I am at the dentist reading it because that is my only option besides aarp magazine and this is what I have learned:

• shoulder cleavage and grilling bison are in, but traveling to europe is out (oh fuck)
• 62 percent of people think drew barrymore is sexier when she’s “taken,” and by this I mean they think a picture of her with justin long is sexier than this other pic of her standing alone.
•  the combined effect of lavender and pumpkin pie scent increases blood flow to the penis by 40% (seriously? Because that combo sounds disgusting to me, but I guess I don’t have a penis)
• “we” love it when guys sweat because, amongst other reasons, we don’t need to use lube to “make things slippery”
• the mid day lunch line at chipotle is the best place to meet guys. Also, long tables at restaurants.
• if a guy texts me before noon or after five p.m I should never talk to him again.

I have to go get my teeth cleaned now, slash throw up. sorry I can’t share more wisdom.

Why why whyy can’t cosmo be the next to fold?

so long, whorehouse walls.

I’ve never lived anywhere that wasn’t ultra-ultra-liberal: around half of the teachers at my notoriously tolerant, pseudo-hippie private high school in Los Angeles were gay, I recently graduated from UC Berkeley, and I’m in the process of moving to San Francisco. I’ve been surrounded by people who love to voice their opinions, speak up in the face of prejudice, and protest authority for my entire life – some in, shall we say, less subtle ways than others.

So, when a hefty harmonica-playing woman covered in black face paint led a mob down Gough Street towards a frantically retreating anti-gay street preacher, spewing spit out of her mouth and screaming, “Jesus was a faggot too!” or a girl wearing barely nothing more than a bra and a few strategically placed rainbows accidentally knocked me down with a large “NO ON H8″ sign, or when a lesbian couple, Chihuahua cozily ensconced between them, loudly declared that they’ll marry their dog, too, if they want, I was hardly shocked.

I cringe a little when I think about how jaded I must have looked during one point during the Prop Eight protest yesterday, when the police started setting up barricades and slowly inching their way towards the circle of gay-rights supporters holding hands in the middle of the intersection between Gough and Van Ness and we all stood there silently, tweeting and typing and wondering what was about to happen. There I stood, only a few feet away from the “civil disobedience” going on in front of me … eating a hot dog. I hadn’t eaten anything since the night before – and live-bloggers need subsistence, right? – but, nevertheless, I couldn’t help feeling like I was at the circus, shoveling down street food and watching a show.

In a way, I was. I spoke to both policemen and marriage equality supporters alike that cheerfully admitted that the civil disobedience taking place was pure political theater. As one cop bluntly put it, “The DA always throws the gays out.” I heard countless people say, “The point is to be arrested. If you’re not in a place where you can be arrested, move.”

Maybe that’s why I originally felt like something was amiss. I didn’t expect such an orchestrated, relatively peaceful protest (besides a scattering of abrasive activists like harmonica lady, most of the demonstrators kept their composure), or what I first took as a sense of resignation that permeated the majority of the crowd. When we first heard that the California Supreme Court hadn’t overturned Prop 8, the people around me seemed more glum than irate or incensed. They sighed, shrugged, and rolled their eyes. “That figures,” more than one person said to another. They hugged each other, called their partners to tell them they loved them, and said, “We’ll win, eventually.” Everyone stood around, unsure of what to do next, until a woman came over with a loudspeaker and herded us to the Van Ness intersection. That’s when the show began. After an hour of handholding and intermittent chanting, the police finally moved in. They made some half-hearted attempts at convincing the crowd to move off the street, then quietly began arresting protesters with those plastic-looking white handcuffs. Every ten minutes or so, those arrested exited the circle, grinning widely and yelling things like “peace out, motherfuckers” to the delight of the cheering crowd.

I asked those around me if they did, indeed, feel resigned about what had happened that day. Did they know this would happen? What next? Everyone I spoke with was quick to tell me that they were not complacent, but that they had expected such an outcome and didn’t think it was anything more than a disappointing setback. I heard emphatic variations of, “It’s going to happen,” from everyone I spoke with. “It’s a matter of when, not if – 2010, or 2012,” one protester told me. I also asked people what they thought about the right way to protest. Was such civil disobedience productive? What did it truly represent? Some said it was; some said, “it’s the only thing we can do;” some said grassroots organizations were more fruitful; some said we shouldn’t be blocking “relatively gay-friendly” areas but focus instead on districts that voted predominately for Prop 8.

Everyone more or less got along, which I think disappointed a few revved up protesters who jumped at a chance to rally during a low-energy part of the day when they spotted a street preacher walking down out of a building on the other side of the street. The man was instantly surrounded by an angry mob that wouldn’t even give the preacher a chance to speak because they were too busy arguing with one another. The man (Rev Chauncey Killens of Prunedale, CA) disappeared into another building while harmonica lady and a wizened looking, gray-haired activist got into a heated fight over the right way to protest.

“I’m not a nice gay, bitch,” harmonica lady spat out. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here. And learn to speak!” the older woman retorted. “You’re all on the fucking same side,” another girl yelled. “Get along.” “No, we’re not,” both women shot back. After the fight had died down, I asked all of the women if they knew whom, exactly, they had initially been directing all their aggression towards. None of them did.

As a result of growing up around too many people who rebel without knowing exactly what they’re working towards – obnoxious private school brats who don’t know what they’re talking about, stereotypical drugged-out Berkeley crazies, and people like the one girl I overheard today on the steps of the Civic Center saying, “Dude, this fucking sucks, equality for all and shit … want to go have a barbecue? I have hella steaks at my house,” before dropping her cardboard sign on the ground, tearing off her Haight and Ashbury peace sign headband, and wandering down the street – I’m skeptical of protests. But, the longer I stood at Van Ness and Gough, talking to and observing those around me, I started to have a change of heart.

I’m not sure exactly when it started. Maybe it was the man carrying his toddler on his shoulders, telling her, “See, this is a protest. We’re all allowed to do this, protest whenever we feel something isn’t right.” Maybe it was when the police finally started to enter the hand-held circle and both armed forces and marriage equality supporters surrounded the circle, seemingly working hand in hand to make sure no one got hurt, the supporters singing “We Shall Overcome” over their loudspeakers while most of the policemen smiled in what I like to think was an approving manner. I saw one policeman actually walk over to a group of protesters standing on the sidewalk, hug them, and ask how they were doing.

Or, maybe it was Brittany and Janna, two women around my age (21) that I approached in hopes of an interview because they were decked out in a myriad of posters and pins. 
“We’re actually just visiting from Texas,” one of them told me bashfully. I talked to them for a while and found out that they had been together for three years, were very much in love, and hoped to move to California one day. “In a way, this outcome is hard because we come from such a conservative state, and if California can’t do it, Texas never will,” Brittany said. “But,” Janna added, “at least the 18,000 marriages performed last year are being recognized. That’s a step through the door, and that’s a lot for us, coming from Texas.”

No, the protest didn’t look like anything from Harvey Milk’s era. No windows were smashed, no one was tear gassed, and everyone respected the police. Furthermore, the civil disobedience was not just a protest; it was also a strangely healing, communal way for all of us there to take solace in the fact that there are scores of people out there that cannot stand for this kind of prejudice any longer. I felt this even more strongly when I returned home from the protests and spoke with one of my best friends and roommates, Corey, about how my day had gone. I asked Corey, who is gay, how he felt about the ruling. “Honestly,” he said, “I felt a billion times better when I signed online and saw that almost everyone I know’s Facebook and Twitter status said something about how horrible today’s outcome was. Seeing such widespread solidarity made me feel confident that Prop 8 will be overturned soon, and it just made me feel good inside.” Whether such a coming together happens on a street corner, or on the Internet – whether self-expression comes in the form of a hand-held circle, a grassroots campaign, or a harmonica solo, the important part is that it’s happening somewhere.

I stopped by a café to get some coffee on my way back from the protests. Two men in front of me were buying cupcakes. “How’s it going out there?” the cashier asked them. “Slow,” one man joked. “We’re supposed to get arrested in about two hours, so we thought we’d get some food first.” At first I wanted to roll my eyes and groan, how quintessentially San Francisco, buying cupcakes before getting “fake” taken to jail. But for too many people, being considered a second-class citizen in the eyes of the law has become a way of life. Just because they’re not smashing down storefronts doesn’t mean they’ve accepted the way things are. They’re just surviving, and doing what they can.

I keep thinking about those two girls from Texas. After I finished talking to them, they met up with some of their San Franciscan friends and took photographs in front of the protest. Both women held their “Prop H8″ signs up high and smiled widely for the camera. They weren’t somber; they were joyous. Of course, they weren’t happy about what had happened, but they knew they were actively participating in change.

#15 on my list of Berkeley Places I Will Miss: The Main Stacks.

I don’t have a desk in my room, because I think it’s a waste of a space I’d rather fill with bookshelves and dresses. I do all of my homework in my bed, or sometimes on my couch. Unfortunately, when I do homework in my room, I usually end up falling asleep. When I do homework upstairs, I usually end up watching Wife Swap or, well, drinking. When I do homework at cafes, I usually end up spending too much money on coffee and snacks and too much time on gchat.

When it’s time to crack down, when I’ve reached the utmost level of procrastination possible, it’s time for the Main Stacks.

Many people I know despise the Main Stacks. I have more than a few friends who refuse to go there, citing the head-ache inducing florescent lighting, the clammy over-air conditioned atmosphere, the nazi-like library monitors, and the insane, stressed out berkeley students that sleep in the hallways as reasons to stay far, far away. I’ll admit that, yes, it’s probably the ugliest library on campus (except for Moffit – ugh, I hate Moffit), the lighting is tough on the eyes, and an overwhelming sense of panic – especially during finals time – permeates the chilly air. I tend to thrive on panic when it comes to deadlines, so maybe that’s why I love the Main Stacks so much, especially during finals. I like leaving the warm, friendly, chatter-filled FSM Cafe and walking down the narrow hall to silence and sleep-deprived, hunched over students, pouring through books and typing frantically on their laptops. I like to think of that hallway as my metaphorical bridge from procrastination to hard work. 

Of course, I hardly ever leave procrastination on the other side. With the right combination of adderall and delirium, the Main Stacks can be pretty fun. This one time, I spent TWENTY THREE hours in the Stacks without ever going outside. Okay – so maybe “fun” isn’t the right word to describe my experience writing a 20 page paper on the “modern clown as terrorist” for my english senior seminar – but, in a way, I had a good time. I was never alone – thanks to all of the other ridiculous Berkeley students who refuse to sleep during finals (btw, I do NOT condone this) – up until the last few hours, during which I tried to sleep in FSM but felt too bad about myself thanks to all of the bright-eyed, energetic people buying morning coffee and croissants while I crouched on a bench like a homeless person.

I don’t do a lot of college-y things anymore, like attend frat parties, drink at berkeley bars, actually go to football games, or, uh, leave my house – so maybe that’s why I’m already so nostalgic about leaving the Main Stacks behind. I never feel more like a Berkeley student than when I’m frantically trying to memorize Shakespearean sonnets at 4 am in the morning on level C.

I pulled my last undergraduate all-nighter a few days ago. My friend Laura and I finally left the library at seven am, to go get bagels before our final at eight. As we walked through campus, we swayed from side to side, dizzy from lack of sleep and giggling like you only can after you’ve been stuck inside cramming for way too long. The campus was empty and almost eerily serene. Above us gray clouds were just beginning to clear from the rain the night before and the Campanile rose regally in the background. Laura turned to me and said, “This is why I like being on campus this early, because when you get to leave everything is perfect.” I nodded and tried to remember what HOLC and FHA stood for in preparation for my American Cultural Landscapes final and reminded myself that I still needed to return one library book so that wasn’t my last time in the Main Stacks, not yet.

Yes, Comcast. How do you know me so well? I do want what I want, WHERE I want it! You’re right; I don’t want to have to wait around to get it. On this, we agree. However, I take issue with your claim that we are on the same page. I take issue with this because, as I speak (type), I am suffering from severe back pain which I believe is a direct consequence of the fact that my internet only works if I put my computer in the most uncomfortable position possible. Seriously, if I move my body even an inch or so in a different direction, so that I don’t have to twist my entire spinal column to the right and put all of my weight on one elbow, my internet shuts off. DO YOU KNOW WHY? Because, inexplicably, our modem “broke” and I have to take it in to exchange it. Even though we did nothing to break it!

What I want is the internet. Where I want it is in my house, while I am lying in my bed with my laptop on my lap instead of perched on the far left corner of my bed, so I can watch GLEE without Hulu having to fucking buffer every 20 seconds.

That is all.

oh someone left their baby on level B of the main stacks by the spiral staircase! wait NOPE. it’s a berkeley student. WTF

sorry for the bad quality, I had to turn my flash off as so not to wake her.

“We count on you [journalists] to help us make sense of a complex world and tell the stories of our lives the way they happen, and we look for you for truth, even if it’s always an approximation. […] This is a season of renewal and reinvention. […] And I know that for all the challenges this industry faces, it’s not short on talent or creativity or passion or commitment. It’s not short of young people who are eager to break news or the not-so-young who still manage to ask the tough ones time and time again. These qualities alone will not solve all your problems, but they certainly prove that the problems are worth solving. And that is a good place as any to begin.”

- Obama at the White House Correspondent’s Association Dinner.

Nothing snarky to add (for once). Full transcript here.

(via prettylegit)

My seventeen year old brother is in a film/video class and made this movie, “Mom Police” with his friends. My mom plays the head chief and (spoiler!) the secret villain that gets shot at the end. wowowowowoow.

Happy Mother’s Dayy

p.s. If you don’t want to watch the entire thing I suggest starting at 6:41 when she starts confessing all

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WE HAVE AIRCONDITIONING!

IF IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY DURING YOUR STAY IN OUR HOSTEL TALK TO OUR STAFF, WE TRY TO ORGANIZE A PASTA PARTY FOR YOU!!!
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Looking for hostels in Rome, pretty sure I’m going to go with this one