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“They'll like me; I'm the butcher.”
As if we live in a village.
As if we live in a town that has a butcher, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a haberdasher, a baker.
I am the village barber.
I am the village poet.
The little one licked his shoes and he chortled and nodded, almost smugly. “Yep, they like me.” I wanted to get down on my knees and inspect his worn black loafers for blood. Blood spatter. Blood spittle. But he kept walking and the leashed ones did not, so I lost my chance to embarrass myself in order to prove him wrong. I want to yell after him, “She licks everyone, I'll have you know!” But of course I did not. This is a friendly neighborhood and I am a friendly neighbor, even though I have never noticed the tall, greasy butcher before so perhaps he is not my neighbor, after all.

I am not just a consumer.
In fact, besides books and letters and delicious food, I do not want to consume.
I see a woman, and she is sitting on a faded adirondack chair, surrounded by small end tables teeming with food. She is eating mashed potatoes. But really she lounges in a recliner. I just wanted to say adirondack when I don't actually know what that looks like, so I envision a squishy recliner and use a different word. As she spoons each mound of buttery potatoes into her mouth, she grins. Then she picks up two connected lengths of juicy sausage. They are sizzling with natural flavors, otherwise known as smoke-scented chemicals injected into the meat. She shoves them down her stretched gullet like a junkyard dog, one after the other. The second one gets lodged a little, but instead of panicking, she just grabs a nearby spoon and uses the long end to poke the sucker down. And it works. She follows it up with a swig of low and sweetened iced tea which feels good on her slightly irritated throat. She grabs a slab of pepperoni pizza and folds it like a taco. Then she swings it around and around, playing the "airplane game", and she expels gas which sounds like zooming noises. Every time she extends her bite to rip into the pizza, the "airplane" zooms away just out of her reach. She growls with determination and then lifting a little out of her chair she lunges and finally gets the prize. Pepperoni is a favorite among many people, I think.

Last week I officiated my sister's wedding. So awesome. Seriously. The thing is that growing up, I always just assumed I would be a bridesmaid standing next to my sister, dabbing my eyes carefully to avoid smearing mascara. Maybe I would say a few words, or read a fitting quote, but I envisioned everything from the sideline. I had zero thoughts of me standing front and center, facing the crowd. What a trip.
When Vanessa informed me that there would be no bridesmaids, no competition over maid of honor, I was a little bummed. I am the big sister, after all, and if I had no official duties I would be just another audience member. Then we talked about the whole “officiant thing”, and I got my hopes up. I was excited, even a little proud, to have been considered for this role. But they also wanted things to be minimal, simple, casual. There were no big preparations, no rehearsals, no need to go over notes like I gather other officiants or preachers have done. And that was ok. I was just stoked that they trusted me and my voice.
So I stood under the shade of the massive fullness of tree, and I called everyone together, all the while realizing that I truly had nothing planned. I didn't panic, nor did I sweat, but instead I smiled, and I grabbed the hands of the girls in front of me. And then everyone gathered hands in a giant circle, we closed our eyes, and prayed. You can't go wrong with prayer. After the prayer of blessing and gratitude and supplication, I read a few Bible verses about love, and then the girls said their vows.
The only thing I can say about their vows is that they were so very special, and everyone present really felt a charge, a shift so palpable.
And did I utter the famous words, “you may now kiss the bride?” Nope. The thought did not even cross my mind until a day later. Instead we raised our glasses in a toast, with our eyes and our hearts focused on the lovebirds in front of us, and we cheered. What a trip.

U.S. District Judge Vaughn Walker ruled on Wednesday, August 4th that the California's Proposition 8 ballot initiative denying marriage rights to same-sex couples was unconstitutional. Walker ruled that Proposition 8 is "unconstitutional under both the due process and equal protection clauses."
This ruling happened exactly ten days before the wedding of my sister and her girlfriend of six and a half years. What timing. I feel like I need to re-write my wedding toast, aim more for hope and less for blame. Part of me, the hurt and angry part of me, has been wanting to confront the hypocrites in public, and give them a piece. But really what I want to do is to express the importance of my sister and her love and her rights. My sister and her girlfriend are not second-class citizens, and I need people to see that. Let's toast to the brides! And three cheers for Judge Walker!
Last night I ventured out to the Castro to celebrate the ruling, and it felt so good to be surrounded by such joy and hope. The Castro is notoriously crazy for holidays like Halloween, and for Pride weekend, but last night was a different kind of crazy. The crowds were not bridge and tunnel, nor were they out of control like weekends past, but rather there was this flow to everyone and everything. A current of smiles and dancing and kissing and hugging and all around benevolence. It is absolutely amazing what a little hope can do.

Today I came across a photo of my Grandpa Otto. He is in a sports bar, standing next to a wooden chair with his name, “OTTO”, painted in all caps on the back of the chair. He is an older man in the photo, but his hair is oiled and he is dapper in his collared shirt. He looks like he may be drunk, but maybe I just know that he probably was so I am reading into his loopy grin. On the back of the photo, someone has written “The Man from Moline”. I had no idea my Gramps was called that by his drinking buddies, and this bothers me. Sometimes I am jealous of his friends from the bar.
The photo was too blurry to post, but I like this photo of my Gramps. And I really like the idea of my Grandpa being known as the man from Moline. Otto. Otto was the man. See that guy? That there is the man from Moline.