About Broadchurch…

Broadchurch murder on back burner

1. You should be watching this.

2. It’s free on Netflix streaming

3. I have no idea what British people are talking about with their serieses. As far as I can tell, I just watched series 1 and 2 at the same time, and maybe there’s a third that may or may not be exactly the same thing all over again. Because descriptions of series 1, 2, and 3 are the same.

4. If you saw the ending you know that I am really wondering how there are two more seasons. Or maybe 1 more. It’s unclear.

5. Seriously, what is with the serieses?

Every time someone in Portland says:


…replace it with” Mexican.” You’ll get a pretty accurate map of racism in the whitest city in America.

It’s kind of hard when you come to Portland, especially if you pass as white, to get a real feel for just how racist we can be here. Everybody’s so accepting and nice. We’re good to our LGBT population, no reasonable person would fly a confederate flag, nobody in city government would dare say a slur, or be caught defending racist policies.

It’s almost like it’s an accident that black and Latino people earn less than half or nearly half of what white Portlanders earn, or that they never seem to integrate into white neighborhoods (it’s not), and that we currently have this issue where Black Portlanders especially are being priced out of the small sections of the city they have historically occupied in order to make room for affluent white people.

It’s really not okay to hate on minorities here. Everywhere I go, white Portlanders are really concerned about racism. These situations bother them even as they fail to change. But it is okay to hate on Californians, and it is definitely okay to identify as a “real Oregonian,” either by birth, or even more classily by generational occupancy. I recently overheard a coffee shop conversation that went like this

Person A: My family has been here forever. We’re original. Since the beginning.
Person B: So you’re Native American?
Person A: Oh no, nothing like that. We came on the Mayflower.

Oh no, nothing like that.

Because it’s totally natural to refer to yourself as “original” while completely ignoring and/or forgetting the actual original people who still languish on reservations all over the state.

The idea of the Californian, this less intelligent, less enlightened menace coming up from the south with an unrealistic work ethic and a threatening and new culture fits right into the racist narrative no one in Oregon is allowed to express otherwise. The fear of the other. We’re different from them. We talk different, we have weird foods (seriously, where the fuck is the Sushi?!) we don’t make sense, and we’re here for your jobs.

So, next time you hear an Oregonian bitch about all the Californians ruining their pristine state, shitting all over their traditional way of life, read between the lines.

Thanks to Dave for pointing that out.

Editor’s Note: And yeah, most of us California transplants left that terrible crap hole for a reason. Same as all immigrants. We came here for a better way of life, and we don’t give a shit about your disapproval because no amount of dirty looks or shitty passive aggressive comments is as bad as living in California. Also, we’re all just saying we’re from Bend now. No one from Portland actually really knows what Bend was like in the 80s, so we’re good.

Point of Clarification: There’s been lots of discussion over on Facebook. When I say replace “Californian” with Mexican, I didn’t mean that Oregonians are actually referring to Mexicans when they talk about Californians. More like Californian is to smoke like Mexican is to fire. It’s the dye you drop in a river in order to identify current patterns. Racism comes from the fear of the other and is predicated by scarcity or perceived scarcity (e.g. they’re taking our jobs). This doesn’t mean that everybody who says they hate Californians is automatically a racist, but that it’s a culturally acceptable expression of the kind of generalizing that would be unacceptable for a white Oregonian to say about any other population.

3 Dumb Assumptions That Are Ruining Your Heterosexual Life

The whole world is made for us cis hetero trash, and what do we do? Fuck it all up by uncontrollable breeding and religious hate-speech. Also bad, weird sex. It’s almost like we feel guilty for our privilege and have decided that our collective punishment should be uninspired fuck sessions forever. Instead of, you know, actually supporting equal rights and not being tools to our queer brothers, sisters and siblings of all kinds.

Here are three things we automatically assume about sex that is killing our collective sex life.

1. Man butt is not made of plutonium. It’s totally okay to touch it. Fun fact: having someone play with your butt does not make you gay. Because you know what makes you gay? BEING FUCKING GAY, DUMMY.

2. Penis in vagina is not the only kind of sex. Shocking, I know, but there are about as many different ways to fornicate as there are stars in the sky, and only a few of them involve penetration. Take a break from mindlessly stabbing your lady with your meat missile and figure out some new moves. It’s not a sin. Because there’s no such thing.

3. It’s not all about cumming. I know, sacrilege. Why else do we fuck? Certainly not to connect on an intimate level with another human being who we care about and enjoy being with. Perhaps someone we want to touch and affirm our positive feelings for in an attempt to bond with them and communicate their loveliness to us?

Of course, if you don’t want to have a different kind of sex than you currently have, or if there are certain things you are not interested in, by all means set your boundaries, be who you are. But don’t keep having boring sex just because you think that’s what sex is.

Beast Portland

Editor’s Note: I wrote this at 1 a.m. while tired and more than a little drunk from 6 perfect courses of amazing food and wine. I’m not going to edit a single thing. Not even to fix the formatting. Blogging verite if you will.


I know after yesterday’s post this is going to seem like a very strange turn-around, but we just came home from Beast Portland, where we had an amazing 6 course dinner courtesy of someone who is not me (don’t worry, I’m still far too broke to afford something so wonderful). It was great. I don’t want to say that it re-affirmed my waning faith in the healing power of food, but few experiences in my life have been more spiritually nourishing and all of those were sex-related.



By the end of the night, I wasn’t stuffed or too full. I didn’t feel guilty for what I’d eaten, there was no way I could have. A person can’t feel guilty about experiencing craftsmanship like that. I get caught up in this artificial moral framework around food, and while I’ve never been able to understand people who feel guilty for the sex they have, I think I do that with food and it’s it’s bullshit.


Ben’s already asleep, so I’m not going to write much more. Only to say that tonight’s dinner brought me back, if briefly, to the real nature of food. The true joy of making and eating that I let myself get away from with this arbitrary restricting. I am not just an anxious person. I’m also a part of this biome and this world. We have so many different and amazing ways to exist in these frameworks. In the context of the food cycle, in the context of the nearly infinite variety of foods and food types available, how can a person really be so small? I want to draw in, to be less and experience less and I just can’t.


I’m falling asleep now, but it’s s start.

More Dumb Shit About Life, which Sucks.

wpid-20150702_002740.jpgTrigger warnings: Talking about eating disorders, anxiety, self-hate.

This stupid non-diet has me so fucked up you guys. Today was okay, but I’ve been having some real trouble.

Two weeks ago I was cool. I was into it, everything glowed. Then my doctor asked for another blood test to see if it was really working to bring my insulin down and I fucking lost it. I started skipping meals intentionally, which lead to some really shitty shame spirals and some “I’ve been ‘good,’ I should have some ice cream/Oh God I ate some ice cream I should never eat again and maybe stab myself in my worthless fat throat for good measure.”

Which is nice.

It’s funny how you work for years to love your body and treat it right and one helpful health suggestion just sets that right on fire.

I’m terrified of taking the blood test and finding out I have to change my diet even more. I’m terrified of taking the blood test and finding out the diet has worked because that’s going to legitimate this restrictive thinking and make it seem even more awesome.

Despite clear evidence that this is really not good for me, I’m having a hard time taking any of this seriously because I am fat as shit and I know this is 100% unprocessed, first of the season sick thinking, but maybe I deserve to starve for a while. Probably forever.

It’s almost ironic but a lot of my stress over this doesn’t come from the desire to restrict. That’s clean and familiar and safe. It comes from the shame and guilt I feel for wanting to restrict in the first place. It comes from knowing it’s sick thinking and being very angry that I just can’t seem to get this right or do this well. It’s from the cognitive dissonance of always always being wrong no matter what I eat, or how or when or why. How can one meal be too much and not enough of everything at the same time is an extremely exhausting paradox to maintain.

And as much as people think they’re helping, I am also also really done hearing about how dumb the not diet is. I get it, you think my doctors a wacko, but telling me not to follow a diet my doctor gave me (she’s a doctor, people) because you personally think fruit is awesome and meat is dumb is not a ringing endorsement and it’s making me feel like even more of an idiot than I already do.

I try not to talk about any if this because everybody has something really insightful to say about how they do things, how I should do things, or how wrong the things I am currently doing are. This is not helpful. If you want to be helpful, please either let me rant, or don’t bring it up because I don’t even know anymore. I will be talking about this because it’s currently all I think about and there’s just going to be days like that. It’s going to happen. I’m not in a good place, I won’t be acting good with it, I just won’t.

It occurred to me yesterday that disordered eating goes hand in hand with obsessive thinking, which I do actually have a framework to deal with, so I’m going to try and work the 12 steps over it and see if it helps anything. It’s been a good bet in the past, although not always.

It’s tempting to say that the not diet ruined everything I’d worked for in body acceptance, but that’s not really true. Body acceptance helped me to cope with everything the not diet exacerbated. But it wasn’t going to stay quiet forever.

As much as I would have denied it even a month ago, I actually went through life thinking that I would never have to deal with my anorexia. I was thin and depressed, now I’m fat and happy; problem solved. Not so much. I did a lot of things to avoid or ignore the anxiety I feel about eating but I failed to do the one thing I really needed to. Which is to address it and cope with it. It was really good and productive to be loving to myself as a fat woman. But I’m missing some crucial points, and it’s becoming really apparent that I need to figure it out. I can’t go back into denial about this, as much as I’d like to.

And for the record, this has nothing to do with my fat, it never did. It has everything to do with my anxiety and the extremely bad habits I learned trying to control that anxiety when no other options were available to me. My body deserves care and compassion as a fat woman, as an anorexic, as a flawed human just trying to be as kind to myself as possible, and that includes mental health as well as physical health. I feel really awful and it’s difficult to remember that.

This isn’t something I just thought up yesterday. This is something that was modeled for me by my mom and grandma. This is a coping mechanism of a desperate child that I was not stable or healthy enough to change. I still may not be.

Ant Man y Taco: The Mexican Shuck and Jive

We saw Ant Man on Friday, which I totally enjoyed, but I did have some issues with the character of Louis, played by Michael Peña, who just happened to be the title role in Cesar Chavez, another movie that pissed me off recently.

On the one hand, thank you white people for including not only a black guy sidekick, but also a Mexican, and for some reason a Russian as well. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m not grateful for any representation at all, even as a bumbling, silly talking ex-con hit parade. I know that Louis the cholo sidekick from prison is not cannon, and I’m real grateful you remembered that we exist. Even that you remember the disproportionate number of black and Mexican men in prison, which you illustrated well by packing 99% of the actors of color into the prison bits.


You could have left the only POC characters as that one black avenger and the douche-cop’s forgotten partner. Maybe I’m just being uppity here, but I kind of feel annoyed that Louis and the ethnic sidekick trio are the comic relief. Look at these wacky crazy POCs, look at them be mostly incompetent and ridiculous. Look how they don’t take anything seriously; not like the white guy American they need to motivate and organize them.

But I feel conflicted because I really liked the character of Louis. He’s cute and funny, and secretly smart and good at stuff despite the fact that his default presentation is happy-go-lucky moron. One of the great things about being constantly underestimated by monoculture is that you can use that perception in order to pull the wool over the collective eyes of the public and profit despite your lack of social agency, and Louis portrays this perfectly.

Most minority populations have a trickster-fox archetype that pretends to be an idiot in order to blindside the oppressor for the benefit of themselves and the community. We love that shit.

So hooray secretly smart Louis who went to prison for stealing two smoothie machines (seriously, a white guy would get community service for that), which I hope is all they could make stick while he secretly got away with way more than that. Dude does live in an actual apartment in actual San Francisco, so you know he’s got crazy shit-tons of money from somewhere. Doesn’t their apartment have a locking gate and a real kitchen? That’s, like $10,000 a month right there.

But I really wish we could have a smart, capable latino character who doesn’t have to be a fucking stereotype, or comic relief for once. You guys know that our strange cultural obsession with clowns doesn’t mean that’s all we can be, right?

Portland’s Mad Dildoer

It seems like the world has finally caught up to what we Portlanders have known to be true for months now. Our awesome city has been gifted with a mystical dildo fairy who I choose to call The Mad Dildoer. I’ve been keeping abreast of the situation on my personal twitter for some time.

I, for one welcome our new dildo overlords. So much so that I made them a thing:


This is free to use by any dildo fans.

Anybody who is not a fan of the dildecorations is obviously just jealous.

Sleep Cycles


As I’m writing Wednesday’s blog, something that has become unusual for me is happening. It’s still Tuesday. When the massively shitty heat wave hit Portland in June, I developed the extremely bad habit of staying up until 3 a.m. working because the temperature in the office could only become bearable around midnight. So I was waking up at 11 a.m., doing an hour or so of work on the computer, transitioning to the bed where I mostly dozed and did everything I could from my cell phone, then eventually moseyed into the office and was awake until everything got finished.

It’s barely 11:50 and here I am wrapping up. It’s almost surreal. Of course, I do have a meeting at 8 a.m. tomorrow, and I didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night to justify a second late night in a row. Especially since we’ll be driving down to Corvallis tomorrow afternoon and driving back Thursday. Also, it’s a blissful 70 degrees in this room right now and I may never ever want to be any other temperature ever again.