Towards Multilinguism

I've been trying to learn Spanish since it's so much like Italian. And I miss learning. Here are some words I learned after a brief tryst with a Spanish speaking fellow.

me gusta........I like
sonreí smile
contigo.........with you
te quiero.......I love/want you in a sexual manner, rawr
hacer el make love
te extraño......I miss you trust lie
mentiroso....fucking liar
enojada.........angry cry
puñetazo........punch break up/end

Bachelor #1: What Will We Do On Our First Date?

On a Saturday, I went to a show. At this show, I met a beautiful black hippie. He was tall and thin. Dark skin and a beard. He wore one of those giant reggae hats that I hoped held oodles of natty dreads. Sexy little hippie!

He carried a professional looking camera with a long zoom lens. Of course he asked to take my photo. And then one in black and white. Then he asked me to take his. I took one of the ceiling. One of his neck. One of him. He told me photography was his love.

It was noisy, so he stood in close. He smelled really good! I was afraid he'd smell like patchouli. I asked him what else he liked to do, besides taking pictures of things. He looked me in the eye and said, "love god." I gave him my number anyway. Then I told him if he didn't call me, I'd punch him in the stomach next time I saw him at a show.

He called me two days later. My brother told me that was a bad sign. I told him I chose to see it as he liked me so much that he couldn't wait the arbitrarily determined number of days to call me. My brother just raised his skeptical eyebrow. Thinks he's so smart...

Talking to Mr Hippie was like listening to a Common cd. He asked me if I'd share some time with him that evening. He would be in my neighborhood dropping off some photos, anyway. That sounded lovely. We went to the hill overlooking the lake.

We sat on a bench and it was cold. We were a bit closer than I'd have liked, but I stared resolutely forward. He told me he loved love and god. I told him of everything in the world, those are the things I understand the least.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slowly moving closer. But in a peculiar way, not as though to put his arm around me to protect me from the cold. He leaned in slightly, like a stealthy vampire. I turn quickly to face him, to ask what he's doing and he says,

"It's this thing I have...I want to smell you. May I?"

I agree, because, I can understand. He buries his nose in the crook of my neck and inhales as deeply as he can. I worked that day and hadn't showered or changed since then. I wondered how stinky garlic and sweat and random body spray was. He was overinflating his lungs sniffing me, as if he was attempting to pull my soul free through his nostrils. I finally pulled away from him. He smiled and kissed me. I was confused.

He said we should walk, and we should go stand under a weeping willow tree. I told him I liked the tree and he told me he'd climbed it. Then he asked to smell me again. Then he said,

"Women often find it strange when I want to smell their underarms. Smell them. And kiss them."

"I can understand that," I said.

"It's nothing strange you, know. Freshly showered, shaved, but no deodorant."

"I like this tree..." I said.

"May I smell you?" He came in closer to nuzzle me again.

"I'm kind of a sweaty girl," I said, spinning away from him. And I laughed.

We talked about my love of writing, and I mentioned writing with a pen name.

"How many personalities do you have?" He asked, excited all of a sudden.

"" I said. "Why, how many do you have?"

"I have no idea how many people are up in here," he said, pointing at his head and laughing.

He took me home. We sat in his car, talking about our schedules. He asked to see my tattoo, as it was peeking out of my sleeve. I took my arm out of my coat and showed him. He cooed and told me how he likes to kiss from the palm of a lady's hand and up her arm. He kissed the palm of my hand and bit it. Then he kissed the flower in the crook of my elbow. I felt his tongue and took my arm away. Did he just lick my arm?

He stared at my forehead, “Why do you think we met Saturday?”

“Because we were both at the show at the same time?” I said slowly, cautiously.

He laughed, stared out the window, then back at my forehead. I put my hand over it, and told him I know I have a giant forehead. He corrected me. I have a high forehead and it's wonderful. He asked if anyone had ever kissed it. Confused, I say yes.

He pointed in between my eyebrows. “There. I want to kiss you right here. May I?”

I laughed and said, “You wanna kiss my third eye?” This made me laugh a lot.

With utmost sincerity he said, “Yes. I want to kiss your third eye.”

Without really thinking, I leaned forward. He took my face in his hands and gently kissed between my eyebrows. Then again, his lips lingering longer, then again and I definitely felt his tongue. Before I knew what was happening, he was tongue kissing my forehead. Sloppy, slurpy, tongue kiss in between my eyes.

The worst part of all of this is, he didn't call me. What the hell is wrong with me that the dude who frenches foreheads won't call?

Keep Your Racism to Yourself!!

I found a length of blue plastic something at work the other day. My manager, Gary, told me it was a spare squeegee handle and I could throw it away. It was maybe 3 inches long, and I decided I could use it as a portable bludgeoner for my walks home.

I was showing my coworker how I imagined bashing some poor mugger in the dome as he tried to take my purse. I've since learned it won't work, much to my dismay.

Gary gets his "ohmygod I'm gonna tell you an awesome story face," and I prepare myself.

Gary's a good guy, if a little awkward. He's new to the management business and he alternates between wanting to regale you with his stories of drunken debauchery or reminding you he's the boss. He strikes me as the sort of kid who never felt like he fit in, so he tries a little too hard. He'd be fine if he'd just chill, but alas.

In any event, his buddy also has a portable bludgeoner he keeps in his car. His decision to do so evidently came from having been beaten up by a gang of Hmong kids.

The friend lives in Wausau, which boasts a population approaching 85,000. In recent years, many Hmong refugees from Laos have moved there . Wisconsin, Minnesota and California have some of the largest Hmong populations, in fact.

Turns out, group of Hmong thugs surrounded Gary's friend's car and punched him in the face through the window. Thereafter, he started carrying his portable bludgeoner.

Gary starts giggling, looks around, and lowers his voice to a whisper. I look at Chandre, who is Native American. We both know that the story is not going to end well.

"He calls it his 'g**k beater."

I cover my ears and yell, "Oh no! That's not cool, Gary!"

"Wait, but, they're in gangs!"

"I'm sure they are, but I don't want to hear that stuff, words like that. There are gangs of all sorts of colors all over the place."

"Yea, but Wausau used to be such a nice place until they moved in."

Here we go...

"That's how it always is, though, whenever you have a minority, or immigrant population move into an area, that sort of thing happens. Especially if they're poor and discriminated against..." I argue, of course.

"Wausau is not like that, there aren't racist people....well..." here he trails off. Exactly.

(Read this fun article:

But I digress. I'm sure it's pretty obvious I'm a liberal, and all are welcome. It's sad that when there are problems in society, rather than looking for ways to fix it, we turn toward hate and antagonism.

That's not the point of this little rant, though.

Rather, my point is that there are certain things that you should keep to yourself and your like-minded friends. What would make anyone who knows anything about me think they could fire off some racial epithet and I'll be cool with it? Why would you say something like that unless you know for a fact they won't be offended?

Not to minimize what happened to Gary's guy, I'm sure it was traumatic. I do wonder how he came to be surrounded by people on foot whilst in a vehicle. One would think he'd roll up the window, press the accelerator and shout peace out to the Hmong mob run amok. Or maybe it's just me.

Maybe it's also just me to think it common sense that if you have too look around and whisper during the course of a conversation about people of a different color you should keep that shit to yourself. You and your buddy can sit in a bar in Wausau and talk that trash, but leave me the hell out of it.

Is it just because you're not talking about my people that you think I'd agree? Please, stop it now. I don't, nor will I ever. Mainly, it's because I can't help but imagine what you do say about my people when I'm not around. I find it hard to imagine an individual who hates g**ks but not n****s. (and I'm not suggesting Gary hates anyone, he is not the only person with whom I've had this sort of conversation, either...he just gets to be my example.)

So, I say again: if ever you're in mixed company, and find yourself compelled to say something racist, save it for your friends. The rest of us do not want to hear it.