Go Vote!

On Friday, Jacob and I woke up early, hitched a ride on the subway, and cast our votes. With that out of the way, I can now post reasons as to why you should vote (regardless of which candidates you are supporting).

Before the Twenty-Sixth Amendment to the Constitution was passed on July 1, 1971, an 18-year-old could be drafted into war, sent overseas to kill or be killed in foreign lands, but could not vote.

Despite risking their lives, sacrificing their individual freedoms, and living and working in a war zone, some troops currently serving overseas will not be able to vote in this election.

NPR:Deborah Gatrell, who is based in Kuwait and Iraq with the Utah National Guard, is one of the military's voting assistance officers. She calls the system frustrating, but mostly workable.

"Some soldiers are still waiting, but most people have gotten their ballots," she says.

"Some"?! "Most"?!?! ALL troops serving overseas should have priority in their voting. We have extremely expensive, technologically advanced guidance systems that converse with a network of unseen and untouchable satellites for lifesaving data, but email is too risky? If I can sit at home in my PJs and trade stocks in Hong Kong, play RC Pro-Am against a kid in Brazil and order a new crockpot from Germany all at the same time, then there is simply no excuse for troops not being able to vote. If you aren't serving in the military, the least you can do is vote with their interests in mind.

Waiting in line sucks, but imagine being poor and having to pay to vote. The Twenty-Fourth Amendment to the Constitution outlawed charging for federal election ballots in 1964. The last state to adopt a similar ban for local elections was Mississippi, where a poll would set you back $2, the modern day equivalent of around $14.

Voting means you get an awesome sticker, which IN TURN will get you awesome freebies such as donuts from Krispy Kreme, a free coffee from Starbucks and a free scoop of ice cream from Ben & Jerry's. Plus, its nearly impossible to go into a bar with an "I Voted!" sticker and NOT score a free drink. Frankly, responsible citizens get more love. Don't you want to be loved?

Finally, the right to vote is a principle that this country was founded on. Thankfully, more and more of us have gotten to be included in this right as the years went by, but injustices are going to continue to exist until we all stand together and express ourselves in this very fundamental way. Propositions, initiatives, and candidates that infringe on the rights of yourself or your loved ones aren't just on the ballots for far-away states cited in the nightly news; they are on every ballot. Those in power want to retain that power, and it is our duty to keep them in check. Its imperative to carefully read every proposition, initiative, and candidate's voting record/mission statement, the arguments for and against them, and make your selection in the most mature and educated fashion possible.

Finance CEOs made their own beds

During this whole federal bail out of investment companies, there have been a lot of 'analysts' on cable news programs arguing that no one in the industry saw this coming.

I call bullsh**t.

Before Justin.tv, before I went to college, I was a work-a-holic employee at Wells Fargo Home Equity for almost five years. I had started with the company as a temp in the fax department right out of high school, and at that time (in July '02), my supervisor would say "this housing market is going to collapse, don't get too comfortable". Years went by, with apprehension in the air as anyone with at least a double digit IQ who worked in home finance WAITED for the housing market to fall apart. Each interest rate increase inevitably brought up the question: is this the end? The job I held for two years, before I left the company, required knowing federal regulations on property assessment for loan applications in order to maintain a low level of risk. Basically, I ordered and reviewed property value and ownership based on the company's credit policy and the law. This gave me not acute insight into the federal regulations for loans, but also what other banks were doing in order to process their own mortgages/home equity loans in the most profitable way.

I hear on the news things like, "no one saw this coming" or "you can't hold these people accountable for fluctuations in the economy". During my appraisal/title ordering work, I would get to argue with customers and their bankers who felt that the valuation of their property was insufficient, or even that their property shouldn't have to be inspected at all. They would send in appraisals from previous mortgages or home equity applications with other banks (ie, WaMu, First National, etc) with absolutely brainless valuations. Comparable values from completely different cities, sometimes even different states, no on site inspections, significant property damage that we discovered wouldn't even be mentioned within these appraisals, as well as just plain inaccurate recording of square footage and amenities. In most cases, these were appraisals that were required for legal compliance, and they were trash. Towards the end, I had to be a part of firing several appraisers for not abiding by legal standards. They argued that all the other lending institutions didn't care about the regulations, why should we?

Customers would rant and rave about their neighbor's house getting a high valuation through a different bank, and loan processors within the center would sometimes let these sentiments get to them. If our regulations weren't so strict, we would have even more business (therefore more overtime hours and more bonuses). Some of these employees left to go work for commission at these other banks, and many times they would return with horror stories of mandatory 80 hour work weeks, a severe lack of ethical consideration in underwriting, and pure lawlessness in their procedures. The feds would inspect other banks just as they did ours, but what they searched for was always surface level. Rarely did anyone dig too deep.

I left Wells Fargo to attend U of A in Tucson and got a part time job in a different mortgage company. This newer company (which shall remain unnamed) was the unethical side of the coin I had always heard about, but never witnessed. My job was essentially to file deeds/titlework/appraisals for loans bought from other lending institutions. Some of these were horrifically illegal, and this company I worked for had actually paid money to acquire the risk in them! I couldn't believe the shuffling some of these loans were going through; four or five mortgage servicing turn overs within five years. This company seemed to aggressively purchase whatever they could get their hands on, and sell them with no apparent rational behind the decision. What they seemed to hold on to, the cream of the crop per say, were loans for customers with a history of credit problems. Why? Late fees and adjustable interest rates. New employees at this company would, in their severe ignorance, ask why anyone would want loans from customers with low credit scores. Most would eventually grow to trust their CEOs, "they must know what they are doing", but I never did.

When I brought up this concern to a supervisor, I was promoted out of the department a week later, away from the junk loans. I didn't stay with that company very long. By this point the housing bubble was starting to fall apart, and that ship was going down fast.

My point is simply this; everyone from mail room workers to CEOs saw this coming. Everyone knew the law, and the only company I personally knew of that followed the law is now seeing rising stock prices amid federal buyout plans and acquisitions. I don't think anyone is surprised by this; everyone in investment/finance knew exactly what they were doing, and what they were doing was taking advantage of massive deregulation. More than once, I noticed that Wells stuck with policies even after the legal requirements necessitating them were overturned. The amount of risks these banks and investment companies were taking on these junk loans was absolutely outrageous, and these CEOs made massive profits off of them. Sure, buy them out, but these CEOs sunk their battleships. They should have to live with that.

Why not walking was sort of a cake-walk for me.

Over and over viewers on JTV, online friends, or anyone who didn't know my past asked why I wasn't more upset about not being able to walk, or being this ill in general. There are so many events in my life that I carry around silently, hinting at them but never fully explaining them. Jacob may be the first person in my life to know the full scope of everything that has been done to me, as well as things I have done to myself. A few people received hints at this one, but I never really let on the whole story. This is something I tried to publish, but it got rejected for being too outrageous (the story of my life). Everything in here is true to my perspective, and I'm tired of being quiet about it for fear of damaging reputations, or hurting the feelings of people who never cared for mine.


The words hummed around me, shoulder squeezes and sympathetic looks served as maneuvers to infiltrate my cocoon. Their gasoline apologies only strengthened my inflamed loneliness and humiliation. My form I made immobile, hoping to become nothing but a statue on the sofa of this alien household. The perfect straight lines of picture frames and the sheath of fragile glass sheltered the happy family photographs from my anger. I hated them for those smiles, and they smiled at me in reply.

"Come on, lets get you cleaned up."

I heard the words, and inwardly laughed at the suggestion. My hands came into focus. What soaps, brushes, or scrubs did they keep here that could wash away battered skin and bones? Would bleach remove bruises? The memories of what had just transpired had been grafted into my soul. The only thing that could be washed away is a family, and only with a mixture of alcohol and words.

Suddenly I was elevated, two hands grasped me by my arms and I was guided down a dark hall. I wondered as I walked on if this was my death. Perhaps this painful concoction of blue carpeting, eggshell white paint, and Precious Moments dolls was the infamous tunnel to my demise.

From the looks of things, I'm going to interior design hell.

The bathroom door swung open, the light brutally assailed my eyes and in my hand a washcloth appeared. My friend had brushed my hair out of my face and said something soothing that I don't recall. I just wondered where my parachute had gone, and why I hadn't died like I expected.

My friend left, and the door closed me into my solitude. I turned towards the mirror with indifference. The girl in the glass looked like a badly painted porcelain doll. Face red and swollen from sobbing, hair in disarray, shirt with spots of blood. The thin girl touched her scalp carefully as I watched, and winced. It was then I saw her neck, the infantile state of bruising encircled her pale white throat. You could already tell they were marks from fingers; why would she allow herself to be seen in such a state?

I breathed deeply, but instead of inhaling, pain shot through my torso. The end of my shirt I lifted precariously to reveal battered ribs. The image in the mirror sobbing quietly with me, and I appreciated her companionship in misery.

When I had calmed down, I found myself perched on a scale on the bathroom floor, holding my arms tightly to my chest like I did as a child. To my side, the shower door reflected this adult version of the kid I was. Another mirror. Three mirrors in one bathroom. I scoffed at the vanity of it. My imaginative mind attempted to salvage meaning from it, but Clarity had decided instead to bring me back to recollection.

I knew there was going to be trouble this morning. The atmosphere was tense, as though the pilot light had been left on in a pyromaniac's home. I heard my dad pouring himself wine in the family room. From the solid thud of the bottle being set down, I realized someone had bought a full box of matches. I cleaned everything and avoided where he sat at all costs. My little brother and sister I herded into the next room.

It will be me if anyone this time, not them.

Hours passed tensely, afternoon turned to dusk. The passage of time lowered my guard. Now the two youngest children sat a room away from him. I forgot the danger, and instead smiled with pride as I watched them play chess. A six year old and a ten year old playing a game most adults couldn't appreciate. It was a cheap set bought for my father that had been handed down to the children. The phone rang, and as any typical teenage girl I ran to answer it. After several minutes of conversation with my boyfriend, I was jarred back to reality. From the next room I heard a match strike, then the hiss of ignition.

"What did you fucking kids do with my chess piece?"

I knew there was going to be trouble this morning. Every two weeks something set him off. I came around the corner, and peered into the room I had left the children in. They hid, as of yet undiscovered, behind the couch as my father yelled furiously over a missing piece of plastic. The world was in slow motion. My mind was besieged with memories. The broken nose I earned when I was 12 for reading a kids book. My then 2 year old brother lifted by his leg and thrown across the room for crying. I recalled praying silently, my pregnant mother begging for mercy as he held a knife to her throat against my bedroom door. I wondered if my baby sister could remember that, the first time her father almost killed her.

Mother always worked, father never interested, oldest daughter left to raise the younger children. Its a frequent situation. The women's movement only applies in special cases, I had conjectured. Though I was just a teenager, only a child myself, those two frightened children were mine. I loved them, I knew their failures and fears, their skills and sentiments. I had always there for them, because they were all I had.

But at this moment, fear had made me a frozen observer. I couldn't intervene. Countless times I had watched as my older brother looked on when our dad came after me. Fear and mild hints of remorse I read in their faces as the old man's fists took flight. Now I understood their predicament as I stood there in my shameful trance, self preservation advertising my cowardice. My eyes slid from father to hidden children in slow motion. My little brother clasped his hand on our sister's mouth too late to prevent a whimper's escape.

(Oh god, he's going to kill them.

Awakened suddenly, I could not pitifully tremble from uselessness any longer. I shouted, I swore, and I waved for them to run to me. As though avoiding a blood thirty giant, they skirted around his feet and hid behind me.

"Into my room, don't lock the door!" I whispered as I pushed them on, and turned back to my father. Before long it was time for me to run too, down the one way hall to my locked bedroom door. Locked.

I knew there was going to be trouble this morning; a massive understatement.

In slow motion I turned to face him. I sobbed in terror and blabbered an excuse, no nobility left in my appearance. The tattered shouts and cries from behind the door were muffled as my father bashed my head against it, his hands around my throat, squeezing the life from my veins. It was all too easy for him. Enraged with alcohol or not, his two hundred pound frame stood six inches taller than me. I've always been the smallest in my family. Teachers at school tended to ask if I was adopted.

The ice cold tile struck my face hard. I wondered how the tile got on my door, or if he had tiles in his hands. I began to fade into unconsciousness as I realized I had fallen to the ground. Something mysteriously hit me in the stomach, chest, neck over and over. With weary eyes I saw his foot collide with my face in slow motion.

He's kicking me when I'm down. That is so cheap.

As I was lulled into blackness, I realized my mother had been yelling. I had barely noticed she was there.

"Jesus, you are killing her! God, please stop! You are killing her!"

I laughed at my mother's words within my agony. This man is no god.

Little hands were dragging me backward along the ground, into my bedroom. Arms and hands I had forgotten I had pulled me inside and closed the door. Though my consciousness had slipped, my panic and tolerance had not. Frantic phone calls to whoever would answer, confused looks from my siblings, and declarations of independence ensued. Then a growl came at the door from an unexpected monster.

"Open the door, Norah. NOW."

Mom? I saved the kids, didn't you see?

I opened the door, and raced back to my bed, holding the two terrified children in my arms tightly. Brutally, with finality, she took them away. My body shivered from the cold vacancy. The emptiness was my only comfort as I faced her anger. The confused synapses and neural connections in my recently battered brain could not process what was happening. An obvious line divided this situation from tolerable, but my Mom was the perfect voice of reason. What logical reasoning had I failed to identify?

"Mom, I'm not going to take this." I declared in a voice too small to express my determination.

While I was a child, my family moved so frequently, so hastily, that friendships were hard to justify. The importance of family was a lesson told over and over by my perfect mother, a lesson she never had to teach to me. All of my favorite memories were of her, or of my brothers and sisters. I never cared if society scorned me; my family was my world. It was us against the man, the man who was now pouring himself another glass of wine in the kitchen. With her high paying job, masters degree, blonde hair and blue eyes, she was a six foot tall Nordic goddess to me. All seven children had blue eyes, all were tall, except for one. My swollen face and reddened eyes accentuated our disconnect with my impure green eyes.

I always knew I didn't belong.

"Norah, you have to accept that this is the way it is. Nothing is going to change."

The destruction of my admiration of her was not a slow process, but rather it was a severing as quick as a flick of her tongue. I staggered back from the release, watching the parachute that was my family travel forever away from me. With that killing blow dealt, she closed the door.

I recalled all the feminist style lectures, the rants about equal pay for equal work, the preparation she gave me for a world that would discriminate against me because I was born a woman. One day, I would understand that those words were not intended to be a description of her pathway through life, but rather a warning to avoid her result. At the time though, I only cared that I was a child, and had been betrayed by my mother.

A boyfriend too scared to get me, brothers too far away to call, the police always out of the question to my trained little mind.

Mom says rapists adopt children. Think of the children, Norah, think of the children.

A vague friendship is recalled, and without question or hesitation she comes. I wait at the window, still hyperventilating as I wait. I wait for a sign of her arrival, the sight of her car, as I wait for salvation from this insanity. Time drags for an eternity, and all I can think of is escape. Attachment, admiration, affection for my mother is pushed from my mind like a splinter.

Mother values her marriage vows above her children's lives. God would be proud.

The red Mazda comes around the corner, and I walk quickly out of the house, internally celebrating in the belief I had escaped notice. Anger repelled me from here, and I would now be homeless, sleeping on couches and even outside till I graduated, given hand outs of cash from school counselors and teachers, for a time, even a welcome dependent on my boyfriends mother, but I would recover. I thought of the future and I applauded my escape until I saw him. My father outside, walking towards me from the driveway.

"If he comes here again, I'll kill him."

Confusion twisted my face, but instinct nodded my head as I ran. He must have thought it was my boyfriend, I pondered. The one too terrified to save me.

Sorry to contradict you, dad, but mom isn't the only person who abandoned me today.

Into the car I went, and we drove till I had left my childhood far behind. Seven years later I still cannot be touched on the neck without it inducing terror. Visions and recollections are ushered into the forefront of my consciousness continually. These problems have evolved into mere companions now, compliments to my already bizarre set of idiosyncrasies. The tears over my mother's words dried up over time, though my soul bears the open wound from them for eternity. She and I are still friends, though throughout this illness, I have wondered if her lack of desire to visit me was some form of punishment. She is a great woman, who raised 4 children on a $23k/year salary while my father was out of work. I don't think I am capable of forgiveness, but if I am, I forgave her for what happened long ago. She is human, and made mistakes, just as I have made mine.

Her marriage to my father remains intact, though my relationship with him does not. His last words to me shall always be that misdirected death threat. Old age has calmed him, my mother says, though from time to time I receive reports to the contrary. I don't hate him anymore, but I consider myself to have no connection to him.

The people who helped me, especially the girl whom I was friends with up until my illness, I will be forever grateful for. One day I hope to send an "Ed McMahon" style check to them. Hopefully Justin.tv sells for a gazillion dollars and Jacob and I will have some money spend on giant checks :)

The ache that pains me to tears in my solitude, even to this day, is the time lost with my brother and sister. Birthdays, holidays, and achievements have all been experienced after the festivities are over, and almost always by phone. Fears, disasters, and heartbreaks have been left for others to attend to.

The children do not understand why I left them. The subsequent abandonment is the only event they recall vividly. The little sister, the child that called me mommy for years, is now a teenager. The little brother, who's glasses I would wipe tears from during sad movies, is now the age I was when I left him. His childhood has evolved into one much more different than I had experienced. Instead of his siblings, he turns to friends for advice and support. Suspicions of drinking and drug use now linger in the air between us as I try to recall the sweet, painfully gullible baby brother I once knew. The small children my mother pulled from my arms are gone now, replaced with young adults I will never really know.

I float on in the world, watching the parachute that was my family drift elsewhere, hoping I will find someone who will welcome me home.

Another 9/11 anniversary, another year of being punked.

I've never published anything about 9/11 before. Even as I write this, I feel disgusting even attempting to describe the enormity of it. I am from Brooklyn, NY. My parents were both born and spent almost all of their lives in NYC. At the time the towers fell, I was a homeless high school student staying with a New Yorker friend. She was already awake, doing her hair and makeup when she rushed into the room.

"Some asshole flew his Cessna into the World Trade Center" she said as she flicked on the television. I had been sleeping in, wallowing in self pity and nursing a heart broken by my parents. My friend was in the bathroom, listening to Howard Stern. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the footage on CNN and hoping the fire was as contained as they hinted it was.

Then, the second plane hit.

I shiver even now, only affected by the echos of memories from nearly a decade ago. Appeals to God could be heard in the newsroom on the television, but I didn't notice. The two of us screamed and cried, rushing from room to room, every television in the house showing different news channels. I called my mother, who was frantically trying to contact my brother, family friends, relatives, everyone and anyone we cared for. Those buildings were a hub for activity, and anyone in New York who we loved we could see having business in that complex. We didn't learn they were all okay until two days later. In one case, it was only being stuck in traffic that spared one of them from being injured, if not worse.

I prayed anxiously and eagerly, attempting to bargain on behalf of those people with a God I wasn't sure existed. The towers fell, and my childhood died. I hated myself for being so far away from the city I loved, helpless and lost in a state that would never understand. During my first class, I nearly got into a fist fight with a kid who said "Its just New York, it doesn't matter." Later, my math teacher shut off the television and said "The most important thing is that we learn math, so we can be better prepared to be competitive in the world. I'm not going to change my class schedule for something that happened on the other side of the country." I never returned to that class.

The attack on the pentagon, the hijacked plane brought down by the passengers in Pennsylvania, the anthrax attacks, it was all so much. Reports from my brother of people cheering in the streets of New York as the towers burned (not just in distant Pakistan), Muslims being dragged from their homes and executed in the streets, and then being told to go shopping by the President. Knowing that not only were these hijackers granted entry into our country, but they were trained to fly in the very state I lived it. To hear their extensions for legal habitation in our country were delivered to their residences weeks after they had killed thousands of our citizens infuriated me. It was surreal, but not as surreal as where we are now.

The simple fact is, the current administration let the people who did this to get away with it. We got sucker punched, and let them walk away. The politicians used our pain and anguish to wage a war they had already been planning before the attack. We were manipulated, and I went along with it during the next election, always hoping they would straighten things out. Faith in general, especially faith in other people, has never been my strong suit, but I tried. I didn't want to let down those firefighters who went rushing into those burning buildings to save others. I wanted to believe Bush would come through for us, for the sake of those who I was unable to help.

After Giuliani's run for President, where everything he said was "a noun, verb and 9/11", the RNC's graphic "tribute" video, and the polls that show people actually bought this bullshit causes me to consider leaving the country I love.

Over and over again, my brothers and I talk about how if given a time machine, we would book a ticket on one of those flights and murder those hijackers. Without regret, without remorse, without hesitation. But I wonder, how many others would do the same?

Impressionist paintings, as expressed by Detroit

This blog post I wrote a while ago, but didn't post in a timely manner. Jacob's parents were visiting for the past week, which was great as it afforded me the opportunity to get out and about, but it threw off my organization skills. In other news, I've also applied for school, though the process is on hold as they are still waiting for my old high school to send over my transcript. Anyway, here is what I wrote but never published! Enjoy :)

Jacob and I had a conversation about how newspapers are becoming obsolete, and that lead me to bring up the evolution of paintings in society, relative to photography. I'm not an art major, and I'm probably going to mangle or horribly ruin some dates and details, but I'm trying to express a general idea. I promise, this has something to do with Camaros, so bear with me.

Before the camera was invented, individuals would have themselves painted or drawn for family collections or gifts to loved ones. By an estimate given to me in high school, nearly 1 in 4 persons in Europe considered themselves to be artists in the early 1800s (2/3 of all ratios are b.s., don't forget). After photography started to become mainstream and replaced the purpose painted and hand drawn portraits once served, artists began to experiment and expand paintings away from simply copying what existed. Subject matter became more candid, use of paint and light more expressive, and thus the Impressionist period was born. Later, as photography became more artful in its own right, mainstream paintings became more and more abstract. Without the oppressive nature of expectations, artists were given not only more room to experiment but less competition. By 1930, only 1 in 12 persons in Europe called themselves artists. The Impressionist movement had a revitalization period in the early 1990s, leading to more complete collections being donated to museums and circulated, thus enhancing exposure for the artwork.

I went to a meeting of the Camaro Generations club in Sacramento on Tuesday as a guest, after they kindly published the story of my Camaro in their newsletter. I had a conversation with an older woman who told me her first car was a 1968 Camaro. Her daughter didn't understand why she still owned the car, the woman explained, considering it didn't have modern safety features, radio, seats, etc. The daughter's children (the woman's grandchildren) loved the old Camaro, and didn't like being driven around in her new Corvette (in case you were wondering, this woman is my hero). I find this interesting because I have noticed in my younger brother and my nephew that older muscle cars have become the Impressionist artwork on the verge of a revitalization. It is because of their age, their pre-emissions and pre-airbag simplicity, and in some cases, excessive styling, that makes them so appealing. In the same way that simple "character piece" movies can be awesome, the muscle car is also awesome.

As Jacob and I wandered around the auto auction building where the Camaro club meeting took place, we talked and looked over a light blue 1972 Chevelle SS with white racing strips and more importantly, a blown 454 big block.

The first car my older brother loved was his 1972 Chevelle, a partially complete green muscle car he paid $400 dollars for. Though I couldn't do much more than hold the flashlight or fetch tools for him (being a scrawny eleven year old at this time), I remember hovering over him while he worked on it, watching him pull out dents, tear out the seats and repair the floorpan, and tinker with the never fully complete engine compartment. Once in a while he would ask for my help on it, and I would excitedly try to prove myself to be useful. When I grew up and worked on my own Chevrolet muscle car, I thought of my brother's dedication to his Chevelle. Like many things in my family, it all ended traumatically and suddenly. A drunk driver hit his car at 8 am as he drove to school, screwing up his back for life and totaling the car he loved. All that he had left of the car was the dented front license plate, which he put on my Camaro six months before it to was totaled (we all agree, that license plate has bad juju).

Looking at this blue Chevelle SS almost brought tears to my eyes, thinking of how heartbroken my brother was (and still is), but also because of how beautiful classic muscle cars are. They aren't over engineered and complicated. There isn't a mess of wiring tangled around an ECM (engine controller module), no power seats, no electric locks, no air bags, and no power windows. It is just the driver and the car, where each line and every detail is unadulterated by all the concerns the average driver today focuses on when purchasing a vehicle.

Monet's Lady with a Parasol is my favorite famous painting; his depiction of a faceless woman assailed by gusts of wind who maintains poised control of her parasol atop a grassy hill is, whether it was intended to or not, my symbol of feminine strength (that picture is a print hanging in our apartment). The 60s and 70s Chevy, Dodge, Plymouth, and Ford muscle cars symbolize a similar strength to me as well. They withstood the consumerist push of the practical, family car mentality, the efficiency demands after the 1973 fuel crisis, and foreign invasion of compact cars. It was the era before the 4 cylinder Camaro, before the testing of a front wheel drive Mustang, and before uninterested business men, rather than car enthusiasts, made the decisions within the American automakers.

Muscle cars are rolling metal impressionist paintings. Excessive, vague, and sometimes abstract, but always inspiring for someone like me :)

My constant companion

This incessant, unabated fear is devastating me. With progress in my physical therapy and with the addition of more suitable pain medication, I am on my way to regaining my independence. Now I must free myself from the terror of being shoved, bumped, or worse... mugged or otherwise finding myself in a physical altercation while alone in public.

The world is interpreted by my body as such that every swinging handbag is a sledgehammer and every door handle is lined with razor blades. This city beyond my door is inhabited in my mind only by the selfish and inconsiderate. This conclusion I have made is based on my own experiences; during a fire in my apartment building, when my pain was at it's worst, no one helped me. Forty people stood around, or worse, looked on as I fell on the ground, pulled myself along the sidewalk and leaned against the tortuously stuccoed exterior of the apartment building. These are the people I held the elevator door for when I was well, or greeted as I did laundry or got the mail. Now, the only attention I received was a man who licked his lips and whispered to his friend without taking his eyes from me, as though he was preparing to 'get my number'. A few months later, there was an incident where a man at an Ironman press release fell onto me as I wheeled past the group he was shoving his way through. He blamed us for being in his way, of course. Just this week, a woman shoved me out of her way as she hastily exited the subway car with her $6 dollar coffee in hand.

My therapist said that I have to accept that this condition may be present for the rest of my life, and I have begun accepting it. The physical limitations I can live with. I never liked running, relaxing in hot-tubs, but most of all I hated high heeled shoes. I'll miss working on cars, but since the best car I'll ever own is already gone, it isn't hard to forego that hobby. One day I'll be better able to tolerate things like the heat from a toaster or the oven, and the cold sting of silverware and faucet handles. I'll never play in the snow again, nor will I go off-roading in the mid summer desert with my brothers. I can't imagine being able to care for a child, or even a dog or a cat (though I want a pet terribly). These things weigh on me, but they don't keep me locked in this apartment.

My pain is a serial killer roaming the environs of my central nervous system, hunting and waiting for an opportunity to invade my existence and shatter my contentment. Three days ago, I got an easily removable splinter from our kitchen cabinet, and couldn't use that that finger for days afterward. I nearly fainted as I gripped my hand, as though I were trying to stop blood loss from a non-existent wound. As I walk from place to place, listening to Jacob's description of web elements or events at work, I become distracted imagining a passerby stumbling into me, the elevator door I approach closing on me, or a dog on a leash nearby biting me. My fear is so strong, I tremble in a way completely unfamiliar to me. As a child in a schoolyard brawl, I was usually the first one in and the last one dragged out by the teachers. I loved contact sports, displaying my huge gashes and enormous bruises proudly to my mortified mother.

How can I sustain the desire to go outside when the once refreshing ocean breeze or warm summer sun tortures me? Who could socialize normally when a thoughtless mistake can so easily send you into excruciating despair? In a city with such a high murder and assault rate, without a personal mode of transportation, how could I go out comfortably on my own? This illness, aided by this city, is changing me into someone I never wanted to be.

NCV completed, I love Camaros and San Fran hates cars

The NCV found no abnormalities, so said my neurologist, this of course after he left burn marks on my arm and leg after zapping me ten times when he lost my nerve. It was fun laying there hearing "no... hrm, ZAP! hm, no thats not it either... ZAP! hrm, is it over here.. ZAP! *leg jumps up* oh there it is!" I'm not even going to pretend that I will ever know enough about neurology to even sit in on an NCV and understand it, but I didn't read anything about burn marks in my patient literature!

Here is a slideshow of pictures taken by Jacob during the testing. I asked him to take these pictures because I couldn't find any online that demonstrated what the test involves. If you ever have to get an NCV done, this is what it will look like:

In case you were wondering, I was in absolute agony. I had taken my "nighttime cocktail" (100 mg of nortriptyline, 300 mg of gabapentin, 5 mg of Opana ER) as well as 0.5 mg of Lorazepam for good measure. The neurologist said "See, it wasn't as bad as you were expecting!" Once he left the room, I fell apart. Afterward, Jacob took me to our new favorite comic book/toy store and bought me this:


In other news, the new 5th generation production Camaro has been officially unveiled and I politely request you check out www.chevrolet.com/camaro. I already have a lovely list going of what my future Camaro will have in it; luckily some of the features I want won't come out until December of 2009, so I won't have to make the morally unsound decision to drive while being as stoned as Cindy McCain (not stoned as in rock projectiles, think Haight-Ashbury). Hopefully by NEXT Christmas I'll be in normal-ish health. Hopefully.

Here is my dream Camaro build thus far:

RS exterior package with SS performance package (Brembo brakes b**ches!)
LS3 with six speed manual TR6060
Solid top...no, a sunroof... no, wait, maybe a convertible? Hrm, get back to you on this one.
Heads Up Display aka HUD, maybe backup/parking assist (never used it before, no idea if I'd like it or not)
Bluetooth and USB connectivity
Center console gauges (engine torque, volts, oil temp, oil pressure)
aftermarket Sirius Satellite Radio
blue ambient lighting interior trim
metal pedal option, if not part of rs/ss package
a fancy shift knob (thats not a technical term, under no circumstances should you google that...)
Black or dark gray wheels
black and white interior
Jetstream Blue Metallic (they better offer it!)
Dark tint... because I don't want the Justin.tv paparazzi following me. Sigh, its so hard being famous (so I hear)

Can you believe a car fanatic like me lives in a city this car-bitter?

All quiet on the western front

Tomorrow, I get to hear official details regarding the production 2010 Camaro, something that is very, very exciting for me. More pressing on my mind, however, is the testing of the electrical conduction of my nerves. I'm finally scared now. All my life, I've eyed batteries and outlets with suspicion. Installing or replacing car batteries was one thing I refused to do, and if friends asked for a jump, I would happily call triple A for them.

Now, in a little over 12 hours, a part of me that misinterprets every sensation as pain will be prodded and shocked.

There is also a strong possibility that the neurologist will want an EMG done, which involves pushing long needles into the muscle tissue and recording the response level of the muscle fibers. I'm probably going to pass on that one, for the time being at least. I can only handle so much in a day.

Hopefully hearing all kinds of neat details about the new Camaro will give me enough to think about to get me through this procedure. I should probably get some sleep now, I'm going to have a long day tomorrow.


more cat pictures

Updates!

1) I am in love with a car. A car I have never seen in person, in fact.

Yesterday afternoon, approximately 20 pictures of the 2010 production model Camaro RS were released to the public. Unfortunately, these pictures were mostly of sporty RED and YELLOW cars, both car colors I dislike. Red is just far too shouty (especially for a person with red hair), and as for yellow... Sigh. I once had a yellow GTO, and comedians came out of the wood-work to quip about my "cab" or my "big-bird-mobile". Each thought they were hilarious and original, naturally, and each I imagined punching in the throat.

Despite my negative amount of enthusiasm for those two colors, these pictures made me blush and giggle like a girl who had just seen Christian Bale without apparel (go see Dark Knight*. GO!)

The interior did not deviate much from the concept design, something fairly rare for the automotive industry. Most surprisingly, the interior gauges and general layout remained almost the same, considering these latest images are likely of the entry level model with common upgrades.

Production interior v.s. Prototype interior
click to enlarge images

Normally, prototypes are presented like these three Scions, fancy and attractive looking, but then the production models arrive looking like mini Corollas or U-Haul boxes spray painted silver and tied to a dolly.

I do have some serious problems with this car. Mainly, a pair of things that hang down between the wheels. Of course you know what I'm talking about... mufflers.

What happened, GM?! Did the team who hit a home run on the interior miss the meeting where this passed inspection? Not only are the mufflers massive, they also seem to have help calling attention to themselves with the cheap, black plastic secured around the lower 1/3 of the rear end. Some people complain also about the reverse lights, but whenever I see the back of the car, I only notice the black plastic and the mufflers. Egh.

2) I'm aiming to re-start college Fall '08!

This weekend, I will spend most of my time putting together applications for a couple online universities. I've sort of waited last minute to do this, so hopefully I'll get lucky and get in. I haven't decided exactly what I will major in. I had been hoping to get an Environmental Engineering degree online, but no such luck. I may aim lower and go for what I know I'll do well in; History, Sociology, or Anthropology. The one thing I'm fairly certain of, is that I will get financial aid this time around. The federal government finally has allowed me to be "independent" from my parents income (owning a house, working 60+ hours a week for 6 years, and supporting myself since I was 17 apparently doesn't count. If I had brought into the world children I couldn't care for or if I had gotten married, I would've been "independent". Ironic, no?)

Depending on how much I get, I'll either go straight to a real university that offers online degrees on the side, or I'll go to a community college. Since my EFC is 0, I'm guessing I won't end up with another "Suck to be you! <3 Republicans" letter.

3) The dreaded NCV is on Monday.

I am neither prepared nor excited. The doctors have put it off for six months, and now there is no backing out. I'm fairly certain they won't discover anything in the process, which makes the entire 'electrocution' portion of the event less appealing. I've asked Jacob to snap some pictures with his phone, since most of the images I have found relating to an NCV look like they are out of a crappy high school Biology book.



I'm not scared, perhaps "apprehensive" or "filled with dread" are better descriptions. Getting shocked in my hands when I can't tolerate holding a cool glass of water should be interesting. Shame I can't use any Irish pain killers (see: Jameson whiskey).

*HA HA I did the tricky fine print thing where I made you go watch Dark Knight to see Christian Bale change into his special Batman Birthday Suit, only for you to realize upon credit-roll that I lied! I should be in the next film, as a villain. I do a mean Harlequin impression.

Check out my twitter, my Photoshop pictars, oh, and of course my Justin.tv channel. In love with the 2010 Camaro? Join www.5thgen.org !

A technical version of the earlier Camaro post

I'm going to be submitting the following blog post for a Camaro club newsletter, so I figured I'd post up the tweaked version. Don't feel bad if you don't understand some of the terms, just google that sh*t!

In January of this year, I became part of an impossibly small percentage of people under the age of 40 to lose the ability to walk due to Idiopathic Polyneuropathy. For all non-medical types, this diagnosis basically translates to "for an unknown reason the nerves in the arms and legs are either fatally damaged or misinterpreting every sensation as pain". The torment variates between a chemical burn sensation, pins and needles, and feeling as though I'm being stabbed. This has made leaving my apartment on my own impossible, forcing me to drop out of school and maintain my longest streak of unemployment since I was 13.

During a recent psychological evaluation for pain management hypnotherapy, the doctor asked me to name the one place where I felt safe. Normally, I maintain a carefully crafted, easy going and careless persona in the presence of doctors. I don't trust anyone who thinks of themselves as a notch under God. With this question, though, my persona began to fall apart. I rallied in an effort to think of an answer other than what had naturally yet painfully come to mind.

A gun metal gray 1984 Camaro Z28 with t-tops, 700R4 transmission, LG4 engine with a vacuum advance 4bbl Edelbrock 650 cfm performer series carb. Worn and tattered interior, rock solid weather stripping, blown out speakers, flaking window tint, and my very first true love.

As pathetic, materialistic, obscene or ridiculous as it may sound, my infatuation with American cars is what I live for. Though this illness took away my ability to walk, the loss that weighed most on my mind was being unable to press pedals and shift gears. While shoes have never done anything for me, the smell of racing fuel makes me shiver. Driving fast and aggressively, or being a passenger when someone I trust drives that way, makes me laugh like a diabolical mad woman. The only time I have forgotten about the pain, which has elevated my average at-rest heart rate from 70 to 110 bpm, was at Firebird International Raceway in Arizona during Friday night drag races. Watching everything from the ever sinister Grand Nationals launch hard enough to prevent their front wheels from touching the pavement for 400 feet, all the way to the ridiculous little CRXs with enough nitrous and boost to make them fly away if they had wings.

Other than that, I have been in floating in a black hole of automotive interest. Not only have I driven less than six times in the last year, the two cars involved in those circumstances were 1) a battered and beaten Honda Civic and 2) my little brother's 2000 Buick Century. I used to joke that I was suffering from car withdrawal, shaking my hand mockingly and feigning a sweaty brow, but the humor served as a bandage to hide an untreatable and profound wound.

Just as I remember greeting my baby brother, sister, and nephew for the first time, I vividly recall the first moment I saw my Camaro. Its silver/gray paint glistened in the mid afternoon sun as the we came around the bend. My nails dug into the seat beneath me, and like a child I shouted to my now ex-boyfriend, "There it is! Is that it? Does it have a for sale sign? That's it! Are those guys looking at it!? Hey ---holes, that's my car!"

Though the exterior and frame were perfect, the engine compartment was a disaster. Vacuum lines wound in bizarre, unfamiliar routes as the engine sputtered in disdain. A mechanical engine fan that looked better suited for a tow truck heaved up clouds of dirt from the dusty street below. I was so jittery and meek in my infatuation, I asked my boyfriend to do the test drive while I sat in the back. Behind the seat headrest and underneath a cleverly placed hand, I hid an enormous, insane grin. The interior smelled like lung cancer, there was no stereo, but the air conditioning was ice cold and... it was a carbureted Z28! With t-tops! I always had an admiration for the mystical carburetor, part of a fuel delivery system that to this day I can't say I fully understand. I knew my older brother, Tim, a mechanic and owner of a black 1986 IROC Camaro, would be disappointed in his baby sister's trashed, non-TPI selection, but it was too late. I was hopelessly, eternally in love.

I can still see the smile the motherly former owner gave me as she handed me the keys. I tried to not cry while I started it for the first time, and I failed. As soon as I pulled away, I screamed with an excitement I have not since felt. I cried and laughed as I made my first left turn, holding the billet style Grant steering wheel with an iron grip, in case the car tried to escape. At the first red light, I quickly rummaged through each nook and cranny, finding a "Camaro" flash light and the original owners manual jammed under the seat, as well as a receipt for $.89/gallon gasoline. Along with these items, I found the original purchase receipt; my Camaro was manufactured in mid-November of 1983, the same week I was conceived. Quickly brushing off the grossness of that thought, I proceeded to drive for 45 minutes with no radio, and no need for one, as I was busy singing to myself with a vigor and disregard for appearance normally reserved for drug addicts. I promised myself, then and there, that I would take care of this car, make it into the beautiful, fast, efficient, clean Z28 it had been before the world had torn it apart.

Almost every weekend and vacation was spent working on my Camaro with my brother Tim. He re-taught me the basics of automotive repair while we brought my car back to its former glory. Though we were close before I bought my Z28, he became the only person I believed loved me, because he loved my car. All of my spare money funneled into the Camaro, while I continued to wear to work worn clothing from my junior high school years. Though I loved the idea of racing, and each green light saw me gun it through the intersection, I never took my Camaro to the drag strip. I refused to shame her by getting timed before she was complete. I was a few minor engine modifications away from completion, making lists upon lists of various combinations I could attempt to install. I aimed for the first week of April of 2006.

Now I sit in the darkness, my mind long since tired of going over what I should or should not have replaced, removed, or done. In a freak accident and cruel twist of Fate, gasoline pooled in the charcoal canister ignited by an electrical short in the headlight. What had taken my brother and me 3 years to create was gone in ten minutes. Though I had never had any desire to gamble, I had risked my happiness on my own mechanical decision making ability, and for that, I lost everything. My skin goes white at the thought of the stiff heat emanating from the flames that cool evening two days before Saint Patrick's day. I still hear the noise of the melting of the engine fans my brother and I so happily installed months earlier, and I smell burning paint and oil as the black smoke enclosed me. The event was a display of the best part of me dying, a part I had relied on and took shelter behind for many years. When friends were unavailable, when confidants were uninterested, when support through dark times was no where to be found, I relied on my Camaro.

The most painful moment of that evening was my phone call to Tim. With no one else to turn to, I begging him to drive 40 miles in the middle of the night to help me. The first car he ever loved, a green 1972 Chevelle he built from the ground up, was rear ended by a drunk driver and was subsequently written off as totaled by the insurance company. It was the first time I had ever seen my big brother cry, and as the fire fighters tore through the hood with an axe, I knew he was the only person who would understand. His voice cracked slightly as I told him what happened, and I knew I had let him down.

By the next week, I had hastily and thoughtlessly bought a 2004 Pontiac GTO, which I sold within 6 months. While I was exhilarated by the GTO, its Tremec manual transmission, impeccably designed interior and LS1 engine, it was like proposing to the "hot but uninspiring rebound" after losing true love. I yearned for my Camaro every day, every night, and the sorrow of it tore me apart. I lost 20 pounds in the week and a half after the accident, this after I had already lost over 20 pounds in the three weeks prior due to a digestive illness. I threw out every picture I could find of the Camaro, digital or film, from pure self-hatred. I have only two pictures and a bit of video left to supplement my memory, as well as the original owner's manual, a GM key from the locks I had replaced three days before the fire, and the license plate.

Two years later, each 3rd generation F-body that I see makes me yearn for a time machine and break up songs bring to mind the car rather than any relationships lost. None of my friendships, and indeed none of my previous boyfriends, were as valuable to me as that car. I loved that car more than I loved my cat. (I'm a dog person!)

The question asked by the hypnotist doctor earlier this month brought to mind my hospitalization in January, while the nurses buzzed around me in their attempt to run an IV line into my hand during the worst pain I have ever experienced, I escaped to thoughts of the Camaro. The duel snorkel air-cleaner Tim had given me for Christmas just a few months before the fire, the Sirius satellite radio I installed that glowed bright blue in the darkness, the double needle speedometer that I couldn't be bothered to fix, the way the wind felt through my hair when I drove with the t-tops out, the misaligned shifter letters, the special overhead console that never worked, the thunderous roar of the 3" Edelbrock exhaust that set off car alarms in every parking garage, and how I couldn't walk away from my Camaro without turning around for one last look. I began to sob harder and blasphemed, forgetting the physical torture of my veins bursting in my hand and focusing instead on the life I lost.

The car assimilated my identity. Its accomplishments, such as 32 mpg city and half values on all emissions tests, were my accomplishments. Its intimidating stance, ferocious sound, elegance in simplicity, lack of ECU or emissions equipment, and its breath taking beauty made me feel strong, fierce, and gorgeous. My Camaro became all these things to me after being neglected for 18 years, assailed upon by half-wit mechanics, and having serious issues ignored or covered up. We had both started existence in the same week, had been treated the same by the world, and I thought we would be inseparable. Now, being without it has made me regress back into high school awkwardness and self-loathing; I am re-experiencing the feeling of being unarmed, forgettable, and directionless.

Early in June, an hour into waiting for my nighttime pain medications to kick in, I stumbled on 5thgen.org. Seeing spy pictures, reading discussions, and watching video of the 5th-generation Camaro woke up a part of me that has been dormant since that evening in March. Comparing photographs of my Camaro to the new Camaro took my breath away. The thought of a high performance engine, a stick shift, nice upholstery, and an actual trunk made me grin. My mind rationalized it as a perfect middle ground between the far too perfect GTO and my soulful yet simplistic Camaro.

For the first time in two years, I feel almost like myself again. I knew that night that I had found my goal; I want to be alive and in normal health by the time that Camaro is released. Slowly, with the aide of forearm crutches and frequent trips to a physical therapist, I have been learned how to walk all over again. The desire I feel now stems from the memory of who I once was. Deep inside, I feel a craving to grip a steering wheel as I break the speed limit, to get marriage proposals at red lights again, to drive for no reason other than to clear my head on a barren freeway as the sun rises. I want to have police officers ask me to race them, to tell off Corolla drivers when they sneer at my V-8 muscle car, and to have people stare at my car as I drive past. I need to sit in a car of my very own, a place where I can feel safe, a place where I can focus on modifications to further personalize the car, rather than any troubles at hand. I want to be proud of myself again; I want to be free.


Check out my twitter, my Photoshop pictars, oh, and of course my Justin.tv channel

My literal boring slideshow from our fabulous vacation

When Jacob and I decided we were going to move to San Francisco, the idea was to live closer to the water. Both of us grew up along the coast; him in the Pacific Northwest while I grew up in the Atlantic Northeast. Unfortunately, we have since realized that the only affordable housing available to two young people with no recent rental history is deep in the interior of the city (a.k.a. the mission district, smelly and in a constant state of disrepair). Instead of hearing the waves crashing against a rocky beach, we hear sirens, cars with four subwoofers rattling their body panels off, and muffler-less motorcycles accelerating to double the speed limit at all hours of the night.

After I got sick, we had to cancel our plans to join the JTV guys in celebrating Bill and his lovely wife's wedding in France. While the guys were out of town, we figured it was a great opportunity to go on a short, relaxing vacation. For the reason explained above, it had to be near water. I also hate flying the way I am, so it had to be within driving distance. Also, it needed to be home to penguins. Thus, we went to Monterey, California, and within an hour of arriving we contemplated convincing the guys to move Justin.tv HQ there. It's a touristy place, but we got lost in the most beautiful California suburban neighborhood I've ever seen. With Laguna Seca just around the corner, I would gladly live there (if we could afford to buy a house there w/ a 2 car garage).

Our hotel choice, (Monterey Bay Inn), was perfect; not too fancy nor chain-ish, but not run down or dingy either. The front desk clerk was extra polite to us as we checked in (while he stared at my crutches), and they had an elevator (something I neglected to check before booking). The place had the layout of a motel, but the carpets, furnishings and bathrooms were great quality. Well, the carpets in the hall outside the room were trashed, but that made the plush fancy room carpet look even better. Our room overlooked the harbor and ocean, and it had a very compact balcony with a neat little table and two chairs. The bed was basically a giant pillow, something I loved but Jacob didn't care for. The location of the hotel was perfect, at the end of Cannery Row within walking distance from the aquarium and the touristy restaurants.

One touristy restaurant, Fish Hopper, had pricey yet mediocre food, sticky tables, but an incredible view. Our table was in a wing of the building that rested on columns over the ocean. We watched dolphins jumping out of the water less than a half mile away, otters playing in the water just below us, and kayak-ers getting yelled at by the coast guard. It was certainly the best view I've ever had at a restaurant.

The city itself was a great place to spend the weekend. A pedestrian trail ran parallel to the main tourist strip, making it easy for me to walk around without worrying about being shoved or bumped. The Monterey Bay Aquarium was absolutely spectacular; jelly fish, sharks, parrot fish, corals, otters, giant kelp and of course, penguins.

I love aquariums. I wouldn't say I'm a huge fan of fish, but I am a fan of seeing creatures in a version of their natural habitat without having to smell them (like you do in a zoo). We read almost all the placards that sported interesting facts, and I learned more fabulously useless pieces of information. For example, did you know that giant kelp can grow 2 feet in a single day? Yep, I got me some learning done in that there fishery!

Before leaving Monterey, Jacob and I shared a chocolate shake and chocolate covered cheesecake on a stick. (We also shared a horrible stomach ache later on that night.)

In the afternoon of our last day in Monterey, we went to the Dennis the Menace park and playground. We had driven by it when we arrived, and I came across it on Yelp when I was looking for extra stuff for us to do, and that sealed the deal. We ended up spending at least an hour, if not longer, sitting on a park bench, watching kids at the adjacent skate park while we relaxed in absolutely perfect weather. With a lake to our side, the ocean to our backs, and green grass stretching out beyond the playground, we tried to memorize the experience for recollection after we returned to San Francisco.

Being in a playground with Jacob made me feel like a kid again. With great enthusiasm, he convinced and encouraged and teased me until I crossed the giant rope bridge, and then repeated the process to get me to cross it again (my excuses for being a pansy about it were: I'm afraid of heights, and I was using crutches). Situations such as that remind me of how lucky I am to be with Jacob. He makes me feel good about wanting to be silly and playful, when a few manipulative people in my past regarded that aspect of myself with resentful condescension.

After our hour of peace and small talk, we left to take on the infamous 17-mile scenic drive. Yelp wasn't entirely fond of it, but Jacob and I convinced ourselves it was worth the $9.25 to see sea lions. Holy s**t, was it worth it! The weather was misty and windy, the waves ferociously battered the white sandy beaches, and the roadway lay barren of other vehicles for nearly the entire trip. The water was impossibly clear, a pale turquoise color, something I have only ever seen in movies. Surrounded by gorgeous, huge mansions, ancient Cypress and Ash trees, and endless stretches of boulder encrusted beaches, it was a road trip paradise. More than once I exclaimed, "we need to get you your Mini Cooper S, Jacob!" or "I want my new Camaro, dammit!" because the rented Volvo didn't take full advantage of the road we had before us.

As Jacob drove, I read aloud from a little tourist pamphlet about each landmark we passed. It was a freakish level of relationship bliss, the kind I thought was reserved for fake, teevee couples in the 1950s. We stopped at almost every 'point of interest' and took our time enjoying each vista. At "the famous Ghost Tree" point, we wandered around aimlessly until we decided we had no clue what they were talking about. With the interwebz on hand, I now know the tree they were referring to, though us trying to guess which one was the Ghost Tree makes the memory hilarious, and therefore much more valuable.

Despite my half hearted whining, we returned home that night. The apartment was still mostly clean, a huge plus after a vacation. This morning, however, I found this on 5thgen.org: "Just spotted (a 2010 Camaro) about 30 minutes ago, headed north on Highway 1 towards Morro Bay. My guess is that they're headed to the Monterey area for the evening. Keep your eyes open if you live along the central coast."

GAH! I knew we should have stayed longer!! Next time, we are going to hit Laguna Seca. I always biff'd it in that damn corkscrew in Gran Turismo, I have to see it in person!

Check out my twitter, my Photoshop pictars, oh, and of course my Justin.tv channel

Hypnotherapy on Persephone

I've been sick to my stomach all week. I can't remember a time when I've been this nauseated persistently. I'm guessing it has something to do with Gabapentin, though I'll know more tomorrow after I speak with my pain management doctor. Another thing that has something to do with the Gabapentin (for certain) is the veil of blah has been lifted from my mind. I can focus now, I have interest again, if I'm not writing, I'm day dreaming. Sometimes, this regained cognitive ability has hindered my sociableness, resulting in snarky comments or all out avoidance. I look back on these past months as though a stranger has lived my life. My clothing items torn and not mended, personal items organized in a thoughtless manner, but most frustrating is the leftovers of a dependence on television and the internet. I love the internet, don't get me wrong, but I want to climb a tree, go swimming, relax on a beach, steal a blue fairy penguin or genetically miniaturized tiny giraffe. I want to DO stuff, not read about it or think about it, and it has made me exceptionally agitated. That could be the source of my stomach ailment, but that doesn't make enough sense for me to do anything about. I doubt that wanting to drive a race car is making me throw up at 4 a.m. (at least, without having had any tequila).

I've been scanning the various fifth generation Camaro forums, reading some car magazines, and generally praying I get well enough to actually go to mechanic school or become an engineer. I hate math with a passion, but my lungs crave to breath the scent of racing fuel and my heart skips a beat at seeing a perfectly tuned small block 305. The most exhilerating moment of my life was gripping the steering wheel of a GTO in a dragstrip in Arizona, sweat dripping into my eyes but unattended, as I wait for the green lights. I always thought I was just a driver, but I've realized after I took about our vacuum cleaner just to clean and inspect it, I really am a tinkerer. Sigh, I need to get better!

Moving on: Hypnotherapy. I have some bad family back story on this, namely a cousin who was committed after things she said under hypnosis. At least, thats the story I was told. Who knows whats true in my family. Anyway, I've been terrified of not only hypnosis but shrinks in general after hearing that story. At this point though, I'm willing to try anything to get better. I have goals to reach and an idea of how to reach them. My mind is racing faster than my hands can keep up, and that isn't acceptable. My goal is to be able to own and of course, drive a new Z28 by the time it comes out. Silly, materialistic, shallow, or whatever you chose to call it, its my goal and I'm not ashamed.

I thought of all this as I held a clear ball on a chain the doctor had given me, to test me if I could be hypnotized. He said to make it spin, and my internal voice cheered me on. Anything to get better, anything. At time I couldn't seem to do what he asked, but other times it was done before he finished his sentence. Nausea began to claw itself in from the foreground of my consciousness, assailing my concentration and overthrowing the doctor's ability to instruct me. Involuntary twitches I normally maintain control over began to surface. My inability to fully satisfy the demand for letting go of control may make me a difficult candidate for hypnosis, which I think is a quack anyway, but we'll see. Like I said, I have a goal and I want to get better, I don't care what it takes.

Here is a snippet of something I have written since getting out of the Gabapentin prison (yes, prison). I have a million ideas, so I may branch off another blog just for my writings. Cheers!

I recline back, letting the wretched smoke fill my lungs in passing sublime repose. Away I push this need I craved, drawing in, only to push it away once more. Each cigarette a secret joke, evidenced only by the slight smile in my eye. 'I was born the day of a full moon!' I inwardly reassert beneath said moon's beams. This only explains my current bliss if you go for that sort of thing. I am the primitive mind, and I care nothing for your dramatic euphemisms.

He said I had no need to be afraid, a recollection that created a soft chuckle. With this knife always at my side, I've never known fear.

I hover between madness and normalcy, basking in the blur of my transitioning between your image of me and mine. This game I play, how I adore it. Hiding behind 18 foot high salt pillars and a blood moat, I engorge myself on all these valentines. 'Oh world, you silly confused child!' I exclaim as I lean back in my dastardly creaky chair. 'You try so hard!'

Check out my twitter, my Photoshop pictars, oh, and of course my Justin.tv channel

I think therefore I am

I hate mornings.

Especially when I'm conscious for them due to doctors appointments (or school, for that matter). This past Thursday I spent 4 hours being interviewed by doctors at the Chronic Pain Management Clinic. This wasn't a diagnosis focused appointment, rather it was to help me manage my pain. The specialists I met with were very polite and the entire morning was the most positive medical experience I've had so far this year. I had been told over the phone before the appointment that my case had been handed around the office for months, which seemed to be verified based on the curiosity I sensed in the doctors I spoke with.

The doctor who lead up the team has been my pain management doctor since February. The progress he had made by my most recent medication change made our interaction extremely positive. He introduced me to a passing nurse by saying "This is Norah, I've been her doctor since the beginning of the year. I know everything about her!"

The best part was this appointment was totally free.

So here is the plan, as developed by my team of doctors (that sounds so posh):

1) Biofeedback

2) Hypnotherapy

3) NCV test once the pain is better managed.

I already have an appointment for an NCV in mid-July, which will mark the first time I've celebrated the week of my birthday by being electrocuted (at least, as far as I can recall).

My best piece of news regarding this appointment is that I am reducing my Gabapentin to 1/9 of my previous intake. They decided it hasn't actually been doing anything positive for me these past months, which is great news. My hair has been falling out in clumps, my cognitive function has hovered between neanderthal and lemming levels, and I have Jason Borne syndrome every few hours ("Did I take my pills this morning? Wait, did I even eat? Hold on, where did this tiny Orca come from?!")

I've been working out as much as I can (which isn't much), drinking tons of water, and moderating my food intake much more. I haven't been entirely good, of course. I walked around SoMa yesterday (with my crutches, don't get all excited) during this ridiculous heat spell... while wearing jeans. Needless to say, I managed to give myself heat stroke. It was the longest distance I've walked since New Years Eve. Last night I laid in bed so sore that I laughed at my memories of post-track day muscle cramps.

The big story to report here has nothing to do with pain or hot weather or even the 2010 Camaro SS. I am elated to report that these past few days have been filled with ideas, stories, philosophical thought, and all forms of mind occupation that I have lost since I started Gabapentin. I do notice an increase in pain, but not enough to warrant returning to the haze I have only just emerged from. Besides muscle cramps, last night I laid in bed thinking of impossible scenarios and silly situations. I couldn't sleep for hours due to my imagination working at a furious pace. I thought of driving on the 89A in a brand new Camaro, complex yet ridiculous stories I will one day attempt to write, seeing my little sister graduate college in the top of her class, buying my mother the house I always promised her, and being a typical American tourist in Japan with Jacob.

Never again will I compromise my mind and spirit to medication. I feel like I've just come out of a coma. It feels sort of like this:



Well, now thats done. Next, curing my pain!

Check out my twitter, my Photoshop pictars, oh, and of course my Justin.tv channel

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Also, be sure to check out my twitter, my Photoshop pictars, oh, and of course my Justin.tv channel

Its been 6 months. Do you know where your diagnosis is?

My six month sick-a-versary came and went on the 6th without me remembering it. I don't have much more to say about it other than:
1. I hate Kaiser Permanente
(I hope someone finds blog this via a Kaiser google search)
2. I've gone out with my forearm crutches TWICE now!!
(I didn't realize how tall I am.)
3. I'm terrified.

Whenever you find yourself in a state of exceptionally ill health, the most common result is a new found clarity in priorities. This has happened to me three times, the most recent being this wonder acute idiopathic polyneuropathy. The priorities I discovered were ones I already appreciated; Jacob, cookies, my family -1, and American muscle cars.
Honestly, I haven't been myself in nearly two years now. Pathetic, materialistic, obscene or ridiculous as it may sound, driving a muscle car is what I live for. Though this illness took away my ability to walk, the more depressing inability on my mind was pressing pedals and shifting gears. While shoes have never done anything for me, the smell of racing fuel makes me shiver. Driving fast and aggressively, or being a passenger when someone I trust drives that way, makes me laugh like a diabolically mad woman. Before this week, the only time I had forgotten about my disability for more than 15 minutes was at Firebird International Raceway in Arizona during Friday night drag races.

Not only have I driven less than six times in the last year, the two cars involved in those circumstances were 1) the official Justin.tv Civic and 2) a Buick that I sold to my parents to afford the move to San Francisco. I used to joke about going through car withdrawal, but I wonder now how much truth was in that statement.

Ford day at the drag strip. Even after suffering from 24/7 nerve pain, this is still my version of Hell

Losing my Camaro, buying an '04 GTO, and selling said GTO during a nasty breakup is the story of my car relationship ruin. While I was exhilarated by the GTO, its six speed transmission and LS1 engine, it was like throwing myself into a hasty relationship with "the hot but uninspiring rebound" after losing true love. I yearned for my Camaro every day, every night, and the sorrow of it tore me apart. I lost 10 pounds in the five days after the accident, this after I had already lost over 20 pounds in the three weeks prior due to a digestive illness. I threw out every picture I could find, digital or film, from pure anger. I have only two pictures and a bit of video of the Camaro, as well as the original owner's manual and the license plate.

Just as I remember seeing my baby brother, sister, and nephew for the first time, I remember seeing that Camaro perfectly. Its silver/gray paint glistened in the mid afternoon sun as we came around a bend. My nails dug into the seat beneath me, and like a child I shouted to my then boyfriend, "There it is! Is that it? Does it have a for sale sign? That's it! Are those guys looking at it!? Hey @$$holes, thats my car!" (I'm not exaggerating, I got fighting mad at some random people looking at the car)

The car was a disaster, vacuum lines wound in bizarre unfamiliar routes as the engine sputtered in disdain. I was so jittery and meek that I asked my boyfriend to do the
test drive while I sat in the back. Behind the seat headrest and underneath a cleverly placed hand, I hid my enormous grin. The interior was hideous, there was no stereo, but the air conditioning was ice cold and... it was a Z28! I figured my older brother, a mechanic who owns an '86 Iroc, would be disappointed in my selection, but I was already too far gone in love with this car.

I remember the smile the motherly former owner gave me as she handed me the keys. I tried to not cry while I started it for the first time. As soon as I pulled away, I screamed with an excitement I have not since felt. I cried and laughed as I make my first left turn. I screamed/sang "I have a Camaro! I have a Camaro! I have a Camaro, hey hey hey HEY!" I drove for 45 minutes with no radio, and no need for one. I promised myself that I would take care of that car, make it into a beautiful, fast, restored Z28 (minus the 80's style decals).

Now I sit in the darkness, my mind long since tired of going over what I should or should not have replaced, removed, or done. My skin goes white at the thought of the heat from the fire that cool evening in March of 2006, the noise of the melting of the engine fans my brother and I installed, the smell of the paint and oil enclosing me in black smoke. The sounds, smells, and sight was a display of a part of me dying, a part I had relied on and took shelter behind for many years. When friends were unavailable, when confidants were uninterested, when support through dark times was no where to be found, I relied (happily) on the Camaro.

My eyes water whenever I speak of it aloud. Each 3rd generation F-body that I see makes me yearn, and break up songs make me think of a 1984 Camaro before I think of any relationships lost. None of my relationships before Jacob were as valuable to me as that car. I loved that car more than I loved my cat. (I'm a dog person!)

Knowing this about me, I hope it serves to explain why, despite my illness, my mind has dwelled on wanting to drive, wanting to repair, wanting to enjoy another muscle car. I knew that having a car that you cared about in this city was insane, so I never planned on having one, but I can't plan away my feelings and desires. The most heartbreaking moment of my illness was when I was in the hospital, the nurses buzzing around me, trying to run an IV line into my hand.

At this point I was in excruciating pain, the worst of the past six months, and in an effort to escape I thought of the Camaro. The duel snorkel air-cleaner my brother gave me for Christmas just 4 months earlier, the Sirius satellite radio that glowed bright blue in the darkness, the speedometer that never quite worked, the way the wind felt through my hair when I drove with the t-tops out, the misaligned shifter letters, the thunderous roar of the 3" Edelbrock exhaust that set off car alarms in every parking garage. I began to sob harder and blasphemed, thinking of the life I lost.

The car assimilated into me. Its accomplishments (32 mpg city) were my accomplishments. Is intimidating stance, its ferocious sound, its elegance in simplicity, and its breath taking beauty made me feel strong, fierce, and beautiful. Being without it has made me regress back into post-high school awkwardness; I am re-experiencing the feeling of being unarmed, forgettable, and directionless.

But seeing pictures of the 2010 Camaro woke up a part of me that has been dormant since that day in March. I want to grip a steering wheel as I break the law, I want to have marriage proposals at red lights, I want to get pissed off and drive on a barren freeway to compose myself. I want to have police officers ask me to race them, I want to tell off Corolla drivers when they sneer at my more efficient V-8 muscle car. I want to sit in a car of my own, a place where I can feel safe, a place where I can focus on new parts to buy or repairs to make, rather than the trouble at hand. I want to be proud of myself, I want to be free.

Lions and Tigers and Politicians, oh my!

I've tried to stay relatively quiet on political matters, but today a news story broke that absolutely ended that.

According to the New York Post, Hillary Clinton said in response to calls for her to drop out of the race... "My husband did not wrap up the nomination in 1992 until he won the California primary somewhere in the middle of June, right? We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California. I don't understand it," (This isn't the first time she has said this, Jacob just told me. Here is a link to a piece from Time.)

She literally said Obama's assassination would be a method of her winning the Democratic presidential nomination.

Bobby Kennedy and JFK pictures were framed and posted like saints on the walls of nearly every home, church, and school I ever went to as a child. My grandmother cried each time they were discussed. I can't imagine what she would do now.

The Clintons have profoundly offended me almost daily since this race began. The Jesse Jackson remark, the hard working white voter statement, and Hillary's response to "Do you think Sen Obama is a Muslim", as well all of their other continual, not so subtle attempts to strike fear into voter's hearts. These actions, on top of her continually deceit, have made me embarrassed to be a white woman.

Wanting to change the rules of a game with mere seconds left on the clock when it is most advantageous to her, touting her "35 years of experience" of being a hand waver and flower accepter in Sniper ridden countries, not leaving her husband after his affair brought her world wide shame (for the sake of her political career), and now this.

She has ripped from the hearts of generations before mine the sorrow of an assassinated Kennedy to use as her justification for her "Republimocrat", Nuclear War promising campaign. She does this only days after that man's younger brother was informed he has an inoperable, typically fatal brain tumor! I have feared for Obama's safety since January, to the point where I felt physically ill. I rarely ever say I hate someone, especially someone I do not know personally. I proudly say now, pardon my language, but I officially fucking hate this bitch.

Here is a reaction video Jacob just sent me that sums it up quite nicely. I eagerly await a Keith Olbermann "Special Comment" on this one.

Content Flowchart!

Women on the internet?!? Why, the only women on the internet are bimbos or overtly masculine gamers. Oh, and every other type of woman on the planet. So why do women chose names that are gender ambiguous, or end up only getting to read the news on google and have to search for clothing with safe search "on"? I dunno, but here's a thought I had today...

Memories, ah sweet memories

People often ask me why I am so positive. Is it the medication I've been prescribed? Am I feigning this illness? Nope to both. What really keeps me positive is a series of memories I have from my past that make me very thankful to be where I am. Constant physical pain compared to, say, working at a movie theater, make me sigh in relief and ignore the stabbing sensations in my legs. The following is one of three horrible job experiences I have had in my adult life. Enjoy!

I put my work clothes through the washing machine twice, but they still reeked of the popcorn stench that I marinated in for 5 hours every afternoon. I had worked for years at a stressful, yet comfortable loan center job before I went back to college, and in this new city I wanted to try the regular, unappreciated work I had avoided. I should have just read Nickle and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich, I realize in hindsight.

This movie theater job lost the "Worst Job Ever" award to my three months as a telemarketer, but it won for worst job environment. Supervisors, who were high school drop outs with slicked back hair and cheap shoes, slung insults with orders as I cleaned the floor and gave popcorn to movie goers. The first person who I ever filled a popcorn bag for was an old man who said "Why don't you try actually filling it up, missy" (it was already full, I ended up sprinkling popcorn on the top to appease him). Naturally, within a week of working the popcorn counter, I asked for a transfer. I was throwing up each day before work from either the stress or the smell still lingering on my uniform.

My weeks suffering through this job isn't the story I wanted to relay with this post. It's about a young woman who worked with me cleaning theaters, who was suffering from narcolepsy. Her brother worked along side her, helping her fall gently to the floor while he cleaned double fast for the both of them. Sometimes he wasn't there to catch her, and she would hit her head on an armrest or on a concrete step. All the while, her brother and the other cleaners pretended to me that there was nothing wrong.

One day she fell down the stairs and hit her head sharply on the wall. I carried her into the bathroom when she came to, her coordination shot and her body dry heaving as I rushed her as well as I could to the bathroom. She was taller than me, and certainly heavier than me, but we finally made it to the restroom. She threw up for a while, I held her hair back as I convinced her to go home and rest.

After dropping her off at the front office, I met up again with her brother and the other cleaners. He explained that they couldn't afford health insurance on their wages, and a doctor who had examined her pro bono had told them her treatment would be very expensive. This job was the best they could do, considering she would fall asleep during interviews and cleaning theaters wasn't supervised by management. They knew if management found out about her illness, they would find a reason to fire her. Illegal as it was, I didn't doubt that at all. She was chained to this thankless job filled with rude, disgusting people who care nothing for the peons that either feed the customers or clean up their mess. I used to do the math in my head as I cleaned up the floors of the theaters. At $9.50 a head, an average of 30 people per theater, they couldn't afford to provide health care to this young woman?

I left the job a few weeks after that. I ended up getting a job at another bank, a truly fabulous job where I sat at a desk and worked with documents I had spent my previous years reviewing. They appreciated me, they were compassionate and kind people, so much so that I wondered if I had exaggerated my memories of the movie theater. I went back a few months after I had quit to see a movie, and I over heard a girl being sworn at by a supervisor as she cried, cleaning up a dropped bag of popcorn.

I don't know what happened to the sick young woman who sobbed on my shoulder as I walked her into the bathroom. I just know that had this event happened in Canada or England or almost any other developed country, she would've gotten treatment for her illness. Movie theaters, which charge obscene amounts of money to patrons, who show paying customers ten minutes of advertisements before each movie, who sell candy and soda for seven times their worth, are the sort of companies that show what is wrong with our version of capitalism. Those on top do anything they can to make those on the bottom stay there, whether its by not providing health insurance or paying minimum wage, a wage that is impossible to live on.