Pippic for Thought


Moishe's Pippic
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

I spotted this when walking down Hayes Street in San Francisco. It was Bay to Breakers and I was dressed (rather half-heartedly) as a zebra and had to cut across lanes of foot traffic to snap this shot.

Incidentally, my great-uncle's name is Moishe, and my first word was pippic. I later printed out this photo and mailed it to my 87-year-old Amah, who laughed herself silly when I called to ask if she got it.

This picture gives me hope, that maybe, during normal business hours, somewhere in San Francisco a family is making their ends meet by selling bellybuttons. Belts? Salami? Or maybe just good old-fashioned belly laughs.

Jobs: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Live Without 'Em

This New York Times opinion forum on whether or not recent graduates should be choosy in their initial job offers struck a familiar chord. It seems like the old cliche about the pressure to find an ideal first job is now so ubiquitous that experts from all fields are now questioning whether, in this economy, it's a smart idea to wait out the job search for the best offer, or to simply accept any job in the interim.

I understand the first job out of college to be an anticlimactic precedent; as if, upon graduating with a bachelor's degree, one has an obligation to find the kind of job that aligns perfectly with their degree requirements. That might be all well and good for an engineer or computer scientist, but what does that mean for those of us who devoted most of our college days to deconstructing literary theory or writing plays? I've always understood that the pursuit of a creative lifestyle meant accepting the financial and societal uncertainties that sometimes accompany it. With that in mind, I've often been placed in the odd social moment of talking myself into a corner when someone asks me how I put my degree in creative writing to good use. By being creative. By writing. By being a creative writer in basically everything I do. And one can write creatively about anything: other writers, current events, scientific studies, socks, commercial products...the weather.

One thing I'm trying to do less is justify my interests and passions as an extension of my academic plans. I've applied the skills I learned in college in various jobs around the world, and to date, they've served me fine. I started working as a junior in college, and have worked either half or full time ever since. Secretly I'm glad that I already had a degree when the housing market crashed in 2008.



Edwin Hoc, the director of strategic and foundation research at the National Association of Colleges and Employers, describes a situation that hits close to home: that of recent grads who gain experience in a non-profit field in hopes that it will make them a more attractive candidate for jobs in the long run. Hoc says that for these students, "turning down a job offer with a minimal starting salary and few prospects for advancement can be preferable to accepting the job, especially from a 'long-run' career perspective. However, not everyone, not every new graduate, can afford to make this kind of choice. Those that can, count on a safety net of support (generally parents) that allows them to survive and thrive while avoiding initiating a career path with a minimal early return."

As someone who has worked as everything from barista to international student advisor, in radio, web and in print, I wonder, too, about that "minimal early return," and at what point it's smart to start prioritizing that over my delicate and sometimes bleeding creative heart.

Does health insurance affect your heart?

Health insurance isn't for the weak of heart.

Well, technically, it is, but in our country, I get the feeling the entire industry weakens the heart.

I'm a middle-class Caucasian woman with an entire network of family, friends and medical professionals who have proven, time and time again, that they can help support me. I'm in good health for someone of my size and age, with one major flaw. I deign to have a pre-existing condition.

I've been over this before, and I have a feeling I'll be going over it every day until type 1 diabetes has a hard and fast cure. But lately I have been particularly flummoxed by privatized health care. I was reminded again this week when my family and I were contemplating options for me as I transfer grad schools and have exhausted three years of COBRA coverage. That's the word these companies use: exhaust. I don't think I've exhausted COBRA as much as it's exhausted me. And for the past four months I've been navigating this world of conversion policies and HIPAA plans, trying to find a creative way to continue coverage without draining my parents of their retirement or forcing me back to Starbucks while I get a Masters degree.

And then I came across this article, written a mere three days after I was diagnosed as diabetic back in 2001. Miguel Aguayo is an artist who lives in Canada, which has socialized health care--something he appreciates as a deaf man. Apparently the American privatized health care system was looking attractive to some Canadians, who grew tired of waiting in long lines, and thought that perhaps our system offered the same services more quickly. But then came the unforeseen sacrifices: Aguayo speaks of how, when he and his family lived in the U.S., they often had to postpone medical treatment until legitimate emergencies, and even then, the hospital bills were as paralyzing as the illnesses themselves.

It seems silly to have perfectly good medical facilities that are only available to those who can pay for them, and even then, to ask them to wait until they are truly risking their lives. This is not health insurance. This is disaster relief. And it's expensive.

I don't know what I hope to aim by writing this. I'm preparing to spend another week on the phone, getting transferred from department to department of a huge, profit-seeking health insurance company whose employees see me as a subscriber ID number, one with a pesky little condition that ultimately will cost them more if I keep myself healthy than if I don't have access to the tools I need to stay well.

I wonder what undocumented immigrants do? I wonder what Canadians do? I wonder what these so-called proponents of privatized health care do, when they lose their jobs, get diabetes themselves, or have an unplanned pregnancy?

I might take a cue from Aguayo and head north. As soon as I get off the phone.

Sign of a Good Day


big sur. julia fords river
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

The water was a bit deeper than I originally anticipated, but it was worth it to get to the other side of the sand dunes at Andrew Molero State Park in Big Sur. My housemates, boyfriend and I drove down the coast this morning, stopped at the Henry Miller Memorial Library, ate tacos near the river, and tromped around because tromping is the singular best activity for a birthday. The older the better.





Adventure is in the air. Ryan and I have planned an ambitious road trip with stops in Phoenix, Austin, New Orleans, Atlanta, Durham, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Denver and St. George in mind. We might very well be underestimating the size of the United States. But you know, I'm okay with that. Underestimation. Size. Time. Not knowing. I think, as I reach the cusp of my 26th year on the planet, I'm getting more and more comfortable with the idea of just letting the things I can't control dictate the things I can. So be it.

We hope to blog, take pictures and draw comics of the trip as we go. And then make up all the money we spend in gas by printing the comics into handy little zines that eventually we sell for gobs of money, in which case we celebrate by driving to who knows where.

Seriously though, I hope to be fording more rivers this summer. Bigger ones, greener ones, faster ones. Stay tuned and I just might.

Oh. Bama.



I spotted this t-shirt at the Maker Faire in San Mateo last weekend, and was sorely tempted to buy it. It really made me stop and think, wow, we've come a long way from the days of GW Bush's face superimposed over Alfred E. Neumann's. Presidential imitation has gone from abject mockery to some bizarre mixture of fascination, awe, and, yes, lust.

Needless to say, I didn't buy it, but if I see anyone on the street wearing it, I'm giving them a high five.

Another Reason to Watch News in Spanish

I turned on TeleMundo today after I got home from a run and saw a young journalist reporting live from Phoenix, flanked by a phalanx of supporters, Latino and anglo. Al Rojo Vivo has been broadcasting from Arizona since the law SB 1070 on April 24. You know, the law that says all those not born in the United States must carry their papers with them everywhere they go.

Amidst interviews with prominent Latino and Mexican politicians, Al Rojo Vivo shared two things that blew me away completely:

The first was a new ad campaign developed in Sonora, Mexico, which was recently printed in the Arizona Republic newspaper. It's a close-up on a man in camouflage with binoculars held against his eyes, with the words "IN SONORA WE ARE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE FROM ARIZONA." It is, in a word, awesome. Awesome in the original sense of the word: it strikes awe in its beholders, because at last, a mirror has been lifted to the Arizona border. Heck, to the American border.



The Arizonan response? Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio has asked his constituents to avoid traveling to Mexico. Because that's the way mature, forward-thinking, global citizens of the world do things, I guess.

The second amazing thing I saw on TeleMundo was this short film by EKG Films:



If I learned anything today, it was to get my international news from other countries. And that if Arpaio wants to boycott Mexico, I'm fine with boycotting Arizona.

Where You Should Be Tonight



Fourteen Hills, SF State's graduate literary magazine, is sending its latest issue out into the world tonight at the San Francisco Motorcycle Club. We're talking awesome contributor readings, amazing raffle prizes, really yummy food, fun people. And, um, an interview I did with SF State lecturer, published writer and the author of a forthcoming novel, Alice LaPlante.

Here's what you need to know:
come to the
San Francisco Motorcycle Club
2194 Folsom St. (@18th St.)
at 7 pm tonight

If you can't make it, buy your copy through Fiction On Demand or pre-order from Small Press Distribution. Also see D.W. Lichtenberg's breakdown on designing the cover art at We Who Are About to Die.

Things that Repeat



I saw this in a bike tunnel in Isla Vista in 2003. The war in Iraq had just been officially declared and it was just a matter of months before the truly embarrassing and horrifying destruction abroad would occur.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when I read in the New York Times that the American death toll in Afghanistan has reached 1000. I wonder, whose morbid job is it to count the dead? Does a mortician do it? A military officer? Some inverse incarnation of the stork who brings babies into the world?

I wonder, too, about the real question that this number hides: If 1000 Americans are dead in Afghanistan, who else is lost? Death and its dark honor is not a privilege that only Americans endure.

In 2007, I was working at an elementary school outside of Malaga, Spain, when we celebrated el Dia de la Paz. Peace Day. We took about a week of class time and instructed kids of all grades to design their own posters and learn peace songs. This was right around the time that the American death toll in Iraq had reached 3000, and my aunt April was hosting candlelight vigils in Los Angeles.



I'm thinking it's high time we had our own Dia de la Paz as well. If we're going to be repeating ourselves, it might as well be with something good.