The Steampunk World
Whew! Crazy weekend. Wednesday was my birthday, which was spent on the road in Wisconsin, and I received from my parents a bonus pack of Spam, which included a free can of the new Hickory Smoked flavor. If you're a Spam fan, you gotta try it, it's pure redneck gourmet. Deeeee-licious! I managed to sneak a little for breakfast Thursday morning, then gorged on Turkey etc until about Sunday when I was turkeyed out, and have been eating Spam for every meal since then.
We had a little Thanksgiving meal for the orphans who were stuck here, plus a few transplants whose families didn't celebrate it. Singular Girl did most of the cooking, and I tried to convince her that traditionally my role was to carve the turkey she cooked, then pass out on the couch watching football while she cleaned up the dishes. She didn't fall for it.
Friday was Critical Mass, which is why I was at Da Mare Plaza dressed as Santa. It was sweet that little kids kept coming up to me and hugging me, but annoying that some parents decided to use me as a cheap cop-out of waiting in line for the real Santa and kept making their kids tell me what they wanted for xmas. And then this little girl came up to me, maybe five years old, and gave me a present. It was a bar of soap, wrapped in white paper with some indecipherable little-kid drawing and writing on it. Her grandma explained that she had wanted to give out presents down at the tree-lighting ceremony so they wrapped up some soap for her to give out. Granny was acting like "these wacky kids" but I thought it was the most darling thing, this little girl who wanted to hand out presents to strangers and decided that Santa should have one, too, because after all Santa gets the shaft when it comes to presents. After hearing about a thousand pedophile jokes from smarmy teenagers, that little girl replenished my hope for the world.
Saturday, our apartment became sort of a tattoo parlor, as two of us got ink and about eight came to be looky-loos. Piloto worked a bit on Tejas's ring of leg-flames (Kabuto claimed he was only getting them so he would never have to find two matching socks to wear) and he worked on me a little bit. It's so much closer to the ancient ritualisitic feel of tattooing to have it done by a close friend, in your own home, with many other friends around to distract you from the pain. I felt... I'm having a hard time expressing how I felt, there was a rush of excitement, but also a sense of belonging... the etching of a design of spiritual importance to me permanently into my skin, which also left a permanent mark of my friendship with Piloto. He's one of those friends who you instantly click with, and no matter how much time has passed since you've seen them last you're always close, and they would never dream of pulling any drama on you. Sort of like how, with family, it takes a lot to drive family members apart, because they know they'll always be related and so they better be forgiving. The best friends are ones you always forgive, and who always forgive you, because you're both resigned to the fact that you'll be friends forever so you might as well save the drama for your mama. Looking back at my life and the friends that I've kept and the ones that have pulled petty shit or been intolerant of my petty shit, it's amazing to me how clear it was all along the difference between the low-maintenance ones and the high-maintenance. I've even been closer to the high-maintenance ones but frienships are like stars, you know... the hotter they burn, the shorter they last. I must admit that Singular and I have never had the sort of storybook romance that so many people seem to wait forever for. Instead, it's been like a slow burn- trust and friendship and caring have been there all along, from the first day we met really, and almost seven years later I still feel like our relationship is building, burning hotter with each passing year, rather than fading slowly from the supernova of the infatuation phase. It's stronger now than it's ever been, but that's a direct result of some hard work on both our parts. Here's a hint for you single types- do everything in your power to stay single. That way, when the right person comes along, you won't be able to fight it.
I've always wanted to get some work done that my brother designed. The problem is that so many people have asked him to design tattoos that there's a waiting list. Maybe I can convince him to bump me in two weeks when I visit him.
Oh, yeah, I called the White House the other day. Not everyone can drop out of life and be some stinky anarchist trustafarian with a self-righteous attitude about his activism. The bulk of progressive change comes from everybody doing a little bit, whatever they can, to make the world a better place. So as part of my attempt to include little bits of progressivism in my day, I called the White House opinion line to voice my opposition to war in Iraq. While my ranting and raving here in my diary often overshadows it, I do believe that this is a great country, which is why I'm staying here to fight for the Constitution rather than fleeing on the wings of my privelege to some snooty European country where I will think I'm tres chic while never realizing that the locals hate me. One of the great things about this country is that elected leaders do care, very much, about what their consituents think. They do a lot to try and pull the wool over our eyes, but their greatest fear is of public disapproval. So I know Dubya didn't get my message but I know they added a check to the "agin" column in my name.
It was cool. I dialed (202) 456-1111. After holding for a bit, an operator asked me what state I was calling from. Then she said, "What message would you like me to give the President?" and I told her. Then she said, "I'll give the President your message." What a country! I urge you to give ole Dubya a call and voice your opinion, no matter what it is. Unless it's "I'm-a gonna keel you." Don't do that. Nobody kill anybody. After all, isn't that the true spirit of xmas?
We had a little Thanksgiving meal for the orphans who were stuck here, plus a few transplants whose families didn't celebrate it. Singular Girl did most of the cooking, and I tried to convince her that traditionally my role was to carve the turkey she cooked, then pass out on the couch watching football while she cleaned up the dishes. She didn't fall for it.
Friday was Critical Mass, which is why I was at Da Mare Plaza dressed as Santa. It was sweet that little kids kept coming up to me and hugging me, but annoying that some parents decided to use me as a cheap cop-out of waiting in line for the real Santa and kept making their kids tell me what they wanted for xmas. And then this little girl came up to me, maybe five years old, and gave me a present. It was a bar of soap, wrapped in white paper with some indecipherable little-kid drawing and writing on it. Her grandma explained that she had wanted to give out presents down at the tree-lighting ceremony so they wrapped up some soap for her to give out. Granny was acting like "these wacky kids" but I thought it was the most darling thing, this little girl who wanted to hand out presents to strangers and decided that Santa should have one, too, because after all Santa gets the shaft when it comes to presents. After hearing about a thousand pedophile jokes from smarmy teenagers, that little girl replenished my hope for the world.
Saturday, our apartment became sort of a tattoo parlor, as two of us got ink and about eight came to be looky-loos. Piloto worked a bit on Tejas's ring of leg-flames (Kabuto claimed he was only getting them so he would never have to find two matching socks to wear) and he worked on me a little bit. It's so much closer to the ancient ritualisitic feel of tattooing to have it done by a close friend, in your own home, with many other friends around to distract you from the pain. I felt... I'm having a hard time expressing how I felt, there was a rush of excitement, but also a sense of belonging... the etching of a design of spiritual importance to me permanently into my skin, which also left a permanent mark of my friendship with Piloto. He's one of those friends who you instantly click with, and no matter how much time has passed since you've seen them last you're always close, and they would never dream of pulling any drama on you. Sort of like how, with family, it takes a lot to drive family members apart, because they know they'll always be related and so they better be forgiving. The best friends are ones you always forgive, and who always forgive you, because you're both resigned to the fact that you'll be friends forever so you might as well save the drama for your mama. Looking back at my life and the friends that I've kept and the ones that have pulled petty shit or been intolerant of my petty shit, it's amazing to me how clear it was all along the difference between the low-maintenance ones and the high-maintenance. I've even been closer to the high-maintenance ones but frienships are like stars, you know... the hotter they burn, the shorter they last. I must admit that Singular and I have never had the sort of storybook romance that so many people seem to wait forever for. Instead, it's been like a slow burn- trust and friendship and caring have been there all along, from the first day we met really, and almost seven years later I still feel like our relationship is building, burning hotter with each passing year, rather than fading slowly from the supernova of the infatuation phase. It's stronger now than it's ever been, but that's a direct result of some hard work on both our parts. Here's a hint for you single types- do everything in your power to stay single. That way, when the right person comes along, you won't be able to fight it.
I've always wanted to get some work done that my brother designed. The problem is that so many people have asked him to design tattoos that there's a waiting list. Maybe I can convince him to bump me in two weeks when I visit him.
Oh, yeah, I called the White House the other day. Not everyone can drop out of life and be some stinky anarchist trustafarian with a self-righteous attitude about his activism. The bulk of progressive change comes from everybody doing a little bit, whatever they can, to make the world a better place. So as part of my attempt to include little bits of progressivism in my day, I called the White House opinion line to voice my opposition to war in Iraq. While my ranting and raving here in my diary often overshadows it, I do believe that this is a great country, which is why I'm staying here to fight for the Constitution rather than fleeing on the wings of my privelege to some snooty European country where I will think I'm tres chic while never realizing that the locals hate me. One of the great things about this country is that elected leaders do care, very much, about what their consituents think. They do a lot to try and pull the wool over our eyes, but their greatest fear is of public disapproval. So I know Dubya didn't get my message but I know they added a check to the "agin" column in my name.
It was cool. I dialed (202) 456-1111. After holding for a bit, an operator asked me what state I was calling from. Then she said, "What message would you like me to give the President?" and I told her. Then she said, "I'll give the President your message." What a country! I urge you to give ole Dubya a call and voice your opinion, no matter what it is. Unless it's "I'm-a gonna keel you." Don't do that. Nobody kill anybody. After all, isn't that the true spirit of xmas?
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