I love that in our society, it is fully acceptable to be 110 pounds and dress in a french maid costume, but not to be 180 pounds and wearing a french maid costume.

The way in which the overweight are belittled, made to feel subhuman, treated like garbage, is unacceptable to me, and it should be unacceptable to you as well. It is not right, or reasonable, to make fun of someone for having the bravery to reveal themselves to you. And let me tell you something, you thin righteous fucks: it takes a lot more bravery to wear something “racy” when you are 180 pounds than 110 pounds, so stop giving women shit for it. Stop demanding that every woman adhere to your personal standard of beauty, and stop reacting with revulsion and horror, as if someone isn’t even in front of you, listening to you abuse her body, when you see a brave woman. Try applauding her instead, you slimy little fucks.

[Fort Bragg]
[Halloween]
[fat]

I woke up at about three am this morning, or at least I think it was three. Maybe it was two. The time change always leaves me in a state of utter confusion. I hope they remembered to change the clocks at work, because otherwise they are going to be really confused right now as well. I’ve never looked forward to the fall time change this much before–I was ready for it to be light when I got up, I tell you what, son.

Friends are up this weekend, which is fun, as always, but sometimes exhausting. Today we went to Mendocino so I could check on a job (got it), and eat revolting lunch at the Bayview, a tradition which goes back generations, I am fairly certain. At any rate, now I have two jobs to coordinate instead of one. And job number one is going to be pissed when I tell them about job number two. Tough shit. Maybe they should pay more. Or not hire people who are totally insane to work with me. I can’t say that I am going to miss my Thursday nights there much. It would be nice, though, to have one job, and make enough money there to survive. Oh well. That’s for rich people I suppose.

It’s curious to live in an area like this which is largely dependant upon a tourist economy. As a result, I am as well–most of the money businesses I work for take in comes from tourists. Yet, I loathe the tourist industry. I loathe the commodification of my home. I loathe that fat rich yuppie fucks from Southern California are ruining my home, that me and people like me can’t afford to live here because there’s no living wage. And those same fat fucks are unpardonably rude to me and others like me, because they make faulty assumptions about who we are. It’s curious that this area of California is glorified, and yet the natives, people who choose to live here year round, are treated like dirt. It’s as though they think there’s some sort of cachet in being nasty to clerks and buying overpriced real estate that they never use. They behave as though we don’t appreciate and love the place we live in, as though we are wasting it.

Tourism=destruction. Think about that the next time you take a trip.

[tourism]

I was out for an evening stroll with friends, and we happened to cut through the Wiggly Giggly Playground. (Yes, really.) Aware of the rules prohibiting use after sundown, we decided that walking through was not use, persay, and that therefore we would probably be safe. Imagine our surprise when a flashlight loomed from the darkness.

“Hello?”
“Good evening,” we replied.

The flashlight, as it turned out, belonged to a representative of the long arm of the law, who asked us what we were doing. We reasonably explained that we were using the park as a shortcut, and he admitted as to that being a perfectly respectable use of public land, although he suggested that we move along, as there had been a report of “people hanging out in the park after hours.” We dutifully peered about and didn’t notice anyone hanging.

What we did notice, though, was that he called not one but two officers for backup, and soon they stood around us in a menacing circle.

“Well, uh, we’re just going to go on then,” I said, meekly. “If, you know, there’s nothing else we can help you with.”
“Oh yeah…sure…just…could I get your names really quick?”

Sadly, we all had unusual names, which required spelling, and I couldn’t remember my birthday, so there were some awkward moments. But we got through it.

Our adventure with the police raised several questions for me:

1. Since we weren’t really, technically, doing anything wrong, it would have been a little odd to ask for id, which is good, since none of us were carrying. However, the officer seemed remarkably trusting that we were giving our real names and birthdays, considering that mine sounds like a practical joke.

2. What exactly was the point of taking down our names? Will I show up in the police report next week? (”Officers stopped x, 20 and y, 19, along with an un-named minor in the Wiggly Giggly Playground at 10:28 pm after reports of suspicious activity. Suspects were released.”) Well, actually, subjects weren’t arrested. But you get the point. Do the cops just like to collect names? What’s the deal?

3. What is the big problem with being in the park after dark anyway?

[Fort Bragg]
[police]

Yeah…about that updating.

My bad.

This whole “working like a responsible adult” thing really puts a cramp in anything but sleeping and eating questionable leftovers from the back of the fridge.

Also, Fort Bragg is boring.

No, really, it is. I love living here, but it is a very boring place. I was reminded of this the other night when a friend called and said “so what’s up” and I said “longs is 24 hours now.” And she said…”oh, I meant, like, in your life.” And I said “oh, well, I did laundry yesterday. And they raised the price on the triple loaders 50 cents! Dude! You can get a candy bar for 50 cents!” And she said “yeah, so, anything else?” “Yeah, I bought a calendar today.”

Here’s the big news in the old Advocate this week:

NEWSFLASH! Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault do actually exist in our hippie wonderland! Hundreds of women over an unspecified period of time were victims and made t-shirts about it! HOLY SHIT! Maybe I’m just cynical about this because I worked for the women’s shelter for awhile, and am therefore unimpressed by articles reminding the rest of the world that being a chick sucks. Speaking of which, please vote NO on 73. No, seriously. Anyway, my point is this: sexual assault and domestic violence are sad facts all over this great nation of ours, even in bucolic small towns where the back page of the phone book has an ad for a lawyer that specifies in “cow collisions.” In fact, these insidious facts of human life are almost more prevalent in small towns than in cities, when looked at as a statistical sample of a population. In fact, for quite a while the nurses and emts at our hospital were on a more rigorous rotation than those in urban areas, because fatigue set in more quickly. An emt friend of mine who was in Iraq said the he’d take Baghdad over MCDH any day. That’s not a good sign.

Speaking of which, yes, we still have a hospital, no, the ambulance service has not been shut down, and no, no actual decision on what to do about the flailing ship of state…er…board…has been reached. But the hospital is certainly in use, what with crazy men bringing guns into the er and bar fights at the Golden West. And no, I was too chicken to go inside and find out what the story was. You would have been too.

In other news, some people died this week, that was sad.

We also owe a lot of money to the regional water quality control board.

And, uh, homecoming was awesome. Not that I would, you know, know, because I wasn’t there, but the front page of the Beacon made it look pretty cool. And apparently we are building a golf course. Since the one thing yuppie central needs is another golf course. Fuck affordable housing. Please note that the EIR for said golf course weighs 3 pounds, so I’m wondering if the EIR needs an EIR. And I need a new computer, so anyone who wants to donate should drop me a comment or line or whatever. Hah.

So, recap for the week:

yuppies, domestic violence, water board: bad

homecoming, new calendar, cake: good

Also–the calendar was purchased at Racines, quite possibly the coolest office supply store ever, except for their woeful calendar selection. They only had one penguin calendar and the pictures all sucked. And the kittens on the kitten calendars were not cute enough. So now I have naked angry German women plastered to trees, and I will be looking at them for all of 2006.

Buy local!

[Fort Bragg]
[Mendocino]