2009 SF Dyke March

Tons and tons, no, hoards and hoards, no, gaggles, groups, pods, packs, and a plethora of dykes, lezzies, newby-dykes, tranny-dykes, mod-lez', old, wide, squat, tiny, lean, butch, femme, andro, sporty, mulleted, buzzed, wavy'd, permed, dyed, bespectacled, wheelchaired, caned, walkered, and of course, motorcycled dykes hovered, sat, strolled, gazed, walked, sauntered, scammed, pawed, scoured, moshed, humped, and ambled the grounds in and around San Francisco's Dolores Park.

The 39th Annual Dyke March kicked off with a rally sporting notions of dyke equality, funky music, and, among other notables, the scratchy-voiced, kick-ass keynote speaker Sharon Gless (famed for her role as Christine Cagney in Cagney & Lacey, bit parts in Nip/Tuck, and of course as Debbie Novotny, the smart-mouthed mom in Queer as Folk). She's in a new low-budget film, Hannah Free which closed out the film fest. Yea for her doing a lez part and being proud of it to boot!.

I missed 98% of that rally, opting to arrive later and wander the grounds, absorbing all the estrogen and lezzie aura in the air. Man, it was AWESOME. I realized, near the end of the Dyke March -- which started (typically) late, wound its way down 18th Street to Valencia, Valencia to 16th, then west on 16th to Castro towards the magnificent party and gargantuan disco ball -- that I could have easily made myself into one of those iconic rock stars and had the burly, bare-chested chix who were whooping nearby hoist me up over their shoulders and let the crowd of female fingers just pass me along over the heads of the 40,000 hot & hollering lez-positive women that filled 16th. It was that kind of night. Absolutely remarkable.

So awesome it was, that I actually Missed the dyke drama just a mere first-down measure from my feet. I happened to be in line for a scummy port-a-potty, and, beyond my vision, perhaps a few steps farther down the line, a pair of prickly dykes got into fisticuffs with each other. Haven't been witness to a good 'you slept w/my girlfriend' fight in soooo long. Lunging for each other, fists flying, long hair snarling and getting yanked, kicking, cussing, all while each person's little posse attempted to unsuccessfully pry these angry pheromone-laden women apart. Like angry magnets they were, just when the iron ore seemed to be far enough from its attractant, the raging, jealous energy sucked them back together in a fiery, female, snarling fight. But for the lack of folding chairs and monstrous & bald security personnel that are oft found on stage, Jerry Springer would have been proud. The two feral females ultimately stomped off in opposite directions with their cadres, both tomato faced and tearful. One of them, fists still clenched, was screaming at her good pals, "Goddammit, I just fucking love her so much I could kill her!" Aaah, now that's good dyke drama love. Nearly a sonnet.

Alas, it was all-chik energy from curb to curb, corner to corner with boys, women, tourists, heteros & homos on the sides, cheering from their windows, dancing on the rooftops, applauding from fire escapes, and beeping their horns while stuck in their cars because of our traffic stopping busts and shouts. Of course, there were quite a few men in the crowd of marchers too, which makes me wonder why since it's a lezzie thing and dudes can hang on the edges to support. Still, the air was sizzling, with melodious, lavender-laden, alto soprano tones and ear-thumping decibel levels from the revving D.o.B. motorcycles, political statement megaphones, Sistah Boom's percussive poundings, and the feet stomping, hip-grinding pulsating rhythms of Madonna, Pink, and Sister Sledge blaring from upper floor apartments.

Because of the sunshiney, 80 degree day, skin shone throughout. Bare arms dangled and pulsed to the beats, draped around wifely shoulders, or clenched the muscles as the wrists cocked the throttle on their Harleys. Breasts of all shapes, sizes, and adornments flopped to and fro for Dyke Freedom. Some women were so bold to actually place Human Rights campaign stickers on their nipples. I suppose because of the higher temperature and sweat-bead factor, peeling them off wouldn't hurt as much as they normally would, but still. I can think of less painful ways to be slightly modest, and even make a tiny political message. Nonetheless, bare butts, breasts, and a smattering of all-nude women (and quite a few nude men in the Castro) staked their claim to the message: we're dykes, we're sexy, fun, shapely, and ready to take on the world - one march at a time!

What impressed me this year moreso than most other years was the number of younger women present at the march. By younger, I mean 18+ year olds who are aware, participating in and celebrating their lives, their sexual explorations and identities. Some were a bit shy, hiding behind or clinging to their female pals while nursing drinks and gazing at passing cuties. Others hung onto their gal pals, making out or dancing to the music that filled the air. Still, others blew whistles, pounded bongos, and hoisted pink cardboard/black markered Dyke Equality signs overhead to establish their political perspectives on the ridiculous inequalities that surround them, or us. The youth are here and boy oh boy do they share a strong voice to be heard.

When it comes down to it, though, the crowd consisted of women from all parts of the U.S. and abroad. Women from Fresno, Salt Lake City, Tampa, NYC, Buffalo, Austin, Calgary, Toronto, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo, and even my hometown of Portland, Oregon danced, drank, and celebrated their lezzie-dom one way or another. We were senior citizens, midlifers, teenagers, 20-and 30-somethings, and the somewhere-in-betweeners. We sported shoulder length, Prince Valiant, shaves, mullets, short-sporty (that'd be "my" hairstyle), and spiked hair of all natural and unnatural colors.

Most of all, though, we were there in sync, laughing, dancing, cheering, and having some of that fab female camraderie that is oft found at this event (besides the dyke drama brawl mentioned earlier).
Of course we, the multi-thousand group of us, the Wake, Caravan, Herd, Intrigue, Colony, Drove, Peck, Kettle, Bevy, Cohorts, Fold, Farrow, Memory, Wisdom, Tower, Pandemonium, and Pride (peacocks, how appropos!) poured our fab energy into the Pink Saturday festivities in the Castro afterward.

Honestly, considering how well we put on a party, it's quite obvious it's great to be gay (or GLBTQ, if you will). It's even better to have a strong community of friends, comrades, colleagues, and acquaintances (both gay & straight) who accept & support us. Gay (GLBTQ) Pride week is our pre-holiday week warming up to the big shebang celebration on the weekend. The difference being that unlike the standard end-of-year holiday season, I didn't spend a ton of cash but I did have a fucking great time scanning the crowd for chiks, whooping, dancing, oogling, flirting, and celebrating with my peops.

Check it out! A tiny taste (not as much skin as I'd like: my battery was dying) of the 2009 SF Dyke March (by yours truly):
http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=28518&CID=272721

Perspectives on a Communication Gap

I realized that I needed to spell out a few 'generic' perspectives on a relationship that's become a bit jagged, distorted, pained, and is now fraying along its once taut fringe.

We censor. We mince. We bite our tongues. We hold back. We share, then sweat, then wait for the onslaught.

It's the risk of communication, it's the chance of acceptance, it's the open road of clarity, it's the shred of what remains between we imperfect humans -- friends, relatives, others -- that allows honesty and a turned-back. The question of what lies 'on our minds' or 'in our hearts' is what we lay out on the table before these Homo sapiens. And then we stall, kill time, hold our breath in that dead air of wonder, 'will I be shunned, shot down, accepted with reluctance, or enveloped with a verbal embrace?'

Dialoguing, among many other definitions includes the frank discussion "of areas of disagreement...in order to resolve them."
Avoidance is a natural way to undertake disagreement: just sidestep the issue or simply ignore its presence. Is she leaving? Are they gay? She quit and walked out? Did he really say that? Mmm, let's simply not talk about it, it's a bit touchy you know.
Confrontation is the scary way to look these uncomfortable situations in the face. Make the call. Look the other in the eye. Open the conversation with the tell-tale, "So, I hear that ...." Write a letter and establish one's own concerns or feelings.

Tip-toe in and out of the issue is an alternative manner to deal with an imbroglio. The age-old toe-dip into the pool idea is essentially the same notion. As a side note, this literal process is quite impressive to me, as it takes quite a bit of leg strength to flex down, maintain balance, and dip the alternate toe into the water simply to determine if the agua is suitable for plunging. I suppose that it defrays from committing to the process. Rather, taking a bit of inner -- perhaps muscular -- strength to contract the leg a few degrees and test the situation.
This is not unlike the visual gauge-measurement of monitoring body language of the friend (in the dialogue) when a simple blanket statement or question, 'Do you want to talk about it?' is blurted. This tippie-toe/toe-dip is gently risky, but truly not a dive into the unmarked pool; it's non-committal, not unlike asking, "You don't want to talk about it, do you?" Umm, no, I don't think so any more.

Somewhere in the middle of this Obtuse Dialogue is the process of Questioning. This lies between tip-toe, confrontation, and avoidance. For example, 'What is it I said that made you...', or 'Do you even hear what I'm saying?', or 'Why can't you...?', 'Do I look like an idiot (Often this is followed by the statement, 'I'm not blind, you know')?' Occasionally, 'Is there anything I can do to help/clarify/show/be a better _____?'
I've found that this Interrogative technique is aggravating to the other, even if it's less obtrusive. It shows support or desire to be involved, but in the same vein, it's oft perceived by the interoggatee as pinpointing or, perhaps pin-pricking in its inquiry. That is, the question(s) really tap dance on what's raw and ruptured between or around the parties involved. As much as the questioner's furrowed brow might display concern, she is doomed, will be shot down, and reminded to 'just back off', 'stop prying,' that 'you just don't get it, do you?'

Mind you, there is the occasional glimmer of the appreciative questionee who responds, 'gosh, thanks for asking. I've been wanting to talk about this for a while and I've not known how to broach the subject.' This response is always nice.

Rough, painful, difficult, or unsavory communication between friends & lovers is often -- not always -- the easiest. Friends, true friends, or true lovers are usually willing to forgive even if one of the bipeds is an ass. Time may be involved, you know, to let that Pig Pen dust settle, but that clock or sundial generally lends itself to the perspective, to the breath of clarity, to the realization that malice was not intended.
I'm not saying that there aren't tears, crumpled letters, and slammed phone receivers. Oh, quite the contrary. However, there's often a span to reflect and realize that the words stated, the body language displayed, the unstated words, the silence, and the long exercise routines were manners in which the other needed to exemplify the depth of position, the obviousness of message, the simplicity of emotion and desire. Ideally, this day-night-day-night (repeat as needed) period brings peops together moreso than apart. I think maturity (desire & hope, too) weighs heavily in this process.

The same type of communication between relatives, that is, the "biological" (not chosen) family can sometimes lead to resentment, anger, and back-stabbing.
Mind you, I've discovered the same results between friends, which is sad, since we choose our friends because of the character they've shared with us. Our relatives are who they are, and we find that when animosity spins like a sword-wielding whirling dervish, mean spiteful words spit out daggers and shards at us. We duck, cover, we hide, we face it and are slashed.
Yet, we remain, suffer a bit, attempt to pluck the blades from our skin and souls, forgive, and sometimes bury the hatchets. Scarred, we step away and kind of move on, but that darned vexing, [non] communicative baggage keeps tagging along. So, we spin around and re-examine what's still knicking our heels.

Hope and Avoidance then comes into play once again. An oppressive silence surrounds the topic of difficulty as the best means of clearing the air.

So, is this a Confrontational Proposition? Not in the least. Merely an observation of a crevasse that's developed between a few sensitive mortals. These are creatures who mean well, have loved truly and deeply, yet are unable to bridge the gap of misunderstanding, jealousy, and new love.

Can't say that I know how those Canadian guys got the rope from one side of the Capilano chasm to the other, but I do know that it ultimately occurred from undertaking the struggle rather than simply eschewing the endeavor. Eventually, they had a wood-slat rope bridge. Unsteady, yes, but a true connection between two sides just the same.

Life's too short to let a good friend fall to the wayside and be lost. Let's be frank here: resolve the disagreement, the misunderstanding, the whatever which wedges deeper and broader between. Bridge the abyss and allow the energy & life flow.

Found. Art.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure."

Found Art.


The homeless people who haul around single go-go boots, plastic hangers, computer monitors, 8-track tapes, and random pieces of lumber are cutting-edge artists. At least that's what I've discovered by way of my MFA from an esteemed San Francisco art & architecture school. I always thought it was trash, those plastic milk & juice drink rings, expired bus passes, shoe laces, and combs. My bad. They were figures or unclaimed pieces for a "collage" or "sculpture" or "weaving".





There's actually a published, glossy-paged book (or books?) on Found Art. Who knew? Found. Not lost, not dropped, discarded, or tossed, but found.


The other day, along side the retaining wall against my abode, I swept up a bunch of wind blown leaves that expanded into its own bottomless pond of autumnal detritus. Somehow they never found their way into the nearby storm drain or city-owned shrubbery that lined the road. No big deal, I like doing my civic duty. Besides, dead leaves and twigs always smell so autumny.


Among the yellows, browns, greens, and glossy black beetles, a glint of something shiny caught my eye. There are many raccoons that roam the streets on the Eve of Trash Day, so I assumed it was a lost scrap of foil hoarded from a nearby knocked-over trash can. Instead, it was a mangled set of dentures or a bridge with little clusters of teeth and faux pink gums clinging to the metal arc.

Eeeuuuw! Someone's teeth!

Immediately, I stepped back, thinking that a serpent, monster, or some such horror film icon would jump on me. I don't know why I stepped back, but the sight of these fake chompers shivered me timbers. My parents both sport the same style: little white nubs molded into pink blobs welded into the curved monorail so I was vaguely familiar with the sight.

I vaguely scanned the roadside in case other body parts snagged on the spiny blackberry shrubs or under the guardrail --by then I thought that these ivories were part of a Mafia 'cleaning.' The street was vacant of toes or clumps of hair. I swept the fangs into the dust pan and let them slide onto the top of the wall. They sat there like some family heirloom.

My thought process was simple: if these fake tusks were not lying here as the result of foul play, then perhaps somebody lost them and I happened to find them, you know, like a key or a pacifier or a bus schedule.

It's been a few days and they're still there.

It's funny, but from a distance or even close-up, they remind me of a morphed scorpion. The thin metal track curved and divoted from passing cars or the nearby family of raccoons who, much like I did with a paper clip in 3rd grade, probably passed it around and put it in their mouths like a Halloween vampire prop before realizing they had to get on with their nightly trash-dumping schedule. The wire pokes upward and out towards the imaginary pallet, ready to jab and sting. The gaps between the clumps of pink and white stones are articulated body parts held together by an evil, metallic wasp-waisted petiole.

Given the gap of time and my association with my recent Alma Mater, I'm now wondering how I can attach this imperfect body part to a canvas to follow in suit with the Found Art phenom. Ideally, I'd use dental floss and lasso it up, just to keep it aligned with the oral theme. However, I've discovered a few "natural" cigarette pack wrappers, a flexi-straw, a beer bottle cap, and a fast food restaurant's cold drink lid (size medium) clumped into a cyclone fence's corner at a local produce store I visit. Obviously, these are art pieces in the waiting.

+*+*+*+

I know some people use Found Objects in their own artwork. Often this is called Recycled Art or some such title.

I understand this is quite a profitable venture, especially if the art of welding is involved. I've seen old truck cogs, hubs, and axels melted together into quirky figurines and images. People find old metal signs and keenly place them in their backyards where magenta sweet peas and bright sunflowers soften the rusty edges. Others create tinkling chimes from mangled cafeteria silverware and fishing lines found along sandy beaches.

At NYC's MOMA, I viewed a small art exhibit of 7 flourescent light tubes leaning against each other in a corner. I wanted to believe that these were waiting for overhead replacement by the museums the maintenance people, but I was wrong. I cannot imagine how much someone would pay for this.

The most difficult Found Recycled Art for me to accept and appreciate is the toilet garden. Yes, it's a perfect bowl, but when it comes down to it, I have no interest in approaching this display, let alone sniffing the fragrant buds that bob their multi-hued heads, knowing that their stems and roots reach out along the edge of the porcelain and stretch down the oft-plunged hole which once housed, well you know. Too much prior knowledge on that planter's usage, thank you very much.

So go ahead, make your Recycled Art. But please explain to me how gum wrappers, a dirty yellow shower curtain ring, coffee cup handle, deflated mylar balloon (purple and red ribbons still knotted onto the nipple), a bread loaf's wrapper and its twistie, and a library book's crinkly cover all glued onto a canvas, or "woven together" with the other above-noted items are Found "Art." It just seems like garbage to me, not some cool sculpture, drawing, or figurine found at a garage sale or in the back of somebody's dusty, forgotten attic.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my multi-textured mouthy collage, begin gluing a chewed-tip pen cap, a boot's tongue, a single jigsaw puzzle piece, and a Reese's PB wrapper onto a cheap canvas. It shall be titled, "Oral Life" and I will offer it for sale at the artistic price of $500.

Found. Art. Canvassed trash for sale. Yet, I must say, the streets are a little cleaner for it.

HP Customer Service-Finale: Simple is too Simple

A computer, to the best of my knowledge runs on some sort of electrical power.
This power can be stored, as in solar power, transferred as in wind or hydro-electric power (harnassing the strength of the underground aquifer), generated by way of movement, you know, Gilligan style on a bamboo bicycle, or, the common method, the power cord. My sister reminded me that it's referred to in the techy world as a Cable. Thus, electricity shooting out of the wall socket or power strip into the 3-prongs along the insulated black cord, er, cable and into the computer by way of the recessed 3-prong innie.

HP Customer Service center folks struggled with some aspect of this new-fangled transference of energy when calls were made to their remote, secret centers.
Twice I received $xx credit for the mishandling and "inconvenience" that was suffered. Haven't seen the credit card bill yet, so I cannot verify this purported credit as of this posting. However, the true suffering wasn't as much a 'pain & suffering' as is often rewarded in civil court, but an insufferable lack of comprehension by the HP Customer Service phone staff.
Nonetheless, to close this post such that we can finally exhale with the knowledge that a wire hanger and a pair of jimmied forks are no longer serving as conductors of Hot electricity from wall to computer, a "North American cable" (again, tech-speak clarification from my schwester) arrived, sans paperwork, sans apology, in an unmarked FedEx padded envelope three days after my last phone conversation. The return address: Tennessee.
Strange that it took three days. I know for a fact that TN is, indeed a FedEx hub, and has been since its inception. Still, it arrived: the correct cable, the true embodiment of an electrically charged, 3-outie, 3-innie, shiny, black, snake.
At last, the sooped-up HP Pavilion is now ready for action. Now, if I can just shut off the Main switch to the house, I can finally detach the tinfoil-coat hanger-fork from the socket and we're ready to roll.

HP Customer Service: Simple is too Simple Part II

Sleek, glistening computer and monitor sit quietly. The beginnings of dust particulate matter forms on the edges of the keyboard's space bar and the jutting lip beneath the cd-rom insert. The four-day old computer with its extra Power Supply Box still lacks a power supply cord.

I made the call - again- to customer service. Because I had a p.t. appointment for an injury, I was a bit cranky from some residual inflammation and not willing to be so, how you say, patient with the lack of electrical comprehension. No more Miss Nice Gal.

HPSC: HPSC, my name is ***, will you be willing to take a short customer service survey at the close of this phone call?

HOME: Sure.
HPSC: Is this Miss Bossybeehive?
HOME: Yes.
HPSC: How may I help you Miss BBH?
HOME: Well, you should see in your records that a call was made to your customer service center on Saturday, April 11.
HPSC: Yes. Yes I see that you called. How may I help you?
HOME: If you notice in the notes, there was a problem in our shipment.
HPSC: I see that you purchased a shiny new computer which is a fine computer.
HOME: I don't know about that because You People (I never refer to anyone as You People, but this just fell out so appropriately) failed to send an electrical cord with the computer, and then today failed to send me an electrical cord as a replacement part.
HPSC: I see that we ordered you a Power Supply Box and...
HOME: Yes. A Power Supply Box does not satisfy the problem because we have no power.
HPSC: I'll transfer you to Technical Support.
HOME: No. Technical Support won't help with this problem because it's not related to anything technical. It's a power cord. You know, like the thing that connects to the wall and to the computer. That is what you didn't send.
HPSC: I see that a power supply cord is not listed in the accessories that you ordered.
HOME: It shouldn't be! It's a cord. It's not an extra. The cords aren't noted for the speakers that hook to the computer, the cords aren't noted for the woofer that hooks to the computer, the cords aren't noted for the monitor that hooks to the computer. It's not an accessory! It's just a standard part of the computer.
HPSC: I'm sorry ma'am. I don't have a power cord listed here. Can you read me the inventory list that came with your computer?
HOME: Sure. But I'm telling you that it's not going to be listed because it shouldn't have to be. It's like doors on a new car. There're not listed in the inventory because they're standard!
HPSC: Yes ma'am.
HOME: (I read the inventory list).
HPSC: The power cord is not on your list, ma'am.
HOME: I know it's not on the list. It's something that's expected to be in the box! If I lived in the middle of Antarctica and ordered this computer, I wouldn't have a local hardware store or BestBuy to drive to in order to purchase a power cord because it should've been in the box with the new computer. It's not an extra.
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Let me look for a part number.
HOME: There shouldn't Be a part number because it's just a fucking cord. It's a cord, like a snake, only rubberized with a girl-part on one end and a boy-part on the other. You know, three-prongs?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Do you have the original list of items that you ordered to be included in the design of your computer? Perhaps it's on there and you did not check the box.
HOME: It's a cord! The computer is an electrical tool. It's a cord that connects the computer to the wall outlet, you know, to transfer electricity. You know, like the same kind that you have with a lamp, or a hair dryer or a radio. They run on electricity.
HPSC: Yes ma'am.
HOME: You don't know what I'm talking about do you?
HPSC: (Silence)
HOME: It looks like a rubber snake with gold pokey things near its tail that plug into the wall. I don't know how else to describe this. They're called electrical cords and there isn't one with this computer that I just purchased!
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Okay ma'am.
HOME: You still don't understand what I'm talking about do you?

HPSC: (silence)

HOME: Look, if I don't have the electrical cord, that black rubberized thing that hooks into the 3-prong portal at the back of my computer while the other end hooks into an electrical outlet, what do you expect me to use to move the electricity, tin foil and a couple forks? It's a cord. It's part of the computer. Yes, it's an electrical cord, but not a Power Supply Box, but rope-like, or a big fat worm.
If you just lean over and look behind your computer or any computer in your customer service center you'll see that there's a black cord, like licorice that connects your computer to some sort of electrical outlet or power strip. Do you see what I'm saying?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Please hold.

(12 minutes later)

HPSC Supv: Hello Ms. BBH, this is floor supervisor ###. How may I help you?
HOME: (I repeat the same yell-a-thon schpiel I just ranted at cust svc rep ***). I don't get why this is so difficult to understand. It's like something from Kindergarten it's so fucking simple! It's an electrical cord. Not an accessory. Not a power strip. Not a Power Supply Box. Not a cosmetic case or a calculator. It's a cord. We use them to plug in things that need electricity, like, oh, this computer, which doesn't have one!
HPSC Supv: I understand.
HOME: Do you? Because it seems like it's over-simplified and the fact that all I need is a power cord to solve my new computer's problem isn't listed in the HP customer service script of how-tos.
HPSC Supv: Yes. I understand. For your inconvenience, we'll credit you $xx.
HOME: Well, thank you, but that still doesn't get me any electricity between my wall and the computer. What do you want me to do put my finger in the socket and simply hover over the computer and create static electricity?
HPSC Supv: No ma'am. I understand your frustration. We'll order you another Power Supp...
HOME: No. I don't need a box. I need a cord. A cord. Please. Just stand up and lean over your computer and see what I'm talking about. It's the same thing as what we use to turn on our refrigerators and toasters. That black ropey looking thing. It's a power cord. It has 3 prongs on one end and hooks into the wall, and 3 receding prongs on the other that hook into the back of the computer.
HPSC Supv: Okay. I'm leaning over my computer and I see a cord that attaches to the computer.
HOME: Is it 3-pronged? (I can't believe she's actually looking at the back of her computer)
HPSC Supv: Yes. And it connects to the surge protector.
HOME: I don't want a surge protector. I want that first cord you mentioned. The 3-prong to 3-prong cord.
HPSC Supv: It's 3-prong to 2-prong.
HOME: Yea, okay, I don't have one so I can't tell you if that's how it should be. But it's a power cord. It sends electricity to the computer from the outlet.
HPSC Supv: Yes ma'am. I understood you needed a Power Supply Box. This is what you need?
HOME: That's what I've been screaming about.
HPSC Supv: Please hold on one moment.
(3 minutes later...)
Okay we'll send you this replacement part in a few days?
HOME: That is absolutely unacceptable. Next day air or overnight. I live an hour from HP headquarters why can't one of these people just drop one off at my house? (Can't believe I said 'these people'). I'm sure one of the HP board members lives near me.
HPSC Supv: Yes ma'am. We'll send this overnight. I'll give you the replacement part number.
HOME: A part number for a cord? Okay.
HPSC Supv: We'll send this overnight.

*+*+*+*
I realized when the phone call ended that I wasn't transferred to the customer service survey people.

HP Customer Service: Simple is too Simple

Bought an HP desktop computer the other day. Did the whole thing online, you know, to customize it like some sort of sooped up car. Shiny, fast, a few whistles, a couple bells, silent, though, not all revved up with massive exhaust pipes and fans.



Took 7 days from order to front door FedEx delivery. Very exciting, getting a huge box - let alone any box - delivered via FedEx to the door. The doorbell Ding-donged! Cute guy in FedEx midnight blue shorts and shirt hauls up this coffin-sized box. Couldn't just leave it at the door like everything else; had to actually have a live human sign for it. Box was unmarked save for the white upc stickers. It could've been a dead body (or a bunch of fishes in newspaper)sent from Uncle Vinny, for all I knew. Heavy too.



Handle holes on the side allowed me to shoosh it inside the door and scare Basco and Gracie into a major sniff-a-thon. Dead body still scored high on the list, although if it were, I think both dogs would have rubbed their bodies all over the cardboard, just like the allure of a very post-mortem seagull or other maimed mammal in the woods. I bent down next to them and, yes, sniffed too. No pronounceable or obvious scents to alert Horatio & the Miami CSI folks about.



Dragged the boxes (monitor came separately) up to the kitchen where I'd already disassembled the archaic 5 year old computer. Opened the giant box and found, of course, the sleek black computer and its sidecar box of accessories: speakers, keyboard, mouse, you know all the goodies.



Pulled everything out, laid it onto the floor and followed the simple 6-step pictograph poster for Installing Your New HP Computer. Easy peezy. Monitor-check. Speakers-check. Keyboard & mouse wireless usb thing-check.

Finally, "Step 5: Connect Power. Connect computer to electrical outlet." Seems easy enough. Hmm. Where's the 3-prong power cord? Searched through the casket box. Nothing. Scanned the styro-packing. Nothing. Dug through the keyboard, monitor, and accoutrement packaging. Nothing but black twist-ties and empty plastic bags. Foraged under the desk and in Gracie's toy basket (just in case). Nothing. Nowhere.

A brand spankin' new HP computer with snappy little speakers - and shoebox sized woofer, too!- a glossy monitor and only air to draw the electricity from the wall to the computer. This seemed strange to me: was this one of those 'accessories not included' things like Malibu Barbie's van and yellow polka-dotted bikini?

From the home phone, called HP Customer Svc. and explained the situation, in short, 'There's no power cord in the box.'
HPSC: Ma'am, what's the part number for this?
Home: What part number? It's a power cord.
HPSC: On your inventory list, it should have a part number.
Home: (Review inventory list) There's no part number because it's a power card. It connects the computer to the electrical outlet in the wall.
HPSC: If it's not listed in your inventory list then it must be sold separately.
Home: It's a power cord, it's not an accessory. It gives the computer the electrical energy.
HPSC: Let me transfer you to I.T. Perhaps they can help you with this.
Home: There's nothing for I.T. to do because there's no power. There's no technical assistance I need because there's no electricity running to the computer. I just need the power cord.
HPSC: I understand what you're saying ma'am, but if it's not listed in your inventory and you didn't add it in to your computer purchase then it's not included.
Home: It's a computer! It needs electricity! It doesn't run on batteries. All I need is the electrical cord that attaches to the computer and the electrical outlet.
HPSC: It sounds like you need a Power Supply Box.
Home: Fine, if that's what you call an electrical cord, then yes, I suppose a Power Supply Box is needed.
HPSC: I'm sorry for your inconvenience in all this. We will credit you $x for this inconvenience.
Home: Thank you. So you're sending a power cord?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. We'll be sending you a Power Supply Box soon.
Home: Soon? No. I've spent $xx on this computer and because of HP's mistake, I can't turn it on. You'll be sending it to me via FedEx next day or overnight.
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Again, I'm sorry for your inconvenience. We'll send you the Power Supply Box overnight.
Home: Thank you.
--click--
That was Saturday.
On Tuesday, a heavy package arrived via FedEx on the doorstep. Surprised at the box's girth and weightiness, I opened it immediately, thinking that they must have included the inconvenience $$ credit inside as a sack of coins.

I withdrew the double-layer bubble-wrapped contents. Indeed, it was a Power Supply Box. This, btw, is a 3"x 5" x 5" metal box with the (innie) outlet on one side and about 50 multi-colored wires poking out the other. At the terminal end of said wires are plastic things, meant for plugging into some other matched-up pokey things within the bowels of the computer, not unlike the serial port attachments, only way smaller and more of them.

I checked the box. I checked the bubble wrap. I checked the packing slip which said "Please find the enclosed replacement part sent to you by HP Express Parts Program....Your product is ready for installation..."
I looked outside the front door just in case I missed something, like, oh, another package containing a Power Cord.
There was none.

Gen-X Solo-Travel: Will She Make it to the Airport?

A few months ago, my 22 y/o niece, Keisha, decided that she wanted to travel to Europe. She'd just quit her job in a grocery store, prior to that she'd quit her job in a cafe, and prior to that, she'd quit her job working at a theater box office. She stopped attending classes at the local community college because she didn't think it was worthwhile. And why not? She was active in her high school's drama department and hoped to move to L.A. or NY to get discovered (or rich?), a lá Lana Turner at Schwab's soda shop or like J-Lo bumping into the senatorial candidate in Maid in Manhattan.

Her grandmother decided that there was not enough room in her Malibu home for granddaughter Keisha, aka Juliet Marks, or Lily White (stage names) to live while her budding acting career launched itself into Hollywood's open arms.

Because she lacked income, her boyfriend booted her from their shared apartment. She moved back in with my brother, Tommy the single father.

Then she decided to travel. She'd ventured with Tommy --who made all arrangements and studied the guides-- to Seattle, Chicago, the Oregon Coast, and Las Vegas. It was this latter point of interest that spurred her Big Trip.
They tip-toed through the Wynn, open-mouth awed the Chihuly jellyfish glass beauties at the Bellagio, admired the sultry legs of the Pharaoh-clad employees at the Luxor, and dreamed of 5th Avenue at NY-NY. Around 10pm, they leaned over the canal at the ever-daylight Venetian boat launch area and Keisha was bitten. "I love this!" she said to Tommy. He wasn't sure if it was the dusky lighting, the gondola or the striped gondolier, or the $8 she just won in the Wheel-of-Fortune slot machine, or even M&M World which they strolled to earlier in the day that she adored. It didn't matter anyway.

Three months later, she's in Venice, Italy for a solid week of travel. The real Venice, not the Venetian, which may have been a better, English-speaking option given her travel-saaviness. She's traveling alone this time, not with Tommy, though. At present, following two-and-a-half days of Venice, she's holed up in her hotel room with a dead cell phone and a credit card that's mounting in debt.

One week ago, she arrived in Venice with two outfits. Once she leaves Italy, she's planning on spending a week in London. She had no hotel reservation, nor a hostel reservation. She's knows nary a lick of Italian language other than a few entrées and Peregrino. She has not a map of Venice. And, despite my brother's urging to purchase an adapter, "Dad, quit telling me what to do! I know what I need!" she has no means for communication other than the $1000/minute hotel phone. She purchased a phone card in the airport when she landed, she's already used it up. Since she doesn't know any Italian, she doesn't know where to buy another.

She took a cab from the airport to a hotel recommended by an [employed attorney] family friend. Her room overlooks a canal. I wonder if this is a good thing or bad thing given ambient temperature and wind direction.
Day one in Venice: Step outside the hotel, walk two cobblestone blocks (again, no map or guidebook) and she's lost. Can't ask for directions because it's Off Season, so the major English-speaking touristy peops aren't there. Lost. In Venice. Three hours later, return to hotel.
Day two in Venice: She asked the hotel's front desk person for assistance in finding a cafe and a couple sites. Cobblestone turn, cobblestone straight, cobblestone turn, a canal, a turn, an old building, and, voila! Lost again. Four hours later, return to hotel. Call father and cry during expensive phone call. "I hate it here! It all looks the same and I keep getting lost. I'm not leaving my hotel room again."

Prior to this whole trip, while my brother was in Reno, he received a desperate phone call from Keisha. She bawled on the phone, gasping for air between sobs. "Slow down," he said, "tell me what's going on." Again, I'd like to point out she's 22 years old.

"It's ONE WAY! I'm stuck there. It's only One Way!" sob sob sob.

Tommy sat down and pressed the phone to his ear, as if this would help him comprehend the situation better. "What's one way? What are you talking about?"

"The ticket. It's One Way. I'm stuck there. I'm just going to let it go and forget about this whole stupid trip thing. How was I supposed to know?"
Apparently, in her independent state of mind, she failed to notice that her online purchase of said ticket to Venice from Portland, via Washington, DC was one-way versus roundtrip. $600.

I decided to try doing this myself, to go through the very confusing process of purchasing a one-way vs. roundtrip ticket from Portland-Venice, Italy-Portland.
First, I googled Flights to Venice, Italy. Seemed clear enough. Lots of choices. I went with Cheap Flights, then plunked in the information, you know, starting point, end point, list by price etc. Right there, all neon and clear it defaulted to Round Trip. I had to physically click One Way. Found a RT for $629. About ten minutes with distractions.
I'm still trying to figure out how she managed this minor oversight.
Because she was debilitated and he was out of town, Tommy's friends helped her out. Got her back stateside by way of London, through Dublin. Another $600. Cha-ching! Said atty's son/family friend suggested that as long as she was flying out of London, she might as well stay a few days, hence the 5 days there beginning this Friday.
Little problem: how oh how is Keisha going to get from way-south Italy to way north England? Oh my oh my. Just a detail that's a bit overlooked and she has no Eurail pass, nor enuf for a bumpy 3-day taxi or busride. I'm thinking mule. Anyone else agree on this?

So, there's my neice, someone who would be eaten alive in NYC (although she loved the NY-NY hotel in Vegas). Someone who would openly sit at a romantic Venezia cafe and tell some handsome English-speaking Italian hotty that she 'can't believe how hard it is to get around Venice! It's a good thing I'm carrying my cell phone, passport, plane tix, and all my cash right here (points to belly) in my money belt! Don't know if I'll ever get back to my hotel room!'
And with that, Hotty Italiano will wink at his buddies across the cobbled road and they'll offer to walk her back to her hotel, the name of which she's butchered to "L'Hotelio Venezia, or something like that." And somehow she'll find a way to help them out financially with their broken down Fiat or ailing mother's health or some taxicab-hydroplane scheme that will help her get up to the island London.

I told Tommy to locate his local Western Union office, and that the next time he speaks with Keisha (via costly hotel phone) he should tell her to do the same as I foresee a financial deficit in the near future of my wise-cracking crystal ball. If she's not pick-pocketed or scammed of all her low-value American dollars in Venice, I wonder what will happen in London where they speak English and she, naive and all, still has no idea where she's not going.

Mind you, some people are really good fly-by-the-seat-of-yer-pants travelers. Keisha is not one of these people..... yet.

In the meantime, I'm hoping that she can simply bump into another English-speaking traveler in the hotel lobby who can help her get a good meal or cup of espresso, or at least a regular route out-and-back from her hotel.