Los Angeles From Above

Romance Part Deuxxx

2006-08-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

As soon as she pulled her pants up and left his house, groggy and squinting in the afternoon light, she turned right and headed down the street. She wasn't in her neighborhood and in fact was quite far from home, although the last thing she wanted to do was ask him for a ride. She made her way, passing families, looking down, smiling at little boys yelling in their yards. She turned and was on the main drag now, full of bars, restaurants, shops. She'd been here before, knew the diner well, knew the thrift store where she'd bought broken earrings, knew where this road would take her. She stopped outside a small bar and peered inside--empty, except for one young man reading in a booth by the jukebox. She stepped through the doorway.
The bartender approached, a handsome blonde woman who felt like she should be working in better places. "What'll you have?" The two women began talking, quietly, quickly, and before long they were drunk. The young man stood and put a song on the jukebox. Soon all three were standing by the stools singing along like old friends. The young man excused himself and the bartender leaned in. "He's a good one, that boy. Smart and kind, from old money. Maybe you should talk." The girl smiled. Maybe, she thought.
When the young man came back the girl asked him for his name. "Red." They skipped the formalities and he told her he'd drive her home. What luck, she thought. She realized how late it was as they left the bar: dark now, and the streets calm. They walked to his car and she sized him up: unassuming, boyish, scrawny, almost effeminate. He got in on the driver's side and reached to unlock her door. When she climbed in he took her face in his hands gently and kissed her aggressively. His tongue felt nice but she was taken aback. "Wasn't expecting that", she mumbled as he shifted into drive.
She invited him in. He was a kind, patient lover, attached to her, it seemed, already. She sighed as it was beginning to get light outside and let herself drift to sleep while on top of him.
In the morning, he wanted to know more about her so they explored her belongings--old journals, photographs, memories. She told him a lot but was careful and guarded even though she figured she could trust him. What they have done to me I can do to you, she thought as she watched his docile eyes scan the pages of her diary. They made plans to meet later and she walked him out. She smoked and took a shower and watched the day pass. He called and she ignored. He came by and she didn't answer the door. The next day she wept and wondered where her life was headed.
That evening she went to a party knowing there'd be old friends and booze. She was standing by the doorway when she noticed someone--someone she'd never seen, a man wearing a suit and glasses. Their eyes met and she asked him for a cigarette. He didn't have the kind she liked but the electricity flew between them like a thunderstorm. They shook hands. "Wayne", he said. His eyes behind his glasses--clear green-blue, bright, yellow by the pupil--made her forget yesterday, the day before, other men seeming insignificant in comparison. They flirted and danced, he asked if she was spoken for and gave her compliments. She smiled and threw her head back in laughter only to catch Red staring at them from the porch. Guilt set in.
She left the party alone and found herself imagining what Wayne would feel like and how he smelled. She daydreamed and sighed and kept ignoring Red's calls. When he left a basket of wild flowers on her doorstep she couldn't help but feel like she was making a mistake by avoiding him, so when she couldn't find Wayne she'd call Red and they would laugh and have an innocently pleasing time, cooking or being silly, watching TV, driving to the mountains. But her mind was always wandering, she couldn't concentrate, and when she let Red put his hands on her she'd imagine they were Wayne's.
She couldn't deny herself what she felt so she ended it with Red. Suddenly as it began, she told him to leave her alone, for good, that she didn't like him anymore. Destroyed he pleaded but she wasn't listening. That night she called Wayne and gave him a haircut in her bathroom, letting the pieces fall into the sink and litter the floor. He was sandy blonde and had skin like a clean pony. She knew just what she was doing as she pressed herself against his knee, his shoulders, straddling and leaning in to muss his hair and see what more she needed to cut. He grinned at her then laid his head in her lap when they moved to the couch. Two empty bottles of wine stood on the table as he looked up at her, then rose and sucked on her lips. She felt him and was elated. Their intimacy sent a lightening bolt through her insides.
The next day guilt set in. She called Wayne to tell him no more, that she knew her heart was something only she should look after now. Her mind said to stay away but the rest of her needed a man.
The next night as she waited outside for Wayne to arrive she paced and smoked and thought of her past. He was taking too long. She extinguished her cigarette and stepped from the curb, began to walk. This time there was no guilt, just a long, dark street and the sound of her shoes on the asphalt.

The Dove

2006-04-11T14:26:00.000-07:00

I was afraid I'd get bitten, but I tried to pry the dog's mouth off Tigs' throat anyway. I stayed calm. The other dog's owner was screaming and it wasn't getting us anywhere. The dogs rolled and snapped and held onto each other's loose fleshy parts. Eventually I got a hold of Tigs and called to the screaming man to remove his animal from my dog's neck. The man was sweating and the dogs were panting. I told him I knew it wasn't personal and Tigs and I walked home.
Once inside, I was able to examine Tigs' body. There was blood deep in his ear and he wasn't acting right. Then I noticed his ear was detached from his head, at the base in back. I could see all the way through.
I put Tigs in the car; we drove to the emergency vet. Once they got a look at him, they decided they needed to shave his head to get a better handle on the injuries. They sedated him, stapled his ear back on, closed another puncture wound, and we went to the waiting room for our bill.
Tigs doesn't take to strangers, especially ones wearing big coats. He barked as a woman approached the vet door in her Ugg boots and puffy jacket. She entered exclaiming she'd called about the mourning dove she held in a cat carrier by her side. Its eye was falling out, she said, it needed help. The staff took the carrying case as the woman explained she was a vegan animal rescuer. I guess she didn't know her boots are made from sheep. She noticed Tigs and asked if he was a rescue; I said yes and he reluctantly sniffed her hand. The doctor returned and told the woman there was nothing they could do; the wild bird was badly hurt and had a broken wing. The woman's cell phone rang. She told the doctor as she answered that she needed to be with the bird. The doctor told her they'd already given it its fatal shot. This upset the woman greatly so she hung up her phone. She insisted on seeing the dove before it died. They brought the withering thing into the waiting room and the woman cradled it to her chest. She whispered to it and I looked at Tigs head.
I felt that bird leave its body and had to fight every urge to cry. Sometimes I think I breathed that little doves soul right into my heart.

Romance

2006-02-28T11:20:00.000-08:00

The girl waited on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. She folded her arms across her chest and stood, looking from right to left. It was night and there was a breeze. She shivered a bit and folded her arms closer. He’d told her he’d be there. She didn’t want to miss him; although she’d been waiting 2 hours already, she didn’t dare go back inside. Cars slowed as they passed her. Some drivers ran down their windows and turned their heads in her direction. She only scowled and looked the other way. She felt cheap; she felt foolish. She didn’t want to be outside so late at night.

Although the street light was comforting, the air kept getting colder and still there was no sign of his car. She stepped away from the curb and turned her back to the street. She deposited 25 cents into the slot in the pay phone that was stuck to her building. She dialed his number. After 4 rings he picked up. She told him she was cold and worried and he sounded annoyed. When she told him to forget it he turned on the charm. He told her he’d be there real soon. She sighed, hung up the receiver, and smiled slightly to herself.

She smoked a cigarette, she waited. She ran inside and got some gloves, a can of beer, and sat down on the curb. She stared at her feet and wondered what she was doing in the gutter. Strange young boys walked behind her on the sidewalk. She was out of the light and low down so they couldn’t see her. She felt like she had an advantage over them: she was perched between 2 car bumpers and could see them pass under the street light, but they couldn’t see her. That felt good. She smiled again, this time letting her teeth show and a quick breath come from her nose.

Finally, when the sun was almost rising and she felt delirious from lack of sleep, she stood up and hobbled towards the pay phone. She knew he wasn’t coming; she knew he’d never come. She knew she couldn’t go back inside. She dialed a number from memory and pretty soon a red pick up truck was idling in the street, the fumes from its exhaust like warm breath in the pre-dawn chill. She climbed in the passenger’s side as the first ray of sunlight illuminated her hair. She always hated this time of day.

She smiled as she looked at the driver. “Long time”, he said. “Yeah, you look good,” she replied, still smiling. “Where to?” he asked her. “Anywhere, I don’t care.” He shifted the truck into drive and smiled. She lay her head back on the headrest and was soon asleep.

It was mid-morning by the time the truck stopped. She opened the door and stepped onto the asphalt. There were clouds in the sky now, but it was humid and muggy. She squinted in the bright grey light as she walked towards his house. He walked beside her, then took her arm and quickly, jokingly, twisted it behind her back. They walked inside his front door and he pushed her onto the couch. “Like before?” he asked as he started to unbuckle his belt. “No,” she said and he stopped. “This time, pretend you love me.”

Ex Rayted

2005-08-23T11:52:00.000-07:00

I woke up Sunday morning filled with inexplicit hope -- and for nothing really tangible, because as I tried to pinpoint from where my elation stemmed, I was stumped: it wasn't him, it wasn't work, it wasn't anything I could see near, just a promise of something better.

Perhaps -- as I imagine I hear over the water when the dog makes noises like the front door closing -- you'll appear and call to me as I step from the shower. You'll drop what you're holding and embrace me through the sheets of wet hair that will cover my face, and I will be having a lovely day so I'll look perfect, barefaced in my bathrobe, and you'll be accepting of my flaws anyway. We'll stand in the middle of the floor for some time, me dripping, and you'll let me cry into you and you'll press a tender cheek to the top of my head. I'll know that you've learned something; I'll know that my bed is no longer your cage. We'll lie down and watch TV like it was yesterday, except you'll never want to leave because you've changed. What bothered you before is now endearing; what scared you before is now appealing.

The next day we'll wake up late; our alarms didn't go off and the sky looks too dark. We'll reach to open the curtain together and see the melted skyline and crumpled buildings beyond the one we're in. We'll see the palm trees are burnt, the silver sky heavy with ash, the debris that once was a neighborhood, everyone else permanently asleep. The dog will look at us and we'll look at her and then each other. We'll stare out the window and hold each other by the waist and laugh like the night before and sigh.

Terror Hits Home

2005-07-27T12:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on my lunch break I was driving on Westwood Blvd., looking for a parking space -- to no avail -- because I forgot my lunch and thought Baja Fresh sounded good (I work like a 10 minute drive from Westwood Village). So anyway, it was really hot and sticky and I was very annoyed and I was waiting on the corner of Wilshire and Westwood to turn right onto Wilshire to circle around again, when I saw this lady with a cast on her leg and a weird skirt crossing the street coming towards me. I watched her for a moment, dragging this suitcase behind her, and then she placed it against the lamp post right at a bus stop on the corner. She then ran back across the street into traffic and was flailing her arms all around and almost getting hit. I looked at the bag, which was essentially right next to my passenger window, and I started hyperventilating, like, this is a bomb and it's going to explode and I'm going to die. I was flipping out and honking at the guy in front of me to GO and then I Finally turned the corner and called the police and they sent a helicopter (which I only heard because I was at Jack in the Box at this point). The cops called me back later to ask me which direction the lady had gone and I told them "South on Westwood" & that's the last I heard.

If I were to die today

2005-06-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

Today there is no internet in the office, and by the time you read this, there must be. But as of now, Monday morning is a vast wasteland of cold tea and solitaire. I mean, I am literally spacing out: my eyes are glazed over, I’m clicking my mouse and pretending I am doing something, anything, but the truth is I can’t even concentrate on the card game I am feebly attempting to play. As I sit here bored to tears, one question keeps popping into my head: why do I hate my job and what other job would I enjoy more? As mentioned before, I think most people dislike their mundane day-to-day existence, but we’re talking about me, and I can’t really think of anything that would make me want to get out of bed in the morning. Alright, that’s not entirely true: when I’m cuddling Sadie and she is so soft and adorable lying on me, not wanting to wake up either, I feel I must set an example, and I get up so we can both pee and eat. But I’d just as soon get right back into bed. Then, of course, there’s the weather; I have to admit, a sunny day is a great motivator. But mostly it encourages spending time outdoors, not in a stuffy office. I suppose if I didn’t have the pitfalls and distractions of modern life, i.e. drinks, cigarettes, caffeine, steroids – which slow me down from heavy use the night before – I wouldn’t feel so goddamn sluggish all the time. I have a hard time feeling energized, even when I drink my huge mug of breakfast tea, and I always feel foggy, lifeless, tired. So I think to myself, is there anything in the world I could be doing right now that would take that feeling away? Sleeping, for one, would help: I can’t remember the last time I got a solid 8 hours. It’s been weeks. (Not that I’m complaining; when I’m up late having fun, I always use the excuse “you can sleep when you’re dead” to try and make myself feel better as the clock ticks closer to dawn. And I believe it, to a certain extent, but there’s always an inverse: if you feel like shit because you’re so tired all the time, isn’t your quality of life diminished?) As I sit and write this, the theme song for TV’s “The O.C.” comes to mind inexplicitly. Maybe I think it would be fun to not work at all, to have rich, rich parents and a large trust fund, to sit around in Santa Monica or wherever and paint or whatever, to go crazy. Because honestly, that’s what would happen: I need structure, even though I hate to admit it, and when I’m not at work during the day it makes me feel…funny, like I’m an actor or a student or a bum. Something about it doesn’t feel right. And if I had a home office (doing what, I don’t know), you can guess how much work would get done: I’d see a stretch of lawn that needed wildflowers strewn across it (because I’d definitely live in a house if I had a home office, and a house with a huge yard and trees and everything), I’d snack, I’d run pointless errands, perhaps to pick up flower seeds, I’d play with the dogs or stare at myself in the mirror for hours, analyzing how my face has changed since I’ve gotten older. Also, I’d smoke and think too much and feel a little too sorry for myself (as I am wont to do when I am home during the day). Don’t get me wrong: when it comes to my band, music, booking gigs, rehearsals, personal scheduling, or anything involving my boyfriend, I am on it like stink on fancy French cheese. I get into manic mode and nothing can stop me. I’m professional and tenacious and helpful. But give me a project, say, tracking down all the Christian bookstores in the United States and Canada – as I was asked to do here recently – and I lose it. I feel like crying and running away and I start to whine inside. On those days, I would much rather be wallowing in wealth and self-pity than the bastardly internet with its cursed Christian underworld. Being a stay-at-home mom, which would, in theory, give me both the structure of a daily guideline and the freedom of not having a boss, is not something I could ever see myself doing, mostly because I don’t particularly want to be a wife and my hair is way too high-maintenance.

Someone told me the other day, as I complained bitterly and drunkenly about my current situation, that I was a good worker, that I had it in me, and I protested, admitting for the first time that I spend the majority of my day coming up with ways to look like I’m working, to see how fast it takes me to minimize the game that’s on my screen. I am a poor, poor subject when it comes to exemplary workplace habits. But that’s because you’re not challenged, my dear friend proclaimed, and while that’s true and so very sweet of him to say, it made me wonder: do I want to be challenged? What does that entail, exactly? Does that mean I’ll be doing more work? More shit I don’t care about and don’t want to do? Maybe it’s a fundamental problem; maybe I dislike the system, the idea that I’m only helping the rich get richer and, to quote Dolly, I’m spending my life putting money in someone else’s wallet. Even if I made a great sale or came up with a life-altering idea, I wouldn’t really get credit, and I wouldn’t really see the direct results. Going unnoticed: now that’s something to make me feel challenged.

This same friend told me that his biggest fear in life is obscurity, and I could not agree more. Not that I have a sick obsession with fame or celebrity or anything, oh no, but I don’t want to die not leaving some sort of impact on the world. And it could be small, that’s okay with me! And as the same fucking talking-loud-and-saying-nothing women cross in front of my desk on their way to the bathroom, I think even if I could get them to realize how asinine their lives and conversations are, if when I first met them and they admitted to being obnoxious and vacant, if only I hadn’t just smiled and nodded, if only I’d said, “I look forward to it” or some such sarcastic comment, if only I’d said what I thought, I would have left some impact on this earth; I would be remembered as being brutally honest and straightforward. It would make people respect me because everyone secretly dreams that they are that person: the wise-cracker, the sardonic asshole. Everyone loves an asshole. And this makes me get very angry because I think about my general attitude lately, how I’ve been kind of complacent in certain circles, how I’ve been talking a whole lot of nothing, how I’ve been feeling a bit unlike myself, a bit too nice, a bit too quick to smile first and complain later. I don’t like it.

When I started this job, I came in for my interview on the verge of vomiting from a terrible hangover. I didn’t give a fuck. I sauntered in, not giving a damn either way if I got the job, and guess what, I nailed it. I was jovial and agreeable, but still real, yo. I was me. And on America’s Next Top Model (and thank you, VH1, for rerunning all of season 1 yesterday as I sat trapped in the desert), the girl who won pulled it off partly because she was incredibly photogenic and had fabulous genes, but also because she “didn’t care what anyone thought about her. She’s always herself.” And that is my mantra. Maybe it’s cliché and maybe it’s terrible timing, but I’m sick of me. I’m sick of being so careful. Some of you (hello? Anybody there?) might be thinking, “you? That’s crazy talk. You always say what’s on your mind.” But think about it: when was the last time, with the exception of being wasted, that I was actually, viscerally, obnoxious? I mean, in your face, badass, unruly? I can’t remember, and I want so badly to be. I want to shake up the system. And maybe that’s the key: maybe just by being you, maybe just by holding on, keeping your fire lit, keeping the thing that makes you different from everyone in the front of your mind, maybe then all the other stuff falls into place. Career, love, bullshit: having integrity and fucking shit up are what life’s really all about. Because honestly, if you can’t live harmoniously within yourself, what the hell is life worth? Already I feel more clear-headed.

I just won solitaire.

Miserable people and their miserable lives

2005-05-27T16:19:00.000-07:00

Is everyone unhappy? Does everyone hate who they are, what job they do, and where they live? I know very few content individuals who can find pleasure in the simple and don’t act all stressed out, snobby, rude, and too caught up in their own petty problems to relax and enjoy life. Sure, I’ve been known to be stuck in my own head and complain, be depressed, drink too much, eat not enough, etc., but when I’m feeling low, I know I can go home, lie on my bed, watch The Simpson’s, drink a beer, eat some nachos, hug my dog, and I’ll feel better. My problem of the day may not go away, but at least it will not be bothering me anymore. And also, what’s the fucking point of being a goddamn bitch for no reason? Some people are so fucking snotty and rude without any right to be. I mean, sure, when someone, say, steals your camera from your purse at a party you can yell at them (all night), but when you expect someone who you’ve never seen before to know who you are and then you’re all stinky about it, fuck that. I mean, I’m not a punk, but sometimes it’s easier just to nod and then give them the finger when they walk away. I hate dumb office bitches with no lives. Again, nobody has anything to go home to. Life becomes this awful day to day bullshit with no end in sight. Even if I’m 50 and still typing at someone else’s desk (who am I kidding, I’d kill myself), I will promise to have a good attitude about my life. Attitude, like a drop falling in a puddle, is contagious. Catch it!!

I wish it was the future. In the future, we are going to have so many cool technological advances that we won’t have to cook for ourselves or decide who to mate with. That will be predetermined and decided for us. Also in the future, fat, ugly, sick, stupid people will be eliminated. People with brittle bone disease, diabetes, and ignoramus majorus will not be allowed to breed. Fuck that fuck that, they’ll be killed at birth. Natural selection, bitches. Get with it. This means there will be no more Maury Povich, since his guests will be nonexistent. (“I slept with my husband’s father and I don’t know who’s baby it is”; “I’ve DNA tested 16 men and I still don’t know who I should collect child support from”.)

Rescuing kittens is fairly exciting and only mildly distressing. I can’t remember the last time I crawled beneath an 80-year-old apartment building and got covered in cobwebs just to stop some incessant meowing. Man that thing was little. Luckily my neighbors had a mag lite and an old towel, so now Mrs. Gramercy Dirt Face is resting peacefully in kitty heaven, a.k.a. mom’s house.

So my friends are all like, leave me alone. Stop emailing me all the time, and for the love of god stop calling me at odd hours of the night. Okay, so I never call. But fuck off. I’ve got new friends now. Buck Owens, for one. He doesn’t care if the sun don’t shine, just as long as I love him.

I’m glad it’s Friday, but jesus louises I am so angrified. I was all happy at lunch because I was out of this god forsaken office for 1 hour, and now I’m here and time’s just creeping and I just want something good to eat and a cold, cold Coors light. Plus they keep on asking me to do “work” and I’m like, hell, can’t you see I’m trying to surf the web? They’re so invasive. And it’s not even real shit. It’s banal, mundane, asinine, ridiculous shit that a monkey would be bored with. I’m nobody’s monkey.

Here are some things that are clear: I am going to bring back some words and phrases, although I haven’t yet decided which ones. (And for the record, when the ‘90s come back, you can thank me. I have proof that on new years 2004-2005 I coined that shit. I told everyone it was 1997, and therefore it is. And trust me, the ‘90s will be back. So jump on the bandwagon now, but remember where you heard it.) Also I am starting a list of the 2 kinds of people there are. For example, there are 2 kinds of people: those who watch Friends and those who don’t; those who snowboard and those who don’t. I’ll add more when I see fit.

And a glorious memorial day to all.

Fruit flies, lullabies, midnight rides, changing tides

2005-05-18T17:27:00.000-07:00

I am trying to ward off this hangover and fading caffeine buzz by focusing on the positive. A good time snuck up on me last night when I was least expecting it.

When I got home from work, forty minutes later than usual, annoyed, shaky from lack of food, and feeling like a shower and a beer, I had no expectations or a real desire to leave the house. I was frustrated from explaining to a 65-year-old how find a file on a computer and attach it to an email; I was antsy, itchy, and oily from PMS and the infestation of fucking FRUIT FUCKING FLIES that has invaded my apartment; Sadie decided it was a good night to take off into the street, not once, but twice. My neighbors were being banal, and after putting Sadie in time-out for her bad behavior, I decided to go inside and settle into my night of sublime vegetation: American Idol, and as a special treat, Britney and Kevin: Chaotic season premiere. As an added bonus, UPN was running a recap of this season’s America’s Next Top Model, so even when there were commercials during American Idol, I never had to actually sit through one. Anyway, I sat down and grabbed myself a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon. (Ah, PBR, you little devil you. You are $10 for a 24 pack, and this is why I love you.) As I fought to protect my beer from the fruit flies (swimming in beer is like a day at the fly spa) I made some nachos and got chills watching blonde Carrie sing her sweet, Southern heart out on the TV. I could actually see the halo forming as she crooned Ray Orbison’s Crying. (She will win, I’d wager. And I did.)

Then, suddenly, the phone rings. I grappled with answering it or not; what if it’s mom, or worse, Karen Centerfold (this just in: she used to be hot!). Throwing caution to the proverbial wind, I picked up. Phew, it was only Eckel with a question about a gig. I hurried him off the phone: Britney was about to call Kevin and fly him to London for the remainder of her tour. As Brit Brit runs on her treadmill and talks about sex, the phone rings again. Eckel. I can’t even hear what he’s saying I’m so enthralled by the TV set, but he says something about Little Joy. You mean the same Little Joy you were at last Saturday, Lucinda? Yes, that very one. You mean the one you went to after drinking all afternoon? You mean the one where you forgot what songs you put on the jukebox and were screaming about not hearing them, even as they played? You mean the one where you may or may not have harassed the owner about finally taking his goddamn Elvis sunglasses off, where you yelled at strangers, where you forgot the words? Where you told everyone scandalous, salacious details about their friends and roommates, and you slap your forehead upon remembering, and things that were said are still swimming back to you, slowly and dreamlike? Yes, a typical Saturday night at Little Joy, where you’re not sure you can now show your face.

Britney signed off. I walked Sadie, threw on my new Conway Twitty shirt, jeans, heels, necklace; did my best to look halfway presentable, yet dissimilar to how I looked last Saturday (which was smokin’). I decided to revive a jacket I’d only worn once (Halloween, 2003). It has long tails, like an orchestra conductor. I whistled as I strolled to my car, 3 PBRs under my belt, and ‘cause I was feeling like a walking contradiction, I threw in Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” CD. Kelly, can you handle this? Michelle, can you handle this? Beyonce, can you handle this? I don’t think they can handle this. Is my body too bootylicious for Echo Park?

I pulled past the bar and saw Eckel and his roommate Sarah B’s bikes chained up together out front, side by side. How adorable. I spot them playing pool in the back and saunter up. Sarah, who I haven’t seen in a while, is looking natural, fresh, and pretty, like a hipster Cover Girl of the Week. I am used to her in dark red lipstick and smeared eye make-up which, apparently, makes her more somber, because she greets me with a huge hug and divulges in great detail what’s been going on in her life. Pool is played. Conversations are had. After the jackass who put Tom Waits, Miles Davis, and Joy Division on one after the next gets ejected for being depressive, the party begins.

PBR on tap is $3. That’s right. Eckel and I smoke and discuss which out-of -place young thing he can bang. And we all know those girls. The ones wearing all black, converse, and smoking like it’s their first time. Holding the shit all weird, not inhaling, who the fuck do they think they’re fooling? Well, not me, and that was proven as they were taken out in a game of pool. A “punk rock” “couple” wearing matching “studs” and bad attitudes get all grumpy when Sarah B and Joanne - who’s just arrived after having her DJing gig cancelled last minute - slaughter them in a wicked game, where pool balls fly across the room and hit people. In the head. And they deserve it.

Amber shows up!! Amber is my biggest fan. She’s got a wonky eye, but is so roly-poly and just hugs and hugs and tells me she felt like she should know me from our first meeting, when she saw me and the Lost Dogs perform at the hotdog stand where her sister works. Amber shows up with Corey, and Corey and I get into a heated discussion about our mother’s clothing, Dominicans, the bus, and vanilla vodka. I believe “giiirrrrllllll…” was uttered more than once. We laugh and she calls herself a revolutionary. I tell her I can’t front on my R&B.

The moment of truth is creeping up on Eckel and me, since he is paying: do we get another beer or do we go home? But it’s so early. We count our change and order another round. I attempt to explain to people who Conway Twitty is, but mostly they think I’m wearing a Scott Baio or Patrick Duffy shirt. I mean, Conway had an af-ro. Pool, pool, talk, talk, smoke, smoke, drink Sarah B’s shot of whiskey.

Amber had shown up with the most gorgeous – and popular – photo of Sarah Little Joy’s ever seen. The image only took up a third of the 8x10 sheet of photo paper, and it was framed with thick, uneven black lines - which my photo teacher always told me was a good way to make any photo look fantastic - but in this case it did not cheapen the visual experience. Sarah is sitting in a scoop chair in the corner of her apartment. She is clothed in a softly-colored lacy camisole top, and what appear to be bloomers. She is sitting with her legs crossed and her back’s very straight. Her head is turned, looking right, towards the light coming in through the large windows that are in her living room. Her dark brown shaggy hair is parted in the middle and tucked loosely behind her ears. Her face is bare except for some shiny lip gloss. She’s smiling slightly, although she looks somewhere between melancholy and wide awake. The shadows are awe-inspiring: on the wall behind her there’s a long dark puddle, and just above her head a cloud looms. The darkness in Sarah’s character was hidden by the costume and expression in the photo, and yet still floating nearby. I tried to explain this to the gals and Eckel as we smoked a bowl on the street after last call. It was just us, until local legend and rock star in his own mind Kennedy strolled into our motley crew, regaling us with stories of Las Vegas and sparkly things. We were all yelling about Viet Cong (okay, that was mostly me) when Sarah pointed out that in the photo she has a pock of cellulite on the underside of her crossed leg. I screamed at her to never point out her flaws to anyone, calling her dimple “a little flower”. Hugs were exchanged and future plans to get drunk were made.

As I drove past McCarther Park with my Destiny’s Child blaring, I looked to my left to see Amber and Corey in their cute beat up mustard Volvo. We rolled down our windows. “You can’t front on my car’s stereo, and I can’t front on my R&B!” I screamed, and turned the volume all the way up.

My First Day of My New Job

2005-05-05T11:12:00.000-07:00

The first person I met offered me the back of his hand, as if he were down with the syndrome. I guess his hands were sticky from coffee, or he just didn’t want to touch me. Well, actually, the first first person I met was Philip, the eccentric security guard from Belize? Guam? Trinidad-Tobago? Somewhere tropical, as he was wont to complain about the clouds and missing lying out on the beach at night in his homeland. Then there’s the girl I’m taking over for, all loud, ill-fitting high heels and messily straightened hair. She's got a mean streak underneath that helpful deameaner, I tell you. Everyone is all smiles, except for the quiet pay roll gal and the frustrated sales people. There’s a young gent, very jock-stellar, very much aware that he is the “hot guy” in the office. Not my style. Very stupid boy. Nice, but stupid. And rippling muscles, piercing blue eyes that match his sharply pressed shirts, did I mention rippling muscles? Well, that’s just never done it for me. (Interesting side story: decide to eat lunch in nearby Larchmont, since I was starving and craving a burrito. See Mr. Muscles on my way out. Great. See him again crossing the street in Larchmont. Fabulous. Walk into Avocado Grill and lo and behold, he’s ordering. Shit. I sit down and hide behind a copy of Jane magazine [hey, maybe he’ll think I’m a lesbo?!] but he insists on inviting me to sit outside with him. What does one do in such a dilemma? It’s incredibly rude to ignore your new co-worker, yet incredibly uncomfortable to eat a burrito in front of a stranger, especially one with rippling muscles and a layer of fluff encircling his brain. So I did the right thing and sat next to him - not across, mind you - and he complained about not getting commission and I ate that damn burrito with a goddamn fork and knife which, strangely, makes it much less enjoyable. Anyway, it was all blah blah blah my ex in Arizona [“or what is she? I don’t know, like, we’ve been long distance for so long”] and yadda yadda yadda Mother’s Day and how every woman has every beauty product on the market anyway so Larchmont Beauty is out for a gift, etc. etc. and trying to make the best of something awful ensued.)

The man I first interviewed with came downstairs at the end of the day to see how I was doing. And man, this guy’s comb-over is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s gravity defying and worse than Donald Trump’s. He’s got two puffs of matted, reddish hair, presumably hair-sprayed to death so they’ll stick in the amazing way they stick, all semi-glued to the sides of his head. It is a look to be reckoned with. He says to me that I might get calls from senators and the white house, because he’s very important people and does a lot of political work on the side. And in my naiveté, I assume that everyone in Hollywood is a Democrat, because that’s what’s proper (I mean, a Republian Jew?) but he also said to MAKE SURE to find him if Wayne Lapierre calls. “Do you know who that is?”. “No” I said flatly. “He’s the chief executive of the NRA.” “So if you don’t take his calls,” I offered, “he’ll shoot you.” Comb-over didn’t think that was funny. He also told me to make sure to transfer his good friend Erik Estrada, and I thought that was pretty funny too.

On his way out, he handed me some DVDs for my viewing pleasure. Among them:

Real Miracles, hosted by Lee Majors (“a dog actually heals his master!” and “Savant Syndrome: beyond Rainman”)
The Spirit of Diana, where they talk to Diana’s spirit and find out what she had left to say
The Story of the First Noel (90 fucking minutes long, yet shot on location! In Israel!)
Roswell something something
Witchcraft and Magic: You Will Believe (or what, you'll put a curse on me?)
And, of course, The Life and the Passion of Christ (which I’ve dubbed The Passion of the Passion)

Now add these other fine titles to their DVD catalog (I couldn’t make this up, people):

America’s Greatest Moments, including WWI & II
Angels & Demons…Revealed!
A Tribute to Pope John Paul II
Badge of Honor, all about the LAPD and researched for over 5 years!
Blind Sight, which I’ve been told is a sight indeed, starring, who else, Erik Estrada
Bob’s Many Jobs!
Santa’s Favorite Pranks: Christmas Follies
Special Effects Guru Eddie Paul: Hollywood’s Best Kept Secret
Forbidden Secrets: Now You Know (now this one doesn’t even make sense: “Behind the ‘truth’ tests, starting your own country, alligators in New York Sewers, survival techniques, the Diana death shocker, diamond bargains, body language, buried treasure, spy birds, backyard nuclear bombs, secrets of beauty, the haunting of Moody’s ghost, celebrity samaritans, keeping the romance alive, JFK!, how to get free stuff, subliminal tactics, & secrets of shopping malls”)
Mafia Warlords
Men of Valor: D-Day and beyond!
Monsters, Madness & Mayhem
Mysteries, Magic & Miracles
Real Ghost Stories
Repo Men: Uncensored
Santa’s Wild & Wacky Christmas
The Lost Samurai
Thunder in the Desert
Unlocking DaVinci’s Code
X-Treme Models
Thunderdome (“NASCAR with attitude”)
UFO’s Uncensored (show us your tits!)
Stoogemania: The Genius of Being Morons
Meet John Doe (In Color)
Wild & Wacky Dads!
The Secret KGB Sex Files
The Search for Nazi Gold
SWAT: The Real Story
Mom’s Funniest Moments
Cupid’s Funniest Moments
Killer Instinct: Survival of the Fittest
Dangerous Magic
The Charlton Heston Celebrity Shoot (where he shoots celebrities…if only)
The Magic of Thailand

I’ve sort of stopped hitting the reefer, but if anyone wants to smoke a joint and watch these atrocities, you know where to find me. Or, if you don't, it's 4410 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles. 90010. Cross street is Lucerne.

God help me,
Adnicul

Weekly Poo Poo Platter: Poop Tastes Strangely Like Fig Newtons

2005-04-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

This week: Showing cleavage: how far can it really get you? Plus, the Konstant Krisis Kulture takes over Southern California (or was it already here?); Sly masochism; Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise

Much like the ocean on a good day, or a placid lake (lake placid even), this week was calm superficially, yet brewing, feisty, and full of danger underneath the surface. To date:

Allegra: finally able to see the light of night
Yes, it’s true. Gra gra goo goo got out of the house, albeit for an insignificant, disappointing amount of time. Don’t ever, EVER count on Martin Short to release you from the prison that is family life. Babies suck. They may be cute and you may feel “bonded” to them or whatever, but dependency gets booed EVERY TIME.

Miranda: the sink ships
Giving in to every comfort-urge she ever had, our own locomotive decided to take the track back, jack. Yes, she’s giving up--I mean giving, sorry, just giving--her 2-week notice on Monday and returning to the place she loved best, her old job. No more legal jargon. No more getting laughed at by her smug boss (oh, I’ve seen it). This time she’ll settle for potential sexual harassment suits, (un)wanted flirtations from some of the world’s worst assistants, and a crack whore for a boss. Where do I sign!!

Annabel: gayin’ it up with the gays
While Annabel’s cats (Oliver? FLAMING.) recover from Conor’s party at their mansion, Brendan’s dad enters the picture. Hilarity and or/assertion of heterosexuality ensues. All this the day after Constantine gets dropped from American Idol!

Nancy/Conor: founding members of the KKK
If anyone ever wondered where the Konstant Krisis Kulture originated, look no further than these two fine-feathered-stick-together friends. You want drama and/or waterworks? Done! Want to feel stressed out all the time? No problem! While you’re at it, try the Koolaid.
Conor was, however, genuinely touched by his birthday celebrations on Sunday. Growing up in the cold, cold alleyways of Northern Tuvalu, Conor never knew family. He didn’t read until he was sold into the white slave trade, where he was forced to see visions of happiness and then swear he’d never turn out that way. And even then he had to steal books for his supper. He’s just glad to be back where adults can just be kids. Ah, Krisis. How would we feel reluctantly safe - because we know no other way - without it? Like a little blanket covered with pee.

Lucinda: boy oh boy!
Walking around the streets of Westwood is a danger zone. Everywhere she goes, she gets mercilessly checked out. The homeless, truck drivers, even students. She’s every poor man’s dream, every rich man’s pride. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for her to be so perfect all the time, and maybe she just shouldn’t look so damn good! But bitches hate bitches! The bitch at the pizza place couldn’t have been bitchier if she tried! Stop bitching, bitch! Tupac's still alive!

The Mood of the Week

2005-04-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

Every week I'll be picking a special mood that I will remain in for that week's entirety. This week's word: despondent. See also, dejected. Bored with the triviality of things. Waiting for some major shit to go down, i.e. feeling everything start to boil up (maybe a plague of the plague?). See also, teen angst and/or scowling.

Weekly Poo Poo Platter: All the shit you didn’t need to know about, but were afraid to ask

2005-04-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

This week: the girls go crazy and try not to kill each other; themselves; regression: the new moving forward? Subsequently, drinking: the new sober; tensions run high as hormones rage and annoyance with the world sets the tone for an awful week, all around; also, boyfriends, the new not having a boyfriend?

Allegra: Still in baby land
Allegra has not been spotted leaving her apartment lately; reports suggest that she is a bit batty from only speaking in gaa gaa goo goo-isms for the past few months. The cats and the baby, however, are reportedly fat and happy.

Miranda: Taking care of business?
Rumor has it the M-dog herself may just be returning to her previous place of employment. Although she left under relatively good terms, the old job had its flaws. And I quote: “The possibility of returning to work for APA feels a lot like how I felt moving 3,000 miles west to re-join my family. I'm still not sure that was the best thing for me to have done.” Harsh words from a harsh bitch. She was also seen depositing money for her estranged lover. Doing favors for the needy? How noble.

Annabel: Still crazy after all these…days
Annabel has come down with the brendanhaditandiquitmyjob virus that’s been going around. She has been seen runny-nosed and stuffed up, although still looking fabulous cantering around Los Angeles. She’s said to be feeling blue yet excited to have Conor’s birthday party at her salacious palace this weekend.

Nancy/Conor: coo coo for coco puffs
Nancy is dying to speak to people on her cell phone. Just call her. Conor turns 95 this weekend. He plans on walking really slowly and pretending he’s Shakespeare.

Lucinda: slanted and disenchanted
Lucinda has been drinking almost nightly. She’s been repressing thoughts that society is damned. Guilt and isolation are common themes. Although re-visited by her lover, his stress level and hers combined make for strange bedfellows. She hopes he doesn’t read this.

The band: lazy on a Sunday afternoon
Eckel seems ready to jump ship; Kyutae blamed (is she the new Yoko?) Dave is excited to play an acoustic set; plans on getting stoned. Jay’s almost definitely not here right now; no one knows if it’s mental or physical.

Check in next week for a new set of adventures.

Won’t Anybody Hire Me?

2005-04-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

I need a damn job. Below, please find my qualifications.

I only spend the majority of my day surfing the world wide web when I'm not really into the task at hand. And that's not very often! I can entertain you with my reenactment of recent episodes of America's Next Top Model, American Idol, or The O.C. I can complain like no other; that's gotta be good for something, right? (and my punctuation is fabulous.) I only take 2-3 smoke breaks a day, and I definitely know how to use a copier. Computers are right up my alley. They're so smart. Is there anything they can't do? I am good at designing stuff, writing bios, and making great use of office snacks and supplies.

I've worked for really big assholes so I know the drill, and unless it's PMS time I won't run to the bathroom crying. I am sympathetic to all races and creeds. If you're a Jew, I know that you'll pinch pennies yet squander dollars, and I'll be more than happy to point that out. If you're a guy, I'll only be somewhat passive aggressive when you stare at my ass as I walk by (and you and I both know you will). I can pretend like I'm working better than any 3 people in this town. I am quick. I prefer to come late and leave early, if that's okay, but I'll always have a great excuse. I have a really unreliable vehicle, but if you pay me well, the more reason to get a better one, right? I get confused about really menial tasks, so you may have to show me twice. I can be good when coaxed properly, given exorbitant amounts of caffeine, or am just feeling nice. On the up side, I'm mostly gregarious, afflicted by A.D.D., and very, very pretty. I'd be a great addition to any office.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

E is for Asshole

2005-04-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

Oh, elevators. You have the power to turn me into a laughing-to-myself, bumbling fool or a cynical corporate pretender. I would much prefer to be alone in an elevator, as to avoid the uncomfortable "should we talk, or are we to remain strangers in opposite ends of this-here moving box?". Usually I fold my arms and act important. Sometimes I eaves drop and hear the strangest things, like when some old Jews were discussing how Calvin Klein gets a chicken slaughtered for his meals on a daily basis. That makes me laugh. Yes, wacky things happen on elevators everyday!

There is a man who smokes outside of my building. The other day, there was a prostitute (well, I thought she was) milling about downstairs. I noticed the man staring through this woman, in that way, thinking about her nakedness and following her rump (that was concealed with a fabric that should really only be used for bathing suits) with his beady eyes. I then noticed that this man likes to stare at all women. He is a perv.

As I came back upstairs from my lunch break today, Miranda heard someone yell "hold it" and she placed her arm protectively in the elevator's doorway. It was he, the staring man! The conversation went something like this:

Man: "Good lookin'"
Me: "HA!" [resisting the urge to scream, "NO DOUBT, SON!"]
Miranda: "Heh, you gotta catch those elevators when you can."
Man: "Yeah, in this building, your ass will be sittin' waitin' for like 5 minutes." Elevator dings on man's floor. Man exits.
Me: "Yeeeaahh, bitch, you ass could be sittin' there for like 10 minutes and shit!" [Gangsta stroll around elevator/ act a fool.] This is only really funny because the man is not black. Well, he's about as black as Van Diesel.

Let me also comment about elevator etiquette: get off the fucking phone! And no eating! Okay, we broke that rule today, but it was only pizza and we were being quiet. I got on one time with this cunto who had just gone to Wholefoods. She was cramming some sort of health-chip into her face with no regard for her surroundings. Chomp, chomp, chomp, she said. And then she reached her fat hand back into the bag. Chomp, chomp, chomp, again. Doesn't she know I can hear her? Fuck those things were loud!

Last night the elevator was packed! There were so many people, yet I was all alone. There is always one asshole who has to be cute and yuk it up. Last night:

Slightly homo-guy [more on those guys later] standing next to me: "Whoo-hoo! I love elevators! This is fun! There are so many people on here!!"
Man and me exit on the same floor where the valet guys have our keys held hostage. I see mine, gleaming behind the valet's glass barrier. No one's around, except for part-homo. I reach my hand into the slit for talking and pull my keys to safety. "Oh my God!" he exclaims, "I could never do that! Can you reach mine too?!"
Me: "O-kaay, which ones are they?"
Man: "Those, there. No, wait, those. Oh my gosh, they're the same! That is so silly! Ok, you got them! You're amazing!"
Me: "Yeah, my...arm...fit...through...the...hole. Later."

From now on, I'm taking the stairs.

American Idol

2005-04-14T10:47:00.000-07:00

Good! Goodbye, Nadia. Nobody liked you and your dumb, ineffectual, dumb songs anyway. There is a time and a place for "unique", and it’s not on national television. And I would honestly love to bash the head of anyone who votes for Anthony Federov. He’s got an accent! Even he knows he sucks!!

Kenneth Hahn

2005-04-13T17:56:00.000-07:00

Walking around Los Angeles is like peeking into an insect world where everyone’s afraid. Sure, some are scorpions, some are buzzing bees trying to talk to you and your dog, and some are placated little praying mantises. I promise to make fun of everyone and to expel some of my frustration. Sometimes I’ll be clever, sometimes so goofy I won’t even get my own jokes, sometimes oh, so serious, sometimes melancholy, sometimes angry, and sometimes self-conscious. And that is all you’ll hear about that.

The only solace I seem to have found is climbing through these hills. Not in Runyan Canyon, not to be part of a scene with my fresh Stella McCartney yoga gear, no. I drive far past the white people, deep into Inglewood, to Kenneth Hahn State Recreation Park, where those brothers and sisters ready to take the heart disease that is pillaging their race head on frequent the overgrown trails. I grab Sadie before the sun comes up, and hike until my ass burns, to the top of the dirt road, where one can view- on a clear day - Los Angeles from above, from the floating Emerald City that is downtown (so early in the morning, it seems to be cushioned on a mound of smog—er, clouds), all the way to the shimmering structures of Westwood and Century City. I bet if I leaned out far enough I could catch a glimpse of the ocean. There are wild flowers aplenty; yellow daises, purple something-or-others, and this morning, I almost crushed the largest snail I’d ever seen, a good 2 inches across. I tried to take a picture but my camera battery had died. When no one’s around, when no one’s judging you, it feels so good to be alone, like the rare, fleet-less bug, and you can think and stare at the sky and pretend that Los Angeles hasn’t broken your heart.