Holy crap, I crashed.

I know I broke too hard, but I can't believe what just happened. Riding down Geary Blvd at about 40 mph, I hit the brakes too hard coming up to a red light. I guess the roads were a little slick from the dense fog that night. But suddenly my heart expanded in fear, and I saw the road upside down and then right side up as I felt myself tumble over and over, landing in a sitting position. My scooter had flailed out and slid about 30 feet away from me into the intersection. I sat with my hands on my helmet, knowing how bad it was, but knowing within 5 seconds that I was okay. Then realizing that my friend Abby was driving in a car right behind me and that she would be there soon. I heard a man's voice and a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay??" I stood up, knowing I had to. Someone else standing at the bus stop went into the road to direct traffic around me. Another guy, who rode motorcycles, went for my bike. I felt my arms burning from road rash and my back hurting from the twisting, but most of all I felt my knees shaking violently as the adrenaline pulsed into every crevice of my being as I walked my bike to the side of the road. "What happened!?!? All of a sudden you flew off the bike. You looked like a stunt double, you took the fall perfectly." Thanks motorcycle man. "What happened!? It looked like a bolt of lightening hit your bike! I've never seen anything like it!" Thanks old lady. "I know a lot of people asked you if you're okay, but are you ok?" Yes, I'm okay, nice woman. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." I'm okay Abby. It's okay.

I'm going to wake up tomorrow with a bruise the size of texas on my thigh and my arms and knees are bloody and covered in road rash. But, if it had to happen, it all happened so perfectly.

Buddy Modifications

All i wanna do is spend moneys on mah scoot.

before: (stock colors)




after:

fuckin' proud

I've come to realize that holidays here in San Francisco are quite simple. Those dressed in costumes parade down the streets, those not dressed up cheer them on. Because of this, pride was absolutely fucking cool. Since I didn't participate in the dyke march last year, I made a point of doing it this year. Just like bay to breakers (gay to breakers), the parade route was lined with people holding signs and cheering. Yes, actually CHEERING for dykes. Celebrating us. Supporting us. I can't really find the right words to describe the feeling of perfect strangers and neighbors supporting an intrinsic part of me which has been full of shame in the past. But it's an experience and a feeling that I know makes me a better person.



And then RuPaul walked by!!

Connect Four!

The longest possible game of Connect Four. Won by yours truly. Sweeeeeeeeeeeet.

Warm Shadows

Beautiful night-time.

Dear Food Network:

Dear Food Network:

I see where you're coming from. Creating a home-cooked meal used to look difficult, inaccessible. And you were an important ingredient in making cooking easy to approach. But you've gone beyond the tasteful. Now, you're beginning to cheapen the culinary arts. Instead of watching re-runs of Julia's Kitchen, The Galloping Gourmet, or Jacque Pepin, I watch Giada deLaurentis's boobs assemble cod and lima beans cooked in a piece of tinfoil. I mean, I like a low-cut dress as much as the next girl (well, lesbian anyway), but come the fuck on. And what's with Sandra Lee? "Semi-homemade?" Really? Here's a recipe of hers from a recent show:



6 ears corn
1 stick butter, softened
1 teaspoon chili powder
1/2 packet creamy cheese sauce mix (or powdered cheese packet from boxed macaroni and cheese)

Preheat outdoor grill or preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
Shuck corn. If desired, leave husks attached to cob to use as holders.
In a small bowl, combine softened butter, chili powder, and cheese sauce mix or powdered cheese packet.
Spread butter on corn and wrap each ear individually in foil.
Place on grill and close lid or place in the oven. Cook 25 to 30 minutes, turning every 5 minutes, or until corn is tender. Remove foil and serve.



Gross, Food Network. Gross.

Or at least keep the good that you have. More Barefoot Contessa. More Michael Chiarello. Less Texas BBQ cookoffs, with "Food Network Star" blue ribbons and large checks. Cooking isn't about winning. Cooking is about culture and expression and creativity and love. These things are built on history and technique done over and over and over again until perfected.

I don't want to stop watching, but it's getting disappointing. I'm not even going to talk about Wolfgang Puck or Emeril. But just know that you are on the verge of losing a long-time viewer because you are beginning to love money more than you love food.

Most Sincerely,
Robin

I'm it.

First, I have to thank JJ for this article and I wanted to re-post it here. This iswhy I heart Khaela Maricich.

ANNND I'm It. I've been tagged and must list 7 random things about myself that most people don't know:

-I used to take flying lessons.
-I won 3rd place in my school's spelling bee in 5th grade.
-I haven't worn my hair tied back since I was 11.
-One of my favorite things to do is to re-arrange furniture and think of floorplans.
-I tried to play rugby for some reason when I was 19. 2 weeks in, a woman hoisted me above her shoulder and tossed me over. I quit.
-When I was little I couldn't pronounce my rs and ls. I was "wobbin" until about 6 years old.
-Over the course of growing up I have 12 goldfish - 9 of them were named 'Honey.' Those not named Honey were named 'Fred.'

annnd, I don't know anyone else with a blog, so I tag your mom.

12 step?

If you're a repeat reader, you may remember my foreboding warning about listening to Paper Television, the addictive techno-pop creation of The Blow. Well, the addiction set in so fast, and I've already given in to it, so I thought it was only ethical of me to share my experience with you.

Series of events:

Log on to myspace
search for The Blow
Find new songs
Listen to new songs
Freak out about new songs
Dance around to new songs
Take a break to smoke with the new songs
Decide I must find lyrics
Mussst. Fiiiiind. Lyyyyricssss!
google The Blow lyrics (no, this isn't going where you think, although that's probably funnier)
Click on lyrics website
loading...
....loading....
Computer Screen goes white
A voice comes on my computer and, all hollywood styley, says "Thank you for reading... in 3, 2, 1..." Just then command prompts pop up on my screen, norton anti-virus opens and warns me that "WARNING YOUR COMPUTER IS BEING HACKED." I quickly jump on the power button, but alas it was too late. I was, and still am, infested. One of many funny, hilarious things it has done to my computer was to use Norton Antivirus to spam people. I watched, horrified, as 5 pop-ups a second flashed on my screen with email addresses and horrible subject headings like "stylish mom at home for hard c0ck." I'm crawling with Trojan viruses. At first, after trying and failing to delete it all, I decided to name the quarantine files mean things like "FUCK YOU HACKERS" "FUCK OFF" and, "YOU HAVE A SMALL PENIS" in case the hacks installed a keyboard spyware to watch my typing.

Like it's white powdery namesake, The Blow's new album has me wanting just one more. Last night, at the ballgame, it took all I had not to sneak into the bathroom with my ipod, cloister myself in a stall and listen to a song or two. Just one more song... oneeee moreee...

Oh my god, so many puns so little time.

Because of sex, South African workers striking for better pay and benefits finally are getting what they want. Their position is that they are too tired at the end of the difficult working day to pro-create, so their families aren't growing. And now for the first time since 2004, the government is no longer saying it has a headache and is negotiating with the workers.

This, of course, leads me to think again of the brilliant Lysistrata. Seriously, if Laura Bush would just give the prez an ultimatum - No Sex Until No More War - we'd be pulling out of iraq before Ann Coulter had the chance to eat another baby.

It's becoming a problem

The other day I bought "Paper Television" by The Blow. The second track made me a better AND more musically knowledgeable person. And maybe even that's an understatement. I put it on and listened while I cooked my fake hippie chicken. What an excellent companion! I liked it, but then I listened to it again later and THAT's when I was drawn into this hypnotized state that I am currently still in. Khaela Maricich's vocals are extremely addictive. And the beats are seemingly discordant at first, but they actually weave together so well it's frightening. So buy this album, but beware!