Wii Do.

Oregon passed an anti-discrimination law today, or maybe yesterday, stating that gays and lesbians cannot be paid differently, given different benefits, or not receive employment based on their sexual orientation. woohoo. i do see this as a victory of sorts but I wonder if we have forgotten about the big, fat amendment that Oregon wrote into their constitution a couple years ago: BANNING GAY MARRIAGE. Gays and lesbians are totally allowed to have all the rights of any straight person, except for that whole marriage thing. Another law that was passed gave domestic partnerships new rights when it came to berevement, sick leave, end of life issues, and inheritance. Again, this is a victory, but it seems a bit hypocritical for us to say, you can't discriminate against someone based on sexual orientation, but we CAN and HAVE written discrimination into our constitution. UGH.

On a lighter note, Paterson bought me a Wii. I feel like I am now a member of an exclusive club. You see, let's say the Wii is "equal rights," the rights all humans should have. With these laws it's like we gave Wiis to all the gay people, but we made it so they can't ever buy a second controller, or they can only play it during certain times of the day. There are still infringements on people's personal freedoms.

And really, when it boils down to what this is about--it's church and state. How can we, as a religiously free society, write into our constitution that gays are not allowed to marry? Bare bones marriage is a religious insitution and if you take your vows and feel that you are bound in the eyes of God, the government can recognize that union, but it cannot give it preference over any other union.

Right?


A few years ago, 2003 maybe, I made a promise to my brother, who is gay, that I wouldn't get married until he could. Until a marriage between two men would be recognized and given equal rights at the federal level. I've accepted that I will never get married. I could get a civil union or a domestic partnership if I wanted to. It would make buying a house easier, doing taxes, other things. But if it came down to the end and my life partner had no say in where my money would go or how I wanted to die, how can you govern that? How can you claim the importance of one couple's love over another? And if you say, well, it says so in the bible--guess what? America isn't governed by the bible.

So, this is what I have to say to all my friends that are getting married (once you turn twenty-five it becomes an epidemic), get a civil union, get a domestic partnership. We are part of a liberal generation--if you want your gay neighbor, friend, brother or sister to truly have equal rights, don't allow yourself any rights that they are not.

XRAY vision

At the hospital, the woman admitting me is huge. The concept of elbows is lost on her. Her upper arms look as if she raided a meat locker and hung two, floppy ham hocks from each one. All I am getting is an xray, but it seems like i am being checked in for a week long stay.

My estimated payment, with insurance, is nineteen dollars. Would I like to pay that up front? Sure, why not. She runs my card and I receive an electronically printed receipt, then she (her name is Carol) brings out a large, metal sheet, like something you'd bake cookies on (she would, and has, certainly) and hand writes a receipt as well. She is very thorough. Her hammy arms flop and flop in her thoroughness. She tells me to go across the lobby and check in at out patient/radiology.

"I'm just here for an xray." I reassure her.

"I know," she says, unsmiling. Her head is a pea on a mountain of mashed potatoes.

I check in across the lobby at radiology. The woman behind the counter grabs my papers without a glance at me. She is talking to the other woman behind the counter about broken gas gages. She says, "Oh, I've had that before, a broken gas gage," and laughs, like, oh isn't that funny. Without looking at me she says, "Go sit over there."

There is nothing good to read. Nothing. There is a Smithsonian and a magazine called, Trailer Life. On the cover is a couple standing outside a winnebego, waving. On the cover over of Smithsonian there is a bird. I'm about to pick up Trailer Life when a man with a moustache comes out and calls my name. He is the xray technician. His name is Ray. That's fitting.

Ray gets to wear scrubs even though he isn't a doctor. I bet it makes him feel important, which is really the most important thing. Feeling important. Ray talks like a game show host, which is good because as he directs me where to stand and place my left knee it feels like if i do all this right I might win money. He is encouraging without condascention.

"Okay, now just one more inch over. Great. Oh, you're on nine. Good position."

I smile at my luck.

After he pushes the xray button--I can't actually see it but I assume it is a big red X that one has to through their entire body against--a maching in the corner goes one long beep, then one short. It is morse code for, "I just took your xray."

Rays appears from the control booth and instructs me to lie on the table. My body is twisted and I feel a little vulnerable, as if he has caught me napping. Then I must lie on my back, and I have to hold part of the xray plate. I am Vana White and Ray is Pat Sajack. People who live in trailers watch Wheel of Fortune; people who live in three bedroom houses watch Jeopardy. That's just the way it is. The xray, Ray tells me with instruction, is called a, "sunrise shot." Once Ray has pushed the big X button again he moved the table I am lying on down toward the floor and says, "Back to earth."

I wait while he makes sure the xrays came out all right. I hold back the urge to say, "May I please see them now?"

Ray holds his arm out, ushering me, and says, "You may exit out that door past the prison guards." I laugh because I think he is joking but when I look up I see two guards, armed, and next to them is a man in a wheel chair, in khaki garbs, his hands are cuffed. He stares me down as I walk by and the guards give me a cordial nod. The door beeps as I walk through it.

dutch bros.

there is a chain of drive thru coffee stands in oregon called, dutch brothers. they have pretty good coffee but what makes them stand out is the people they have serving you the coffee. they are all young and with a certain degree of hip--i find it hard to believe one to amass such a group in the small, town of mcminnville--and, according to my sister and her boyfriend, they are all christians. having young, hip, attrative people serve me coffee is nothing new. even the fact that they are all christians doesn't really surprise me (also, this fact has not been proved, and once, my sister claimed her apartment complex was run by the christian mafia, so i don't think she is a repudaptle source). my sister also says all the workers there are,"engaged and underaged," to put it in mtv terms. this can be said about the baristas at dutch brothers: they are extremely nice. they are always asking what you are up to, where you are headed, but not in a way that is nosey and annoying; it seems genuine and friendly, like if you were to say, "i'm moving my piano today," they would offer to help. my sister says they do this because they are jacked up on the love of christ. i think the owner of dutch bros. is just a good business man, but christ still might have something to do with it.

this morning when i got my latte the worker i encountered wasn't unfriendly--just wasn't up to the dutch bros. par. here is the interraction:

dutch bros. dude: hey girl, how you doing today?

me: good.

dbd: what can i get you today?

me: a small, non-fat, sugar-free, vanilla latte, please.

dbd: no problem.

(begins making drink)

dbd: so, what are you up to today?

me: i have to work.

dbd: what do you do?

me: i teach yoga and dance.

dbd: oh cool. at what gym?

me: i teach at a studio in town.

dbd: right on.

(hands me the drink)

dbd: here you go, girl.

me: thanks.

dbd: have a great day, girl.


end scene.


okay, so it wasn't awful, but he called me girl three times. and girl is barely one step above, "babe." so my theory, since clearly there are not that many young, hip, attractive people in yamhill county and their overt niceness is caused for suspicion, is that the owner of dutch bros. has created an army of attractive, robot baristas powered by the love of christ.

This happened Friday Morning...

yesterday, i went over to my dad's house to organize the boxes of my things. I ran off to the east coast for a while and threw my life in his garage. I've returned, for a while now, but my life remains in his garage. I've gone over there a few times and rooted through it so it is strewn about. So, I went over to put everything in a proper box. I had to do this because my dad is moving my life to his new house. He got re-married (gasp). So, he has a new house with lots of storage space so my life is moving in with his new life. I found the book of stories, "Tell Me," while I was shifting things about. I think I re-discovered it around this time a year ago and while I was sitting in a coffee shop I read my favorite story, "Yours." This story just might be my all-time favorite short story. Three pages that pack a powerful punch. Maybe I am overly emotion (very possible) but this last paragraph always moves me to tears:

At the telephone, Clark had a clear view out back and down to the porch. He wanted to get drunk with his wife once more. He wanted to tell her, from the greater perspective he had, that to own only a little talent, like his, was an awful, plaguing thing; that being only a little special meant you expected too much, most of the time, and liked yourself too little. He wanted to assure he that she had missed nothing.


Thank you Ms. Mary Robison. You are a master.

I am sitting in a coffee shop now and someone who is wearing very strong perfume just sad down near me. How dare they? Their perfume is overwhelming. The guy next to me is working on the New York Times Crossword, on a Friday! What a smarty pants. There is an old man in a fedora style, yet a little too floppy, brown hat sitting by himself looking around. Three middle aged women sit together, one wearing far too much make-up, talking with their hands. There is a blonde talking to a brunette. The blonde has a sensual mouth and small eyes, and I heard her use the phrase, "Party like a rock star." She is wearing shoes with pointy toes. There are five computers open, including mine, all of them macs. The old man just started small talk with a woman sitting next to him. I wonder what they are talking about.

funny face

I am participating in a self-run course called, The Artist's Way. It's all about unblocking your creativity. It's a twelve week course. I am only in week one. Each week there are tasks that you can choose to do. One of the tasks this week was to list five careers you would like besides your own. I feel silly doing this because I don't really have a career that is my "own," so the idea that I would want to do something instead of what I am doing is funny, because I'm not doing anything. I am a dance teacher that currently isn't teaching dance, and I am a writer that doesn't really publish anything (okay, occasionally in The Portland Mercury). So my list was something like: 1. model 2. teacher (i kinda feel like i am already this, maybe. what am i?) 3. filmmaker 4. vet---and I can't remember five. The second part of this task was that you had to do something to persue this career. The example they gave was that if you wanted to be a cowboy, how about going horseback riding. So I was going to take some still pictures that tell a story--on my way to being a filmmaker. But--I have been searching craigslist for something to do and I saw that a model agency was having an open call so I was like, "Perfect." I was kinda excited. I hadn't been on an audition in a long time. I was feeling cute. Two--2!--guys hit on me on my way to the audition. I was thinking--it's in the bag. I walked in the door and there were four girls sitting in chairs, two brunettes that were kind of homely (I am not saying that to be mean, or because of the events that followed--it's just true) and there were two blondes who were kinda cute. All of these girls were of normal build. So this guy--I guess he like ran the agency-- says to me, "Are you here for the open call?" I say, "Yes." He says, "Your look isn't right for us." And I think I said something like, "Okay..." and I turned around and walked out the door. Of course while I was driving home I was thinking, I should have said, "What type of look are you looking for?" "WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME."



I've been though auditioning and I didn't take this personally. I was just excited to like, walk down a fake catwalk and have them take my polaroid. Oh, well. But I wonder if I should try again. Does that even count as trying?

Porn Shop Chronicles: WARNING THIS POST IS RATED NC-17

This past summer I worked at a group home. I worked from Friday through Monday. Every Sunday one of the "consumers," that's what the company preferred we called them, went to a store called Taboo to pick out some adult videos. I would give him forty-five minutes and spend a good chunk of that time wandering around the shop looking at the various videos and toys. I would always call my brother and tell him how funny everything was. Here are some of my favorite items:



1) I love mermaids. 2) It is kind of hard to see but the vibrator is irridescent with a shell on top, and the shell is pointy. Why would you stick that inside you? I have never, ever been on the beach, seen a shell and thought, I would love to masturbate with that. 3) The starfish plug is such a nice touch. I can get behind that.



Call me sexually naive, but I found this fascinating. And then I imagined what women would look like if our breasts were attached to our chins instead of our chests, like characters from Star Wars. i.e. every man's dream.

peach soap

P and I were walking down the street in the Pearl District of Portland. We walked by a store called, "Urbane Zen," and in the window there was a bowl of soaps, that were so perfectly round it was hard to believe that they were man made. I remember soap my grandma had that was very similar; it was peach, but it was in the shape of a peach and smelled like a peach. My sister and I were in love with my grandmother's bathroom. She had a hutch over the toilet that had sliding doors. Behind the doors were bottles of nail polish in every possible shade of pink. On top of the hutch were bottles of perfume, the kind with the tube and the ball, that now remind me more of blood pressure machines--then though they were glamour, that you could spray on your neck and behind your ears. On the counter were shallow jars of loose powder and large, poofy applicators made of pink fuzz. The bathroom seemed like a place were movie stars got ready for their close ups. I guess we didn't notice the space full of make-up and nail polish, and creams for your face was shared with the washer and dryer, as well as the glass for my grandpa's teeth and his fixodent. The bathroom wasn't in a hotel with marble entry way--it was in a trailer though, a trailer in the middle of Muddy Valley, off of a gravel road on eighty acres of land my grandpa used for logging. When we smelled that peach soap though, held it to our little noses and felt it soft against the delicate fuzz of skin between our lips and our nose--well, it was exactly how we imagined Hollywood and glamour and beauty.