Friday, September 25, 2009

Think, Bitches, THINK!

so, i have been waiting for a package from UPS all morning. i went out to do laundry, and the truck was out front, so i waited inside. waited. waited. then i went outside again CHOMPING AT THE BIT to do laundry, and see the truck about 1/2 block away. i find the driver and ask if he has a package for 555 president street. he asks my name. then i say, apt. number. he shows me the package and says "yeah, i didn't know what this was, so i couldn't deliver it". i just looked at him and said "so you what would have happened to this package had i not tracked you down?" it would have gone back to the center with a MORE INFO request.
this is how the address was written out on the package:

TO: A9
Jessica van Campen
555 President Street
Brooklyn

are you fucking kidding me? perhaps he recognized A9 as his IQ score. i can see where that could get confusing.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Summer of Love






Summer is winding down, my tan is fading and I have incorporated the scarf back into heavy rotation as part of my uniform. Not much happened in the way of news for me, but I had two crushes. Dear reader, I present you with both of them:


This is Roscoe. He has a mohawk and no yap.






This is an apple on a picnic blanket. Note the perfect little red blush on its brow. It looks great on tartan.

And that was my summer, folks!






Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Capital(istic) Punishment

I cried on the train today. I was on my way to an early yoga class, and finishing up a piece on Todd Willingham, the man who was sentenced to death for killing his three children in a terrible fire. With mounting sadness and frustration, I read the excruciating story that further reinforced my belief that the death penalty is wrong. Towards the end of the horrific tale, tragedy befalls the one person outside of his mother and father who visited and supported him through his period of incarceration. She believed in him, and on the day of his execution, she was in a car accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down. It was at this moment that on the Q train between Canal Street and Union Square that I cried in public. The stinging burning cry that comes out of nowhere, the kind of silent tears that are borne of anger and sadness. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The deputy fire inspector was wrong, the jury was wrong, Willingham's ex-wife was wrong. All because of ego and the need to have a pat answer.

This is where I don't understand the "superior" minds of the law. How do you make a decision like this, sending a rippled effect into the lives of the community and the world, and live with yourself? Despite study and intellect, how can a person be granted this much power? Is it about money? Is it about power and pride? Or is it just ego? I can't really wrap my head around it. I don't know how people move on after this sort of tragedy in their lives, when all I could do was try not to cry in public.