Suggestions from a Soft Core Bicycle Rider - Andrea

I shall only highlight a few here, so read her blog!

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Hippie to Hipster: Andrea >> I have been getting super aggravated by the behavior of… well, everyone lately, especially around the subjects of bicycles, motor vehicles, and pedestrians.

Dear Motorized Vehicle Drivers,

• Use your fucking turn signals. While waiting to cross I-35 Frontage on 4th St., us bicyclists and pedestrians waste a significant amount of time waiting on cars that neglect to inform us that they’re turning before the crosswalk. This is fucking annoying.
• Don’t slow down when you see us at a crossing road, and then speed up after you see we’re stopped. Either keep at the same speed, or stop and let us go. You’re a fucking tease, and nobody likes a tease.
• You all suck.

Dear Pedestrians,

• When a bicyclist says “on your left,” don’t look and walk to the left. Move over to the right. Move quickly. You’re slowing me down.
• Don’t congregate on the walking bridge and block both fucking lanes. I gotsta get through, assholes!
• You all suck.

Dear Bicyclists,

• You’re not better than everyone else, so stop being so pretentious or you won’t ever get laid.
• Use your fucking turn signals.
• Don’t yell at pedestrians for not getting out of the way soon enough to your liking.
• Get some fucking lights, we can’t see you!
• You all suck.

Making Mud Pies

This is Maddi, we used to make mud pies together. 

Now she is off in Cyprus..no big deal.

Hey Girl, Happy Chanukah. With love, Ryan

Ryan Gosling, All eight days and nights.
Created by Amy Schiller.

Hey Girl.

Shit My Students Write

Works cited

“JSTOR: An Error Occurred Setting Your User Cookie.” JSTOR: An Error Occurred Setting Your User Cookie. N.p., n.d. Web. 4 Nov. 2011 

Shalom, motherf*ckers

Our house was a constant target for drive-by shootings and mazel tov cocktails.

Making connections

If slavery wasn’t abolished women wouldn’t be able to vote, we wouldn’t have things such as the refrigerator, and women wouldn’t be able to work.

Joy of Parenting

Having a child is not all that bad; they bring like some kind of undesirable happiness to a parent that really cares.

Kardashians, take note.

Divorce rates are going to be lower if you are not getting married.

PostSecret

Perhaps one of the best ideas: Post Secrets is a community built on secrets. Now in our own lil' Stevenson Cafe for the time being, there is a wall where you can post your secret on a homemade post card. The original project formed out of a dream when a traveler bought some posts cards  to send home, but before he had the chance imagined them to be something a bit different than three simple postcards.

Feminist Ryan Gosling

Hey girl.

Feminist theory flashcards from your favorite sensitive movie dude-turned-meme. 

Un Cuentito de Honduras

"a woman came in with her young baby, and I asked her how old she was. She told me that she was three months old and when I asked her what her name was, she said that she didn’t have a name. I was totally taken aback and asked why not and the woman explained to me that the Registro Nacional in their town, where you have to take newborn babies to register them and receive a birth certificate, had been out of ink for several months and so they haven’t been able to register a single one." JP

there has always been a certain inhibition toward the coherence of eyes. readying glances—unearthing assumptive motives, uneasiness, fears, foreboding angst, reluctances , sex, decisions and so on. to enter this world like the penis enters the crotch. 

1 day ago

#an aphorism for the wide-eyed

Some thoughts from my Toots. 

brittany markert photography

because everyone loves a bite.

The Pervocracy

Female toplessness is legal in a lot of places in the US (although not where I live), and I’d be meeting the letter of the law with a couple of Band-aids. But I have a gut feeling that if I go anywhere that there are people—and particularly anywhere there are children—nobody’s going to be too happy about my Band-aids. The enforcement is social; women just don’t go around topless in the US.

It bothers me because it’s unequal, but it also bothers me in its implications: that my body is inherently sexual, and a man’s body isn’t. It feels like men are being viewed through the first-person lens of “it’s nice to feel the sun on my skin, and I don’t mean anything by it” and women are being viewed through the distinctly third-person lens of “it’s inappropriate for me, a heterosexual man, to see her sexy parts.” It ignores the experiences of people who are turned on by male chests and somehow manage to contain themselves when they see one.

What does your world look like without walls?

We spent perhaps way too much time together, and now we have withdrawal. To the panqueques, the Hondo Hipsters and Florian's Farts:
Our Baleada Bunch Blog.


Comprised of Bachata dancing, scabies ridden, bacterially infected and hemorrhoided hotties, the Baleada Bunch got it's name from stuffing their faces with quite a few too many Baleadas per day. Now we can only dream of the damn things-

when you’re lost in a desert, it’s important to collect your urine and any other liquid you produce to distill into drinking water using a tarp and two coffee cans. most people, when getting lost, forget to bring the tarp and the coffee cans, so their urine is useless, their tears worse than useless, yet they continue to produce both and watch the tiny rivulets swallowed in seconds by parched and crackling dirt. for the desert, all your plump and watered hopes are just a drop on the tongue.

when the desert is lost in you, it sends out flags to other deserts. hard crusts of dry skin form along your outer ridges. your moisturizer fails. people start to steer clear of you, afraid you will “suck them dry.” only other desert people wander near, the ones who are further along than you. they wear their deserts on the outside. wrapped head to toe like mummies in baroque tatters, moving their sandpaper lips in crass imitation of language. we know you, they insist. we’re here for you.

[re-blogged]

On Muni: ‘I’m a pimp and this shit don’t bother me’

I was recently introduced to this fantastic blog. It is more of a forum, but it posts topics, and EVERYONE writes on it, sharing hilarious stories, frustration with delays and more. A mighty good one is from Scott:

Muni rider Scott spins a, uh, wet one for us from the 5-Fulton.

Best Muni moment; I have many but this tops!

On my way to USF from Montgomery Street, I get on the 5-Fulton one weekday morning. Nothing unusual, I sit one row from the back sipping my coffee reading the Chronicle. We turn onto McAllister Street, and a woman jumps on the bus and sits in the very corner of the last row. I try not stare, but can clearly see this person is completely whacked out of her mind.

I’m not surprised as we entered the Tenderloin. I continued to read until I notice some liquid on the floor coming from that particular corner of the bus. Just then a gorgeous girl was walking to the rear of the bus. As she was about to sit down in front of the woman, I kind of grabbed her with a slight nod, then said you should really sit over here, instead. She looked at me as I drew her attention to the mess in the back. We are not at Van Ness yet, but the woman gets up and leaves.

This normally would be the end of the story but not this time. Both the gorgeous girl and I leaned back to see what the hell was dripping and realized that the person decided to relieve herself on the bus. It was a pool, too. We both looked at each other and knew that, well, this is Muni and you get all kinds of weird things happening. Just as we figured out it was piss, a group of kids no older than 12 jumped in the back of the bus and seated themselves on the wet seats. One yelled out, “What the hell is this?” as the other is sitting in it getting drenched. Two of the kids moved from their seats but the last kid exclaimed, “I’m a pimp and this shit don’t bother me.” He sat in a pool of piss for the remainder of my trip.

As always, a friendly reminder to check your seats and beware moving liquid on the bus. Sometimes, it’s wee-wee, folks.