Cassandra Lewis

I usually avoid the Castro on Halloween. People travel from all over the planet to display themselves in revealing costumes and in various states of public drunkenness. It’s awesome. The only thing I don’t like is how the city keeps imposing restrictions, like barricades that bar drinking.

The rules only make things worse. In fact, ten people were shot this year. It was gang-related of course, but the innocent couldn’t get out of the way because of all the barricades blocking them in the middle of the shoot out. Fortunately, no one died.

A little background violence didn’t stop us from having a good time.  Although we couldn’t get to Lucky 13 or Amber’s because of the crime scene tape. We ended up somewhere else as you can see from the picture above.

The Attic, my favorite bar, bookended our evening as we began there and one of us (not me) passed out there. My best friend in high school, Vinnie, visited from Virginia with her beau Matt. She dated him in high school too. Then all of us went on our separate paths, though Vin and I always kept in touch over the years. Matt and Vinnie recently got back in touch and now they’re a couple again–and still a lot of fun.

That’s Vinnie and Matt. Here’s Vin dousing herself in Drew’s fake blood:

Here are some of my favorite folks:

Dennis, Patrick, Marjorie, and Lyon.

And here’s Vinnie and yours truly dressed like a nerdy devil. Drew’s in the background, sitting in the booth. (He’s dressed up as that famous writer Drew McKinney).

Happy Halloween, everybody!

When tourists visit this great city, which is perhaps the most aesthetically moving place in the world, they hear the chime of the cable car as they pass rows of Victorian homes that are painted in happy pastel colors. They photograph the coral outline of the Golden Gate Bridge through plumes of fog. Along the coast San Francisco is a romantic place only postcards can represent. It’s a sad day when the tourists travel a couple miles inland and witness bullet crossfire. And it’s an even sadder day when one of them gets taken out by a stray bullet.

Much of San Francisco’s economy relies on tourism. If tourists spend too much time dodging stray bullets my guess is they’ll stop visiting. Yesterday, a five-year-old was grazed by a bullet as he played at the Crocker playground. He wasn’t a tourist, but if he was I bet there would be a greater response of outrage from City Hall or even the local news media. No child should have to fear for his life on the playground.

Maybe you think he was involved in a gang, as hoodlums tend to join these violent groups at very young ages. This was not the case. The five-year-old had no gang affiliations, no tribal tattoos, and no politically partisan opinions. The kid just wanted to have a good time in the sandbox. It was not an assassination attempt. Two men across the street from the playground had simply gotten into an argument, apparently unresolvable through conversation, and they each pulled out their loaded guns from their pockets and fired away.

Obviously, the problem here isn’t the fact that they were carrying guns. Our sacred Second Amendment guarantees: the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed. After all, this country was founded on revolutionary resistance and you can see how well these gun-toting soldiers have put this ideal to use over the last six years while civil liberties and privacy have been violated more severely than any other time in U.S. history. Plus, is there any other fashion accessory hotter than gun metal? I’ve heard gun metal is the new black. It’s very slimming to hang the pistol off the side of a suede brown belt, especially now that the Western look is in.

Since the five-year-old was not the intended target and since it’s perfectly fine–and even in style–to own guns I suggest the NRA take some of their tax break money or some of the funds they pay their cute little crewcut-sporting, toothpick-gnawing lobbyists and invest in teaching their loyal shooters how to aim.

The NRA could hold bootcamps out in the country, selling them as “vacation packages” or “timeshares.” A vacation isn’t a vacation without explosions, right? The whole family could participate together. The NRA could sell bumper stickers that state: The family that shoots together stays together. Students would be given matching berets and knee-high army boots (which are always in style). Upon graduation, each student would be presented with a diploma made from target practice paper and a brand new box of bullets–any caliber of their choice.

I certainly would feel a lot safer walking around the Mission if I knew that my neighbors learned how to aim their semi-automatics from the NRA bootcamp. Also, this plan could really put a damper on the pesky liberal saying that guns cause violence because the truth is people behind the guns who don’t know how to aim cause violence (it doesn’t count as violence if you hit your actual target).

Think of all the saved lives, and more importantly, all of the saved taxpayers’ money if we weren’t forced to pay for clean up crews to wash the misspent blood off the streets. If the NRA would teach their gun-accessorizing followers how to aim then the tourists could continue visiting this beautiful city and children could play in peace.

This program is so cool! Today we were given the option of taking a weekend trip out of town. Our choices were: a tour of Northern Ireland or a tour of Dingle in County Kerry.

The hardest decisions are when the potential outcomes are similar–in this case both are awesome. It took me all day to finally decide on Dingle. It’s on the Southwest coast of Ireland where I’ve always dreamed of visiting. Plus, they speak Irish there.

Irish is the official language of Ireland and English is considered its second language even though 95% of the population speaks English. All the street signs in Ireland, including in Dublin, are written in Irish with an English translation underneath. The Irish who live on the West coast speak Irish the most–it’s taught in school as their first language. Thanks to Kevin, who told me about Pimsleur, I’ve been learning Irish. Now I’ll have a chance to practice.

As if that wasn’t exciting enough, two police officers, which are called Garda Siochana here (Guardians of Peace), showed up to talk to us about crime (my favorite subject).

Here are some things they told us: “Don’t be walking around with wads of money on your hands.” You’d mostly have trouble from groups of young drunken lads, “cocky little yokels.” And “They can get a bit narky and strappy.”

Our first reading assignments for one of the two workshop classes is to reread “Eveline” and “A Painful Case” in Joyce’s Dubliners. Martin Roper, the director of the Iowa’s Irish Writing Program and the author of Gone, explained the importance of reading as a writer and to apply this notion while rereading these two short stories.

This is a term many teachers in creative writing programs throw around, but no one has ever taken the time to explain it as he did. Basically, it means to question (”deconstruct”) every bit of a piece and scribble notes all over the margins.

Ask yourself: How is it put together? Why the writer chose to present it this way? Is it honest? What’s the writer really trying to say, as opposed to what’s actually written? What’s the writer’s strategy with language? How would I write it?

For the other workshop class we are to select one of our favorite short stories, mark it up, and describe to the class why it is one of our favorites. My first inclination was to select “Big Blonde” by Dorothy Parker or anything by Sherman Alexie, but then I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say about them. They’re so brilliantly hilarious that there’s really nothing to add. I’m simply awestruck when I think of them. So, I’ve selected a Grace Paley short story (not that it doesn’t move me–just in a different way, one that’s easier to articulate) called “A Conversation with My Father,” from Sarah Stone’s great book on writing: Deepening Fiction.

Then we’re to do a 250-word free write about what we consider Home. Roper gave us a brilliant hand out listing philosophical questions to help stimulate ideas. I’ll summarize: Does it have to be a physical place? Can it be an ideology? Is it memory alone? What makes you homeless?

Then for the literature and theatre classes we’re to read John Banville’s The Book of Evidence and J.M. Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World.

They’re going easy on us during this first week since most of us are jetlagged.

We were taken out to a fancy, three-course dinner downtown, paid for by the program and I got to sit next to Martin Roper. He was born and raised in Dublin, but now lives in Brooklyn and teaches writing at NYU. He said it usually takes a person a day for each hour of the time change to adjust. Does that make sense? (I’m a zombie as it would take me eight days to adjust to the eight hour time change).

Before the fancy dinner, my flatmates and I took a quick walking tour. Here’s what we saw:

This is The Church of Ireland, which we mistook for St. Patrick’s. We still haven’t found St. Patrick’s, but it’s here somewhere.

This is part of Trinity College, but check out the windows–or lack there of.

Trinity College. Too bad I couldn’t erase all the parked cars. It’s timeless, except for those.

Trinity College. This is where Swift, Beckett, Wilde, Joyce, and many of the great Irish writers studied. Iowa’s Irish Writing Program used to be held on this campus.

This is one of the most beautiful parks I’ve ever seen. St. Stephen’s Green. It’s in the center of the city and has been immortalized in Dubliners among other works.

Here it is again. I have a feeling I’ll be spending most of my time in this park. And I’ll take more pictures of it that aren’t so blurry–or I’ll try at least. This park is only twenty minutes from my apartment. (Drew, we found a more direct route, so please forget what I said yesterday).

I love this city. I wish everyone the chance to visit this amazing place sometime in their lives.

Have you heard about the two little old ladies who have been arrested for running over homeless people and then cashing in on the insurance, which they’d set up for their victims? Just when the world seems like it can’t get any crueler you read something like this in the L.A. Times.

I guess this what happens when a country elects an administration that takes away medical coverage (the term “benefits” seems like it’s an extra perk when we’re really talking about basic oh-my-god-stop-the-bleeding medical coverage here) and social security–now the crime demographic has widened.

Remember when starving artists had to sell their souls just for a smattering of cobalt blue?

Those days are over for Damien Hirst. He’s the guy who brought animal carcasses to modern art museums all over the world. Hirst’s current project will cost millions of dollars. He’s dipped a human skull in platinum and is in the process of covering the entire thing with diamonds. Check out the story in today’s Guardian.

The great thing about experimental art is that I’m supposed to interpret this piece however I want. In fact, it’s the viewer’s interpretation that makes the piece complete, in theory. I’m taking it as a statement against Blood Diamonds–or Conflict Diamonds as the United Nations refers to the slaughtering of innocent human lives just so people in “civilized” countries can wear an ostentatious pebble to represent their “eternal love.”

Damien Hirst doesn’t mention any of this in his interview, of course. But here’s a Hirst quote from the Guardian: “I just want to celebrate life by saying to hell with death. What better way of saying that than by taking the ultimate symbol of death and covering it in the ultimate symbol of luxury, desire and decadence? The only part of the original skull that will remain will be the teeth. You need that grotesque element for it to work as a piece of art. God is in the details and all that.”

The article also talks about the security hell that comes with this expensive piece. We’re living in a time where art has become a hot commodity on the black market. Stolen art is traded around at the same rate as drugs and weapons. If you don’t believe me, check out this awesome book called The Rescue Artist about the man who recovered “The Scream,” written by Edward Dolnick. I stumbled upon it while doing research for my satirical novel about art theft.

While Damien Hirst finishes attaching his pretty stones, art thieves all over the world are plotting how to break through the army of security and claim the diamond skull as their own. I just hope whoever ends up with it doesn’t keep it hidden in a dark basement, but displays it in a well-lighted spot where the viewer can uphold her or his responsibility of interpretation.