthday on 11/18? I'll wear neutral Gold and only whisper about your pathetic spoiled pants school under my breath. JK!! BFF!! Take me. Birthday**

So here is 1) Marshawn Lynch driving around in celebration in a golf cart and 2) Oski crowd surfing the student section. Go Bears indeed. Cal's shit is tits. I'm so glad I didn't go to UCLA.

Update

2006-10-16T17:25:00.000-07:00

I have four blogs in my blog family and I consider myself a lot like Angelina Jolie in that I'll pick up more children (blogs, I mean) if my hot boyfriend, Brad Pitt (well, actually I'm very much not with Mr. Smith anymore) tells me to expand my family.

So we have:
Brads Blog Sucks (Newly Updated, a REAL must See!)

In the Shade of Poetree (My poems, not to be read if you're a douche)
Adventures in Nine-Oh (My Dylan-centric 90210 Tribute Blog)

And so I don't have to remind you every FIVE SECONDS to check these other diamonds of the web, just simply look to your right (right now) and see the links that are ALWAYS THERE.

Enjoy. Obligatory Fall Posting COMING SOON!

Just Say "No"

2006-10-08T10:18:00.000-07:00

Usually anti-drug commercials freak me out. I distinctly remember some from my youth, playing after saturday morning cartoons. I remember one where the older brother sneaks into his younger brother's room in the middle of the night and it's inferred that the older tries to beat money out of the younger. And he would use that money to do drugs. There's was one recently where two boys sit in a father's office with a neon plastic bong. It is inferred that they are getting high off of pot. And then all of a sudden the neon plastic bong is replaced with a gun that they found in the father's desk drawer. There is no doubt in my mind that if someone hadn't pulled out a gun, things were going to get kinky and thus I'm quite aggitated at the presence of the weapon. Then one of the boys get's shot. We're left sad and confused.

When we were kids in the 80's, anti-drug commercials were advertising the No Rock! themes. Cocaine, especially rock cocaine, was prevalent, we were young but we knew the difference between the two. Kids these days must be brought up to think that pot is the "drug". Weak. Regarless of whether or not you want to argue if pot should be categorized as an illegal drug is not the case. The case is let's see some junkies shooting up and some thin-ass (Nicole Ritchie) rich girls snorting meth. That's ugly. Or how about Tom Cruise screeching into the camera, "If your Mommy takes pills, she does drugs, don't let her drive you to soccer practice!".

BUT I found one that I like!

This guy, average and cute, starts telling us his story. "When I smoked pot, nothing happened." Oh, we're intrigued, we scoot forward in our chairs, REALLY?! "Yeah, nothing happened. I didn't get into a car accident and I didn't shoot anyone and I didn't fall off a cliff. No. I just sat on Pete's couch."

Now you see the young gent and his buddies sitting relaxed on a plaid couch. It is inferred that this couch is at a guy named Pete's house and we assume that one of the guys sitting on the couch, save the one that's talking, is Pete and could, potentially and if we played our cards right, invite us over to sit on his couch too.

"Yeah, we just sat on Pete's couch. When we could be out moutain biking.." we start to see the couch displaced amongst the activities he's listing off and the couch is just sitting in the middle of a mountain bike race. "We could be experiencing life and ice skating with girls"

At this point, we're actually rooting for Pete's couch against the activities as the girls are not hot and the mountain biking guys are wearing matching outfits.

"And all they want to do is sit on Pete's couch till they're 60. Well not me, I'll go experience life for them." Guy get's off couch and walks off screen. Commercial ends.

20 minutes later and 4 minutes into Laguna Beach, sitting on Meg's couch, I imagine the conversation that continued to go on at Pete's house. I wonder what Pete has in his fridge and if he, too, is watching Laguna Beach. I also decide that Pete's couch is the new hip way to talk about weed and I imagine the high school kids watching, making fun and deciding that from here on out, smoking would be called, "sitting on Pete's couch".

Hey what are you doing tonight? Oh you know, laundry, Net Flix and probably going to Pete's to sit on his couch for awhile, You? Oh, Nancy and I were going to sit on Pete's couch and then hit up movie in the park with bagels.

Pete. Ha!

How to Be Popular

2006-09-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

*Today we celebrate the second anniversary of Baseball and Brioche* According to my sources, the second anniversary gifts are supposed to be "Cotton" or "China". Insert poor taste joke about sweatshops here_______.

I've taught you all a LOT of things over the past two years, lecturing about the world and the emotional impact that Steve Finley had over Randy Winn's inferiority complex, discussing exactly WHY Dylan McKay is the best character on 90120 and influencing people of all types. Today I'd like to give you all an insight into my life and write a little bit about "How to Become Popular".

Popularity is two things. 1) Lots of people think you're swell and want to be your friend and 2) Lots of POPULAR people think you're swell and want to be your friend and therefore all the people who want to be their friend, want to be yours now too.

Traditionally, popularity can be based on all or some of the following:
1) Being really really physically attractive
2) Having lots of money
3) Saying really funny but mean things about other people
4) Having a better come-back if someone says something funny but mean about you
5) Being famous or having a famous parent or spouse
6) Being able to get into the "phattest parties"
7) Wing-man/woman potench (i.e. uncanny ability to get everyone around you laid)

Now most of us don't have some, any or all these traits. I, for example, am really good at #3 and #4 but am not into #6 nor am I #1 (feel free to disagree in comments). BUT there is a way and I have discovered it. There is a path to becoming awesomely popular if you just align your cards right and listen to me.

Instead of publishing a book, I'm giving this info away for free because I love my readers and I want you all in on this plan.

Ready?

First, move to a town like Reno or Portland. Oakland and Berkeley work too, but to a lesser effect. The point of living in a town with a small population but a semi-bustling vibe is to be able to find cool people around you who aren't popular but have good skills. Skills like Napolean Dynomite talks about except not Mormon.

Good skills:
Bartending
Dancing
funniness in groups
Writers! Poets! Activists!
Yahtzee
Knowing the real estate market
Baseball stats, Sabermetrics/Sabernomics (v.important)
fashion sense/vintage shoe or boot collection
interior designing
cooking and bbq'ing
sense of direction

Find a group of about 10 people that have various skill sets like this and befriend them. Have dinner parties, go bowling, come up with hilarious and insider nicknames for them all. Be BFF with all of them, be a "group". Think each other are amazing and hilarious and fun and sexy. Pick up dates together and go out together.

Okay, now do this for like 4 years. Cool? Are some of you married? No problem! The more the merrier (merrier, ha!).

After letting the bonding bond, uproot your commune of fun and move to a place like San Francisco or Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Move where there are a lot of cool people competing for cool space on top of Mount Coolville.

See when you and your 20 friends move to San Francoolcisco, everyone else will be so wrapped up in trying to be the coolest in their group, they'll be all, "hey, who are these total underground people who are such good friends with each other and think each other is so awesome and funny!?"

They'll think there is a clique of awesomeness that has existed all this time and they'll want to be in it, they'll exalt you. They'll want to get the joke. You and your cronies should spread all over the city, work in the bars, start and be in your own bands and promote yourselves shamelessly by constantly using your friends' names, "NIck, Joe, Meg, Solmaz and I are going midnight bowling/trivia night like we do EVERY Monday, we're CRAZY!"

And you'll be the coolest, most popular kid in town and everyone will want to spoon with you, even Paris Hilton. Especially Paris Hilton.

And your life will be whole and you will have inner-peace.

And if not, at least you'll be popular. And that is the secret to life. Popularity and Barry Bonds. You heard it here first.

2006-09-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

As I got out of the BART station in Downtown Berkeley today, I saw, stuck on the SF Weekley bin, a sticker that said the following:

"Barf on Yourself"

Too. Awesome. For. Words.

Ouch

2006-09-24T17:42:00.000-07:00

8 games back in the NL West
7 games back in the Wildcard

To Milwaukee. Ew, I can't even believe I know how to spell that embarrassing city.

It's over. And it was ugly.

Barf all over the place, stupid Giants.

6:32pm: A Live Blog with Linebreaks

2006-09-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

6:32pm and sometime between me
leaving work and arriving home
on Bart
while finishing up a much needed phone convo with Fish
coordinating plans to attend a birthday bash
where I'll wear my new dress that I wore to
Mikey's 30th on Saturday
the same night that allegedly
lead the bouncer of Jet to tell
Fish how beautiful the women were there
on Saturday
thus
indirectly complimenting me
but now
in this short amount of time
between leaving work and
arriving home
the Rockies have
somehow managed to score 12 runs
off the Giants
and it's only the 3rd inning

And also this man
this man I call the "whistling Man"
is whistling away
and it's wafting through the neighborhood
he does this all day
starting early in the morning EVEN
on Sunday mornings
It sounds like he's sitting in here with me
in my living room
we're watching baseball but
I hate him
I hate whistling
it drives me mad

So now Brian Wilson is pitching
a 5.25 ERA
There's a man on second and
Helton is up
OH
it looks like someone is hungry
Olive the Cat is now walkjd;fadj;k on my
keybordaj;ldkj;alj

And the sun is setting
it has cooled down
significantly
looks like the rumored late-summer might have arrived
today
while I was stuck in my office
nippling off of the AC my boss insists on blasting

There's leftover lasagne in the fridge
but I ate it for lunch and
for dinner last night and
honestly
I will NOT be eating
it tonight
and Weeds is on and so is some new NBC Show
Matthew Perry is back AND
speaking of Friends
yesterday afternoon, while cleaning out the back of my ride
I found this DVD box set that
Beto's brother Tomas gave to me
as a present
a JOKE present
But I love it anyways because it came with
Friends theme coasters and a little pack of coffee
AND
Friends trivia
Q: During a robbery in his own apartment, what was Joey locked into?
A: IDK, the closet?
A: No, the entertainment closet.
Dang

Jason Ellison is up!
How about that?
Jay-Ella, the nickname that stuck
Holy SHIT
Jelly smoked those bases
He hit an everyperson's double and ran out a trip
Sweet
The whistling man is still at it
I've got half a mind to yell
Shut-up

Vizquel just drove Jay-ella in
but seriously it's still 12 to 4
not that I don't have faith
oh wait I don't
wait wait
two-on, two-outs
Barry Bonds up
can't blog and watch
but I'll try
strike one
strike two
not taking my eyes off the screen
bonds ready
up the middle
and makes an outfield gound
and thows him out

I think it's time to watch
Friends

2006-09-11T17:13:00.000-07:00

Little Things

2006-09-01T18:43:00.000-07:00

Just got home from work and contemplating the three day weekend that lies in front of me.

I started planning for this weekend a month ago. Three whole days, there's so much to be done; so many opportunities for social climbing and personal development. Can you imagine the character growth that could happen over three days off of work? That's practically enough time to write a novel and start the grant proposal process for the non-profit marcos and I have been dreaming about.

And on top of that, it's Labor Day weekend. That's a big deal. The holidays that bookend the summer are of great significance. Memorial Day is the beginning of the New Year; not the Chinese New Year, the Jewish New Year or the start of the Fiscal Year. Memorial Day is about opportunity for summer success. The baseball season is fresh and new, school is out and there are dozens of days of fun in the sun beckoning to us. Labor Day feels the way turning one year older on your birthday feels. Labor Day is New Years eve when you don't have a date or it's preparing for Tax Day. Labor Day is an evaluation of how everything went. Did it go as planned? Was it dry and uneventful or, on the flip side, are you singing 'Summer Lovin' at the top of the track's bleachers with your fellow greasers? Labor Day is the final gift given by the gods of wrath: the dark creatures that bring rain, snow, Christmas and a natural layer of fat that coats your body to increase warmth against the odds of nature.

Labor day says, "Put away those white capri pants, it's time to hibernate!"

So it's a big weekend, lots of things to do and think about. But this year I decided I would no longer adhere to the stressful standards that surround these major events, these situations pressuring us to do the most fabulous things ever in order to reach the pinnacle of happiness at the top of Mount Popular and Important. No, I don't think that way anymore.

I appreciate moments. I find joy in the little things.

When I used to work at the ballpark and lived at the very top of Potrero Hill, I would ride my bicycle on ambitious mornings. Because it was all downhill, it was more of a leisure than a ride. At one point, the entire city comes into view over the top of warehouses in Dogpatch. The road dives in an ark over these buildings, bridging you over the 101, and as the freeway gushes beneath you, the bay glistens in front of you and the perfect profile of downtown San Francisco reclines to your left, there's always a moment of sheer utopia (before you get your eyes back on the motherfucking road in order to avoid a painful death). Whenever I did that, my ritual was, "this is the best moment of my day". And it wasn't this sad notion that the rest of my day was to go downhill from thereon. Instead it was a pause and an admittance of something exhilarating and breathtaking. Noticing such was a big deal, a success.

On my way to BART in the morning, I walk by the neighborhood elementary school. Nothing reminds you of the innocence in this world like a group of kids playing four-square. The innocence and the obvious biological imperative of competition, the intrinsic desire that your opponent will drop dead upon your will. It's a very peaceful moment for me, staring at those children from behind the fence, deciding which one I should kidnap first.

I love, I love love love to pretend I am the inventor of all the best new-wave dance moves. I'm quite serious about it too, this is not a joke or a parody of the herky-jerky punk rock. I've only found one partner that dances new wave with me (not embarrassed too) and wish I could find more people to groove with me in this manner. On a night before the Sounds concert, I new-waved danced all over my apartment with my dear friend in his boxers. Time stopped. I'm convinced if I can somehow bottle that moment and pull it out every day, I will never age a day over 25. That moment was "the best years of my life" signifier. It's an opening montage to the story of my life or perhaps it is the closing credits. I guess it depends on what happens from here on out.

Walking into the baseball stadium on Opening Day. Moment.
The completion of a tent's assembly. Moment. (Hands on hips, moment of satisfaction)
Unzipping boots at the end of the day. Oy, moment.

It's the little things I'm all about so what am I doing this weekend, you ask?

Drinking expresso from my percolator. And riding my bike.

And making my new *famous* pizza. Little things. Life is good.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

2006-08-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

Good Morning, Beautiful People.

A heaping welcome back to the work week from the desk diva, myself, locked in an office listening to the Talking Heads and pondering a Ph.D.

A few B&B Announcements and Housekeeping Items:

* My Links are updated. Please check out my new poetry blog, where I'll be keeping some of my work of late as well as

SOL's New Blog !! and Sriram's Blog !!
_________________

* I'm Hosting a Contest this Week. Enter the BEST SEPTEMBER GIANTS SHIRT CONTEST in the Comments Section. If you win, you will get the following: a T-shirt with your slogan on it, promotion in the Baseball and Brioche store and a chance to attend a September Giants game with YOURS TRULY.

All you have to do IS come up with the BEST slogan for a shirt (Front and/or Back) that can be worn at a September Giants Game. Slogans will be voted for by the Section 144 Team.

Examples:

Benitez on a Plane
Don't Stop Believing (Steve Perry for Closer Spot)
SubPar= Best of the NL West
Barry Bonds: The Real OC

Entries accepted via Comments...

Let's Talk Baseball, Shall We?

2006-08-23T16:55:00.000-07:00

A month ago when the Giants reached first place in the NL West for the first time all season we were all like,

"Yeah!" "We said the Giants sucked but they really don't!" "Ray Durham is the best baseball player in the UNIVERSE".

Um, yeah, pretty much it sounded like we were smoking crack. Because while Ray Durham is a decent baseball player, he's certainly not headed to the HOF and the Giants really do suck this season, a fact that's stateable across the board for most (barf, not going there) most of the NL West teams.

Then we went out and lost a month full of games in a huge trip to the sucky-shit, down the crapper, bad-attitude, loser, no skills/no game, bring up some little leaguers land of sports. We were in last. We had no hope and we were all,

"Screw the Giants!" "It's officially football season!" "This is pathetic, hang Felipe"

Now, come last week we had a four game blow-out sweep against the Padres on the road. Most other fan bases would have been all,

"Yeah, We ROCK!" "Things are on the up-and-up," "We can do it if we put our minds to it!"

But Giants fans were all still hiding behind their hands and plugging their ears all, "la, la, la" and A's fans were all, "Hey San Francisco sucks, Go Oakland, Yeah BABY!"

And then we beat the Dodgers one game and no one cared. So then we lost two more games to the stinking puto Dodgers and then all of a sudden we were at ease, comfortable with our suckiness, back to the basics of the bottom.

It was, afterall, football season.

But then we won on Monday and then again on Tuesday and then today you look at the paper and it has the ratio 7:9, which can only be translated to 7 wins out of 9 games and we were all, "Huh, when did this happen?" And our friends are like, "Oh, you were in San Diego" and we were all, "Were you there?" and they're all, "No, man. I was still hiding behind my hands/watching football/starting Law School, etc."

Then today when the D-backs game back in the 5th inning to tie the game we're all, "pshaw!" "We really DO suck!"

But then we won. Cause the D-backs suck more. Now a last place team drills up to third place in the NL west at 4.5 games back and 4 games back in the Wild Card race.
And it's not yet September.

And honestly, 4.5 and 4 don't really mean shit. And we're certainly not playing at the "On Fire" level that the puto Dodgers have been.

BUT

It looks like football season might be delayed a FEW more weeks.

That's all I'm saying.

Baseball, Brioche and Megan from ANTM

2006-08-22T17:25:00.000-07:00

Yeah, um, do you like the new name of the blog?

What's better than reality television? Reality TV where you actually know someone on the show! Basically the best set-up ever!

America's Next Top Model, Series 7 Begins September 20

Starring, Friend of Meg and Fish (and Amberlee and lots of other SF Scenesters.....)

MEGAN!!!!! Future FACE OF the UNIVERSE

Get ready, get excited, 'cause come September 20, it's going DOWN on the CW Network.

Laguna Beach 3: I'm Already Over You Being "Over" It

2006-08-21T15:21:00.000-07:00

It's sad that my contributions to the world these days really come in the form of shit talking and Laguna Beach scoop. Someday my life will be full of meaning. But until that day, here's the much anticipated Meg Musings on Life and Love in the Real OC.

Part 1: Alternate Titles for Laguna Beach

1. Heroin, Crack and Girl Scout Cookies
2. The Half-Hour Long Orgasm I Have Every Wednesday at 10pm
3. The Underage Panty Parade (Now watch legally from the safety of your own couch)

Part 2: Disclaimer Erasure

Everytime I talk about LB I have to give a disclaimer. Most adults and wannabe-respected critics do the same. They go something like this...

"Even though I really want to talk about the utter destruction of all things revenue generating, I can't help but squeak out a little blurb about my guilty pleasure*, Laguna Beach" or "I'm 36. I have no job, no girlfriend, no hobbies and I watch all my cable through binoculars pointed at my neighbor's TV, I should be bettering myself, but all I can do is masturbate to LC's 17 year-old image.

*Guilty pleasure is a MUST HAVE statement when referring to Laguna Beach.

I will no longer use a disclaimer when writing/thinking/analyzing/obsessing about Laguna Beach, seasons 1-3.

I like crap. Embrace it.

Part 3: Fun with Pictures

From L to R: Kyndra, Kelan, Lexie, Rocky, Cameron, Tessa, Chase and Cami

Here's my breakdown of the cast. Beware! High-school insecurities that have been gurgling beneath my skin for 7+ years just MIGHT be popping out now.

Kyndra:
Kyndra is Queen Bee. She's horribly mean in the BEST and wisest of ways. She very aggressively accumulates other mean (but less attractive) aggressive girls to enact a 'circle of power and defense'. This way, the circle can repel anyone who might be seen as a threat by being really, really mean and then Kyndra (who just sits back and watches or passive-aggressively whispers to the circlites) can be all, "I don't understand why you don't like me, I've NEVER done anything to you." Which is is both true and the best plan ever.

Kyndra is alpha, which is great for cocktail parties and repelling female competition. It doesn't work so well in attracting the Alpha male (Cameron) who in most cases, wants to shag the Alpha female out of Alpha Obligation (see Kristin and Talen, Season 2). Alpha's never BOTH want to DATE each other. I don't think Kyndra is stupid. I think she's shallow and arrogant, but I think she's pretty savvy about life. She probably scares the board shorts off of Cameron.

Kelan:
You know those dumb but really good looking girls who went to high-school with you and did JUST enough academically to qualify them for a second-rate private school somewhere like Malibu? And two years into college, they'd meet a cheesy lawyer at a club and he'd be in the middle of a divorce with a woman who earned more than he did and he'd tell her his soon-to-be-ex-wife was a lesbian who only married him for money. And then she'd quit college and move in with him in his Laguna Hills condo and they'd start reproducing like ASAP. These were the same girls who wrote on their high school notepads the weird names they'd want to name their kids that only they could make up like, 'Shaylyn' and 'Ameryna'. Yeah. Well that's how this guy got a name like Kelan.

Kelan's in a band. Kelan is "Chase's Friend". Kelan also seems to be in every scene saying somewhat normal teenage things and doing things like drinking 7up.
Is that a heart on his shorts? Yeah, his botoxed mom (see above)bought him those. $20 bucks says that Kelan's dad didn't hug him enough.

*Pause* Look at how the faux-hawks symetically mirror each other in a triad of douchebaggery. It's really beautiful.

Lexie:
I hate Lexie.
If I went to Laguna Beach High School I would become BFF with Lexie just so I could spread rumors about her "hygiene problem" (see Casey and Alex M., season 2) (see also hygiene as code word for herpes).
Lexie is the cutest one on the show. She's also never a word outloud. All she does is purse her lips and look confused. She's one of Kyndra's circle lemmings.

Oh, and she's a ballerina. Triple Barf.

Rocky:
Raquel, aka Rocky is above it all. Lexie hates her and Kyndra, Cami and Breanna have waged war against her because she's a 17 year old girl who goes to LBHS and breathes.

Oh and Tessa "stole" Rocky from the lemmings. Apparently what happened is that (much like Terrorist Plots) Tessa spent many months training and getting ready for a nighttime sneak attack during a slumber party. Against the will of Rocky, she snatched her after drugging the whole group into a deep sleep and tossing the tweeny-something over her broad shoulder. She's a friend stealer. And also a bitch and slut.

*Pause* Since joining Kyndra's protective armor of lemmings circle, I've had difficulty with my quest to become bff with Lexie. It seems Lexie does not understand actual words. She's afraid of words. That's why she gets so confused and upset during conversations. With my hatred of Lexie mounting, so is my determination to break through her steel exterior or idiocy and become bff.

Cameron:
This one's easy. I happened to know a LOT of blonde, SoCal, waterpolo players who looked, acted and dressed like our boy, Cameron here. By that I mean, NOT good looking, dumb as a brick and costumed in a "I Like Beer" tee-shirt and flip flops. Oh and also gayer than gay. But not gay in a "come out of the closet" way, gay in a "dude, that's so gay" he says while he secretly lusts for another waterpolo player's towel to fall off and then it does and they lock eyes and then there's a towel snapping incident and it's all delicious sexual energy in the locker room with joyous bench jumping and delightful man-giggling and muscular tan bodies gliding like gazelles across the wet, RSF floor. Until the equipment manager walks in, then Cam is all, "that's so gay, dude" and another day resumes.

Tessa:
Yawn. First off, who was a better narrator, LC or Kristen? Right, Kristen, bitch tonal voices and opinions based on purse labels and organizing against others is WAY more exciting than lusting after your plutonic best friend. (See LC, season 1 and Tessa, season 3). They should have made Queen Kyndra narrator, not mousy boring Tessa.
Tessa was the girl who "stole" Rocky from the other popular girls. Tessa's best friend is Chase. Tessa and Chase have coffee and Tessa gazes softly at Chase waiting for him to mount her and tongue wrestle.
Tessa's a big, fat snore. Down with Tessa, up with Kyndra. I'm rolling on the dark side.

*Pause* I'm confused as to whom stole whom from whom. Tessa either stole Rocky from the Lemming Circle or Rocky stole Tessa. Probably neither and both, my high-school experience tells me.

Chase:
Chase is in a band.
Chase has no interest in hooking up with any girl on Laguna Beach season 3, especially plutonic, gazey-eyes Tessa.
Chase not so secretly thinks that Natalie Portman isn't good enough to give him a HJ.
They call Chase the "resident rockstar".
Oh and his band sucks. It's really, really bad. And sometimes they rock so hard his shirt falls off.
Chase will be bald by the time he's 24. Haha.

Cami:
Cami has good one-liners and is the most skilled and witty at being mean. She's CEO of Kyndra's circle of protective lemmings. She went to prom with Jason as a sophomore (season 2).

Last and Least:

Breanna:
Breanna is LC's younger sister. She's equally as big a whiner. She sucks and she's going to throw a lot of parties this year. Pity-parties.

5 Minute Rant

2006-08-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to meet marcos in 5 minutes so we can have an iced-Starbucks, shit talk sesh on BART.

It's too hot to be in our offices.

Anyway, quick rant. I did NOT watch the Paris Hilton special last night on MTV but I saw the commercial for it and I was near-retch.

I hate Paris Hilton. Waste of space, faux-socialite, emaciated receptacle for anything Hollywood wants to ejaculate. No boobs, no personality, baby talking, boa wearing, toy-dog toting 15-minutes of fame is up, Pink is not even a good color on her.

No facial expressions, no opinions except for "that's hot". I want to strangle her within every inch of her being.

Okay, my 5 minutes is up. I must learn how to type faster or spew hate in a more efficient way.

(By the way, BOOBS isn't in Blogger spellcheck. ahahahahahaha, Paris SUCKS!)

BTW

2006-08-08T14:19:00.000-07:00

BTW, My Universe has offcially been turned on it's side. My mind has been blown, the sky changed colors and we're all running 47 minutes behind.

Remember that scene in Magnolia when frogs fell from the sky in a frogstorm? And you were like, "This shit is CRAZY. And also sorta out of place and unrealistic. Oh well, at least it's not another scene with Tom "Respect the Cock" Cruise."

Yeah, this is like a frogstorm scene in the middle of a mundane week while you're adjusting your Tivo for the next 72 hours.

So if I pick up and move to Paraguay or decide to have a baby with David Bowie while Iman joins in on the fun, don't fret pets....I'm just trying to keep up with the times.

I'm Obsessed with Google

2006-08-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

Remember how I told you that I'd found the final link to my ex-boyfriend history? Yeah, like last February?

This has nothing to do with that.

It's an obsession: a compulsive behavior that repeats itself while my mind thinks of 15,000 other things to do. Who can I google? Who can I find.

So MYSPACE is delicious for finding those who want to be found or are shamelessly promoting themselves or just lazily communicating with friends without the annoyance of dialing a cellphone or sending an e-mail. I like MYSPACe because it allows me to hide out for weeks without washing my hair or shaving my legs and then I can put attractive pictures up and people will think I get more beautiful every day. I can also spend 20 minutes coming up with snappy phrases to leave in people's comments section and don't have to be on-the-spot witty.

I fear that my children's generation will not be able to construct a snappy comeback in less than a second. Improv will be dead. Myspace murders mobile minds.

Check out my profile here, K? *muah*

Anyway, when myspace fails me, Google steps in. I am fanatical about rounding up people from my past and evaluating what they're up to. At first it was just friends, then ex-boyfriends, then people I thought would MAKE SOMETHING of themselves (drama kids, math geeks, football stars, etc), then I remembered the only gathering of talent in all of high school.....The Speech and Debate Team!!

seriously, don't laugh, that shit was tight. I can't explain to you the insanity that occurred on the Speech and Debate team trips throughout the middle of Nevada. We were smart, underachievers. We were edgy. We were stoned. We were funny and concise.

Anyway, so I was not surprised when my old S&D posse was LIKE ALL OVER MYSPACE LIKE 12 months before any other hosers from our high school caught onto the craze. I started to investigate old friends from Reno High Schools (some of whom were used to Speech and Make-out with, an underrepresented category from competition).

So I found basically everyone. With the exception of one guy in Boston. But then I remembered that there was this one guy, pretty much a legend, that was a graduate from Reno, went to the National championship with me, ended up attending Stanford and we hung out in the bay a few times. He liked the Giants.

So today, I decided that I was OBSESSED with finding him. He must be doing something spectacular, something groundbreaking. And if he wasn't, and was still in the Bay, maybe he would want to come to some Giants games with me.

Alas, Google, Myspace, Whitepages.com: You are all failures.

Jeff(rey) Davidson, Where are You?

******************************************

Best show on television: Weeds

Seriously, so so so good. Great concept: A housewife (Mary Louise Parker) loses her husband (in like, a car accident or something) and starts selling weed to her upper-crust SoCal community to make ends meet.

The season ends with her assembling an army of hotshot guys from her neighborhood: The Baseball Player/Gangster Dealer
The Stoner Accountant
The Smarmy Lawyer
The Old-School Dealer
The College Student
The Dumb but Charming Brother-in-Law

And the concept for next season is that they're all going into business together to grow weed in a warehouse, sell it, and become billionaires.

And at first I was like, "Cool!"
But then I was like, "Wait a minute...That's so 2001"

So you have an Accountant and a Lawyer who are cumulatively making (probably) over $500,000 a year and they're going to risk their families/businesses/fortunes for a little weed? I'm confused.

I know people who've done the same thing in multiples of two-story houses and they made skrilla. But scrilla for 2 or 3 people is different than pulling in 6 or 7 people and expecting it to pay off for everyone while everyone is still equally at risk for prosecution. Especially in Orange County or San Diego County, where this show is supposedly taking place.

I should be in this show. I should be the one who has the army of hotties that shows up at my door while I coldly glance at each one and delegate: "sales, legal, protection, finances, blah, blah, blah".

Also, they can fly helicopters with infared vision (at least I heard) over those areas of Southern California. NOT in Berkeley/Oakland where the weed laws are hella lax.

I do love MLP. She's 20x better than SJP and at least she's not afraid to look her age. It's quite sexy. But the show makes me jealous. I want it to be my life. Unfair. I want to be a suburban housewife selling pot to republicans and driving an SUV. Also I think she might take ballet classes, though it never shows her taking them, just coming home wearing a leotard and then whimsically dropping it into conversations, "I wanted to be a ballerina, not a drug dealer".

*Sigh* Didn't we all, MLP? Didn't we all?

2006-08-03T14:59:00.000-07:00

I'm not sophisticated enough to figure out how to 1) link properly to this site or 2) become adequately "friendly" enough with local comic writers to say things like "hey, check out my friend's comix" but fuck off, I always give you good stuff, right baby?

Here's more my fav. local comic, Fartparty. As my old roomies from "Del Mar" would say, "I totes luv it mucho" (yeah, basically talk like imbeciles).

Check out fartparty.org for mo.

***************************
Also, to add to my lines of the week:

Meg to Marcos in Peet's Coffee: Ohmygod, I'm so fucking horny, I just checked out a hippy.

Marcos: He's looking at you, ooooh, say something to him.

Meg: Like what? I hope you're not a vegan?

30 Days

2006-08-03T13:55:00.000-07:00

I have 30 days sobriety today. I think I get a chip at my meeting tonight. I hope it's jalapeno flavored.

AHAHA I'm full of sobherlarity (a word I invented bringing the trinity of Sober-Her-hilarity together). It's so obscure and not funny to anyone else, I must relish in it.

I must start a comedy routine and go to open mike nights where I will publicly make fun of the way YOU have sex (if, in fact, you've actually had sex with me). And if you haven't, I'll be like, "Um, I think I want to have sex with my friend, "YOUR NAME", but then I'm like no way, "HE/SHE" reminds me of "Pee Wee Herman/George W. Bush/My Mom/What-have-you", and the whole stand-up audience will laugh uproariously.

And another part of my schtick will be like, "Hey, so the other day, I was hanging out with Tom. Yeah, Tom from myspace....You know him, right". And then I'll be like, "I totally want to bone Tom from myspace" (pause for more uproarious laughter) "Tom from myspace, myspace, myspace, pop-cultural reference, RKelly, AND I'm tapped."

And that'll be my schtick: Jokes about having sex with you, Tom from Myspace and R Kelly. HAHAHA. I can barely stop laughing right now, I'm so enamored with my humor.

**********************

So, yeah, 30 days of sobriety. They say that being sober assists with a lot of self discovery. So far I've discovered the following things:

1) If I were a 90210 Character, I would (99%) be Dylan McKay! Fuck. Yeah.

2) Work Out is a really good show to watch while eating ice-cream.

3) I have cute clothes.

4) Ebay is an addiction. Break the cycle.

5) My personality is the same whether I'm drunk or sober. I'm just as foul-mouthed and brash, except I have better enunciation and can hold my eyes open.

6) Sobriety does not mean less self-centered. In fact, it promotes more time to think about yourself and see how the world revolves around you, spinning in large me-central circles.

Joke Break: How many alcoholics does it take to screw in a light bulb? Just one, I hold the lightbulb while the world revolves around me. HAHA. (see above for instruction on laughing uproariously at my jokes).

7) The Giants suck. Armando Benitez sucks. First place to last place in 11 days. And yet, I'm working on creating a peace with the team. If they choose to suck, I should embrace their choices. No. Fuck that. Stop sucking. Fuck Armando and his fat ass and attitude.

8) I look good as a brunette. Tee-hee. On redhead hiatus for awhile. Perhaps a pic will be posted soon.

It's Not You. Oh Wait--It is, Dumbass

2006-07-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

Well Day 2 of the Bitter Pity Party is here and I'm celebrating in a big way.

Remember yesterday when I said that I couldn't stand anyone, even those I cared about most? Well guess what? I still hate everyone! Except for my yoga teacher. She's boss.

I'm getting a lot of shit from my (predominately male) readership. I understand where you all are coming from, I really do. Especially the response of, "desperation and bitterness are NEVER attractive".

Really? Thanks. Guess what else isn't attractive? You, fuckhead, now run along checking every blog on the internet while not getting laid, tan or younger and don't come running back to me in 5 years when you realize that you've become the washed up loser you always dreaded (but understood) you would become.

Duh. We're all on that path, you included. So hop on board the lame-train and let's ride while making fun of all the faux-happy people along the way. Just because they're not riding the bitter bus right now doesn't mean that they won't be hitching a ride somewhere between their 43rd birthday and their second divorce, or after having a mini-vacation to a "Mariah Mental Resort" after figuring out that they never wanted to be a lawyer in the first place but it's too late to learn to tap dance professionally.

Oh, everyone'll want to ride this train eventually. So c'mon bitter, lonely people of the world. Let's bind together in our black clothes and non-peroxided hair, let's share our angry letters to the editor and distaste for all things IN in 7x7 magazine. Let's start organizing the rules/standards/cool points on this motherfucker now before all these hosers jump on the bandwagon later in life so we can become the dominant masterminds and finally start a social hierarchy that makes sense.

Imagine: Social Misfits in Old T-Shirts with Largely unnecessary Vocabularies on in charge -- Couple Joggers with Audis and TIC's in a state of confusion and imbalance.

Broken, Bitter Feminists that Rent running the show -- Tiffany Ring Flashing, Chin Augmentation Cases running around confused and vulnerable.

Elvis Costello Revival Bike messengers as an established, respectable income-bracket -- Napoleon Complex Tax Attorneys, socially ignored and professionally expendable.

Smart Single Women 20-55 Flippantly Use Statistics to Terrify Men like: a) it's easier to get hit by a bus than to get married after the age of 40, b) women age beautifully and constantly trade men in for younger models, c) for every five of you, there's one of me so no wonder you're clamoring for my attention and d) bitterness and desperation are NOT attractive.

Watch the FUCK out. The tables will turn. And when they do, all you happy-sappy, doublewide stroller dreams, couple joggers or dicks in suits calling any single woman renting in the mission a dyke or a femminazi who dares to question OUR mental state, well, hrmph- someday, we'll be driving the bus, and you'll have no idea where we're taking you.

Lonely Bitter Bread and Butter

2006-07-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

At 9:15pm last night as I shared a plate of sushi with two girlfriends and a cowboy, I became a self-sabotaging beast, wallowing in a puddle of pity so shallow, I nearly drowned in my own cliche.

If I could go back and do the past week, the past month, two years or a lifetime over again, nothing would change or I wouldn't change anything. I'd still be alone, afraid, antagonized over the season's change, my next birthday, another World Series not won, another December in transit, another New Year's alone.

And a lot of the time this doesn't bother me. I don't desire to change anything, even the heartbreak, even the mistakes and poor word choices. The stupid men (and women) they mostly disappear from memory with time, my anger subsides or hides, my ego bounces back with reinforcement from a beautiful person, a strong person, anyone, everyone, you?

But when my "never-getting-married" friend #1 comes back from a three week vacation with her lovely beau who's opting out of law-school to become a winemaker and says he's most likely the ONE. I'm not surprised. I'm ecstatic for her. I wish all relationships could be like theirs. I cherish them both.

I can't drink wine. I can't find love. I'm resentful. I'm a monster. I'm a cliche.

I wake up to the cowboy and Serena eating freshly cut fruit on the inflatable mattress in my living room. They offer me some.

I want to throw the coffee pot and scream. I want to climb back in bed while my cat nuzzles the two of them, much more deserving of love than I. I want to reject Wednesday, hell, reject everything till Friday where I can safely disappear. Jenny out of town, Alexa at work, no baseball, no accountability, just me in my nothing/no one/never little world.

And none of it, none of them has anything to do with me, with my status in the world, in the relationship market, in my own fucked up childish mind. And they all deserve this happiness, with Serena and the cowboy off to Napa for the rest of the week before traveling the country. With my never-no-how-no-way getting married friend talking about rings and wine real estate and how sex appeal to the one you love grows monumental over time.

FUCK!

And while this all has nothing to do with me, I thought I should point it out to you all I can now officially not be around anyone, even those I love the most. I feel like a rotting Little Debbie oatmeal cake, squished in someone's locker, waiting to be noticed so I can be thrown out. Ugh! Stupid fucking metaphors.

This is a problem I can't solve on the internet, I can't turn to Craigslist to absolve my lonliness, I can't bond with bloggers and even if I did, will they hold my head so I can sulk? I can't turn the relationships on TV, even on cable, into my own. I can't continue to flip through old habits of attraction thinking maybe one of them will fit again, I don't really give a flying shit if I have a boyfriend. I don't want a boyfriend, seriously, this isn't what this is about. This is about having someone to tell me I look nice, having someone who wants to do strange activities with me like play Yahtzee, someone who laughs at the things I say and for one day this month doesn't make me feel like the

broken
damaged
has-been
fake

that I make myself feel like on shit-days like today where the bitterness takes over and even the ones I love most make me want to cry. And I don't cry. But I might when I get home from work. Just because, you know, today sucks. And hopefully tomorrow won't.

Drrty Girl

2006-07-25T17:18:00.000-07:00

Oh, ya'll didn't know I had a sister? No?

Can't you see the family resemblance? No?

See this is why great phrases are sexist. If we were men, I could say, "this is my brother from another mother." There really is no duplicate phrase for females. Here's the short story: Serena and I survived two terrible living situations together. One that involved over 40 peroxided females another that involved a bunch of woman-hating A's fans. We did have one good living situation but that only lasted 6 months, most of which was spent eating Jack In the Box and practicing for our Valentines Day karaoke rendition of the Bee Gee's, How Deep is your Love.

Serena has been living in New Mexico for three years and though we talk every week, we only get to see each other once a year at most. Well the bitch is here right now, in the shower, because we are covered in dirt, sweat and sunburned skin. Yeah and it's motherfucking Tuesday.

Serena is dating a cowboy. He's here too. He taught her how to lasso.

Our day was spent on bikes, riding to the Golden Gate Bridge, over the bridge, to Sausalito, on the ferry, back to Embarcadero, over Polk Street and ended in the Marina. It was hella hot. And hella fun.

So now we're cleaning up and I'm eating cupcakes, that I made.

Obviously we can't have our college years back. Thank god. But it's important to keep your good friends around, unless they become fuckhead suits or sell Amway. When we were in school, Serena, Jayne, Jenny and I had this idea of starting a commune. I'm pretty sure that at the time it included Jayne and her boyfriend and us. The concept was horrible. But so is going to work every day, not really knowing what you're doing with your life, wishing that the answers would fall on your doorstep and you'd never have to turn thirty. What's horrible is waiting for your friends to get married and for you to be left behind. It's horrible to hope that everyone is happy but sort of fatter than you and also secretly more miserable.

In college we were all on the same page: poor, beer-swollen, stoned and jilted by some older loser we wished would introduce us to his mother someday. None of us wanted to go to law school, none of us wanted to get married. We were all atheists and communists and size 4's. We knew the furthest we would ever have to go for moral support was down the hall or across the street. Getting coffee was a normal midday plan. So was tossing the friz, except we never did that...dirty, freaking hippies.

So today it was nice to not go to work and to entertain one of my favorite people in the world, meet the man she loves, hear about her going into the peace corps and not feeling, sensing or generating jealousy or self-hatred.

Well! That was uplifting. I must shower now. I smell like a Berkeley student.

My Blog Can Kick Your Blog's Ass

2006-07-24T13:56:00.000-07:00

In celebration of my newfound obsession with weekends and thus highlighting my newfound disgust for Mondays, I thought I'd KICK things up a notch with a brand spankin' new section for my blog entitled

MY BLOG CAN KICK YOUR BLOG'S ASS

The idea for this blog came from SFist, my day-to-day, hour-by-hour blog check of what's going on in this great city of mine. Back in the day, SFist had a editor of sort, Jackson not-sure-of-his-exact-title-or-role West. By back-in-the-day, I mean March-ish 2006, so like four months ago. Anyway, I sent Mr. West a few obnoxious e-mails roughly along the lines of:

"Good Afternoon Jackson, Here is my blog. Please link to it. Thank you." and "Dear Jackson, Just following up to see why you haven't linked my blog. Any reason? Let me know, Thanks!" and "Okay, I'm standing outside your window in the pouring rain on a payphone. I have a rusty knife in my pocket and a book of haikus I wrote about you not linking my blog on SFist. Perhaps we could talk."

Well, then I was linked.
And then again.
And again. But the thing is, I wanted a sidebar link, not a Blog Round Up link. (Although, I'm certainly not complaining, if anything using this as a forum to brag about the Blog Round Up link) But my INTENTIONS were...I digress.

Long story short: Jackson did link me on the sidebar of his blog, SFist never did, and I get a few shout outs in Blog Round Up or Blog Pulse.

So the point of this little story is pretty much, SFist never linked me on their sidebar and yet PLENTY of MUCH WORSER blogs are listed, alphabetically, taunting me every time I visit the site (fifteen times a day).

So Happy Monday everyone and welcome to my first installment of My Blog Can (and will) Kick Your Blog's Ass. Today we will be focusing on blogs on SFist's sidebar. Hrmph!

Blog #1: Chris "Mardi Gras Beads are Cool" Daly's Supervisor "Blog"

Oh, Chris Daly thinks he's so boss, with his "damn the man" mentality and his bicycle coalition shirt. He's totally that guy from high school who was really smart in civics class and you were like, "maybe I should hook up with him, he might be president someday," but then you were like, "no way, this guys a total douche, even if i do believe in his political standpoint against the national anthem". I contend that Chris Daly has not touched a boob since 1994. I wouldn't even call his blog a blog. It's more like a mildly snarky report on his rebellious behavior during supervisor meetings. I'd suggest he beef up the snark and lose the glamour-shots of Alioto-Pier. Barf.

Blog #2: On the Record: Technology, Civil Liberties and the Press

Hello!? Last post on March 16th. That was four whole months ago! My blog beats this blog up big time. Here's a shot for April POW! May, POW-POW! June UPPER CUT, CROTCH SHOT and July (Have you seen that scene in American History X where Edward Norton puts that guy's jaw against the curb and then kicks his skull in?) Nuff said.

Blog #3 Overheard Lines

Okay, let me just point out that I liked this blog the first time, when it was called Overheard in New York. And while, in theory, Overheard Lines (san francisco) is great, my blog kicks it's ass for two reasons. First off, 95% of everything "heard" on "Tim's" blog is overheard by Tim which means that either, Tim hears All or Tim's an avid convo-stalker. Tim is the reason people should not talk on cellphones on Muni or fight with their boyfriends at Chow. Tim will rat you out.

Now the second reason that my blog kicks Tim's blog's ass is because I hear way funnier shit and half of it comes from my own mouth. I challenge Tim to convo-stalk me for a week to rev up his website. Here's a list of things that I've said or someone practically my BFF has said in the past week:
1) Omar Vizquel has a crotch like a Ken Doll.

2) If I lived in Santa Cruz, I'd still be dating guys.

3) Let's move to Milpitas and raise our families here. Do you think that Milpitas High School's mascot is the millipede?

4a) It's so damn hot out! Wouldn't it be nasty if we went to a strip club right now and some sweaty stripper rubbed her body all over us, clogging our pores with her cheap, stripper perfume?
4b) (man #1) No, that sounds awesome!
4c) (man #2) Yeah, let's go. I love the smell of stripper perfume.

5) Looking good Barry! (clap, clap) Looking strong! Lookin' fit, real fit! Been running!...(pause) from the law!

Blog #4 Cal Patriot Blog, UC Berkeley College Republicans

Let me put it this way, any 19 year-old college student, who's parents are most likely footing the bill for his/her development of rampant fascism, should not get to start out any essay/paper/blog entry with, "as a fiscal conservative".

I'm all for freedom of expression but that statement makes me want to forkstab a motherfucker or (see above for American History X description) It really chaps my hide that the Patriot is linked and not Baseball and Brioche. My blog can beat up the CP blog because I have the real slim shady's on my side. Imagine:
1) Barry Bonds vs. George Bush in a thumb war (Bonds wins)
2) Lou Seal vs. Condoleeza Rice in a hoola hoop contest (Conde loses, barely)
3) Arnold vs. Omar Vizquel in a Dance Dance Revolution-off (Not even close, Omar is still on the machine)
4) Meg's Female Friends vs. Cal Patriot Staff in a knife fight....

Okay I have to stop now, I've stopped making sense.

You get my point. My blog rules, your blog drools. Now go find me a bookdeal so I can quit my job and become the nudist my inner voice tells me I already am.

Monday: Crack Stories

2006-07-10T15:19:00.000-07:00

OMG!

Crack is BACK! I have to give this one to you on a Monday for fear it drive me crazy with its hillariouslness if I sleep on it one more night.

We live in San Francisco, people. This shit is CRAZY!!

It was a sunny, beautiful Sunday. I'd made waffles for breakfast (Eggo, but still), tacos for lunch (homemade salsa) and yellow cupcakes with chocolate frosting and SPRINKLES.

Please see Tuesday's entry for more of what goes on when Meg stops drinking and starts finding other things to obsess over.

So the cupcakes are cooling and I decide to play a little tennis. I like playing on the Mission tennis courts and happened to acquire two additional sleeves of tennis balls during this excursion so life. is. good.

Ride the red bike home, on the way I notice the damp, cold fog creeping its way over all of San Fran except the Mish, so I start to peddle faster as I must get cupcakes to marcos' house before the sun goes down. (No reason, really, just go with me...)

Anyway, go home and put on sweater, secure cuppie cakes in bike basket, peddle through all-of-a-sudden freezing city as fast as I can.

I reach the edges of the TLoin, gracefully gliding up Polk Street, I find myself face to face with a haggard looking man in shorts, eyes-a gleamin'. Eye-ball-to-eyeball, we notice each other. He twirls. I get closer. The man is singing. What could a guy like this be singing in the damp fog of San Francisco? Winds are getting wilder, sun's gone in for a few weeks, probably not a lot of money in his pocket. What joyful song could make this man expel his lungs in melody to the world?

"It's like raiiii-yain, on yer' weddin DAY! It's a freee ryyyyyde, when you've already paid. It's the goo-od adviiiice, thatcha just didn't take. An whoooo would-a thought it figurerrrrd?"

Yes, my friends.

Alanis Morissette speaks to all of us in our own way. She may not know the real meaning of irony, but she touches us all with her music. There is no escaping the delicious goodness that is the voice of Alanis.

I couldn't get that song out of my head all night. Good luck to all of you with that one, too.

Today

2006-07-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

Today is National Fried Chicken Day.

It's true. Link to this, if you DARE!

This means that on my third day of sobriety I will be imbibing in a little (shall we say) hydrogenated oil deliciousness from Popeyes or perhaps KFC. Ah, replacing one bad habit with another....If liquor didn't have so many calories I might be in trouble. The way I see it, I can get away with eating friend chicken today. After all it is National Fried Chicken Day and the White House and CIA might tap my phones if I ate unamerican-like.

Oh, yes, did I mention sobriety? I did, I did, but not at great length. YES OF COURSE I'm keeping an online journal documenting the trials and tribulations of cutting alcohol out of my life. And NO I'm not ready to share it yet. To sobby-sobby for this audience.

Just know that they'll be a lot less party exploits and a lot more of how my tennis game went or my potential training for a triathalon and how the temperature in the bay makes my fingers pruny. I'll be able to soberly blog for hours and hours about why dehydration really effects my skin and the cheese isle at Whole Foods is a problematic place for me now.

And just remember, Dylan McKay was in AA.

And I won't be able to bitch about how New Yorker Buffalo Wings no longer has a beer license. Instead I'll just eat there, grateful that no one is guzzling brew in my face. I'll probably be able to afford that Tiffany bracelet or maybe even necklace, the one that looks like a dog collar but more tacky. I'll lose 20lbs and throw words like PreCor and Elliptical into my sentences.

And I'll probably live to be 105, which would make me 80 years sober, 8 years drunk and 17 years without a choice. And this is by no means the end of that story because not drinking is an uphill battle for me. Up Potrero Hill. Up the Webster steps. Up the Berkeley Hills on a unicycle, up the steps of Memorial Stadium carrying every goddamned Cal linemen on my back- against the wind, against all odds. Up, up up up uphill.

But hopefully the view will be amazing. I'll be alive and healthy and be able to do the things in my life I couldn't manage to do when I drank.

And I hope you'll all be here with me, for better or worse, even if you liked those nonsensical hangover blogs. (see term: forkstab a motherfucker)

3 days under my belt, the best/the worst and the most fascinatingly painful, cliche and dubiously hilarious days are yet to come. Cheers with my non-sweetened ice-tea, you beautiful web junkies.

Lots of Love, Meg.

New Blog

2006-06-29T16:09:00.000-07:00

Someone find me a hobby.

Quick.

Feel free to obsess over my new blog. Making fun of Brad is so 2005! Nostalgia is the new black.

Ahahahahaha

2006-06-29T15:15:00.000-07:00

READ ME

Free Day

2006-06-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

In honor of Spare the Air day, I declare today FREE DAY 2006.

Free BART ride to work!
Free coffee in the office kitchen (also teas of various assortments)
Free e-mail accounts. Start your own today! nardbuster@yahoo.com (e-me!)
Free reading of this blog
Free love. Yeah, right. We all wish.
Free heckling of the guy who sits in front of me. You Suck! HAHA.
Free pens, free post-its.
Free World Cup on TV at Bears Lair where I will order Free Water with a Free Lemon.
Free tanning bed during extra long break on Faculty Glade. (Boss out of town)

Check Craigslist's Free Section for your own fun and free things today.

Best so far:
Free $10 Similac Coupon, Meet at Pleasanton BART
Free Metal Shed
Free Rat

Must find the following:
Free lunch*
Free boyfriend*
Free new pair of shoes
Free massage*
Free air conditioning unit
Free personal assistant
Free dry cleaning

*if you have access to one of the noted, please meet me on faculty glade after japan/brazil game. i'll be the white shiny thing, reflecting the sun like a mirror.

Best Moments (Past Two Weeks)

2006-06-19T23:56:00.000-07:00

Best Server Moment:

Lady: I WANT a Peach Bellini
Meg: Sure thing, Peach Bellini
Meg's Inner Monologue: Oh you WANT, not ask for, not request, WANT, very important language choice. If I hadn't MAJORED in rhetoric, I might not have noticed you are a BITCH.
L: I WANT the bellini JUST like they make them at Harvey's....THANKS.
M: (honestly, what do i say? just trying hard not to laugh or splice your water (no ice) glass on the table and slit your throat.)
MIM: Did you seriously just order a standard champagne and peach imitation juice? And now you want it done by the second rate bar down the street, one that I might add has low standards of treating their employees and customers and ironically was also named after the great Mr. Harvey Milk? And have I ever eaten there? No. JUST like they do it there!? Like now, as your server, not only do I have to know the things they serve here, I must eat at all neighboring restaurants and be in the know.

Please. Barf. Get a life. It's a freaking bellini. You're already lame, get over yourself.

***************

Best New York City Moment:

MIM: You know those bike taxis that flood the tourist areas of NYC? Where there's a guy/gal on a bike and a carriage behind it? They have then on Fish_Wharf too....anyhoo.
Meg: LaDeDah, strolling along 5th Ave, wandering slowly to my work destination du jour. Hey is that.....

Description: Poor, sweating, skinny guy, peddling uphill, obviously strained. Now pause. Imagine the fattest, dirtiest t-shirt wearing asshole in the back. Chilling. But wait, is that a bottle of water in his hand? No. No. Could it be a soda in a bottle? No, not that either. Is that? NO! It could not be, it couldn't possibly be..... A FUCKING BOTTLE OF SOY SAUCE. Half gone.

Nuff' said.

*************

Best Moment of Irony:

Meg falls off bike, hurts knee, still in pain. Meg hearts bike. Bike has bell and basket and nifty gears.
Bike still here. Bike wheels stolen.

*************

Best Answering Machine Message:

"Hi you've reached MEGAN LAST NAME please leave a message and I will get back to you PROMPTLY" (Big Lie"

***************

Best Martha Stuart Moment of Past 24 Hours:

I have a tree growing outside my bedroom window with what appears to be (but isn't, I've been told) roses. Now in my kitch, my liv room and my bathroom, I have roses floating on water in small black bowls. Who wants to marry me now?

**************

Best Overall Moment in Past Two Weeks:

Did you know that Pee Wee's Playhouse is coming back to TV? IT IS, IT IS, IT'S TRUE!!!
Adult Swim, look it up. Life is Good.

************

Best Barry Bonds Moment:

Um. Hello? Barry Bonds is alive and still plays for the Giants. And he's still pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to the Universe. So, let's not try and get specific and picky.

Sometimes: A Monday Story

2006-06-05T16:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it just becomes one of those “good” days.

Sometimes something changes, something shifts, a light comes on, a response is received and the world is opened like an oyster.

Sometimes even curly, wet hair can obtain compliments.

Sometimes even a sub-par .500 team can pull it out of the gutter against the best team in the National League.

Sometimes even those we thought would never return, play Right Field (tonight!) just to show us old does not equal inablity to bounceback from injury.

Sometimes the bleachers are the best place to sit.

Sometimes old lovers become new friends.

Sometimes berets look cool, expecially when tilted to the side with a Chili Davis pin on them (me, tonight!!)

Sometimes, even the most doubting and hateful of the female species gets the urge to twirl through the office and sing, “I feel pretty,” at the top of her lungs.

******

It’s like I said last week when I was bitching about men/life/etc: Sometimes life throws you curveballs

And SOMETIMES (after squaring your shoulders a bit), you hit it out of the motherfucking park.

2006-06-02T15:56:00.000-07:00

I'm going camping tomorrow.
Out of the city and into the clean air and open space of Bodega Bay.
I probably won't come back.

Sorry about being so grumpy-pants yesterday, it happens...

Sometimes: A Thursday Story

2006-06-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just want to denounce the male species.

I will not go into details.

I am angry/bitter/jealous/self-hating/ugly/not worthy/fat.

I took a walk to calm my nerves.

And then a 16 year-old kid getting out of a hoopty turned to me and said, "yo, I like your hair color, it's the bomb."

The bomb, ya'll. The bomb.

Sometimes life throws curve balls.

My Brother Got Married and All I Got Was this Lousy.....

2006-05-31T16:32:00.000-07:00

1. Driving-side farmer tan
2. An inch of snow on Saturday morning
3. 50,000 Relatives
4. Danish groomsman
5. Middle-school reunion tour through the casinos
6. Host of 22-year olds
7. Toaster
8. Bachelorette party
9. Younger brother who is now married
10. Awkward single status
11. Five day weekend
12. 710,000 people asking me about my new job. Since apparently that's all I'm about.
13. Friend who crashed the wedding and caught the garter.
14. Friend who crashed the wedding and proceeded to decorate car with "Just Married" entirely out of cheesecake and toilet paper.
15. Pirate-themed rehearsal dinner
16. Sister-in-law

Home

2006-05-18T23:45:00.000-07:00

People often discuss the idea of their "spiritual home". I totally buy into the concept. As a young girl, when my family would visit San Francisco, I'd be in lust for the city. I used to cry as we went back over the Bay Bridge towards my "bohunk" town in the mountains. I felt I'd been cheated for not living in a city as I thought I needed to be.

Well now I'm here, paying half of my salary to rent after a third of it goes to taxes. By choice, of course, and by a serious choice, believe me. But still, when I sit and do a budget and find no room for savings, dinners out or vacations, I wonder (sometimes) why.

It's funny. I left the restaurant biz four months ago when I got my "big girl job". And tonight, after another personal budget sesh, I found myself back again. White mini skirt, knee socks and a tray of martinis and I'm back.

But honestly, standing in the servers stations with my old comrades, each so happy to have me back (home) and each knowing I would have showed up eventually in the skirt and tray, I really did feel home.

Home being somewhere where walking into a conversation about golden showers and hearing a coworker exclaim they were into it, when drunk (obviously). Home being where you know which way to turn to exit the ice/coffee area without running into anyone. Home being where you can pick up a lime in one finger and a cherry in another and garnish your drinks without looking. Home being where you, regardless of your 'Associate Director" title or your health care and benefits, or your salary, home where you knew you'd end up again because, I guess, a part of you belongs there.

I don't know if this is a few shifts during the summer or a permanent habit of counting cash in a locker room at midnight with a cool glass of whiskey at your side, asking yourself, "where've I been". I don't know what my situation is. All I know is after 4 months away, I felt refreshed to be clocking in and taking orders again. I felt poetic moving amongst my peers, bumping someone's tush out of the way to get by. I felt honored that when I walked in, I was embraced, from busboys to dishwashers, line cooks to bartenders and even the new cocktail waitress. I felt like I was walking into the Christmas dinner I haven't had in awhile. Home. Family. Where are they? Who are they? At a restaurant? At your brother's wedding?

Maybe neither, maybe both.

But at least I got to contemplate the idea of a spiritual home inside my spiritual home. And at least I walked away with $140 having nothing to do with taxes or contracts or salaries from the state. And after I tip out the front of house and back of house, I leave certain of where the money I earned came from and went to. That's something I'm missing with the "big girl" gig. And like I said, I don't know where this will take me. But sometimes you just have to compromise the woman you're trying to become with the woman you've been for so many years. Sometimes you just have to settle somewhere in between. And declare that space, home.

Best. Day. Ever. On Earth!!!

2006-05-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

I had an errand to run on Saturday morning. I had to pick up brochures from some mailbox depot in the Richmond. Fuck that, first of all. Second of all, bro Max and soon-to-be wifey Chelsey were at apartment on blow-up bed after long night of Giants losing to the Doodges and Miss Hannah's art show in the drrty Mish.

Anyway, Richmond District, not fun. But Max drove me and I had on my orange Giants skirt and we accomplished much.

12:30 arrive at Meg's apartment from Richmond District in car.
12:35 Meg on bike in skirt and flip flops racing to ballpark
12:45 Meg pulls over on Folsom St. because flip flop flies off into traffic, funny scene ensues.
12:51 Meg must pull over on bike and answer cell phone. Yells at Falvey about tuna sandwich from Subway and also jalapeno chips. Very specific needs, this Meg
12:56 Runs into Mikey, also on bike, attempt and succeed at fist love while biking.
1:05 Get to game, park bike in bike parking, run around to bleachers, enter as Barry comes up to bat.

Pause. It was beautiful yesterday. Clear skies and a gentle breeze. Barry's arm muscles were bulging and the bleacher crowd, still beer soaked from the night before, rebounded into spirit within an inning.

1:05-3:30 Giants losing really bad. I hate the Dodgers. Sucking suckiness. Also, Barry has not hit one, let alone, two and I'm riding the Hate Train.
3:30 Ninth Inning
3:45 Oh my Baseball God, there is sense of justice in the world. Giants make most amazing comeback ever. Falv, Meg, Max,
Chelsey and Mike screaming, jumping all over bleaches. So. Pumped Up. Craziness, Brilliance, Love. Love the Giants. Love the Sunshine. Love Saturdays.
4:00 get bikes and go to FREE CONCERT, FREE CONCERT. SNEAK IN BEERS, GET A GREAT SPOT. FREE CONCERT
6:00 Ride on back of Dad's motorcycle (his birthday) and pick up Big Nate's BBQ.
7:00 Back at FREE CONCERT, FREE CONCERT, SNEAK IN MORE BEERS, DANCE BAREFOOT, EAT RIBS.
10:00 I have never seen fireworks that are so awesome, not kidding, not exaggerating. Seriously the best show ever.
11:00 BART is madness, so many people.
11:30 Finally home, take bath, life is so great, life is so great.

Now if only Barry would hit a fucking homerun.

Jealousy

2006-05-12T10:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in yoga class I lost my jealousy. Or I guess should take ownership and say that I rid myself of my jealousy. It was much more passive than that, though. I went into class knowing I was in a jealous rage and that I needed to find a center in my head where I wouldn't be ready to tear the skin off of someone else. I'm pretty sure I found that space.

Look at me! Making progress as a human adult being!

Must get back to work now, so freaking busy, it's not even funny.

Stop laughing. It's not funny, seriously, shut up! No, I'm not kidding, I want you to stop laughing at me. Breaking the fourth wall?? What are you talking about? Stop talking to me, I need to get back to work. I'm not playing, I've got shit to do. Well, thanks, that's nice, I love you too. I just, I gotta go, baby. I'll be back later, I promise and we can cuddle and watch Saved by the Bell. Oh my god, Slater is obviously my favorite! You know me too well. Anyway, seriously baby, I'm taking off right now, I'll be back.

No, I'm not saying that my job is more important than you! I just have a big event on my shoulders right now and I'm way behind. I can't talk about this, I can't get into this right now, I promise I'll make it up to you. Okay? Okay, sweetie? Alright, I'm glad, you know I love you. Arright baby, I'll talk to you soon.

Kiss kiss.

Comments

2006-05-11T19:19:00.000-07:00

Comments I would leave if I wasn't writing the blog but reading it....

duh, duh, duuuuuuh

*

1) Genius. Pure Genius.

2) Meg, would you please write a post or two about Dylan McKay? Or maybe Kelly? Or perhaps just a complete overview about everything you know about Nine-Oh? That would be tits. You're so smart.]

3) Quit your job. Quit your job right now, run outside and write a book. But don't write a new book. Just spend your time cutting and pasting from Blogger and compile the next pulitzer.

4) Whose butt is nice? Yours!

5) My favorite sections are those when you write fake questions to yourself and then answer them. Do more! Do more!!

6) If Barry Bonds and Dylan McKay challanged Channel Two's Dennis Richmnond and your dad to a fight, who would win?

7) Leaving comments is awesome! Kinda like orgasmic. The best thing I've done all day long.

8) When I read Baseball and Brioche I feel like eating waffles.

9) You suck so much. Die, Meg, die. (Everyone has the right to thier opinon)

Flash Mobs are for Furries

2006-05-10T16:53:00.000-07:00

Okay I found a new obsession.

Dude, you guys, we have to do this. I guarantee and NOBODY who reads this blog and I know about 15 people who do, NOBODY will do this with me.

Oh, except for Brad Sharp.

But anyway, so freaking funny.

*************

Sidenote: I don't want to FORCE anyone to comment but it really hurts my feelings when people read and don't leave anything. I think it's common blog courtesy to comment. It's like leaving a little tip. Just a little, "hey, you suck!" would suit me just fine.

Seriously though, my feelings are hurt and I'm pouting. I

*************

Whenever I stop focusing my attention on anything, my mind wanders back to Barry Bonds and in anticipation and love the "Tonight" song from West Side Story plays over and over in my head.

Tonight there will be no morning star, fuckers.

Berkeley

2006-05-09T17:20:00.000-07:00

Spring hits Berkeley first. It hit's Berkeley harder. You can smell it here before it truly crosses the Bay into the micro-climates of San Francisco.

The cherry blossom trees bloom overnight.

I must go watch Barry hammer in some homeruns now.

Life is good.

Tuesday Crack Stories: Bonds, PED's and the First Amendment

2006-05-09T09:49:00.000-07:00

Interesting statement made on behalf of the Chron. Even further interesting are the comments it incited. Take a look here. What do you think?

Is this a First Amendment argument?
What do you think of Freedom of Speech's relation to "yellow journalism"?
Is Inside Edition an example of Free Speech?

How is it that in the exact same city that has done all but legalize marijuana in an attempt to decriminalize white-collar drug usage, hammering rich men like Barry Bonds for steroid use is seen as an important waste of local and government resources? And by resources, I'm speaking of journalistic focus (that could be on other things) and judicial attention and limited resources (which SHOULD be spent on other things and families).

Why are prescription drugs, primarily taken by wealthy whites who are gainfully employed, seen as a silly non-addictive habit? Why is Rush Limbaugh still on the air but people are calling for Barry's head? Why has Pete Doherty from Babyshambles been arrested 5 times for drugs in a week and Barry is a terrible influence on children? Why does Kate Moss get a higher modeling contract after coming out as a cocaine addict?

Is a book based on illegally gained information and Barry's white ex-girlfriend's testimony on his rampant racism and mood swings really causing this shit storm of controversy?

Could someone explain this to me?

Comment, comment, comment.....PLEASE

men don't want to date us...a poem

2006-05-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

for alexa

men don’t want to date us
and haven’t been asking us out
aren’t knocking down our doors
and sending flowers

men don’t want to date us because we’re too
pasty, yeah, really really pale
men just don’t like the curve of our lips
aren’t interested in our freckles
our birthmarks
our zits
and sweaty armpits

men don’t want to date us because
we don’t get brazilian waxes
our asses are too big
we’re not training for triathlons

men are turned off
by our dirty mouths
by bicycle helmet hair
don’t want to pay our bar tabs
or ask if we want another glass
won’t offer to take us in a hot air balloon ride
in motherfucking napa
won’t pick us up on their motorcycles and
ride around town
introduce us to their friends as
my girlfriend
my fiancé
this woman I completely and utterly adore

men don’t want to date us
because
on O’Farrell street when some guy honked unnecessarily and
you, stunning blonde
you, rockstar status barmaid putting gwen stefani to shame
with your badass self
you emergency brake on
jump out of the car in traffic
scream eloquent trash talk
and then spit on his car
and men don’t want to date us
because we thought
that act was necessary
and hilarious

men don’t want to date us
Cause we say
fuck you
fuck off
no that’s not a good idea
no i don’t want to blow you while you watch the game
shut the fuck up i just
want to be alone right now
we didn’t get no valentines cards
no tiffany wrapped boxes
no not us
we got two forties and project runway
we got chicken wings delivered
we got bad dvd's
we got happy hours and
bleacher seats
we got sunburns and
scars

and to be fair
a lot of women don’t want to date us
either

and sometimes we get dates
but then we get shady text messages
we get the blow off
we get burned
clowned
suckered
played

and then we say, whatever
fuck it, fuck him, he was a troll anyway
middle fingers held up high
we are rebound mentality
we’re the paisley wallpaper up in this waiting room of singltonville
didn’t even notice we were here

so to the men that don’t want to date us
we got nothing to say to you
pointless
chicken shit
losers
Cause if i was a man
i would date us
would lavish us with kisses and notes and thai food
would take us to napa on my motorcycle
would start a rock band just
so i could write songs about us
and let us dance on stage with tambourines
a tribute band
fuck yeah
to us

I Drink Tequila and other Snippets from the Past 5 Days

2006-05-03T11:33:00.000-07:00

From the mouth of Meg….”Today I better buckle down and get some work done.”

Somebody shoot me in the face. I said this to myself in the mirror of the bathroom. Kill me before larger amounts of douchebaggery ensue.

**
Fartparty.org
Basically the best comic ever. Bicycles, beer, boyfriend bashing and bitterness. Hecks yeah.

**
Critical Mass. I heart Critical Mass.

**

Since we’re on the subject of bicycles, can someone please explain to me why it’s so goddamn impossible to find a bicycle helmet that doesn’t make me look like a jack-ass? Safety first, I know this but it’s 2006, we’re recreating sheep genomes and shit. Can’t someone find a way to make a safe and flattering head piece?

**
HodgePodge Category:

Tequila, margaritas, limes and salt, Tecate, Bottom of the Hill, The Sounds at Slims, the new dance I invented, clowning people from LA about their inability to walk anywhere, the Hose game (later post, hard to explain when sober), new tennis balls, grody to the maximum sushi, Barry’s at 712, the sun came out, I’m having a BBQ/Chili cookoff and for Bay to Breakers, Sharpie’s coming up and me, Falvey and him are going to be modern day pirates. What is that you ask? We’re wearing suits, ties and carrying briefcases. Then we plan to rape and pillage our way to the top of the socio-economic mountain that is life.

Oh and I wrote two NEW poems. One is called, “Men Don’t Want to Date Us”.

**

2006-04-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my kitchen in a bathrobe drinking coffee. I need to pick out what to wear to work today and should leave my house approximately a minute ago.

They just started demolishing the house six inches away from my living room. I'm so scared. Wait, no. This is awesome!

2006-04-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

Dang! I promised I’d have some sweet Tuesday BART stories for y’all today. I fell asleep on BART this morning when I was supposed to be collecting tasty niblets of social beauty and disgust.

So INSTEAD, here’s today’s PERIMETER SHUTTLE STORY!!

Well, actually it’s an observation.

Ready?

EhhHemm.

Reading the Daily Cal on the Perimeter Shuttle is so cliché. But so very right.

*******************************

Food Reviews.

Mediterranean
Shattuck and University, Berkeley

So far I’ve tried the Lamb Shwarma wrap, dolmas, a bit of falafel, baklava, hummus, baba ghanoush and some lentil salad. The spicy Lamb Shwarma (which can also be spelled Shawarma) is so good, it holds up existing simply as meat, spicy sauce and wrap. I don’t like onions on it but that’s an obvious option. Tomato’s as well. Super messy experience but one that I attempt at least once a week.

Note to readers: The baklava and falafel were gifts because I’m tremendously charming, beautiful and the owner hearts me.

AT&T Park Nachos
Doggie Diner
Behind Section 144, San Francisco

I haven’t been eating dairy for about two months. I slipped a couple of times because sometimes this bitch needs a pizza. STAT! At last night’s Giants game, EVERYONE in Section 144 was eating nachos. Some people had the standard fare with jalapeno’s on top of the cheese soup with chips on top, others (the preteens in front of me, most definitely from Concord….me = hater) just had cheese sauce and chips. I wanted one soooo bad. But 1) I am not eating dairy right now and 2) I have $0 to my name because Uncle Sam taxed my ass and not in a good way. So anyway, Javy was at the game and he got Nachos so I had one (JUST ONE) and it was slimy.

Slimy and fantastic.

New Yorker’s Buffalo Wings
Valencia Street at 19th, San Francisco

I’m not a wing fan, more like a wing-man. Well actually I’m not really a wing-man. I’d be like that convo between Douchebag Cruise and Iceman. “You’re my wing-man.” “No man, you’re MY wing-man”. Looking back, Iceman should have popped Tom in the face and said, “Does Scientology even believe in wing-men, bitch?” Well, I believe in wing men and BP is a wing man and loves to eat wings. Well that’s not true. He hates 97% of all the wings he eats. He likes to order wings so we can have the following convo:
BP: I’ll have the wings.
Waitress: Sure. Walks away
BP: These wings are going to suck. I’ll bet you.
Me: Probably.
BP: They’re those frozen ones, I can tell.
Me: Well I’m not eating any of them; I’m having a hydrogenated-oil free, soybean salad because I’m running a half marathon later.
BP: All wings here suck. White people…wings….ruin….arhgh..frustration
Me: Someday you will find good wings. Someday there will be a righteous way.

And you know what?! That day came! The day that we discovered that NYBW’s was so close, delivered and was open till 3 in the morning for all your 24 hour wing needs. They have a big screen TV, most likely showing, Date My Mom. They’ve got hella Bay Guardians and v.g. burgers. The fries suck as they are too big and I like a crispy, small fry, preferably with a low potato to oil ratio (non-hydrogenated, of course) so they do have a strike. But they’re allowed to have a strike because BP LOVES their wings. They do have two locations. One in the drrty Mish and one on Lombard street in the Marina which heartily got the reaction:
BP: White people….ruin…arehfop…frustration.

But this time the reaction is sans wing rage. Life is good.

**************************************************

Tonight * Wednesday Night * Thursday Night

Poetry for the People Readings at 7pm

Lipman Room, Barrow’s Hall, UC Berkeley Campus

If you don’t know about Poetry for the People, you’re a stupid ass who should probably be going to something like this before your soul dries up and you start stealing laughter from poor children.

Solmaz! Cuetip! Maisha Quint! marcos ramirez! Eugene! Luis! Laurica!

Who knows when you’ll have another chance to see these bad-ass poets in the same room? Hopefully it doesn’t implode with FABULOSITY (thanks kimora lee!)

Lessons Bitches

2006-04-24T22:59:00.000-07:00

Lessons I've Learned in the past week....

1) If you don't pitch to Barry, Moises will make you pay.

2) The New Tuesday Crack Stories = BART Stories

3) Yoga is neither a competitive sport nor a contact sport.

4) Weeds. Basically the best show I've ever seen.

5) I really do look like Scarlett Johanson. A chubbier, redheaded version with less-better skin, a similar rack but with a non-Josh Hartnett girlfriend status.

6) Taxes make me want to fork-stab someone. For so many reasons.

7) Tall bitches are overrated.

8) Tori Spelling. Yup, I just might be able to stomach the horse-face for the first time ever.

9) Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb (if you're typing it, it loses all meaning; if your chanting it, it exists forever...zen)

2006-04-04T22:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Quentin Tarantino,

If you're looking for a new come back start to feature in your next hot, revenue generating blockbuster, I have a suggestion. In the respects of what you did (and profited from) the likes of the Uma Thurman and John Travoltas of our time; not to mention the genius behind your Pam Grier move, I've found the next "it" celebrity for you.

Paul Ruebens. Yes. The sexpot behind Pee Wee Herman.

Quentin, trust me on this one. Your welcome ahead of time.

Yours truly,

Meg

Crack Stories, Episode Deux

2006-04-04T15:22:00.000-07:00

Crack Stories comin' at cha every Tuesday. Or until I run out of Crack Stories. Run out of Crack Stories? NEVER!!! Unless I move to Santa Cruz. Then I'll be writing the Meth Monologues. And if I move to Bel Air I can write the Cocaine Chronicles of Narnia.

Crack stories is brought to you today by myself and Cuetip because he gave me one of these so I'm giving him some recognish.

Scene 1: Tenderloin, I forgot what street he told me. Please post it in the comments section, darling.

Cuetip is walking down the sidewalk, minding his own business, quite possibly whistling, perhaps he has a hat on.

Guy: Hey man, can I have a dollar?
Cuetip: What for?
Guy: Man, I really need a cup of coffee?
Cuetip: I'll be right back.

Cuetip goes into corner store and kindly purchases two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for the Guy.

Cuetip: Here you go.
Guy: No man, I don't want this.
Cuetip: I thought you said you wanted coffee.
Guy: Not that kind of coffee.
Cuetip: What?!
Guy: Uh, actually I just want money.

Endscene

Scene 2: Meg is walking down Mission Street, walking like a maniac, quite possibly carrying 3 or 4 bags, perhaps she also has a really annoying song from Bye Bye Birdie stuck in her head, driving her fucking crazy.

Oh and she's also chewing gum.

Old guy: Heeeey Red, mudtrmprph mumble incoherence juftrforlentjf
Meg: Ignoring
Old guy: blowmeabuble blowmeabuble gum blowmeabubble (repeat while chasing meg down street)
Meg (screams): Crackheads!! Sometimes they just make me so mad. I'm losing it, why must everyone and their mom smoke so much crack.

At this point in the scene, everyone on the street is staring at Meg while she's aimlessly screaming into the air.

Mother walks by with toddler and grasps his hand: Ignore the crazy crackhead redhead lady, my son.

Aaaaaand Curtain.

Some scenes in this story were major embellished. My bad, I got caught up in the whole crack story spirit. And I thought they needed a little boost.

************

Sidenotes: I found someone pretty funny on the internet. He has this thing called a "blog" or whatever. Check him out

I have had this song from Bye Bye Birdie stuck in my head for weeks. Make it stop!!!! Why is this happening to me?

Confessions

2006-04-03T16:16:00.000-07:00

1. Sometimes I peruse wedding websites. Mostly I do this when I'm depressed like marriage would somehow change that. I decided that if I ever have a wedding I'm going to wear hot pink and make all the guests wear white. Then I realized I'm a selfish twat and everyone would resent me for making them wear all white and that if some dumb bride told me I had to purchase and wear some costume for her wedding that I'd want to fork-stab her. Then I remembered I was a bridesmaid, twice and wore a hideous costume, twice. All of a sudden I realized that P.Diddy has a white party in the Hamptons every summer. If you're not in ALL WHITE, P.Diddy won't let you in. He's very strict. Then after all of these realizations I realized that I was pondering my wedding. Then I got embarrassed and went to ESPN.com and stared blankly at the screen. Then I went back to the wedding website and checked out floral arrangements, just because I was interested.

2. Today in yoga class I decided I have a hot body. I also decided that I shouldn't loose any weight. I'm 25 and have no need to look like a prepubescent girl.

3. I don't feel worthy of a healthy, loving relationship.

4. I don't know THAT much about baseball. I can't describe the infield fly rule.

5. I'm not a very good a the following sports: baseball, softball, volleyball, hurdles, triple jump, long jump, most distance sprints, tether ball, football, hockey and gymnastics. I'm am decent at everything else. Except curling and Frisbee golf.

6. I've shot guns. I'm a good shot. I like guns. And they scare the shit out of me.

7. I feel the same way about men that I do about guns.

8. Sometimes I'll be reading the newspaper and be like, "is this writer tripping?" and read the same paragraph over and over three times and still not understand what they are talking about.

9. I have bad habits and I hide them.

10. SUPER judgmental = me.

11. I hate the following actresses: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Garner, the girl from Will and Grace and JLo.

12. I hope Mel Gibson gets publicly humiliated in some unreasonable fashion.

13. I cry to get attention and am otherwise mostly cold when it comes to emotions. Oh, except if a cheesy commercial comes on. I am a manipulator with bad taste in television.

14. The worst taste in music = me.

15. I'm brass. I have a filthy mouth.

16. One summer my parents sent me to Christian camp and I became a Christian...for a week.

17. I've been in beauty pageants. My intentions were debatable.

18. I've eliminated two items listed here because I'm a pussy.

Crack Stories, Part I

2006-03-28T11:20:00.000-08:00

Crack stories, here every Tuesday....starting today.

Scene I: The Tenderloin, O’Farrell and Larkin, 1:00pm, Sunny Outside

Marcos: Hi Meg
Meg: Hi, look I got you a present (hands Marcos box of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies)
Marcos: Thanks, these are my favorites. Let’s leave them in the car.
Meg: No, I prefer to carry them with me and make others jealous.
Marcos: Okay, that makes sense, let’s get lunch.

Scene II: The Tenderloin, O’Farrell and Larkin, 2:00pm, Sunny Outside, Meg and Marcos have been joined by BP

Meg: Mmm, that lunch was good. They have good Pad Thai
Marcos: Yes, that lunch was good.
BP: Now we shall go to Costco.

(approaching Meg’s car, parked on the busiest street in the Tenderloin)

Marcos: I don’t remember us leaving the window open?
Meg: We didn’t, oh look, damn, someone’s going through it right now.
BP: Is that a woman?

(arrive at car, woman is asleep in the back seat)

Meg: What the fuck, she’s asleep!
Marcos: knocks on window, Hey!
Lady: Mmmhmmm
BP: What are you doing in this car?
Lady: manphetaking a napmaphamn
Meg: This is my car, you can’t just nap in my car.
Marcos: How did you get into the car.
Lady: marphthrough the door, theremrph was somerpheone else in here too, mrph he said I could take a nap.
BP: What are you crazy? You been smoking crack in this car.
Lady: I just took one hit, mrphright when I first got in, rrrthat’s all.
(lady finally gets out of car)
BP: You do know it’s not alright to go into other people’s cars, smoke crack and take a nap.
Marcos: Yeah that’s fucked up
Lady: nods apologetically
Meg: I don’t smoke crack and I don’t want my car to smell like crack. That’s wrong.
Lady: still nodding and listening apologetically.

Scene III: Driving to Costco

Meg: Wow, it's a really good thing we didn't leave those Girl Scout Cookies in the car.
Marcos: Yeah, 'cause if that crackhead had eaten my cookies, I would've been REALLY pissed and totally gone off on her.
BP: We'd like get to the car and she'd be taking a nap but with chocolate all over her face.
Meg: She was pretty nice considering the circumstances.
BP: Yeah, cracks' better than meth. (Legalization debate ensues)
Meg: (interupts and rolls down window dramatically) This car smells like crack, this is fucking great.
BP: It just smells like crack a little bit
Marcos: It’s not as bad as a crack house
Meg: How do you know what a crack house smells like?

To find out why Marcos knows what a crackhouse smells like, tune in to next week's edition of Crack Stories, here every Tuesday at 11:48.

Everyone has a good crack story. What’s yours?

You know....

2006-03-27T07:44:00.000-08:00

You know you're a strong, capable, independant woman, 'who doesn't need a man' WHEN....You purchase a huge-ass jar of pickles from Costco (easily twice the size of your head) and open it with little struggle.