New ‘do
I began these Zulu knots (or Bantu knots or “Chinese boys”) last night, but started too late and had to finish tonight. Though time consuming, it’s a very easy style to do.
The hardest part is, well, the part. Or, rather, the many parts. And more than that, the combing of the sections. Ruby isn’t so down with the comb out. But when she wears her purple princess dress, she has Super Brave Magical Powers.
With the help of some deliciously scented Tui Hair Oil, my Fearless Princess looks more like an African Queen.
What are you doing this weekend? How about next?
If you live locally and are dying to find out more about sin that takes place in the corners of an ordinary day, please come check out this art show. It just so happens that six of my photographs were selected for display. I know: It’s shocking that any of my work could be considered sinful in the least.
The artist’s reception takes place on Saturday from 3-5 p.m. Come say hello. My standing rule applies: No tomato throwing. This show is in a private residence and I would hate for the owner to have to clean up the splatters.
I told him once that I don’t blog about my friends
Tomorrow morning, while I sleep, my friend Rich is going to kiss his wife goodbye. I imagine he will linger a little longer than usual at the bedside of his (hopefully) sleeping toddler son and the crib of his six month old daughter. Then he will catch a flight to North Carolina where he will spend an uncertain amount of time preparing for a deployment of an uncertain amount of time. My friend Rich is going to Afghanistan.
On Saturday night, Rich and his wife, Diana, had a few friends to their house to say good-bye…
…and while Rich isn’t a hippie, I have to admit I was a little stunned by the new, shorter haircut. I couldn’t help but run my fingers over it when he stepped into the hall to greet me. When I say he’s not a hippie, I mean that only in the physical sense because, really, he’s a hippie with a crew cut. The man ran naked on election night and what could possibly be more hippie than running naked through the streets on election night?
You see, Rich is a tree-hugger extraordinaire. I used to bump into him at the farmer’s market on occasion (before he was hypnotized into thinking the ‘burbs were better than the ‘urbs) and he was always weighted down with organic fruits and veggies. Diana finally put him on a budget because, untethered, he would blow their monthly grocery allowance in one evening. The man has no self control when it comes to being green: He drives a Prius, and he loveslovesLOVES Al Gore. I think he might just have sex with Al Gore if doing so wouldn’t get him kicked out of the Navy. Then again…
Rich is a uniquely special kind of person with an unusual blend of wit and naiveté. He has an unassuming innocence that I always find refreshing and sweet. His hugs are strong and generous and sincere. His eyes shimmer when he smiles and he throws his head back when he laughs, face open to the sky. Rich is wholesome and endlessly positive. All of his sentences end with his voice in an upward lilt. He is the nicest—absolute nicest—guy I have ever met. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who feels this way about him. And yet.
He has a mischievous streak that makes him irresistibly endearing. Last summer, he blew my mind when he launched into a spontaneous version of The Aristocrats. I’d never heard Rich say the word “fuck,” much less “pussy.” Certainly, I’d never heard him say those kinds of words as they pertain to a grandmother and a donkey, but use them he did. And those are the G-rated words he used in his storytelling! Rich was a poet that night, a weaver of tales, a builder of imagery. He was very, very naughty and, well…I do like my friends a little naughty.
He and our friend Steve riffed off one another seamlessly, making the story progressively more absurd and obscene until the group of us listening was practically drooling over ourselves with laughter. Without question, it was the raunchiest joke I’ve ever heard in my life.
Despite intentions, Rich didn’t get around to the joke the other night. The evening was filled with laughter but there were also some tears. Mine came in private moments while reading emails he’d sent home during a deployment to Iraq in 2004.
Diana had placed all of her memorabilia–the scrapbooks, the emails, the pocket guides–out on their coffee table for us to browse. “It’s a different world,” he wrote. “Nothing I really trained for.”
It was all personal, much of it was dark and I feel honored to be included in their lives in such an intimate way. But it was heart-wrenching, to be honest, to have a glimpse into this other side of Rich. It made me worry for him.
This is a new experience for me: I’ve never known anyone in the military. I’ve never gone to a send off. I’ve never had to say such a serious goodbye. Even while they worked to put me and our other friends at ease, I felt awkward at moments and wasn’t really sure what to say to Rich or to Diana. My hope, of course, is the same as I suppose everyone else’s hope is when they send someone they love off to war: That they stay safe, that what they see doesn’t scar them too deeply and that they come home to those of us who love them as quickly as possible.
Outrage
Today I’m recommending you read this open letter to AIG. It was cathartic reading it, so it must have been cathartic writing it. Melanie put a breathtaking human face to the story and now, I’m going to add another one:

I like her ending, only I wouldn’t have been so polite as to use asterisks. I’m too blinded by rage to even locate the asterisk key when I think about the futures stolen by these unscrupulous, relentless crooks who are now suing the US government for…back…taxes…
Starving the (wrong) beast: San Diego Unified throws the baby out with the bath water
Madison High School student Charles Spencer plays a tuba held together by duct tape. His school is too broke to fix the instrument, and with pending budget cuts, the prospect of Spencer—who was featured in a recent story by the online news website Voice of San Diego—having a music class during which to play his bandaged horn is looking grim. Whether you have a child or not, every adult should be alarmed when it comes to the state of education in the Golden State.
In case you don’t know, San Diego Unified School District (SDUSD) is in a world of hurt. Stimulus funds are headed our way, but, apparently, the mystery amount SDUSD will receive is not enough to pull it out of the already in-progress nose dive. And you thought that fiery streak in the sky was a meteor.
The No Child Left Behind farce is one culprit in the evisceration of public education. But add Prop. 13, the state budget crisis and a recession, and San Diego children become diminishing apparitions in the rearview mirror of “progress.”
Now facing a stratospheric deficit, our local school board has put two tourniquet-like plans on the table. Plan A, according to Voice, includes a nearly across-the-board increase in class size, principal-sharing among certain schools, slashing of transportation for magnet schools, cuts to employee benefits and an unpaid four-day furlough for all employees.
Plan B is even more depressing, with cuts to “school supplies, landscaping and elementary school counseling,” areas in which previous cuts have already left the city’s schools in disarray. Also included are “options such as closing small schools, shuttering programs in Old Town and Balboa Park” and nixing altogether arts and high-school athletics. I personally think the school board should require foot binding for kids who are actually succeeding under these ever-worsening conditions just to level the weed-infested playing field.
In addition to all that misery, the free lunch program is broke while roughly 2,600 more kids enrolled this school year than last. High-fructose corn syrup is cheap, so serving less nutritious meals is being talked about as a cost-cutting solution. Good thing American kids don’t struggle with obesity and diabetes or this “solution” might be something of a health concern.
California spent $2,000 less per student than the national average prior to budget cuts, and students here are more likely to attend overcrowded schools and receive less personal attention, according to UCLA’s California Educational Opportunity Report released in late February.
Somehow, I can’t envision Plan A or B improving these statistics. So I’m offering my own plan, which I’ll just call Plan WTF.
Plan WTF includes three ways to generate money for all of California’s public schools with enough left over to buy textbooks published in this century for the state’s poorest kids. Imagine! These predominantly brown babes will get to read revisionist history just like their wealthier counterparts.
My plan begins with the decriminalization of weed. Regulate it like alcohol, tax it like cigarettes and smoke it like you’re being water-boarded and are gasping for air. The idea-challenged what-about-the-children crowd should pack a bowl and take a seat. They’ll likely say that kids will smoke it if it’s legal, and they may be right. But kids are going to smoke it anyway; they still deserve a solid education with access to counselors between bong hits.
Part 2 of Plan WTF is to stop building the third border barricade. Walls are expeeensive. Just get a bid on a 3-foot-tall stucco wall to surround your tiny front yard. You’ll see. Turning our country into one giant gated community is a losing policy. If two didn’t work, certainly three won’t halt the determination of the human spirit.
Finally, and most expediently, there must be a Just Say No To Testing mantra. The policy makers can call the expensive exams STAR or WRAP or whatever silly acronym their high-paid consultants come up with, but they’re not fooling anybody.
Each year, students in the SDUSD face a battery of state-mandated tests that include the National Assessment of Educational Progress, California Standardized Testing and Reporting, California Alternate Performance Assessment, California Modified Assessments and the California High School Exit Exam—because passing grades are no longer enough.
There’s the English Language Development Test and the Physical Fitness Testing, which all the kids hate since they’re fat and wheezy and not allowed to run at recess and they don’t have P.E. anymore because the schools are broke and, anyway, they’re too busy preparing for tests.
There are the district-mandated tests, too: the Benchmark Exams, the End-of-Course Exams, the End-of-Year Exams, the Gates-MacGinitie Reading Test, the On-Demand Writing Exam, the Standards-Based Assessment in Mathematics (your eyes swirling yet?), the Writing and Reading Assessment Profile and the Practice California High School Exit Exam—because they have to practice taking the test just in case they don’t know by this time how to take a test.
Don’t forget the slew of “voluntary” tests that are generally required for college admission and all the regular day-in and day-out testing. Holy mackerel, are you tired? The whole thing makes me want to put my head down on my desk and drool for a while.
It’s crushing, what’s been done to education in California, and everybody loses if this is the future. Plan WTF is the only viable solution. Implement it yesterday and maybe Charles Spencer will have a new tuba before he sits for his SATs.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Turns out, she loves me most when she wants something
How would you like to spend a rainy weekend housebound with this:
I know you can’t see her halo but that’s only because there wasn’t one.
The take home lesson of the past 48 hours? The phrase bouncing off the walls has a literal interpretation. How do people who live with real winter do it? My God…
This was me as of 4:00 tonight and I still had four more hours of parenting to go:
3 is the new 13
Ruby is equal parts sugar and spice, piss and vinegar these days. She’s certainly got a mind of her own, which is what we all want for our children…eventually! But not now! Right now, while she’s my captive audience and is free of peer pressure and bad influence and the ability to sell her virginity for top dollar, I want her to submit completely to my will. I want her to obey and listen to me while she’s malleable, so that later when she truly thinks I know nothing, she’ll at least be armed with good decision-making tools when faced with peer pressure and bad influence. She’ll also know better than to sell herself to the highest bidder. I guarantee it.
Lately, though, I’m getting terrifying glimpses of what the teenage years hold. The child is regularly offering me her furrowed brow and a stink-eye so precise and intimidating that I sometimes wonder if she isn’t practicing it when I’m not around. In the last two weeks I’ve been on the receiving end of more leave me alones! and don’t talk to mes! and don’t! kiss! mes! and i said i don’t have to gos! than any parent should legally be required to endure. It’s my theory that the sole purpose of year three is to offer parents a training session for what’s coming. Consider it the Parental Pull-Up. Consider it dress rehearsal. My reaction to her poor attitude hasn’t always been appropriate; it’s safe to say that I could use an understudy for this warm-up routine, which doesn’t bode well.
The other night, I was buckling Ruby into her car seat and chatting with Sam about our day as we were heading home from dinner. I have no idea what we were discussing but Ruby interjected with a loud and drawn out, “Haaaaaaaaail NO!” I fell apart with laughter, then pulled it together and asked her in serious mom voice, where she learned that.
She stuck her thumb in her mouth and turned her face from mine in defiance.
“Ruby, tell me where you learned to say that.”
“Haaaaaaaaail NO!” she said again.
And the girl meant it.
She’s serious business. And I’m in serious trouble.































