stephanie is nothing like the sun. and yet I love her so. She drives me literally insane. And yet there's no sweeter lunacy.
The other day, NPR's "All Things Considered" had a little report on the California medical marijuana initiative, which, if you don't know, basically means Santa Cruz, where I lived forever and ever, shoplifting, party-going, loving and leaving. Santa Cruz is where I first encountered extraordinary and curious people, Santa Cruz is where I learned to fall in love, Santa Cruz is where I overcame my fear of rollercoasters and women, and Santa Cruz is The Place To Be for Medical Marijuana, yo. Call it Amsterdam West -- you can even get spacecake at any reputable Santa Cruz coffeehouse! Anyway-- NPR the other day reported that the Santa Cruz City Council, in order to show its support for the medical marijuana initiative, invited the local terminal-pothead club to disperse its product at City Hall. Oh, Santa Cruz! What I especially loved in this NPR report was that whenever the piece would cut to audio recorded at Santa Cruz City Hall, to sober interviews and attestations of THC and compassion for the dying stoned, behind them in the background you could hear fake cancer patients giggling to themselves as they scored an eigth, in the background you could hear endless drum circles and the Deadheads smelling of Silly-Putty dancing like dervishes. Santa Cruz! You could hear pedestrians getting hit by Frisbees! Oh, Santa Cruz! I remember Baudrillard called Santa Cruz a souvenier of the '60s, the locus of the "post-orgy"; and oh, Santa Cruz, you're still the wallflower at the 21st Century prom, you haven't got a whit of cynicism or the business �clat to hack through modern days, and Santa Cruz I love you. Not because you're so wilfully contrarian, nor because I think hemp will save the world and if the world just played some hacky-sack there'd be no war, no. I love you Santa Cruz because ----
You know, I bet it's rhapsodic flights like these that makes Danica think I'm a hippie. Note to self: shut up.
Errata: Valerie has broken up with her boyfriend, who was paying her rent and board. She asked if she can move in with me, and be my maid since she can't afford rent. Of course I said yes, I need a maid. Not only because I live in a museum of laundry and historical candy wrappers, but also because I want to explore some details in Freud's theory of the family romance and seduction complex, and for this I will need a Victorian maid.
Other errata: Therese turned 25 the other day. I debated whether or not to call her, acknowledge her achievement of another year, another year that we haven't spoken. In the end I didn't call her; in the end I decided to whisper my birthday wishes for her into a tree, into a bole in its trunk; that way it would be secure, it would extend into the earth and it would throw its arms into the lofty air.
Okay, the end.
the Funny Show
agriculture poem
my life in the ghost of Bush
time-lapsed (part 1)
unreconciled
Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.
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