I have no words.
(I don't know why it uploaded blue. If you want to see the actual version, click here.)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Soldier of God
An award-winning painting by a local artist:
I have no words.
(I don't know why it uploaded blue. If you want to see the actual version, click here.)
I have no words.
(I don't know why it uploaded blue. If you want to see the actual version, click here.)
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The best mugging ever
Yesterday I went to see the Rox Sox play the A's in Oakland. Shortly after getting off the train, I learned the folks I was meeting would be about half an hour late.
"Oh good, I'll have time to get shot before the game," I joked.
Shot, no. Mugged, maybe.
Regardless, I threw on my ipod and went for a walk through an industrial stretch, where I saw recycling plants, abandoned trucks and this sign:
I'm heading back toward civilization when a young guy on a bike stops and asks me the time. I'm a little suspicious, but we're in a fairly populated area, so I feel safe enough to oblige.
"Sure," I say, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. "It's 5:57."
"No, I want the time," dude says. "On Your ipod." He illustrates by tugging on the cord of my headphones.
(Are you kidding me? You're right, sir, I never can trust the time on these crappy phones, either. Let me just double-check it here on my IPOD. Oh! Do you like that IPOD? Would you like to hold it? It's an 80 GB!)
Now I'm no fool - my ipod, tucked away safely in my inside jacket pocket, is going to pose quite a challenge for our little music lover. Still, the fact that he's got his hands on me is a little unnerving.
"How about you get the fuck off me?" I say in my tough voice.
"I want the time. On your ipod. Your ipod," he keeps repeating. I get the feeling he's a little nervous. Maybe this is his first time.
As Rainman keeps mumbling, I look over his shoulder and see that we're being watched by two cops in a patrol car. Poor kid - isn't that the first thing they teach you in mugging school? Don't try to shake someone down in front of the fuzz?
I'm immensely relieved to see the police there, but I also don't want this dumbass to do something stupid and wind up in jail. You can tell the cops are just waiting for him to make his move.
"I really don't think you want to do this right now," I warn. He doesn't catch my drift - he's still distracted by my headphones - so I add, "Turn around, asshole."
This does the trick, and finally, we part ways. A minute later I hear the whoop-whoop of a police car, and the cops pull up beside me and ask if I "knew that guy." No, I tell them, but it's all right. Let it go.
So, moral is, no more ipods in Oakland. Next time I might not be so lucky - so amazingly, stupidly lucky. And neither might he.
"Oh good, I'll have time to get shot before the game," I joked.
Shot, no. Mugged, maybe.
Regardless, I threw on my ipod and went for a walk through an industrial stretch, where I saw recycling plants, abandoned trucks and this sign:
I'm heading back toward civilization when a young guy on a bike stops and asks me the time. I'm a little suspicious, but we're in a fairly populated area, so I feel safe enough to oblige.
"Sure," I say, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. "It's 5:57."
"No, I want the time," dude says. "On Your ipod." He illustrates by tugging on the cord of my headphones.
(Are you kidding me? You're right, sir, I never can trust the time on these crappy phones, either. Let me just double-check it here on my IPOD. Oh! Do you like that IPOD? Would you like to hold it? It's an 80 GB!)
Now I'm no fool - my ipod, tucked away safely in my inside jacket pocket, is going to pose quite a challenge for our little music lover. Still, the fact that he's got his hands on me is a little unnerving.
"How about you get the fuck off me?" I say in my tough voice.
"I want the time. On your ipod. Your ipod," he keeps repeating. I get the feeling he's a little nervous. Maybe this is his first time.
As Rainman keeps mumbling, I look over his shoulder and see that we're being watched by two cops in a patrol car. Poor kid - isn't that the first thing they teach you in mugging school? Don't try to shake someone down in front of the fuzz?
I'm immensely relieved to see the police there, but I also don't want this dumbass to do something stupid and wind up in jail. You can tell the cops are just waiting for him to make his move.
"I really don't think you want to do this right now," I warn. He doesn't catch my drift - he's still distracted by my headphones - so I add, "Turn around, asshole."
This does the trick, and finally, we part ways. A minute later I hear the whoop-whoop of a police car, and the cops pull up beside me and ask if I "knew that guy." No, I tell them, but it's all right. Let it go.
So, moral is, no more ipods in Oakland. Next time I might not be so lucky - so amazingly, stupidly lucky. And neither might he.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Bye bye, birdie
My little tryst with bird-rearing took a bizarre, tragic turn yesterday - a case of mistaken identity turned deadly.
I get home from work around 5 and go out back to feed the bird. She's missing from her little pen, but I'm not concerned; she can't fly very well yet, so whenever she escapes we always find her hopping around the yard soon enough. As long as we find her before the dogs do, all is right in the world.
I no sooner spot her than two squawking birds descend from the sky and divebomb my head. "That's odd," I think, since they've never cared about Birdie before. But maybe now that she's out and about, I reason, they're taking her under their proverbial wings. What good news!
An hour later my roommate comes home and grabs the bird without incident. Now that I have a closer look, though, there's something different about her. She looks awfully big.
"I don't think this is our bird," I tell Roomie.
"She's been growing really fast," Roommate says. "And, what, you think there are TWO lame birds in our yard?"
True. That'd be weird.
Still, Birdie's not acting like herself - she's won't eat. I thrust a fingerful of dog food toward her and she looks at me with daggers in her eyes. Oh well, I figure. Birdie doesn't need me anymore. Birdie's growing up.
So it seems logical enough when, moments later, my roommate declares it's Time to Teach Birdie To Fly. She's been close to airborne time and time again; she's almost there. She just needs a little nudge.
It's kind of a big moment. I take a couple photos with the bird, thinking she might just rise up into the trees and be gone forever. And then my roommate cradles our little bird friend in his hands and tosses her up into the air.
We expect Birdie to spread her little wings and flutter into a tree, or, worst case, lower herself gently back to the ground. We do not expect her to arc up like a football and then drop like a stone, face first, into the ground. Which is exactly what she does.
"Uh," my roommate says.
You don't want to know what happens next. Let's just say it involves me turning in circles with my hands over my eyes; someone saying "He's doing something weird with his tongue"; and my roommate's bad-ass girlfriend busting out of the house with a BB gun, screaming, "Well, do you want it to suffer or not?"
When the dust settles, the bird is ... well, the bird is no more.
I'm gutted. My sweet little bird! To think, all the good times we had, all those feedings, all those... other feedings. To have it all end so tragically, like this!
As I'm spiraling into the depths of despair, I see something out of the corner of my eye. Bailey and Roommate's puppy are sniffing around across the yard, and there's a commotion. What's that they've found?
It's THE BIRDIE! The REAL Birdie! The cute, little, hungry Birdie!
So who, then, is this dead bird lying in a heap at our feet? And the bigger mystery: why the hell is our yard teeming with crippled birds?
I'm feeling just terrible as I head inside to (repeatedly) wash my hands. I take a little consolation in the fact that Dead Stone-Head Bird must have been on her way out anyway, if she was just chilling on the ground, awaiting death by dog.
That doesn't seem to appease Dead Bird's posse, though, who now squawk "Murderer! Murderer!" every time I walk into the back yard.
And with that, my bird-raising days are officially over.
* * * RIP, RANDOM BIRD * * *
I get home from work around 5 and go out back to feed the bird. She's missing from her little pen, but I'm not concerned; she can't fly very well yet, so whenever she escapes we always find her hopping around the yard soon enough. As long as we find her before the dogs do, all is right in the world.
I no sooner spot her than two squawking birds descend from the sky and divebomb my head. "That's odd," I think, since they've never cared about Birdie before. But maybe now that she's out and about, I reason, they're taking her under their proverbial wings. What good news!
An hour later my roommate comes home and grabs the bird without incident. Now that I have a closer look, though, there's something different about her. She looks awfully big.
"I don't think this is our bird," I tell Roomie.
"She's been growing really fast," Roommate says. "And, what, you think there are TWO lame birds in our yard?"
True. That'd be weird.
Still, Birdie's not acting like herself - she's won't eat. I thrust a fingerful of dog food toward her and she looks at me with daggers in her eyes. Oh well, I figure. Birdie doesn't need me anymore. Birdie's growing up.
So it seems logical enough when, moments later, my roommate declares it's Time to Teach Birdie To Fly. She's been close to airborne time and time again; she's almost there. She just needs a little nudge.
It's kind of a big moment. I take a couple photos with the bird, thinking she might just rise up into the trees and be gone forever. And then my roommate cradles our little bird friend in his hands and tosses her up into the air.
We expect Birdie to spread her little wings and flutter into a tree, or, worst case, lower herself gently back to the ground. We do not expect her to arc up like a football and then drop like a stone, face first, into the ground. Which is exactly what she does.
"Uh," my roommate says.
You don't want to know what happens next. Let's just say it involves me turning in circles with my hands over my eyes; someone saying "He's doing something weird with his tongue"; and my roommate's bad-ass girlfriend busting out of the house with a BB gun, screaming, "Well, do you want it to suffer or not?"
When the dust settles, the bird is ... well, the bird is no more.
I'm gutted. My sweet little bird! To think, all the good times we had, all those feedings, all those... other feedings. To have it all end so tragically, like this!
As I'm spiraling into the depths of despair, I see something out of the corner of my eye. Bailey and Roommate's puppy are sniffing around across the yard, and there's a commotion. What's that they've found?
It's THE BIRDIE! The REAL Birdie! The cute, little, hungry Birdie!
So who, then, is this dead bird lying in a heap at our feet? And the bigger mystery: why the hell is our yard teeming with crippled birds?
I'm feeling just terrible as I head inside to (repeatedly) wash my hands. I take a little consolation in the fact that Dead Stone-Head Bird must have been on her way out anyway, if she was just chilling on the ground, awaiting death by dog.
That doesn't seem to appease Dead Bird's posse, though, who now squawk "Murderer! Murderer!" every time I walk into the back yard.
And with that, my bird-raising days are officially over.
* * * RIP, RANDOM BIRD * * *
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Speaking of little birds...
Bailey found this little bird in the yard Saturday morning. He must have fallen out his mother's nest.
I put him in a box so the dogs couldn't get him and waited, hoping his mother would come - but she never came. I even hung him up in a tree in this little basket, like some internet bird person suggested, but the daredevil just kept diving out - which explains how he got there in the first place.
Next I called Manteca Animal Control, the city office that helps people deal with the few species that, annoyingly, have managed to survive us and continue to inhabit our city. Turns out their method of "controlling" this half-ounce baby bluebird is to "put it to sleep."
Long story short, I am now Birdie's Surrogate Mommy. I read online that Birdie would like canned dog food, and that's very true. Here's a video of him eating.
Some people are telling me this birdie's a goner - that because he's missing vital Mama Bird interactions, he's not going to know how to fly or eat or anything. (I must admit, the fact that he was throwing himself out of his nest does suggest that he's already missing a few birdie marbles.)
But my fingers are crossed that he gets nice and strong and flies off into the sunset. Please send good birdie vibes my way.
Monday, May 19, 2008
A suburban street party
In my last post, I complained about missing the revelry that followed Thursday's announcement about gay marriage in some of the state's big cities.
I asked for a party, and I got it. The very next day we had a street party all our own - Manteca style.
And, uh, San Francisco? I bet YOUR party didn't have an army caravan and a mob full of old people in flag apparel!
The excitement had been brewing for weeks. The 118th Maintenance Company, a National Guard unit out of Stockton, was coming home from Iraq. After landing at the Stocktn airport, a motorcade of buses and camouflaged something-or-others would drive the soldiers through the streets of Manteca to a huge church, where they would undergo three days of "debriefing" - that is, therapy.
Manteca was abuzz. Volunteers woke up at 4 a.m. to erect thousands of streetside flags. Police laid out a plan to block off the streets. Somebody acting as spokesman even convinced (most) media outlets that the motorcade was traveling through Manteca, not because it was the logical route to the church that cut them a deal on their debriefing rental, but because Mantecans had sent SO MANY CARE PACKAGES to the 118th that this was their way of saying thanks.
Yes, this is the kind of event Manteca can really sink its teeth into.
ps, if you watch the above video to its dramatic conclusion, you'll hear that soldiers of the 118th received 1200 awards since they were deployed last July. Twelve hundred awards? Are you fucking joking? Clearly our Defenders are working very hard to distract our troops from thinking by giving them awards every time they take a crap. ("Great job, kid! You're on the right side!")
pps, this could be the post that gets me shot.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Yesterday
As I'm sure you've all heard, the California Supreme Court decided yesterday that gay men and lesbians cannot legally be denied the right to marry. It was close, a 4-3 vote, but four's enough.
Their decision overturned a 2000 voter-approved ballot measure, in which 61 percent of Californians agreed that "only marriage between a man and a woman (should be) valid and recognized in California."
In San Francisco, a short 80 miles from here, people took to the streets in celebration. Back home in Manteca, where the streets were silent and swelteringly hot, I was glued to the news.
Have you seen the pictures? Incredible. I'm in love with the screams and the hugging. I'm in love with the kissing on the courthouse steps. I am in love with yesterday - oh, to have been in San Francisco yesterday.
Still, there's this knot in my stomach. It's the knot that warns me about getting too hopeful, about setting myself up for a big fall. I hate this knot. It's a shitty, stupid knot, but it has a point.
As much as I want to bury myself in yesterday and never come out, I know most places aren't San Francisco, and most people aren't kissing at the courthouse. Sixty-one percent of people didn't want this - that's a lot of percent. This could all be undone.
So I thought it was important to see how people in Manteca feel about the fact that gay couples can now marry in their state. I asked 10 of them today, with my poker face on, outside the Manteca Post Office. (Responses are real; names and photos are not.)
Todd Binghamton:
"Personally? I think it sucks. I don't condone homosexuality, so I really don't condone them having legal status."
Slick Jackson:
"(Yelled angrily over his shoulder as he walked away) It was crazy enough for our kids before. Now they're really going to be confused."
Paul Wildeyes:
"I have no problem with that whatsoever. I have no reason why anybody who wants to be married shouldn't be married."
Mary Smith:
"I have no opinion on that. It doesn't really affect my life."
Jerry Sternman:
"I am against gay marriage. They should have some rights, I guess, like Social Security, but marriage doesn't have to be in the picture. (Do you disagree with the gay lifestyle?) It's unnatural. The Bible does say it's a major sin."
Trudy Rougher:
"It doesn't really matter to me because it's up to the individual. But I don't think god sees it very well, let's put it that way."
Jill Wishawasher:
"I don't really mind it. I'm OK about it. (Would you say you are happy about the decision?) It doesn't really bother me. I have gay friends, but they had a ceremony a long time ago."
Penny Pinch:
"(Scoff) I think it's wrong, definitely."
Enrique Jones:
"The bottom line is, marriage is a religious thing. If you want to just do the paperwork or whatever, do unions. Why you want to go into a church and do it? That's what they're trying to do, is change our religion."
Rachel Martinez:
"I'm torn on that issue, because I know morally and ethically, the way I was brought up as a Christian, it is totally wrong. But torn, because I have a gay brother, so how can I not love him? ... It's very hard to explain to your children. (me: What do you tell them?) I try to explain to my children that everybody has their sins and our sins are different. But I tell them that we have to love everybody anyway."
So, as we might have thought, they're not dancing in the streets in Manteca. But honestly, I expected stronger anti-gay sentiment from the people of "The Family City." Well, let's just hope things stays civil. Let's hope it doesn't come to this.
Their decision overturned a 2000 voter-approved ballot measure, in which 61 percent of Californians agreed that "only marriage between a man and a woman (should be) valid and recognized in California."
In San Francisco, a short 80 miles from here, people took to the streets in celebration. Back home in Manteca, where the streets were silent and swelteringly hot, I was glued to the news.
Have you seen the pictures? Incredible. I'm in love with the screams and the hugging. I'm in love with the kissing on the courthouse steps. I am in love with yesterday - oh, to have been in San Francisco yesterday.
Still, there's this knot in my stomach. It's the knot that warns me about getting too hopeful, about setting myself up for a big fall. I hate this knot. It's a shitty, stupid knot, but it has a point.
As much as I want to bury myself in yesterday and never come out, I know most places aren't San Francisco, and most people aren't kissing at the courthouse. Sixty-one percent of people didn't want this - that's a lot of percent. This could all be undone.
So I thought it was important to see how people in Manteca feel about the fact that gay couples can now marry in their state. I asked 10 of them today, with my poker face on, outside the Manteca Post Office. (Responses are real; names and photos are not.)
Todd Binghamton:"Personally? I think it sucks. I don't condone homosexuality, so I really don't condone them having legal status."
Slick Jackson:"(Yelled angrily over his shoulder as he walked away) It was crazy enough for our kids before. Now they're really going to be confused."
Paul Wildeyes:"I have no problem with that whatsoever. I have no reason why anybody who wants to be married shouldn't be married."
Mary Smith:"I have no opinion on that. It doesn't really affect my life."
Jerry Sternman:"I am against gay marriage. They should have some rights, I guess, like Social Security, but marriage doesn't have to be in the picture. (Do you disagree with the gay lifestyle?) It's unnatural. The Bible does say it's a major sin."
Trudy Rougher:"It doesn't really matter to me because it's up to the individual. But I don't think god sees it very well, let's put it that way."
Jill Wishawasher:"I don't really mind it. I'm OK about it. (Would you say you are happy about the decision?) It doesn't really bother me. I have gay friends, but they had a ceremony a long time ago."
Penny Pinch:"(Scoff) I think it's wrong, definitely."
Enrique Jones:"The bottom line is, marriage is a religious thing. If you want to just do the paperwork or whatever, do unions. Why you want to go into a church and do it? That's what they're trying to do, is change our religion."
Rachel Martinez:"I'm torn on that issue, because I know morally and ethically, the way I was brought up as a Christian, it is totally wrong. But torn, because I have a gay brother, so how can I not love him? ... It's very hard to explain to your children. (me: What do you tell them?) I try to explain to my children that everybody has their sins and our sins are different. But I tell them that we have to love everybody anyway."
So, as we might have thought, they're not dancing in the streets in Manteca. But honestly, I expected stronger anti-gay sentiment from the people of "The Family City." Well, let's just hope things stays civil. Let's hope it doesn't come to this.
Little Bird
Technology's not really my thing. My brain likes to wander off in the other direction when faced with instruction manuals, more than two cords, or long series of characters and slashes.
I am so inept at these things, in fact, that I have been unable to outfit my blog with a cute-as-a-button audio player, described by numerous websites as "simple!"
For now - in an effort to get some music on here - I'll add a couple downloadable mp3s of my favorite songs. I hope you'll give a listen, and in return tell me about any new (or new to me) musicians I might like.
To start: If you want to hear something a little bit heartbreaking on this sunny Friday, check out "Little Bird" by The Weepies, a lovely-but-queasy little number off their new album.
I've been listening to this track nonstop, which I am wont to do when I hit on a song I really love. It reminds me of a ragged old woman that I sometimes see sitting on the sidewalk of a major thoroughfare in town. She sits in a wheelchair, perfectly still, staring at nothing. No one ever goes near her. She's on the short list of people I'd really like to talk to before I leave here.
I am so inept at these things, in fact, that I have been unable to outfit my blog with a cute-as-a-button audio player, described by numerous websites as "simple!"
For now - in an effort to get some music on here - I'll add a couple downloadable mp3s of my favorite songs. I hope you'll give a listen, and in return tell me about any new (or new to me) musicians I might like.
To start: If you want to hear something a little bit heartbreaking on this sunny Friday, check out "Little Bird" by The Weepies, a lovely-but-queasy little number off their new album.
I've been listening to this track nonstop, which I am wont to do when I hit on a song I really love. It reminds me of a ragged old woman that I sometimes see sitting on the sidewalk of a major thoroughfare in town. She sits in a wheelchair, perfectly still, staring at nothing. No one ever goes near her. She's on the short list of people I'd really like to talk to before I leave here.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Mornings: The enemy no longer
Has anyone noticed that most of these posts are written at 7 or 8 a.m.? What am I doing awake? What am I doing awake and ALERT?
The answer, of course, is I have a dog now. Some mornings I'm jolted awake around 6:15 when Bailey starts pawing my face (which is actually pretty painful nowadays because she needs her nails clipped). If Bailey's sleeping in, my mental alarm sits me straight up in bed at around 6:30, frantically scanning the room for doggie pee. (She never does anymore, though. Good Bailey.)
Having cause to wake up at 6 a.m. has taught me something rather alarming - I think (swallow) I might be a morning person.
What?! No. I hate mornings. Up until two months ago, I could barely drag my sorry, stumbling ass out of bed before 9 a.m. Of course, most of those mornings I was nursing a mild-to-moderate hangover, so that may have had something to do with it. (That, though, is the subject of another post.)
Suddenly morning is no longer the enemy; in fact, it's my most productive time of the day. I've gotten into the habit of starting my work stories at about 7 a.m., because I can churn out more in 15 morning minutes than I can in three afternoon hours.
Bizarro. Has this happened to anyone else? Wait a minute - am I getting old?
The answer, of course, is I have a dog now. Some mornings I'm jolted awake around 6:15 when Bailey starts pawing my face (which is actually pretty painful nowadays because she needs her nails clipped). If Bailey's sleeping in, my mental alarm sits me straight up in bed at around 6:30, frantically scanning the room for doggie pee. (She never does anymore, though. Good Bailey.)
Having cause to wake up at 6 a.m. has taught me something rather alarming - I think (swallow) I might be a morning person.
What?! No. I hate mornings. Up until two months ago, I could barely drag my sorry, stumbling ass out of bed before 9 a.m. Of course, most of those mornings I was nursing a mild-to-moderate hangover, so that may have had something to do with it. (That, though, is the subject of another post.)
Suddenly morning is no longer the enemy; in fact, it's my most productive time of the day. I've gotten into the habit of starting my work stories at about 7 a.m., because I can churn out more in 15 morning minutes than I can in three afternoon hours.
Bizarro. Has this happened to anyone else? Wait a minute - am I getting old?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Screw you, Curves
Guess what? I'm taking part in an "Avon fitness study" at Curves!
You know - Curves for Women! No Judgement!
This study is a total gimmick, I know. I'm paying $30 to "participate in the largest fitness study ever undertaken." That's a bunch of bull. But I wanted something commitment-free that would force me to move these pathetic excuses for muscles.
Big mistake. I've been twice now, and here's my verdict: Curves is the creepiest place I have ever been in my entire life. It's up there with Wal-Mart, seriously. I pictured a nice little gym with weights and classes - you know, a normal gym, only without men staring at your jiggly bits.
Nope. Maybe the rest of the world knew this (and to be fair, I think my mom did try to warn me) but Curves only offers the "30-minute workout" for "women's busy schedules."
("Can you squeeze four 30-minute workouts into your busy schedule?" consultation lady asked me, without enthusiasm. Yup, I replied, I'm pretty sure I can squeeze that in.)
Well, here's how THAT'S going.
When you walk into Curves, you see a bunch of machines set up in a circle with flat padded boards between each one. The drill is, you work out on a machine for 30 seconds, then hop onto the "recovery boards," where you must run in place or dance like an asshole for another 30 seconds. Then you jump on the next machine, and so on, like a spastic, sweaty hamster.
How do you know when 30 seconds is up, you ask? Well, there's a voice that tells you over the loudspeaker, in a much-welcome break from the INCESSANT, MIND-FUCKINGLY AWFUL MUSIC. The '50s-inspired soundtrack at Curves is kicked into hyperdrive by a synthesizer and back beat, giving the place the feel of an '80s gay dance club for geriatrics.
Speaking of geriatrics, you'd think everyone there would be old, but they're not. Most I've seen are in their 30s and 40s - and I've seen a couple young'uns like myself - although it's hard to tell their actual age because we try very hard not to make eye contact.
Oh - and did I mention that for the first four visits, you're one-on-one with a trainer? "Trainer" isn't exactly the right word, because they don't know anything, but they do stand silently in front of you the whole time to ensure that you both feel as stupid as possible.
To add insult to injury, I made the mistake of reading the Wikipedia entry on Curves. Not only was the franchise founded by a man, but "Today's Christian" quoted him saying that he donates to pro-life pregnancy care centers.
Son of a bitch, Curves. Give me my $30 back.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Gays and hippies!
Do you see that? Look reeeeal close, just to the right of the OPEN sign. That, my friends, may be the only pride rainbow in the Central Valley.
And, as you might imagine, the place it's stuck to is my new favorite store - Natures RX, a tiny little health food store in downtown Ripon (pronounced Rippin').
I went to this place over the weekend to investigate claims that they sell kombucha - and it was true! I nearly fell down. And not only that! Local, pesticide-free pumpkin seeds! Tea tree oil-infused toothpicks! Organic tampons!
(Pause: please, regular tampon users, I beseech you. Think. Would you drink Clorox? No? Then why do you think it's okay to stick the stuff up your cooch?)
While I was there, a lovely young hippie couple wandered in - you know the type, guy with weird hat, long-haired girl with baby on hip. They strolled in, had a quick chat with the owner - who was busy ranting with me about how women don't know their tampons are giving them cancer (!!) - and slipped back out from whence they came.
Now this kind of thing might be normal for all of you Portland or San Francisco or other-cool-place dwellers, but in these parts, I might as well have seen a pair of friggin' leprechauns.
I almost felt high when I walked out of the place. Maybe it was the patchouli. Nature RX, where have you been all my life?
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