Some weeks ago I was chatting with a friend about the horrific economy.  He lives in San Francisco and unlike most gay men does not have one domestic bone in his body.  He eats out every day and doesn’t believe in cleaning.  Well, like ever.  We were on the phone and he said, “I just got back from Trader Joe’s.  I know I know … I went grocery shopping!”  To which I replied, “Whhuuuuutt?”  He said, “Yeah, I’m worried about The Depression.”  I said, “Seasonal Affective Disorder sinking in already?  Gloomy skies in San Francisco makes you want to grocery shop for the first time in 10 years?  I’m not following.”  He explained, “No. The Depression.  You know, the economy.  I’m trying to watch my spending.”

It is not as though I don’t realize the horrible state of affairs here in America.  Even if I didn’t witness poverty every day living in a city riddled with those without, the news is quick to point out how shitty things are.  He asked, “Do you think it’s affecting you?”  I had to sit back and think about this for a minute.

Living alone on a salary that is not as large as my looming school debt means I am well-aware of every cent I spend.  I live in a SFAH for pete’s sake.  I only buy enough groceries that I can carry at a time and choose very wisely between fruits and veggies, proteins and very, very few snacks (those Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jo Joes were an exception, obvi).  During these abysmal times, I am deeply grateful for my job and my health insurance.  I am grateful to have my bus pass paid for and my utilities included in my amazing $600 rent.  But when a girl wants to add pita chips to her Thanksgiving salad and sees they cost $5/bag (WTF?), I can’t help but notice that things are bleak.

For years I have watched those around me live well beyond their means.  The use of the word “need” surrounding the description of a new pair of shoes or the latest MAC eye shadow or even a new car is not something I have ever understood.  I have never been a frivolous spender.  In my working days in San Francisco, well before the reality of living on loans in grad school kicked in, I certainly went shopping on my lunch hour more than any girl needed to.  But now … I don’t know if my spending habits are a product of my poverty, or a product of reality.  As trivial as it sounds, living with so little in New Orleans and being surrounded by those with NOTHING (forget ‘living with less’ … those people have NOTHING) provided me a deep sense of understanding and appreciation for the word ‘need’.  Now I go to work and see patients suffering from grave illness due to poor health choices, not disconnected from their economic state of affairs.  I understand living without.  For years as I saw my friends buying homes with u-shaped driveways and living in a constant state of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’, I never, ever understood it.

My sister’s constant spending is a very glaring need to fill the emotional vacancies in her life.  I, thankfully, find ‘emotional deposits’ in relationships, time spent with friends, introspection and personal growth.  “Things” have never ever satiated my internal needs and for that, I am truly grateful.  I am not an emotional shoppper, and thankfully not an emotional eater.

Of the million things I am grateful for this harvest season, I am deeply thankful to have a good head on my shoulders.  A fairly adjusted sense of self.  A whole sense of being that transcends my spending, my grocery bill and thankfully my waistline.  Sure, the economy is in the crapper.  But each one of us chooses how we spend, on what.  How we teach our children to seek approval and desires through toys that last a season.  Through a trendy pair of jeans that won’t fit in a year.

I have all I need.  Sometimes a sparse fridge with tortillas and peperjack cheese.  A dwindling shoe collection that this recovering Imelda Marcos-in training never, ever thought she’d see.  Maybe all of us can use these times to reflect on how we spend our money and why.  Look within my dear friends.  Instead of feeding the instant need for now, the right-this-minute craving for the new Wii game, get your ass out and volunteer for people really living without.  I promise you that that investment will last for years to come.  Beyond the next style season.

Sweaty palms

Heart racing

Elated and nervous

We squeezed into the student union waiting to hear him speak. There I stood with my friend’s mother, an immigrant from Bangladesh, waiting to hear the most monumental speech of my life. In he came to the roar of the applause, the snap snap of camera flashes and the deafening blast of Yes We Can! On that cold February in 2007 each word that left his mouth, flittered through the air buzzing with excitement, entered my ears and seeped into my heart. On the balcony I was surrounded by friends and strangers, rich and poor, white, brown and black; each overwhelmed with their hopes, their dreams and his words. This was it. A sense of new. This is our chance. This is what I have been waiting for.

Sweaty palms

Heart racing

Distracted and busy

Tuesday morning arrived and my work schedule didn’t allow me to focus on the news. Call after call, my to-do list rivaled that of Santa’s and not enough time in the day to think or eat or even breathe. The second I stepped out of that building I was overwhelmed with what I had managed to stuff away all day. This is it. Almost 2 years after his words fed my soul, spoke to my spirit, we would have a verdict. The waiting, the debating, the arguing. The mudslinging, the cover-ups, the gaffes. REMs The End of the World rang through my ears. Or wait, was it Oh Happy Day? I walked in the door, cracked open a beer and refused to look at the polls. It was 7pm EST and I knew staring at the monitor, hitting refresh, refresh, refresh was gonna send me to a sanitorium. I carefully sipped my beer, chatted with friends, made plans, and slowly got ready for an evening with an outcome I could have never expected.

Sweaty palms

Heart racing

Dancing, bus riding

“Thank you bus driver. Drive safe tonight.”

“Oh don’t you worry baby. I’m almost done and then I’ll be celebrating with my family.”

I stepped off the bus and was hit in the face … in the gut really. Not literally, rather by a feeling I was not expecting. There on the corner was a drum circle, cameras flashing, people dancing. Tour buses lined the streets, horns honking, lines forming. Nothing had been announced or decided, yet the feeling in the air was confident … celebratory …. jubilation in its truest form. There I stood among the drum circle and before I realized it, tears rolled down my cheeks.

There was no way to prepare for this. I had no idea it would come on this strong. Without a decision, without numbers, people were electrified already. In the streets danced love, patriotism and hope. Hope comes without a tangible definition. It’s a sense, a feeling, something you just know. Up until that moment I was cautious, hadn’t taken a sip from the hope chalice. But in that moment I stepped into hope, and I wish with all of my might that I could have bottled that energy, capped it in a jar and sent one to each and every one of you.

Sweaty palms

Heart racing

Dancing babies, cocktails enjoyed

Many hours after the results had blared across our tv screens and the candidates had spoken, I went back to that intersection. Back to the energy I longed for while I was inside, letting it all sink in. Horns honking, people climbing trees, letting off fireworks, cheeks streaming with tears, strangers embracing each other. This is what I have dreamt of. This is what our parents speak of. This is not a decision, this is a movement. This is what being American feels like. To feel proud to call this place your own. To rally and dance, to volunteer and register and fund-raise. This is what he talked about. It IS about us. We DID make this happen. This isn’t a one man show, he works for us. We needed him and we wanted him. He told us he was up to the challenge, that he’s dedicated his life to service and I do not doubt him for one second.

I have been blessed to be in the presence of our Great Leader, President-Elect Barack Obama a handful of times. His voice, that distinctive cadence has reverberated the walls, electrified a crowd, motivated an historically lazy generation to get out. Make it happen. Stop bitching and start doing. In fact 14 million more people this election than last, decided to stop bitching and start doing.

An amazing woman said to me last night, “This is about all of us, not white or black. He IS America. The son of an immigrant, the son of a working mother. The child raised by grandparents, the struggling working class making their way to an Ivy League. The lawyer, the politician, the community organizer, the loving father and husband. That is US! He IS America.” More times that I can count, I have felt those very sentiments. Those are exactly the reasons why I voted for him and will continue to stand by him as he walks into a hellava mess. To be able to celebrate in the streets with thousands of other people in the middle of an historic African-American neighborhood here in our Nation’s Capital is an experience I will cherish the rest of my days.

Today I bleed red, white and blue. Today I have hope because I have seen it and lived it, more than I could have expected these past 48 hours. Today I look in the face of every black neighbor, every immigrant on the bus, every African store owner and think, Yes YOU Can! He does personify America but I can’t deny what this day means for 36 million people in this country.

Not that long ago they sat in the back of the bus, used different entrances, hell they couldn’t even vote. It is a day no one could have expected or predicted, but as I look at so many deep brown eyes, so many with dark brown skin, I am deeply humbled. Today, I thank you for marching, for praying, for having hope so many generations ago. You DID overcome. WE overcame. Thank you for your hard work, your painstaking place in our nation’s history. Today we re-write the books. On January 20th, 2009 the man at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. will look like you. His is ALL of us but I see you in every wrinkle in his face, every last gray air.

Thank you America for reminding me why this is the greatest nation on earth. Thank you DC for allowing me to celebrate in your streets, dance with your police officers, kiss your strangers.

Today we begin to heal.

So I’m officially 13 days into the meat fast (wait, 12 days cause I had that whole “lamb incident”) … and I am happy to report that all is well. Although I got the official go ahead by the Meat Watch: 2008 team (that’s you guys) that drunken behavior is exempt from punishment, my completely inebriated weekend in New York went off without a meat slip-up. I didn’t end up going to Coney Island (although I vowed to stay away from those dirty dogs anyway) and my company were all vegetarians so all was safe.

I have an obsession with taking pictures of food so I present to you my Sunday morning breakfast. Juevos Rancheros made directly by God and sent down from Heaven:

For those of you not so versed in comida mexicana, well … welcome to America firstly. Secondly, it’s only the best food ever invented. So on the top you see black beans, moving around the dish in a clockwise fashion you’ve got rice and that chunky white goodness is where the magic is. That’s sour cream on top of tomatoes on top of lettuce on top of tortillas with spicy green salsa on top of 3 eggs over medium. You Massholes have never experienced such sex in the mouth as Juevos Rancheros, I promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that that’s over with, let’s get to the Operation: Meatless Month update. Although I have been doing ok with my veggie intake and trying to get kidney beans, cheese and hard-boiled eggs into my salads, I still craved more protein. I mean, I’m not lifting weights here and clearly I am not a growing boy but I certainly don’t want to have a Meatless Month turn into 400 lbs. of carbs later, which are useless calories and kinda defeat that whole “eating conscientious” thing. I wanted more black beans Sunday night for dinner (can you imagine?) but realized my SFAH didn’t come equipped with a can opener -silly me. So I went to the market last night to buy one and to stock up on some protein items that hopefully won’t send my cholesterol through the roof.

So remember that post last week about the pickle-flavored nuts and how stuff that’s flavored like other stuff is gross? Yeah well, I lost all sensibility in the store tonight. That whole “don’t knock it til you try it” shit won me over and I bought cancer meat. I bought a “meat product” that is fake shit and protein er something, and an assload of sodium all masked to appear like carcass. It’s the zorro of food products if you will. But here I am trying to be open minded and all that crap. Sue me.

So I went home and make some fake meat carcass that I am convinced will give me cancer. I mean, I can at least die knowing I tried the meat before it gave me cancer. (Don’t get all upset guys, I of all people don’t joke about cancer srsly, c’mon). But this shit is so manufactured, that it CAN’T be right for you, right? So I go home with zorro cancer meat, make some black beans and some Peruvian rice called Chimicurri rice (HEAVEN.ON.EARTH!) When living alone, sometimes these insta’meals are where it’s at and the Trader Hoes products always have less sodium.

Here are some shots:

Next are some action shots of the zorro cancer meat (it doesn’t look right, right? )

Mmmmm rice

And black beans with sour cream and a dash of Chalula. Heeaaven!

The verdict on the zorro cancer meat: FAIL!

HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PICTURE??

I hate being wasteful but I couldn’t stomach more than 3 bites of the weird texture chewy business. So I’ll keep eating beans and cheese and edamame and milk and whathaveyou for protein.

Zorro cancer meat is not right at all.

Hey Aub, your comment last night gave me inspiration to name this saga of my life more “formally”, if you will. So although I thought I had a handle on things, apparently I don’t …. today we begin anew. Let me bring you up to speed with my near death experience last night and then I’ll explain my plan of attack (Sidenote: …. guys, are you sick of this yet? *sigh* I’m sorry).

Ok, so last night I set off the foggers outside, completely violating all of my hippie go-Mother-Earth sentimentality. As I have said before, I actually don’t kill anything. I catch spiders and set them free. I mean, if I had a grizzly bear and a 12-gauge shotgun in my SFAH (reminder: that stands for Studio For A Hobbit), I’d probably cook the guy a steak and kindly lead him outside. My dad is a naturalist - which makes him a plant and animals guy, NOT to be confused with a ‘naturist’ which is a NUDIST! Gaah-rooossss! So I grew up in this native animal sanctuary thing (true story) and almost every day of my childhood, I had some creature tucked away in a shoe box on our kitchen counter. In fact, on the first day of kindergarten, he accidently let a bat loose in our house. I freaked the FUCK out for obvious reasons and my best friend at the time, Carrie locked herself in the bathroom, crying, “THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!” I digress … So, I was raised to save things and not use pesticides and to compost and all kindsa free-loving nature shit. But with my father’s support, all of those rules are being broken during “The Cockroach Chronicles”.

It’s unclear how I was out of town for 5 days and I came home to a house with no roaches. Then last night some snucky snuck in the back door and one in the front. Clearly I have wolverine-like reflexes and now kill quite quickly so they aren’t scurrying about. But I SHOULDN’T have to keep doing this. I think the reason I am becoming more and more violent is because the summer has JUST BEGUN! And the more humid it is, they will continue to breed like a god damn polygamist family in West Texas. Yeah, I went there. Those fuckin’ roaches are making dresses and french braiding their hair right now, I KNOW it!

The I other thing is, my adorable back patio with BBQ looks like the god damn jungles of ‘Nam. I would like to grill up some carcass this summer and maybe entertain some guests but I really ain’t trying to introduce them to my place over the piles of Borax powder and roach motel landmines that I have surrounded the place with.

However, it appears as though the traps with bait are working because I have found a couple squirming on their backs and the quicker they die, the sooner I can prevent them from breeding and spawning little cross-eyed blonde baby cockroaches. Jesus Cristo …. BACK TO LAST NIGHT! *breathe*

So, I let off the foggers on the front and back stoops. Yes, I stupidly stood with my head out the backdoor for longer than I should have. G’head, laugh. Judge. I am dumb and deserve all your scrutiny. I come inside and am gasping for air. I am also ridiculously sweaty for some reason so I take a shower and am coughing so bad I am gagging. There are razor blades in my fucking throat and I can’t get air and I finally realize how terrifying an asthma attack must feel like. This goes on for about 30 minutes and I am planning my escape to the ER.

“Mom always said if you were in a car accident and they had to cut off your clothes, you should ALWAYS wear matching a bra and underwear. Shit this place is a mess, I can’t have paramedics in here. I have got to get rid of that tempurpedic mattress pad. And those damn extra hangers. FUCK! I.CAN’T.BREATHE! I can’t believe I am about to call 911 to explain this stupidity to the dispatcher.”

First, I call poison control. The number listed online is a fucking hoax. It was some 1-866 number that asked me to press 1 for a $3.99 text or some shit. I.CANNOT.BREATHE and some fucking psuedo-poison control number is fucking with me at 12:30 at night? These cockroaches will stop at nothing to ruin my life. I finally find the proper 1-800 number and learn that the NATIONAL poison center is in Calfornia! WHAT.THE.FUCK? So I say, through gasps of air, “*wheeze* I *wheeze* live …. *wheeze* in DC *wheeze* do I need *wheeze* to be *huh* *huh* calling another *wheeze* number?”

Dispatcher: Um, yes you do ma’am. I can give you that number. It’s 1-800-cock-roach
Me: *wheeze* *wheeze*
D: Honey, what’d you get into?
Me: *wheeze* Raid fogger
D: Is that water based?
Me: Thinking, “DO I SOUND LIKE A FUCKING CHEMIST TO YOU?” But I really say: um, *wheeze* would it say that on *wheeze* *wheeze* the *wheeze* box?
D: Yes.
Me: It’s made with crymonkvkjbdfighdkn *wheeze* *wheeze* *wheeze*
D: Ok, you need to drink water. Do you have a shower or bathroom?
Me: (who does this woman take me for? like I don’t have a gd bathroom!!!) *wheeze* Yes
D: Ok, go in the bathroom and turn the hot water on. Let the steam soak for a while and drinks lots and lots of water
Me (I am busy guzzling water) *wheeze* *wheeze* Ok, it is feeling better. If it doesn’t subside in the morning ….?
D: Go immediately to the ER. And take some claritin or another antihistamine to help with the scratchy throat.
Me: Thank you so much!!!!

*wheeze*
*wheeze*
*wheeze*

So I really am trying not to panic at this point. I am laying in bed, wheezing and guzzling water and thinking, “My dad is gonna kill me” and secondly, “This is AMAZING blog material.” I SUFFER FOR MY ART!! THIS IS ALL FOR YOU

So I drink away and because I took a Claritin at 1am, I didn’t fall sleep until 5am. Aaaawwweeesssooooommeeee!!! So at this point, I am going to email to landlord and find out what kind of abatement issues can be done. Because, yes I realize they are “indigenous” to the area but I am really not trying to drop $40 every 2 weeks for raid foggers and traps. Wait, wait, WAIT!! So about that fogger! This morning when I was leaving for work, I opened the front door to the most amazing site I have ever seen. Bells rang down from the heavens. The angels were strumming their harps. There on my steps laid at least 15 dead roaches. Sing it with me, “HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!!!! HALL-LE-LU-JAAHHHH!!!” So what ha’happened was the fogger scared all those fuckers outta the bushes and they came out to meet their death. I am the angel of cockroach death. Mwuah hahaha mwuah haha!

So …. despite my near death experience, my plan of attack is this:

I am going to email my landlord (Hey Aub, he totals has the same name as you! Creeeepyy!) with the status of things. I am going to try to track down some fogger/spray stuff that is supposed to be for outside and kills up to 4 weeks. Yessssss!!!!

I will be very very careful about using this stuff and will wear a bandana over my face, like a Wild West gunslinger. Holy Shit! Good news … I BOUGHT A NEW CAMERA!! Which means I am TOTALLY gonna snap a pic of me wearing said getup alongside my arsenal. Oh man, this is getting exciting!

So I’m gonna continue to fight the good fight until the landlord figures out how to rid the south of roaches.

Until then, Mother Earth please accept my apologies. I love you and will promise to buy some carbon credits online and help cleanup my local river and continue to recycle anything I can and will do my best to embrace your loveliness in all other ways.

Hey Polygamist Cockroach Bitches:

I.WILL.FUCKING.CUT.YOU!!!
EVERY.LAST.ONE.OF.YOU!!!

You know I continue to waiver on my feelings about DC. One of the biggest things that drives me insane is the lack of recycling in this town. I have heard from many people that even if you use the bins the city gives you, the trash guys throw it all in one big truck and don’t actually recycle it. For SHAME! I have been known to carry an empty bottle or can for blocks looking for a recycling bin, which don’t actually exist on the streets here. Sometime my hobo ass puts it in my purse and takes it home to my bin, even if I am not confident it will be recycled from there. I simply cannot NOT recycle. The thought of putting a recyclable object into a normal trash receptacle actually makes my soul explode.
Before it was “the norm” in California, my hippy earthy crunchy nature-loving dad would sort things at home and then take them to the dump where we could dispose of the waste separately. Man, have you ever been to the dump? That place ROCKS! It is so damn interesting to see where all your shit goes. Mountains and Mountains of trash!!!!
You would be shocked at the stuff I recycle. I would venture to say that 80% of the things I use, I put aside to be recycled. Can labels, crystal light containers, ziploc bags, tin foil, tmapon boxes, used paper towels … there ain’t nothin’ I can’t recycle!

More times then I can actually count, I have flicked past the DC public station and seen my beloved Gavin Newsom preachin’ the good word. San Francisco’s perfectly coifed mayor seems to be on our station all the time and I am NOT complaining. (I’ve told you that I’ve had sex with someone who’s had sex with him, right? I mean, I am not usually interested in thinking about my coital ‘Sex Degrees of Kevin Bacon’, but some sick thing inside me gets great joy from that. Don’t worry, I’ve been tested ).

Sooooo …. this article about San Francisco’s recycling efforts is fabulous! (Hey JB, your beloved Houston recycles 2% of it’s waste. Good job, losers!!!!)
It gives me great joy that they manage to reduce-reuse-and-recycle a TON of stuff! I support Gavin’s efforts in this, even if it stems from his ego-drenched pride. Being on the cutting edge of a green movement, if providing a lesson for other big cities, is plenty worth tootin’ your own horn!!