Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Today in (Un)Real Estate News

This million-dollar 1800 sq. ft. house is a couple blocks from me. They hear gunshots at night just like I do. Do they tell their kids it's fireworks, or do they tell them the truth?

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Sex with Thom Yorke

Gifted people don't have to be manufactured beauties to be extremely fuckable. Exhibit A.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

A Plea, Straight Up

written November 7, 2016

I don't know who she voted for, but she volunteered that it wasn't Hillary.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Today on (Un)Real Estate News

Weird and Wonderful Things: A Pictorial 1988–2017

my first boyfriend had this on the bumper of his 1982 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. we thought we were more enlightened than anyone else on the 805.


Deepak Chopra has never had to sink low enough to call someone retarded until now.

Michelle Obama, thank you for explaining why some of us aren't  just "being aggressive" and we do deserve love, motherfuckers.

lock box for marijuana chocolate and other pain relievers. too hard to open, but it sure is cute, and it supports breast cancer.

Great picture choice.

exquisite design from miu miu. i want to fuck this bottle i love it so much.

what might be used to remove my tumors. rad.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Today on Jeopardy

Grrrr. Ech. Ew. Gross. Throw up. Vomit. Wretch. Bile. Shite. Bleach. Nauseous. Stomach acid. Wall-eyed vision. Toenail fungi. Old yellow crank from the ‘90s.

What does reading our president-elect's name inspire?

No, I'm not riding the Bipolar Bullet Train, not at all

Today at 4:20, I'll find out what kind of tumors I have.

But, that's not what's on my mind right now. In recent days, I've been trying very hard to say out loud that I'm bipolar. It's something I've rarely said, because when you let people know, it becomes the reason for everything.

"Lou got very upset last night."
"Well, she tends to do that. Don't forget she's bipolar."

"Lou wants a divorce."
"Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you tried. She's sick and that's got to have been very hard on you."

"Hey, have you heard of Lou Jones? She seems really qualified."
"Yeah, and she's fun to work with...but she's a total bipolar."
"Oh. Bummer...ok, who's next?"

Carrie Fisher, bless her, yeah, she was brave and she let everyone know she had the disease, but she was also secure as hell. Yes, she had to concentrate and watch herself so she wouldn't lose her friends or isolate her child, or die, but she didn't need to care outside of that. And that's not totally fair to those of us who weren't born to Debbie Reynolds and later became Princess Leia. We can be brave, but then we better be an author or an acclaimed artist or a working actor or a successful musician or a brilliant mathematician for it to be ok, maybe even a gift.

Bipolars are almost always one of those things. Unless we're struggling, then we're a secret, known as "a little off", but also known as "worth it" if we use wonder woman strength and successfully keep it together enough to not exhaust anyone.

If bipolars had a mark on their forehead—maybe an emoji of Comedy/Tragedy—how many people would want to be our friend? Cruising through life with only a vague memory of hearing the word once or twice, they'd likely say, "Oh...um, that's ok, but thank you!"

And if they befriend you, that's only because they don't know about the Bipolar Bullet Train, or because they love confusion, or have giant balls.

"My psychologist says I'm High Functioning Bipolar." I was so embarrassed to tell my spine surgeon that. Please don't be horrified, I'll fall over. His face went professionally blank.

Upon hearing the word "bipolar" spoken softly and with great trepidation, some have said, "Oh, that's not true. You're not bipolar! You need to exercise! Stretch! Take nature walks."

And how does that feel.

"So, all this time, while I'm banging my head against the tile wall of my shower, and my screams are spiraling up from a pit so deep no one's ever seen it, or when I'm crying until my eyes swell shut or I never feel tired, not for a year and that's an illusion, what's really happening is I'm barely sleeping for a year, and my body is under no illusion, in fact it's dying, and I just can't feel it...

You're saying that all this time...through all this hell I'm talking about...all I needed to do was take a nature walk?!" 

"Well, yeah, and stretch."

Carrie Fisher, bless her, could admit to being ill for another 40 years—and I truly wish she could—but her being a poster child for bipolar is barely helpful to the rest of us. We'd lose our jobs and some friends, maybe even family, and most definitely, absolutely, our credibility for all the rest of our days if the public at large found out. We might even become homeless, because if we lose our jobs and insurance, which means meds and therapy, we'll suddenly find ourselves the most popular kids in the encampment, looking forward to death with a vengeance.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Grunge in 2017: the Bastardization of the X-Generation

 everything it was against.

Ween: "all goofy smiles and buttoned up shirts covering up layers and layers of fucked up rage"

That's hot.

Saw them in October in SF and they blew the crowd's goddamn socks off.. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgd8UER2AqU

Bow down to godweensatan this very instant.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

With reverence x2

President Obama on the cover of Wired elicited a thrill throughout this household. Two pioneering and beautiful creations presented together, holy shit that's awesome.

This October issue is kept in the bathroom in the magazine holder along with a couple Vice mags, Hunter S. Thompson's Kingdom of Fear, and a year-old Vanity Fair True Crime Special Issue that I can't seem to throw out. It was an engrossing read.

This morning I pull this Wired out and see the cover has been ripped off. Fuck! It's the Obama one! I find the cover buried deep inside when Rx walks in.

"Oh my god, Rx! The cover ripped off!"
She says, "Oh no, that's the good president! Mommy, you can tape it. I have tape, I'll go get it."

I successfully reattach the two, bring them back together, bring them back to life. It's time to store this beauty with my SF Chron announcing Obama's first win.

A triumphant beginning, a devastating end.

Go ahead, cry.