okay/gosh

Timbaland said it best when he said “I shouldn’t have left you (left you) without a dope beat to step to. Step to. Step to. Step to. Step to. Step to, fikky fikky uh.” Too much?

Anyway, the world is different now. I have a finer appreciation for unintentional hilariousness (not really). All at once, I want to choke a bitch but also slap her on the back, in a display of camaraderie, of sharing in the skill of all that is hilariousness, all for one and one for all!

The other night, I found myself at some sort of impromptu Star Trek convention, hosted by hipsters in the heart of Williamsburg. I know, right? And most of the night was devoted to Star Trek V commentary and also this band Fall On Your Sword, and they kind of make songs out of William Shatner commentary, which was completely appropriate because this whole celebration of sorts was inspired by the birthday of the Shat himself.

The band started playing and my friend and I started dancing, and a lot of things started to happen. “Something around here smells rank. Like mildew vagina.” My friend caught a whiff and agreed. It was a mess. Before we could begin to investigate the source of the stank vaginal smell, I got bumped into a few times by some particularly wild dancers who were flailing their bodies about and generally taking up my personal space. They had silicone elf ear things on, like Orlando Bloom as Legolas in Lord of The Rings. Yeah, I said it. And one of them had a leather jacket on, like… well like anyone who wears a leather jacket at an inappropriate venue, like a sweaty venue with awkward dancing and frankly, not enough liquor in my system. Okay. Fine. But the next day, I opened my purse and out came the vagina stench. And my boss goes “Well, cheap leather just smells bad. No offense.” Then she kind of swung her Louis Vuitton onto her shoulder and made another comment that went something like, I am a cool boss and nothing like a terrible boss like Michael Scott from the office, no never. And then she said something like “Jessica would be good with a black man, don’t you think Rachael?” which I thought was unreasonably, and characteristically so Michael Scott that I couldn’t take it anymore and eventually, after multiple beers, I was forced to take me and my pussy purse elsewhere.

How’s that for starters?

To my masses of fans, I’m sorry. I feel terrible about how I’ve let you down lately. It’s just that [refer to title of post]. But seriously! SF is supposed to be home to freaks and geeks galore, astounding the masses with their hippy selves, right? And yet… everyone’s been so…  normal.

There was a guy on the train this morning wearing a hat and using a cane? He asked for a seat? There’s a guy at work who uses the putting green behind me and makes the same joke about rim-jobs every day?

Here’s my real beef: everyone here is just. too. nice. And normal. Maybe if I were in L.A. it would be different. *crosses fingers*

From here on out, though, I’ll be sure to pay special attention to anything I can possibly see as abnormal or surprising or worthy of interestingnesses.

Till then!

So for whatever reason, I decided I was going to go home for Memorial Day weekend so that I could take part in drugs, booze, and other shenanigans, specifically sleeping and an overconsumption of steak. I know. I am truly risqué.

And for whatever reason, it takes the Greyhound about seven hours to travel what is normally a four hour ride. Seven hours. Usually, I don’t mind so much, because I can read, zone out, and sleep, which are three things I find really comforting and therefore like to do quite a bit. HOWEVER NONETHELESS, it is hard to do these things when one is CONSTANTLY being HARASSED by a CREEPY BUS MAN.

I decided that I was not going to sit in the back of the bus again, because last time, I had the pleasure of sitting by myself but I was being harassed by the stench of year old piss and shit chunks, which was surprisingly unpleasant.  Surprise, surprise. So I decided to sit in the middle of the bus. Rosa Parks didn’t do her thing for nothin. (I think here, I should use the word ‘thang’ but I feel really awkward about that. Bet.) So I’m all excited because everyone else around me is sitting by themselves and I figure that means I’ll get to sit by myself and stretch my legs against the other seat while I’m reading/zoning out/sleeping. HOWEVER NONETHELESS, I didn’t really get to do that.

“Is this goin to Pittsburgh?”

Why yes sir. Wouldn’t you know that before getting on the bus, douche wipe?

“Oh hey. Mm, you so pretty. Do you mind?”

Why yes I do. “Er, no. Go ahead.”

And so this man, this creepy man who looks like he’s probably going to molest me if he gets the chance, sits next to me with a styrofoam box  of fried chicken and hot sauce. Whatever, that’s fine. I’m not infringing on anyone’s right to eat. And I mean, I’ve experienced fried chicken because I’ve gone to KFC, and besides I’m black. (I actually am black, and not racist.) So this man starts mock apologizing for devouring chicken in my face, which is pointless because I KNOW what fried chicken smells like, and it doesn’t smell like year old piss and shit chunks, and because I KNOW he wasn’t going to stop eating it if I would have said “You know, I’m allergic to the scent of fried chicken. Close your shit up, will you?”

After he was done, he started talking to me again. Because me reading/zoning out wasn’t enough of a hint for him to go away.  “You’re so pretty. Are you married?” No. “How old are you?” 20. “Why aren’t you married?” I’m 20. “But you’re so fine.” Hey, thanks. “People get married at 20 all the time. You’re too pretty not to be married.” Um. “What are you reading? Sometin Happened?” No, Something Happened. Actually, I didn’t say that. I just kept reading. “Are you cold?” Well, I do have this sweater on. I didn’t say that either. I just nodded.

Finally, I got off the bus at the rest stop and called my mom and told her about the creepfest. “Don’t let him follow you! Don’t go to sleep. Keep one eye open.” Ok, she didn’t say that. She did tell me that I was giving him too much information and I should not give him so much information and that I should be very careful. But I think he heard me talking shit about him to my mother and when we got off the bus, he promptly moved to another seat. Either that or we left him at the rest stop.

But then the bus driver started winking at me. Lord.

Sometimes, you know, judging a judgmental place is just as bad as the place being judgmental in the first place. Besides K*** H** is not judgemental. Avalon trade-buy-sell in Squirrel Hill (spelling ’squirrel’ correctly is a daily struggle. Perhaps this has something to do with the creepalcious squirrels that come thisclose to you at University of Maryland, where my friends go) is judgmental. I will throw racist in there too, just for kicks. And because my friend said so. And besides, sometimes, I think maybe it isn’t worth spending $2.50 to withdraw ten dollars from my account (and no more, because I’m damn poor) just for a lack of concentration and some awkward conversations/non-conversations with a guy with a fake French name that I saw at the crepe place yesterday and felt awkward about, just BECAUSE 61C is cash only. Also, really, we should just rename this damn blog after him. He comes up that often.

ANYWAY I AM DONE RESPONDING TO YOUR HURTFUL COMMENTS. NOW ONTO BIGGER & BETTER THANGS.

1) I haven’t been home since January, so imagine my surprise when my mother has not only acquired a 40-inch television in her room, but also countless bootleg movies and a series of the ‘Hip Hop Abs’ DVD with the creepy fit black happy man from the commercials. Really, mother?

2) I think I’ll also refer to a time where someone watched me. This is going to be graphic, but probably not more graphic than a conversation you’ve had with me.

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THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. I DO NOT SANCTION, CONDONE, PERMIT, ALLOW, OR ENJOY THE PRESENCE OF THE COFFEE HOUSE WHICH SHALT NOT BE NAMED AND WILL HENCEFORTH REPEAT THIS ANY TIME IT IS MENTIONED.

K.V. IS A DISGUSTING GROSS DIRTY SLOW JUDGEMENTAL PLACE. I’D RATHER GO TO STARBUCKS. …But my heart belongs to 61C… LONG LIVE 61C!

Enough about people watching (jk-zors!!). But seriously. How about some reverse people watching for a change. It just wrought havoc on me!

IE, post eating-something-with-lots-of-spices, I am nervous that I have lots of spices up in my grills. That makes the following awkward things happen, in the following order:

1. Enter 61C.

2. Talk to JohnPaulcoffeeman, to hand him a copy of thirty-four kites (<– shameless plug I’M SORRY) but in post-dining perfection. Speak tight-lipped, lips puckered around the edges of teeth a bit. Smile quickly, look down while smiling, because every time you reveal a tooth, you open yourself up to another mouth atrocity possibility, that spice in that tooth, that socio-equivalent to TP on your shoe.

3. End conversation AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

3a. Possibly end conversation before the conversation was actually done. Do not know.

4. Go home.

4a. Check teeth.

4b. Discover nothing there.

5. Get depressed.

*sigh* the travesties of  reversies…

I have a theory that goes something like this: people don’t know what to do with themselves when temperatures rise and the sun starts shining. They just get confused about what to wear, or who to be. It’s 76 degrees: I should wear jeans and a sweater right? I’m not even saying this is necessarily an uber negative thing, because I wore a hoodie today. You know, just in case.

And I’m rather confused too. I may or may not be sitting next to a female-to-male bonafide transsexual. I don’t want to stare more than I already am, people, but he/she keeps talking about how he’s part Syrian and part Italian, and his beard looks really delicate, like it was painted on. And gotdamn, his button up is crisp. And his/her face just looks like a face of a androgynous woman. And by androgynous, I mean, leaning more on the male side. And also not the hot kind of androgynous. God, I think I like the word androgynous.

I came here to do work and get ready for my presentation and crepes, and this fascinating real-life tranny is just distracting me. It’s so unfair. The only other real tranny I’ve seen is a male-to-female, and his/her name is Fergie.  And then there’s that dude here who dresses like a woman and dons a mock high voice and wears nothing but skirts and wigs. Maybe the three of these people should meet and have a party, as long as they invite me. So I can just be overcome with fascination.

Also tranny man’s life is sad. His siblings died when they were young without children. That sucks.

But if it makes you feel any better, this dude who looks like a Belushi brother reject is gettin’ down on a sandwich like a straight up HEATHEN.

I am a hungry, hungry, greedy, greedy hippo lady. I’m not going to lie. When I don’t have anything to do but papers and bullshit, I like to eat every two or three hours. So an hour after I had eaten some black bean soup, I announced to my friend that I would be walking to McDonald’s for some late night undeliciousness. And it was really the epitome of undelicious, because my stomach almost met its death last night.

Anyway, walking back from McDonald’s, far and straight ahead I saw a man spinning. Like, twirling. And he was really quite skillful with it, I must say. My comrade threatened to collapse with laughter, so we crosed the street so we didn’t have to walk right past him. We couldn’t help ourselves though, and we kept looking over. Again and again.

This man had mad dance moves, and he was skilled. Seriously. He was basically the new Michael Jackson, before he turned white and pedophilic. My friend thought he was the homeless man that chased her friend down the street a month or so ago, so we kept our distance, still. But his spins and twirls and pelvic thrusts — well, they were glorious.

I really, really love when I have a strawberry banana smoothie and I can taste the chunks of delicious banana, and the chunks of delicious banana make their way up the straw and into my mouth and all of it is just a delicious, magical joyride.

This very experience is being had at Kiva Han, my very own coffee/cafe haunt, much closer to my living situation than 61C. I’ve found that, perhaps, I’m a little bit in love with Kiva Han, but maybe that’s because of all the heartbreak i experienced at 61C. I mean that homeless man never talked to anyone except himself. How very selfish of him. I couldn’t live like that.

Anyway, the only thing about Kiva Han is that nothing really goes down here. So the fact that it smells vaguely of Fritos and mac & cheese, well, that’ll probably be the most eventful thing here today. Besides the homeless black lady that comes in here at about 8 or 9 pm and promptly heads towards the men’s bathroom. It’s okay, I was also confused by the ‘Dude” and “Dudette” labels on the bathroom doors.

I have a fine sense of smell, and I challenge anyone to challenge that. This can be good, when I sense that a restaurant smells of steak and… good food. But as a rule, it’s always bad on a public bus.

In that vain, have you ever noticed the similarities between some foods and some body odors? Like, stinky feet sometimes smell buttery like popcorn. Good when it’s popcorn, bad when it’s feet. Likewise, the woman on the bus next to me who smelled like tacos… it would have been good if she were, say, a giant taco (that is not an allusion to her vagina). Unfortunately, she was not. Just a smelly woman, assaulting my nostrils.