Polo!!! Or is it Pollo? Anyhoo, I am alive and well. My absence initially was due to an draught of inspiration that left me unable to conjure anything remotely interesting to blog about. Lately it's been that I work 60-70 hours a week. I'm of course grateful for every scrap that falls under the table, but while my bank account is getting fatter (me too, sadly), the other aspects of my life have suffered neglect. An obnoxious pile of laundry grows more and more daunting with each passing day. Library books still unread are now overdue. I haven't crunched at Crunch in three weeks.
But I have managed to finally order DSL. Which means more blogging! Hopefully.
Stay tuned...next time - my adventures in traffic court.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Minding My Minutes
I was always under the impression that my neighborhood is fairly safe. A gay haven of cafes and candle shops, buffered from the mania of Sunset Boulevard by lazy tree lined blocks upon which undersized best friends trot in Swarovski spangled collars. I even boast Hollywood Jesus as my neighbor - a man who sits serenly in his herb garden wearing a flowing white robe. What harm could come to me here?
Reality check. A chance encounter with a sweaty man who requested the use of my cell phone at 11:00 pm. As he slurred his request I observed the perfectly functional cell phone in his hand as he fumbled with the power button, managing to light up the screen instead of turning it off. Adrenaline. "No." I quickly walked away to the sound of him stumbling after me, the plastic bag he carried serving as a rustling warning. "C'mon, it's after 8:00 on a week day or something." Even though I was pretty scared, I was able to appreciate the accidental humor of my would-be mugger being concerned that I not go over my minutes. It was like my own personal Verizon network guy following me around, a drugged out, big, scary version without the adorable nerd glasses.
He followed me home. I quickly ran inside, triple locking it behind me. Can I hear him now? No. Good!
Reality check. A chance encounter with a sweaty man who requested the use of my cell phone at 11:00 pm. As he slurred his request I observed the perfectly functional cell phone in his hand as he fumbled with the power button, managing to light up the screen instead of turning it off. Adrenaline. "No." I quickly walked away to the sound of him stumbling after me, the plastic bag he carried serving as a rustling warning. "C'mon, it's after 8:00 on a week day or something." Even though I was pretty scared, I was able to appreciate the accidental humor of my would-be mugger being concerned that I not go over my minutes. It was like my own personal Verizon network guy following me around, a drugged out, big, scary version without the adorable nerd glasses.
He followed me home. I quickly ran inside, triple locking it behind me. Can I hear him now? No. Good!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Shake It
Mother earth appears to be going through menopause. Or as the loyal flock of my favorite clairvoyant pessimist, Nostradamus bleats in unison, 2012, armageddon, 2012, armageddon!! I'm talking, of course, about the seemingly unusual amount of seismic activity occuring this year.
It's not as bizarre as you might think. Each year the planet averages approximately 7 earthquakes that are at least 7 pointers.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is that of the Loma Pieta earthquake. October 1989, I was a cheeky second grader who roamed about in lace dresses with a ponytail that moved back and forth like a pendulum with my every step. I was staying with a friend at the time. The earthquake measured 6.9 on the richter scale. The glass windows shattered. Bookshelves rocked. My friend's mother, a professional potter, witnessed years of work dissolve into jagged puzzle pieces of glazed ceramic. Fifteen seconds of pure terror. Ever since, even the faintest seismic murmur sends me into a state of panic.
Enough about me. Here are a few pointers for the next big one:
1) If you're in bed, stay there. Yes, that's right. You get to kick back and relax under fluffy down feathers while the world falls apart. Just grab a pillow to serve as the world's most ineffective shield, should something made of cement, steel or wood decide to come crashing down. But this is according to the experts. And it's the best way to go anyways, except for maybe a hot tub.
2) Don't even think about running outside. Ok, I'll admit I'm guilty of this. During a 4 pointer in 2003 I ran down four flights of stairs and out into the street. It's tempting. In the middle of the street there isn't much to fall on you, except perhaps a tree or power line. But think about it - how long do earthquakes last? 15 seconds? Maybe 20? How long does it take you to get out of the building? Probably about that time. Your clever getaway might save you from a second or two of indoor anguish, but if the building is going to implode on your head, you aren't going to get out before it does, even in your best Nikes. So resist the urge.
3) Locate a sturdy piece of Ikea furniture (ha) and get under it and grab it. Then pray you put it together correctly. And pray in general. Fervently.
4) Stay away from windows, bookshelves, fifty pound mounted oil paintings in carved wood frames, crystal chandeliers, giant glass saltwater aquariums filled with eels. Duh.
5) If the ceiling happens to be crumbling, lie down face down next to a bigass piece of furniture. If anything falls on you, you might get lucky and have it hit the bigass piece of furniture first, leaving you uncrushed in a cozy triangle of space, kind of like having your own secret fort.
6) It is recommended that you have non-perishible food, water, a radio, cell phone, first aid kit, flares, flashlight, face mask, North Face jacket, Nextel, and of COURSE, a whistle. Get a cute whistle that also supports a good cause at http://www.fallingwhistles.com.
It's not as bizarre as you might think. Each year the planet averages approximately 7 earthquakes that are at least 7 pointers.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is that of the Loma Pieta earthquake. October 1989, I was a cheeky second grader who roamed about in lace dresses with a ponytail that moved back and forth like a pendulum with my every step. I was staying with a friend at the time. The earthquake measured 6.9 on the richter scale. The glass windows shattered. Bookshelves rocked. My friend's mother, a professional potter, witnessed years of work dissolve into jagged puzzle pieces of glazed ceramic. Fifteen seconds of pure terror. Ever since, even the faintest seismic murmur sends me into a state of panic.
Enough about me. Here are a few pointers for the next big one:
1) If you're in bed, stay there. Yes, that's right. You get to kick back and relax under fluffy down feathers while the world falls apart. Just grab a pillow to serve as the world's most ineffective shield, should something made of cement, steel or wood decide to come crashing down. But this is according to the experts. And it's the best way to go anyways, except for maybe a hot tub.
2) Don't even think about running outside. Ok, I'll admit I'm guilty of this. During a 4 pointer in 2003 I ran down four flights of stairs and out into the street. It's tempting. In the middle of the street there isn't much to fall on you, except perhaps a tree or power line. But think about it - how long do earthquakes last? 15 seconds? Maybe 20? How long does it take you to get out of the building? Probably about that time. Your clever getaway might save you from a second or two of indoor anguish, but if the building is going to implode on your head, you aren't going to get out before it does, even in your best Nikes. So resist the urge.
3) Locate a sturdy piece of Ikea furniture (ha) and get under it and grab it. Then pray you put it together correctly. And pray in general. Fervently.
4) Stay away from windows, bookshelves, fifty pound mounted oil paintings in carved wood frames, crystal chandeliers, giant glass saltwater aquariums filled with eels. Duh.
5) If the ceiling happens to be crumbling, lie down face down next to a bigass piece of furniture. If anything falls on you, you might get lucky and have it hit the bigass piece of furniture first, leaving you uncrushed in a cozy triangle of space, kind of like having your own secret fort.
6) It is recommended that you have non-perishible food, water, a radio, cell phone, first aid kit, flares, flashlight, face mask, North Face jacket, Nextel, and of COURSE, a whistle. Get a cute whistle that also supports a good cause at http://www.fallingwhistles.com.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
MIA
I apologize for the lack of updates. Twelve hour workdays with a Gestapo style supervisor and a car mishap leaves me with little time for sleep, none for blogging. I will update this weekend.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Another Reason to Google
"So I met this really, really cute guy on Friday." A typical conversation with a girlfriend. And as a good girlfriend does, I made a small display of excitement and leaned closer for the (hopefully juicy) details. Cute, smart, funny, nice, kissing, hand-holding, texting, and so forth, not bad for a late Friday night random bar catch. When you cast your reel in a dim crowded bar, you never know what kind of bottom dweller you'll hook. Especially a bar on the Sunset Strip. "Soooo, what happened?" I replied in rote perfection. "I Googled him," she continued. This was going to be good, I could feel it in my toes. "And...he was ALL over dontdatehimgirl.com!" Married and a serial cheater, his rap sheet of crimes against monogamy was long. Plus apparently he had a reputation for physical abuse and snorting lines. Juicy. I managed to conceal my excitement, yes yes yes, finally I knew somebody who had actually turned up some dirt on dontdatehimgirl.com, a site that has been around for years but had yet to prove itself as a useful tool for weeding out the more problematic contenders within the Los Angeles dating scene. It's like a Yelp for daters, where you might come across a review of that nice guy you've been seeing for a few weeks, including name, picture, location, known monikers (both online and off), as well as an impartial account of his most shocking shortcomings. If he's listed with an aka of "Syphillis Sam," it's definitely time to delete his number and call your gynocologist.
Obviously, my friend intends on fabricating some awkwardness to rid herself of this charming pipe bomb. She did express some discouragement, and I suggested Match.com. As far as I'm concerned, dating websites are like gyms. You want at least a reasonable monthly fee in order to avoid some of the people you don't want to get sweaty with.
Obviously, my friend intends on fabricating some awkwardness to rid herself of this charming pipe bomb. She did express some discouragement, and I suggested Match.com. As far as I'm concerned, dating websites are like gyms. You want at least a reasonable monthly fee in order to avoid some of the people you don't want to get sweaty with.
Love
I can't stop thinking about these shoes. I really can't. I know, I know. How impractical, tacky even. Giant puff leather hearts, laminated wood-effect blue platforms, what? Where would I wear them? If I wore them to work, I'm sure building security would be after me again. And at a challenging 5.1 inches, street lights would turn red while I was still mid-cross, leaving me in an awkward situation in the midst of angry commuters. And probably ticketed by my motorcycling mustached nemesis, Officer Douche, for holding up traffic. With an additional fine for violating city standards of good taste. I was born with a eye for garish footwear. My father fondly recalls a day when my pint-sized self accompanied my parents while shoe shopping. I threw a tantrum when my mother refused to purchase a pair of rainbow glitter peep toes I carefully selected for her from the bland rows of tasteful calf leather. I don't remember this, but I do recall stealing glittery malachite and quartz crystals from my pre-school science teacher and burying them in the dirt in the school's front yard. I guess I just like shiny things.
I really need those shoes. Marc Jacobs, je t'aime.
Mollification
As my smallest pair of rigid distressed Paper Denim Cloth jeans has become the solitary measure of my success, I now frequent Trader Joe's to stock up on such stereotypical healthy items as baked tofu, navel oranges and baby carrots. My bland diet has permanently dampened my mood and stripped grocery shopping of all joy, and I lower my gaze to avoid locking eyes with boxes of chocolate dipped carbohydrates as I stalk the fluorescent lit aisles. The other day as I unpacked my grocery bags, I was annoyed to discover that the bag of sliced green apples I had just purchased was missing. Reviewing my receipt, I noted that I had indeed been charged for a bag of sliced green apples. I checked my car. No apples. Where the fuck were my sliced green apples? Ughhhhh. Why is it that I must suffer for the incompetence of others?
Later back at Trader Joe's, I stormed customer service waving my crinkled receipt about, demanding a bag of replacement sliced green apples. As I left the store with my new bag of apples, I held the receipt up in the air once more, and murmured in annoyance at the inconvenience of it all. Upon returning home, I put the apples in my fridge and went about my day.
Last night, I explored my apartment for a snack. I discovered I am now proud owner of two bags of sliced green apples. Yes, I swindled Trader Joe's. Not only am I a black hearted bandit, but I also seem to be losing my mind. I also lack the ability to let unfortunate little mix-ups like this go, and therefore look forward to apologizing tonight to a balding vegan in a Hawaiian shirt who will judge me from now on as I shop for organically grown rabbit food. Oh well, my pride isn't worth much more than a three-dollar bag of fruit anyways.
On an unrelated note, I was thrilled to pull up next to this outside of 711 this morning.
Yes, I'm immature and too easily amused, but we've established this. Bimbo, Inc. Purveyors of bread and other baked goods. I couldn't help but be curious as to why a company would choose such an unfortunate name. The explanation isn't shocking. Founded in Mexico in 1945, "bimbo" had no literal translation in Spanish at that time and was chosen as a rough hybrid of Bambi and Dumbo, the names of the company's then two largest competitors. Bambi, Dumbo and Bimbo. Sounds like a bad porn involving stuffed toys from the happiest place on earth.How was the company to know then that it's arbitrary and fanciful name would later be defined as "1. a young woman indulged by rich and powerful older men." A term used as early as 1919 in the United States, flappers in the 20s meant it as a compliment. "Bimbo" is derived from the Italian word "bambino," which translates roughly to young man or boy. It was only decades later that bimbo would be used in reference to busty blondes. Don't feel bad for Bimbo. As one of the world's largest food corporations, I don't think they worry too much about the occasional chuckle and the lone person compelled to blog about it.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Purell Prayers
Nothing makes me feel more like a nondescript lab rat than working during flu season. Within our cage, it begins with a solitary sneezer and then there are two. Like playing Ten Little Indians, one by one the sickness spreads until no healthy remain. Coughs echo within cavernous cubicles and the weary and beleaguered stalk the hallways with red noses and watering eyes. It's only a matter of time before I join the herd of the afflicted. Unfortunately, unlike with hoof-and-mouth disease where one simply slaughters the sick, in the case of feet not hooves, slaughter is not an option. And when those feet are dressed in expensive Ferragamos, taking sick days is not an option, either. Here's my plan:
After spending the fourth quarter of 2009 unable to speak due to my bout with the bird/swine/cat/dog/fish flu, I am determined to avoid this round, even if I have to eat an entire organic grove of oranges. Fingers crossed.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
First Date Rules
It's one of the current trending topics on Twitter, and as such I have to throw in my wholesome and sage advice for the purposes of boosting my readership. Groveling for hits. What can I say. But it isn't such a bad topic of discussion. Earlier, I drafted a post on executive gifts, i.e. wind-up sushi rolls and mini billiards sets for the desk. Sorry, sometimes the well doth run dry, especially on 5 1/2 hours of sleep.
Rule #1: No "Dutch Courage"
A term originating during the Anglo-Dutch wars of the 17th century as an insult against the Dutch, who were propagandized to only have the courage to fight when boozing it up, it is easy to see how it could easily apply to the dating scene. Going on a first date is quite like going into battle - you can use intelligence to strategize a plan, but ultimately you can never prepare for every contingency. That cute physician's assistant you met in line for paninis at Whole Foods might initially seem harmless, then on your first date suddenly comes bomb number one - he is a recovering meth addict. Bomb number two - he was in prison for two years for distributing ecstacy tablets. You try not to choke on your half-chewed spear of asparagus and manage a feeble, "that's ok" as you look around the table for your white flag. Of course this is the point when you wish you were shitfaced. If you're any kind of dating veteran, you might at this point be in the habit of taking a shot (or two) before a first date, perhaps popping the trunk of your car to take a swig or two out of a bottle of Absolut before pensively approaching the designated battlefield. But you shouldn't. Unless you're dating in order to collect material for a screenplay (as one of my dates was, asshole), you are probably dating in order to find somebody you might consider seeing again. The odds of your date wanting to see YOU again are lowered if you use your trunk as a mobile liquor cabinet, unless you are one of those lucky few who acts completely normal when buzzed or drunk (hate you). Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying you shouldn't drink on dates. I am just saying it doesn't make the best first impression when you stumble up to your date with glassy eyes and rosy cheeks, smelling of eau de vodka before the night has even begun.
Rule #2: Watch What You Eat
Avoid the following: large sushi rolls, spaghetti, burritos, club sandwiches, buffalo wings, soup, garlic fries, shellfish, curry. When your date gazes across the table at you, he or she does not want to witness a burrito defacating all over your plate and lap. When your date speaks to you, he or she does not want to have to wait as you signal with your hands and struggle to swallow a mammoth mound of rice and raw eel. When your date leans in for that first kiss, he or she does not want to be greeted with the fragrance of curry, onions, or garlic. A lot of restaurants post menus online so you can plan ahead.
Rule #3: Keep Your Baggage To Yourself
On a first date, avoid discussing past destructive relationships, substance or physical abuse, sad tales from childhood, or your love-hate relationship with food. Your date knows all of this might exist to some extent, we all have some amount of baggage, but your date is not a member of the FAA asking to see the contents of your carry-on. And if he or she is asking you about these things, beware. If your date wants to know all about your most awful, personal drama then he or she is guaranteed to one-up you in that department and is merely searching for a segue into a confession of his or her own loathesome secrets.
Rule #4: No Texting, No Calls
If you text or pick up calls on your first date, you are an asshole.
Rule #5: Kiss
Why wouldn't you kiss on the first date? Too intimate? We're not 14 here, I'm guessing you're somewhere between the double digits and triple digits (as far as kissing) at this point if you're anywhere near my age and went through a period of excessive binge drinking 4 nights a week. Weed out the slobbering tounge-thrusters or serial peckers in the most time and cost efficient manner.
Rule #6: Don't Head Back to His/Her Place Unless You Are Prepared To Just Do It
"Want to head back to my place and just have a glass of wine and talk, no pressure? I just want to get to know you better." Translation: "Wanna head back to my place and have half a bottle of wine and DO IT?" Be real. Ignore reality, and you wind up ending the night with a pissed off date who calls you a tease as you storm out the front door with your things. Unfortunately you forgot your favorite earrings on the coffee table. You'll never see them again. And they were really cute.
What are your do's and don't's for the first date?
Rule #1: No "Dutch Courage"
A term originating during the Anglo-Dutch wars of the 17th century as an insult against the Dutch, who were propagandized to only have the courage to fight when boozing it up, it is easy to see how it could easily apply to the dating scene. Going on a first date is quite like going into battle - you can use intelligence to strategize a plan, but ultimately you can never prepare for every contingency. That cute physician's assistant you met in line for paninis at Whole Foods might initially seem harmless, then on your first date suddenly comes bomb number one - he is a recovering meth addict. Bomb number two - he was in prison for two years for distributing ecstacy tablets. You try not to choke on your half-chewed spear of asparagus and manage a feeble, "that's ok" as you look around the table for your white flag. Of course this is the point when you wish you were shitfaced. If you're any kind of dating veteran, you might at this point be in the habit of taking a shot (or two) before a first date, perhaps popping the trunk of your car to take a swig or two out of a bottle of Absolut before pensively approaching the designated battlefield. But you shouldn't. Unless you're dating in order to collect material for a screenplay (as one of my dates was, asshole), you are probably dating in order to find somebody you might consider seeing again. The odds of your date wanting to see YOU again are lowered if you use your trunk as a mobile liquor cabinet, unless you are one of those lucky few who acts completely normal when buzzed or drunk (hate you). Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying you shouldn't drink on dates. I am just saying it doesn't make the best first impression when you stumble up to your date with glassy eyes and rosy cheeks, smelling of eau de vodka before the night has even begun.
Rule #2: Watch What You Eat
Avoid the following: large sushi rolls, spaghetti, burritos, club sandwiches, buffalo wings, soup, garlic fries, shellfish, curry. When your date gazes across the table at you, he or she does not want to witness a burrito defacating all over your plate and lap. When your date speaks to you, he or she does not want to have to wait as you signal with your hands and struggle to swallow a mammoth mound of rice and raw eel. When your date leans in for that first kiss, he or she does not want to be greeted with the fragrance of curry, onions, or garlic. A lot of restaurants post menus online so you can plan ahead.
Rule #3: Keep Your Baggage To Yourself
On a first date, avoid discussing past destructive relationships, substance or physical abuse, sad tales from childhood, or your love-hate relationship with food. Your date knows all of this might exist to some extent, we all have some amount of baggage, but your date is not a member of the FAA asking to see the contents of your carry-on. And if he or she is asking you about these things, beware. If your date wants to know all about your most awful, personal drama then he or she is guaranteed to one-up you in that department and is merely searching for a segue into a confession of his or her own loathesome secrets.
Rule #4: No Texting, No Calls
If you text or pick up calls on your first date, you are an asshole.
Rule #5: Kiss
Why wouldn't you kiss on the first date? Too intimate? We're not 14 here, I'm guessing you're somewhere between the double digits and triple digits (as far as kissing) at this point if you're anywhere near my age and went through a period of excessive binge drinking 4 nights a week. Weed out the slobbering tounge-thrusters or serial peckers in the most time and cost efficient manner.
Rule #6: Don't Head Back to His/Her Place Unless You Are Prepared To Just Do It
"Want to head back to my place and just have a glass of wine and talk, no pressure? I just want to get to know you better." Translation: "Wanna head back to my place and have half a bottle of wine and DO IT?" Be real. Ignore reality, and you wind up ending the night with a pissed off date who calls you a tease as you storm out the front door with your things. Unfortunately you forgot your favorite earrings on the coffee table. You'll never see them again. And they were really cute.
What are your do's and don't's for the first date?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
How To Fuck Up A Proposal
The following is not staged. It's a video made by my co-worker's friend as he proposes to his girlfriend.
This clever fellow must be quite the jokester. He first proposes to his girlfriend with an empty box which he "accidentally" drops over the pier as a joke (had it been me, this would have been the point where I became physically violent, I think that's about as funny as suicide). Oh but don't fret, he has the real deal in his pocket!!!
He gets on one knee and professes his live via poem (I would have gotten pretty angry at this point as well) and comes out with the actual ring. He proposes, she says "yes." Happily ever after? The universe didn't think he was funny either, and in karmic retribution, he accidentally drops the real ring into the ocean. Shit. Custom made. Uninsured. This video makes me cringe.
I'm bummed I didn't find the ring in my salmon last night. I hope their wedding goes more smoothly.
This clever fellow must be quite the jokester. He first proposes to his girlfriend with an empty box which he "accidentally" drops over the pier as a joke (had it been me, this would have been the point where I became physically violent, I think that's about as funny as suicide). Oh but don't fret, he has the real deal in his pocket!!!
He gets on one knee and professes his live via poem (I would have gotten pretty angry at this point as well) and comes out with the actual ring. He proposes, she says "yes." Happily ever after? The universe didn't think he was funny either, and in karmic retribution, he accidentally drops the real ring into the ocean. Shit. Custom made. Uninsured. This video makes me cringe.
I'm bummed I didn't find the ring in my salmon last night. I hope their wedding goes more smoothly.
How To Make A Party Fun
A splendid birthday party complete with penthouse, buffet, cigars and champagne. Well-groomed wealthy circulated, some familiar, some new. Furs and diamonds and air kisses. Polite chatter about formula one racing and helicopter skiing. A night where you wouldn't consider stopping at one birthday cake, why not two, three...
Thus far it had been a pleasant evening. Good food and conversation under a silk-draped tent. As I finished up my salmon (I'd greedily gone back for seconds, out-eating both men at our table, but it was gooood), I was elbowed by my friend. I looked over to see a belly dancer. Well, more like a hot girl in a bikini top. Uh-oh.
We watched as the belly dancer did little with her belly and a lot with everything else. The most entertaining aspect was looking across the room at the other guests' expressions. Priceless. The crowd demographic was mostly Caucasian and Asian, ages ranging from 30s to late 70s. I was witness to varying expressions of discomfort amongst the women, most with frozen tight smiles and eyes darting about, unsure of where to look. A sliding scale of enthusiasm amongst the men depended on whether their wives were watching or not.
The men got up one by one to dance with Ms. Gyrate, some completely unfazed and more than willing to shake what their momma gave them while others were purple and protesting, firing off an obligatory series of mechanical hip shakes before scurrying back to the safety of their food plates and glasses of merlot. Soon the dancer had accumulated several bouquets of currency fanning about her waistband.
Half an hour later, she started going after the women, at which point my table decided we desperately needed a cigarette break downstairs. I was sober, and my friends were almost sober. Sober sexy dancing with a belly dancer in front of forty isn't something I think I'm capable of. Unless you bribe me with cookie dough.
Note to self: add instant fun with a belly dancer.
Thus far it had been a pleasant evening. Good food and conversation under a silk-draped tent. As I finished up my salmon (I'd greedily gone back for seconds, out-eating both men at our table, but it was gooood), I was elbowed by my friend. I looked over to see a belly dancer. Well, more like a hot girl in a bikini top. Uh-oh.
We watched as the belly dancer did little with her belly and a lot with everything else. The most entertaining aspect was looking across the room at the other guests' expressions. Priceless. The crowd demographic was mostly Caucasian and Asian, ages ranging from 30s to late 70s. I was witness to varying expressions of discomfort amongst the women, most with frozen tight smiles and eyes darting about, unsure of where to look. A sliding scale of enthusiasm amongst the men depended on whether their wives were watching or not.
The men got up one by one to dance with Ms. Gyrate, some completely unfazed and more than willing to shake what their momma gave them while others were purple and protesting, firing off an obligatory series of mechanical hip shakes before scurrying back to the safety of their food plates and glasses of merlot. Soon the dancer had accumulated several bouquets of currency fanning about her waistband.
Half an hour later, she started going after the women, at which point my table decided we desperately needed a cigarette break downstairs. I was sober, and my friends were almost sober. Sober sexy dancing with a belly dancer in front of forty isn't something I think I'm capable of. Unless you bribe me with cookie dough.
Note to self: add instant fun with a belly dancer.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tweaking News!
Introducing the Starbucks doubleshot® Energy+Cofee LIGHT in VANILLA LIGHT *cue angels singing* Isn't she pretty?
I accidentally happened across this glorious find at a random 76 station. It has 30% of your daily calcium and 9 grams of protein and comes to a total of only 130 calories!+!! Why didn't I know about this before, is it new?
TMI Friday
Photo Credit: beanma.com
TGIF. Never were truer words written. Working 13 hours days has started to take it's toll on my personality. I'm a scraggly ball of fraying nerves and I find myself getting increasingly belligerent behind the wheel. Yesterday I flipped off a woman from behind before switching lanes and repeating the gesture from the side...double tapped. In my defense, she performed a highly illegal maneuver that almost got me railroaded, and nothing pisses me off more than a near miss at being slammed by 4 airbags.
What do you get when you put nine women (one pregnant) and one man in a room? Hilarity. An 8:00 am conversation about breast feeding proved too much for the solitary male. He has quietly endured weeks of debate over boys and fad diets, but apparently he has a line and it was crossed. Eyes wide and hunched over at the word "breast feed," he quickly scrambled out of the room for the next ten minutes and reluctantly returned after pausing at the door to assure the topic of conversation had drifted to something else. If I hadn't already had my morning coffee, I would have also recused myself, as hearing about the "Hooter Hider" nursing cover made me shift in my seat.
And because I love finding random junk on the web, here is my new favorite commercial. Meet "The Kush." Apparently there are women out there who find it impossible to sleep because their breasts are touching. Ok...first off, who are these women? I can't think of anybody I know who has confessed this problem to me, and trust me, I've heard pretty much everything. Second, this product is not only expensive, but unnecessary. $55.00 for a piece of plastic that looks suspiciously similar to something that many women already possess... I would also like to know whether a similar product exists for men who have difficulty sleeping because their balls touch. I also like that it is available in three different colors - nude, mocha or ebony. Why?
And, as always, the best part is reading some of the viewer comments. My favorites:
"Why don't you just save your money and buy a spice bottle from the grocery store?"
"Is there a man boob version"
"Why do they offer it in different skin colors? Do they expect people will think it's part of your body or something?"
"I'm only 12 years old and what is this?"
"I can easily craft that for my girlfriend with a knife and some woods for 0 bucks." "Yes, I'm sure your girlfriend is gonna love putting a hard, splintery piece of wood between her breasts."
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
cryingwife.com
This guy sets up a video camera to record his wife's reactions to movies. I wish I could have sat with her during Hotel Rwanda, I had to be carried out on a stretcher. Below is her reaction to Dawn of the Dead, hilarious.
After Back to the Future...
Crying Wife Dot Com
After Back to the Future...
Crying Wife Dot Com
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Art of Oversharing
An open letter to all casual acquaintances, temporary co-workers and complete strangers: I do not care to hear about your history of substance abuse, your blossoming teenage daughter, your series of devastating miscarriages, your father's death from cancer or your roster of daily medications along with their undesirable side effects. As a general rule, unless we've reached a level of familiarity where I would willingly share your straw over a rootbeer float, I just don't give a shit.
I'm not callous. I am a highly emotional person, actually. I've cried during episodes of Celebrity Fit Club. I figure that qualifies me as caring, yes? So it's not that I'm without a heart. I'm just fed up with the brazen and widespread misuse of oversharing.
Oversharing. The phenomenon with the distinction of earning it's own acronym, the famously overused "T.M.I." for Too Much Information. T.M.I. was spawned as a response to the raunchy, the nasty, the freaky, the weird - "omg tmi!!!" - a proper response to all things you must feign disapproval about in order to not be judged. But you secretly don't mind. It at the very least makes for good gossip ("Hey. OMG did you hear about how Jean De Baptiste got really wasted and hooked up with his sister-in-law. Awwwwkward.") As an added bonus, you as the relayer of such information look fabulously normal in comparison, plus you will be fleetingly popular with your listeners, so use this to your advantage.
The problem occurs when people incorrectly use T.M.I. There are rules of operation. Not meant for use with information that will tend to depress or bore. What am I supposed to do with the story about your osteoperosis? Nobody else wants to hear that. Neither did I. It wasn't salacious or shocking or even a hint of revolting. It was a buzz kill. And now my internalized value system is telling me I should feel sorry for you. Only we just met. It's just not right. Plus there is no proper, easy response. After hearing the lady next to you on the bus has osteoperosis, you can't exclaim "ahhhh! T.M.I.!" That would only make you an asshole.
The rules to T.M.I.-ing are relatively simple - so easy, even a caveman could do it. Please adhere to the following rules: #1) Transmitting the information cannot last more than 90 seconds; #2) It cannot be about a disease or medical condition unless it is elaphantitis or something caught between the sheets and treated by a round of antibiotics; #3) Do not share stories if they involve loved ones whom you respect. These stories invariably only interest and amuse you. #4) Death is never a sound topic for casual oversharing. Save this for bartender, at least he's paid for listening. #5) A good general rule of thumb. Pretend whatever you're about to say involves Nick Lachey. Would it make perezhilton.com? If so, you're golden. Nick Lachey wakes up naked in the bushes v. Nick Lachey has a bone spur. Make sense?
That's just my $0.02.
I'm not callous. I am a highly emotional person, actually. I've cried during episodes of Celebrity Fit Club. I figure that qualifies me as caring, yes? So it's not that I'm without a heart. I'm just fed up with the brazen and widespread misuse of oversharing.
Oversharing. The phenomenon with the distinction of earning it's own acronym, the famously overused "T.M.I." for Too Much Information. T.M.I. was spawned as a response to the raunchy, the nasty, the freaky, the weird - "omg tmi!!!" - a proper response to all things you must feign disapproval about in order to not be judged. But you secretly don't mind. It at the very least makes for good gossip ("Hey. OMG did you hear about how Jean De Baptiste got really wasted and hooked up with his sister-in-law. Awwwwkward.") As an added bonus, you as the relayer of such information look fabulously normal in comparison, plus you will be fleetingly popular with your listeners, so use this to your advantage.
The problem occurs when people incorrectly use T.M.I. There are rules of operation. Not meant for use with information that will tend to depress or bore. What am I supposed to do with the story about your osteoperosis? Nobody else wants to hear that. Neither did I. It wasn't salacious or shocking or even a hint of revolting. It was a buzz kill. And now my internalized value system is telling me I should feel sorry for you. Only we just met. It's just not right. Plus there is no proper, easy response. After hearing the lady next to you on the bus has osteoperosis, you can't exclaim "ahhhh! T.M.I.!" That would only make you an asshole.
The rules to T.M.I.-ing are relatively simple - so easy, even a caveman could do it. Please adhere to the following rules: #1) Transmitting the information cannot last more than 90 seconds; #2) It cannot be about a disease or medical condition unless it is elaphantitis or something caught between the sheets and treated by a round of antibiotics; #3) Do not share stories if they involve loved ones whom you respect. These stories invariably only interest and amuse you. #4) Death is never a sound topic for casual oversharing. Save this for bartender, at least he's paid for listening. #5) A good general rule of thumb. Pretend whatever you're about to say involves Nick Lachey. Would it make perezhilton.com? If so, you're golden. Nick Lachey wakes up naked in the bushes v. Nick Lachey has a bone spur. Make sense?
That's just my $0.02.
Friday, February 12, 2010
When I Fall, I Fall Hard
Happy Friday. My morning today began like most others. It began with me hitting the snooze button four times, leaving me without enough time to finish blowdrying my hair. On a mission to avoid rush hour traffic, I filled my famished tank with only a $7 snack and made a second thought stop at 7-11 to grab my Doubleshot® and $10 cash back for parking. Rocking out to En Vogue along the 101 South ("Free yoooo miiinnd and the rest will follow!!!!!"), I screamed at a yellow school bus before exiting, parking, and nodding blankly at the parking attendant who greeted me with a thirty second monologue in fluent Spanish. No habla Español...While on the phone with my boyfriend, I trudged up the familiar steps in front of my towering downtown office building. What happened next I'm sure is something everybody has experienced at least once. My foot caught on the top step and I face planted into the concrete to the horror of the business suits and trench coats surrounding me. Not a little trip, the kind of sprawling stumble that leaves you beached on your belly with your things scattered about you in a crescent. A most undignified flop. I took a minute before getting up. I did the cringing "I'm okay" wave as thirty people felt the need to rush to my side and ask if I was hurt. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. But it did hurt. The older I get, the more this type of thing just hurts. To my horror I even teared up a little as the woman next to me babbled on regarding her intense concern. I brushed it off, and hurriedly continued my ascent up the maze of escalators towards security, wanting to die.
A security guard asked, "Hey snoopy, what's your name?" Snoopy? I figured she must really like me or something, I mean I am really friendly as I swipe my key card at the kiosk. I always say "hi!" That made me feel a bit better, you like me, you really like me à la Sally Fields.
Twenty minutes later, two suited security guards entered my office and asked me if I could come with them. My heart froze and my mind scanned its recent history for an infraction I may have committed, but could think of none.
"We just have to ask you a few questions." Ruh-roh. "Ma'am, could you please stand with both feet apart and put your hands behind your back?" I complied and began to feel panicked. "Just kidding! Relax. You don't have to stand like that, hahaha! So, we have footage of the incident this morning and needed to ask you some questions about it." Oh god, footage? Incident? That's a great way of putting it. A permanent record of my grand entrance. I imagined a security guard at 7:15 am staring at his monitor over a steaming cup of caffeine when he sees me prance up the stairs before diving head-first into the cement. "Ahaha! Hey guys! We've got another one! Ooooo-eee that had to hurt. You gotta see this, hold on 'n lemme rewind real quick!" Nice. The security guards proceeded to ask me my name, my height, my eye color, my age, my weight (really? pft, I lied anyways), my address, my phone number. They took record of my outfit. "She's wearing boots. Huh, I would have guessed heels," one said to the other. "Uggs" I corrected. "Were you in a hurry this morning?" I paused for a second. "Tell the truth!!!!" the guard admonished. "Er, yah, sort of." He continued, "would you say you were distracted." "I have no plans on suing you if that's what this is about," I offered. "Yeah, people say that then a year later, you'd be surprised," he replied, "please answer the question, it's procedure." "Not really distracted, no, but I was on the phone." They wrote that down. "Are you in any pain?" "No." "Do you need medical attention?" "No." "Hey, we forgot to write down she's wearing a black shirt. Write that down. Now we're going to have to put all of this in a file for our records. If you need any medical attention or have any questions, here's my business card. Have a great day and - be careful!"
Has the world really become that litigious? I know the answer to that question is "yes," so I get it, I do. But I would have preferred to just forget about the whole thing. Now my moment of embarassment is filed away under "Trips and Falls" in the management's cabinet of potential plaintiffs. Guess I'd better watch my step.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Star Gazing
As the more superficial of us LAers diligently work off our holiday rolls along the muddy trails of Runyon Canon, we are besieged by a new kind of roll. Rather than at our waistlines, however, this roll is red and unrolled to pave the way for a promenade of plastic celluloid stars.Awards season.
Like a plague of locusts, every lister in the alphabet descends like a dark cloud upon Hollywood to flash mega-twat, well-practiced smiles and politely clap in exchange for alcohol, loot bags and a bid to be best-dressed. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the mortals, awards season means not being able to book a hair appointment until mid-March and facing road blocks on V.V.I.P. streets like Hollywood Boulevard. During our routine wait for our skinny lattes at Starbucks we have to overhear gay stylists talk shit about various celebrities they are styling, proudly and loudly referring to said celebrities by their first names - Hillary, Meryl, Kate, Anne. We get it, you've skipped the 9 degrees are in the pan frying with the Bacon, congrats you are totally cool. Paparazzi hunt in packs for someone to photograph and crowds of European and Asian tourists follow closely, nipping at their heels with camcorders and camera phones frozen at 90* angles. Prepare to elbow your way into Il Fornaio, Paris Hilton is inside. It's a real pain in the ass, I tell you.
To me now in my state of disenchantment, awards season is as glamorous as the red duct tape that holds down the corners of the Ronald McDonald red carpets. But when I first came to Los Angeles, I, like most of the world, was completely celebrity-obsessed to the point of running around the aisle and jumping up and down with glee after Debra Messing barked at me in a costume shop.
My first awards season in Los Angeles was pure magic. While in line at the post office, a 70-something man in a baseball cap asked me if I wanted to party with Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriends. Initially I figured he was just being lecherous, but I did give him my email address. What arrived in my inbox was an invite to his Oscar party, including the instructions to bring a cute girlfriend, emphasis on the girl, underscore the cute. "Do not bring any guys!" As it was being held at a ritzy hotel, I figured the worst thing that could happen couldn't be that bad. Plus I believe one should never say no to an invite that includes an open bar.
My friend and I arrived at the hotel and were whisked into a crystal ballroom where we immediately sidled up to and made friends with the open bar. I was drinking appletinis at the time, thinking they were a sign of sophistication, while my friend ordered vodka double shots straight up. As we looked around, we didn't recognize any celebrities as this was a strictly D-list event. The crowd was congealed into clique formations. Feeling a bit outcast, we treated our awkwardness with a prescription of hard alcohol and soon we were stumbling about collecting business cards from boom operators and millionaire matchmakers.
While ordering my sixth appletini at the bar, I came across a charming gentleman in a tux and bowtie and instantly fell in love. My newfound love, his thuggish buddy, my friend and I then jointly embarked on a photoshoot with our digital cameras, spending the next fifteen minutes capturing the evening from various angles. They then insisted that we take pictures with their buddy "Louey," who the next day we realized was Lou Diamond Phillips, probably the only "real" actor in attendance that evening.
When my betuxed darling suggested my friend and I might wish to accompany him and his friends to the Vanity Fair party, I dove head first into their white limousine dragging my terrified friend with me. After seating ourselves in the back we realized perhaps we (or I) had been a bit rash as we were met with verbal abuse by what we later decided was surely a member of the New Jersey mafia. "FUCK YOU! YOU DISRESPECT ME GETTING IN MY LIMO WITHOUT AKNOWLEDGING ME? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? YOU FUCKING AKNOWLEDGE ME WHEN YOU GET INTO MY LIMO, DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM???" No. But there didn't seem to be much point in saying so. The entire limo was silent.
We rode around in the limo for what seemed like an hour, picking up various happy drunks along the way who each received verbal thrashings from the angry man in the white tuxedo. We were finally dropped off across the street from the Vanity Fair venue and then proceeded to scramble about in our stilettos as the mafia men attempted to ditch us. My friend was resolute in not letting that happened and dragged me behind her as I sobbed over my failed romance. Finally one man turned around and yelled "how much money is it going to take to get rid of you two broads?" Yep, he said broads, how totally mafia, right? I responded by sadly smearing my mascara around my face with the back of my hand and my friend, blinking with annoyance, said, "$50.00!!!" "That's it?" he replied, taking out an impressive roll of money and handing the cash over.
As we rode home in a cab, my friend turned to me and said, "Ugh. I should have asked for $100.00."
I would later come across my elderly host in a law school textbook. Apparently he is a well-known Hollywood crook with ties to the mafia. Lesson learned? Nope.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Something To Think About
My iPhone and I are still very much in the honeymoon phase. I received mine a little over a month ago as a Christmas present, and ever since I haven't been able to bear to take my eyes off of it for more than eight hours of the day, tops. I sleep, big spoon, with my iPhone in my arms.
One of my new hobbies is to watch people's wireless networks pop up on my screen as I drive around LA. Sounds boring, but as somebody with strong stalker tendencies, it serves as a satisfactory form of amusement whilst in traffic.
What a person chooses to name his or her wireless networks says a lot about that individual. "Go Fuck Yourself" is somebody who really hates network squatters. He has lot of online gaming to do and is constantly downloading gigs of pirated anime. You want to try and slow down his network? Go fuck yourself! Then there's "Same Ol G," a 30-something Caucasian UCSB graduate who works in marketing. There is, and never was anything "g" about this guy. "Ali luvs Matt" belongs to Ali, who will probably be single before Valentines Day when Matt, her boyfriend of three months uses his new iPhone at her place and decides she's a liability.
This got me thinking. I personally never change my network name from the standard "Netgear" or "Belkin45" but you might be different. I'm sure you don't mind if people catch a glimpse of your network name when driving around outside, they are strangers after all and will never know who you are. But be at least slightly cautious. I want to know what the person named his/her network "marystwat" was thinking. First I guess I hope this isn't a religious reference. But Mary, wherever you are, unless you have several neighbors named Mary, everybody in the building thinks about your, ahem, several times a day and thinks you're a slag. Is it really all that?
I washed my car yesterday, just in time for the rain. Of course.
One of my new hobbies is to watch people's wireless networks pop up on my screen as I drive around LA. Sounds boring, but as somebody with strong stalker tendencies, it serves as a satisfactory form of amusement whilst in traffic.
What a person chooses to name his or her wireless networks says a lot about that individual. "Go Fuck Yourself" is somebody who really hates network squatters. He has lot of online gaming to do and is constantly downloading gigs of pirated anime. You want to try and slow down his network? Go fuck yourself! Then there's "Same Ol G," a 30-something Caucasian UCSB graduate who works in marketing. There is, and never was anything "g" about this guy. "Ali luvs Matt" belongs to Ali, who will probably be single before Valentines Day when Matt, her boyfriend of three months uses his new iPhone at her place and decides she's a liability.
This got me thinking. I personally never change my network name from the standard "Netgear" or "Belkin45" but you might be different. I'm sure you don't mind if people catch a glimpse of your network name when driving around outside, they are strangers after all and will never know who you are. But be at least slightly cautious. I want to know what the person named his/her network "marystwat" was thinking. First I guess I hope this isn't a religious reference. But Mary, wherever you are, unless you have several neighbors named Mary, everybody in the building thinks about your, ahem, several times a day and thinks you're a slag. Is it really all that?
I washed my car yesterday, just in time for the rain. Of course.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
My Thoughts On The Latest Techno Wet Dream
Everybody is buzzing, twittering, and blogging about the iPad. I naturally must follow suit. To me, the iPad, or as I like to call it, the iMaxPad is much like the personal feminine hygiene product - a bulky device that will make you walk funny during use. I'm disappointed it doesn't include wings for leakage protection.
I consider the iPad the Hummer of PDAs. When you whip that thing out (can it even be whipped out, perhaps dragged out of your bag with the aid of a crane) everybody will judge you. Everybody. Why'd you buy that thing, jackass? The iTouch and iPhone wasn't big enough for ya, huh? Feel more like a man now, do ya? Well, do ya punk?
The following are my grievances against the iDiaper:
1. Where Do I Put It?
Bravo Steve Jobs, bravo, the iPad weighs a mere 1.5 pounds. And only 1/2 inch thick, if only I could get that skinny. But what about the 9.7" monitor? Magazine size, according to Apple.com. Where the hell do I put this thing? It won't fit in my Speedy, plus my keys and switchblade would totally fuck up the screen. So what, I have to get a laptop bag for the iPad? That's kind of dumb. Or will there be an iBag at the bargain price of $89.99 for me to tote my iPad in? And importantly, will it be cute? Marc Jacobs might be available. I still love Marc Jacobs even though he never approves the Myspace comments I leave him.
2. Landscape vs. Portrait
Does Steve Jobs really expect me to be flipping this thing around in public? I have a hard enough time looking cool without tossing an iPad about, which I imagine would make me look like I was steering an imaginary pirate ship on the high seas. Yarrrrrr! Soon enough I'm sure Youtube will have videos of people juggling iPads, kinda like those super rad sign holders you seen on the corner of Santa Monica and Bundy. Only I'm sure an iPad would have a harder time recovering from kissing the street.
3. No Flash
Yes, I know there are people out there who argue Flash will soon be no more relevant than an electric pencil sharpener, but we're not there yet kids! Maybe we will be a year from now, but I want the ability to watch Facebook videos now-now-now! That's the whole point of these stalker devices. My iPhone already pisses me off every day by telling me I can't use Flash, why would I want to get the same bad news twice? That would be like two people in a row telling me I'm ugly. Once was enough, thank you. I get it.
5. Price
Starting at $499 for Wi-Fi only. Ok, well nobody is going to get that one. To really use this baby you're gonna want the 3G, so we're looking at $629 minimum. Oh and then you're going to have to purchase the 3G data plan, yet another monthly headache to keep in mind. Maybe I'll spring for this when I can list all of my Mac devices as dependents on my W-4.
6. Sorry Alt+Tabbers
Only one application at a time. But I like to listen to my iTunes on when iGoogle! Apple, Apple, have you not heard of A.D.D.?
7. What's The Point?
It's made for consuming content. I have my Macbook at home, my Dell at work, my iPhone for in between. So when exactly am I going to be using this thing? I can't really think of any other time I need to be consuming content. During a bubble bath? On a park bench? In line at Sprinkles? I suppose if I bought an iPad, I might make a few special trips to Starbucks just so I could feel there was a purpose to my purchase, but again, then I'd run into the whole issue of looking like Captain Hook while everyone sits back and hates me over their soy lattes. Plus there's the whole privacy issue - I don't want the the world to look over my shoulder and discover I spend my free time reading Bodybuilding.com and posting in an *NSYNC fan forum.
So that's my take. What's yours?
Monday, February 1, 2010
I Rule
Day 15 of the diet. I will confess I had one moment of weakness involving 6 pitchers of beer, but aside from that I've been a bastian of willpower.
I just wanted to take a moment to brag. Now I must go, I'm watching the Bachelor.
I just wanted to take a moment to brag. Now I must go, I'm watching the Bachelor.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Peer Into My Photobucket
Perusing your Photobucket account can be an enriching experience, especially when you've owned the same account since 2001. It makes you more mindful of things like how much you've matured and how much weight you've gained since you were 19. The following are the insights purloined from my bucket:1. Everything Happens for a Reason
In my bucket of photos is a picture of one of my exes. An accentric Israeli with a white Pomeranian named Gucci that he mouth fed (yes, as in fed Gucci out of his own mouth), the romance was probably doomed from the start. I was crushed when he went to Israel on business and found a poodle-haired relation of former Miss Israel as my replacement, and then even worse, never bothered to tell me. They married soon after in a tacky wedding complete with white doves and jewel-studded head pieces. I know this through my Facebook psychostalking. Stop judging me, his profile was public, okay? One thing I did deem worthy of saving is a picture he took with his heavily pregnant wife. They are posing together in matching outfits, Poodle-Hair giving the camera her trademark seductive head tilt with her prominant pregnant belly barely hugged in a spandex top, the Ex with a slicked back ponytail, winter scarf, cargo shorts and a hairline that was in deeper recession than last I saw. Next to them is a lion. Yeah, what the fuck? That could have been me.
2. I Looked A Whore At My Best Friend's Wedding
As maid of honor, I was a grand vision of cleavage and double-stick tape. I am the reason vanity sizing exists. I purchased a bridesmaids dress that fit everywhere but my bust as I refused to size up. The tailor's solution to the quad-ra-boob phenomenon that occurred when the dress was zipped fully was to hack off part of the back of the dress into a deep "v." The result was a dress that no longer cut into my curves but also failed to remain in place, preferring to sag several inches and leave little to the imagination. In a bid to keep things Christian, I turned to Hollywood tape. This tape does not withstand the soul train. Cheers.
3. My Forehead Hasn't Changed Since 2000
Thank you Botox.
4. I Am An Alcoholic
It would appear that my longtime companion is the classic plastic red cup, the universal symbol of cheap vodka and Ocean Spray. I like to pose holding it high, chin-level as if toasting with a crystal flute. In my early-to-mid 20s, my creed was prepartying. In retrospect, any prepartying I did usually ended my party before it even began. I can think of more than one occassion where I was denied entry into a bar due to stumbling in my stilettos or repeatedly asking the 350-pound dreadlocked bouncer whether anybody had ever told him he looks like Taye Diggs. Sitting in the gutter and dueting to "No Woman No Cry" with a homeless man and drunk dialing your parents (who don't answer) while waiting for your friends to leave the bar is no way to spend your youth.
5. I Am Easily Impressed
I met a Cal journalism student who had interviewed Jenna Bush and insisted on taking several pictures of him. One is included in this post. WTF...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Three's Company?
As portrayed by the popular media, Beverly Hills 90210 is an oasis of palm lined luxury, filled with impeccable shoppers - men wrapped with Hermes ties in perfect windsor knots and women teetering about in $800 stilettos with lasered white smiles, skinny as their skinny lattes. You'd probably never guess that lurking along these perfect people shopping these perfect boutiques along these perfect blocks are perfect lunatics. It was in Beverly Hills that a stammering man offered to purchase my thong for $200. It was also in Beverly Hills that I first encountered the Lebanese Brothers.
One fall day as I struggled under the weight of a tray of Il Fornaio coffees, a bifocaled Lebanese man kindly held the door for me. Chivalry is NOT dead, damnit! He walked me to my office and asked for my work number. I gave it to him, majorly impressed by his cojones. I'll dub him Troy, not his real name, but as random as the unfitting American name he'd chosen when he came to this country. He was so NOT a Troy.
A week later he called my office and I agreed to meet up with Troy for lunch. Approaching our meeting place, I realized I had only a vague recollection of what Troy looked like. Several gentlemen passed by, and I repeatedly performed the awkward stare of nonrecognition while playing Where's Troy? Ahhh Troy, straight ahead, the one with the thick glasses and generous beer gut. Awkward wave. A lot older than I remembered, I'm guessing mid-to-late 40s. Ah well, I thought, as I gave him a hug.
"Hello Renee. Good to see you again! Edgar is parking the car and he'll be joining us shortly." Edgar? Who is Edgar? "I hope you don't mind, Edgar is my brother."
I was a bit perplexed, maybe he just wanted to be friends or network or something, and hey, in my book, the more Lebanese the better. Edgar turned out to be a shorter and stouter version of Troy, but slightly better looking. I had a salad, they had pasta. They laughed at all of my jokes to the point of tears, told me I was their "new favorite American." I have to admit it was pretty fucking awesome. Two hours later, the Lebanese Brothers walked me back to the office and we exchanged air kisses and must-do-this-agains.
A week later on Halloween, Troy sent me a text to say he was in Beverly Hills, would I join him at Teuscher for coffee? Sure. At a little round table outside Teuscher sat Troy and Edgar, costumeless of course. I had on a tiara and feather boa, office appropriate and just plain dumb. Could they buy me coffee? A chocolate? Anything? I'll have an espresso and one of those yummy looking champagne truffles. Done and done. More chatter. More air kisses. Walking me back, a homeless man asked me what I was doing with the two scrooges. Ouch.
These random meetings with the Brothers continued for several months. One evening as I was rehashing about an awful MTV audition on the phone with Troy, he mentioned that I'd better not get fat or he'd stop dating me. Hold up. Okay, first off, neither I, nor my thighs, appreciate that. And I didn't realize we were dating. Every time I'd seen this man, Edgar had been in tow. They were like Siamese twins, inseparable, driving about in their Mercedes, Troy always at the wheel, Edgar always in the passenger seat. They even lived together. Perhaps this was a cultural thing I was unaware of. Maybe he's how that saying, "you date me, you date my whole family" came to exist.
Several months later I met up with Troy for a quick bite to say hi. For some reason. Edgar was there, of course. Troy demanded to know where I'd been all these months. Ohhhh, I'd been dating this guy. "Aha," Troy said, "I knew that was why you'd disappeared!" No Troy, actually that's not why, but whatever. He asked what had happened to the guy I'd been dating. "Oh, he was married." The laughter that followed was not appreciated but maybe was a bit deserved. Air kisses. Troy grabbed my ass.
I still run into Troy pretty much everywhere I go. At CVS while carrying a box of Tampons. At Il Fornaio. The last time I saw him I was at a stop light. Troy pulled up next to me with Edgar in the passenger seat. He held up traffic for the next 30 seconds shouting something about the three of us grabbing tea at Urth before the two of them sped off down Wilshire Boulevard, holding hands between their seats and chuckling about nonsense behind their thick foggy glasses.
One fall day as I struggled under the weight of a tray of Il Fornaio coffees, a bifocaled Lebanese man kindly held the door for me. Chivalry is NOT dead, damnit! He walked me to my office and asked for my work number. I gave it to him, majorly impressed by his cojones. I'll dub him Troy, not his real name, but as random as the unfitting American name he'd chosen when he came to this country. He was so NOT a Troy.
A week later he called my office and I agreed to meet up with Troy for lunch. Approaching our meeting place, I realized I had only a vague recollection of what Troy looked like. Several gentlemen passed by, and I repeatedly performed the awkward stare of nonrecognition while playing Where's Troy? Ahhh Troy, straight ahead, the one with the thick glasses and generous beer gut. Awkward wave. A lot older than I remembered, I'm guessing mid-to-late 40s. Ah well, I thought, as I gave him a hug.
"Hello Renee. Good to see you again! Edgar is parking the car and he'll be joining us shortly." Edgar? Who is Edgar? "I hope you don't mind, Edgar is my brother."
I was a bit perplexed, maybe he just wanted to be friends or network or something, and hey, in my book, the more Lebanese the better. Edgar turned out to be a shorter and stouter version of Troy, but slightly better looking. I had a salad, they had pasta. They laughed at all of my jokes to the point of tears, told me I was their "new favorite American." I have to admit it was pretty fucking awesome. Two hours later, the Lebanese Brothers walked me back to the office and we exchanged air kisses and must-do-this-agains.
A week later on Halloween, Troy sent me a text to say he was in Beverly Hills, would I join him at Teuscher for coffee? Sure. At a little round table outside Teuscher sat Troy and Edgar, costumeless of course. I had on a tiara and feather boa, office appropriate and just plain dumb. Could they buy me coffee? A chocolate? Anything? I'll have an espresso and one of those yummy looking champagne truffles. Done and done. More chatter. More air kisses. Walking me back, a homeless man asked me what I was doing with the two scrooges. Ouch.
These random meetings with the Brothers continued for several months. One evening as I was rehashing about an awful MTV audition on the phone with Troy, he mentioned that I'd better not get fat or he'd stop dating me. Hold up. Okay, first off, neither I, nor my thighs, appreciate that. And I didn't realize we were dating. Every time I'd seen this man, Edgar had been in tow. They were like Siamese twins, inseparable, driving about in their Mercedes, Troy always at the wheel, Edgar always in the passenger seat. They even lived together. Perhaps this was a cultural thing I was unaware of. Maybe he's how that saying, "you date me, you date my whole family" came to exist.
Several months later I met up with Troy for a quick bite to say hi. For some reason. Edgar was there, of course. Troy demanded to know where I'd been all these months. Ohhhh, I'd been dating this guy. "Aha," Troy said, "I knew that was why you'd disappeared!" No Troy, actually that's not why, but whatever. He asked what had happened to the guy I'd been dating. "Oh, he was married." The laughter that followed was not appreciated but maybe was a bit deserved. Air kisses. Troy grabbed my ass.
I still run into Troy pretty much everywhere I go. At CVS while carrying a box of Tampons. At Il Fornaio. The last time I saw him I was at a stop light. Troy pulled up next to me with Edgar in the passenger seat. He held up traffic for the next 30 seconds shouting something about the three of us grabbing tea at Urth before the two of them sped off down Wilshire Boulevard, holding hands between their seats and chuckling about nonsense behind their thick foggy glasses.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Current Mood: Cold and Hungry
It's that time of year again. The holidays have come and gone. The local pharmacies have traded the aisles of tinsel garlands and broken candy canes for heart shaped boxes of sub-par caramels and slouching teddy bears. 'Tis the season to be sorry when you suddenly realize that none of your jeans fit. Well, you can get them on after doing the jumping denim dance and making it work, zipping up so the waistband aggressively embraces your sides, resulting in what is known as the "muffin top." So, in order to avoid a year of wearing Lycra stretch pants while other women stare at my thighs with an "nnnn-nnnn giiiiirl" shake of the head, I have voluntarily joined forces with three other women and taken on the "21 day diet". Is this a real diet? By "real," I mean one endorsed by some yo-yo dieting Opra-esque mouthpiece. I am not sure, but here are the rules:1. No meat
2. No cheese
3. No refined sugar
4. No simple carbs
5. No alcohol
21 days. Today is day two. Zwei. Deux. Outside, an impassioned storm. Cold and wet. Fervent rivers of murky Hotel Luxe alley water. Raining domesticated animals. I munch on cold Persian cucumbers (an awkwardly phallic snack, FYI) as I watch people walk around happily eating plates of steaming pasta and overstuffed burritos. This is not celery weather. It is panini weather. Caaaaaarb weather! You never really notice how Beverly Hills is completely infested with Italian restaurants until you are unable to partake in the gluttony. Il Fornaio, Il Pastaio, La Scala, Trattoria...
Adding to my misery is the fact that I do not own an umbrella. Today is especially disheartening, as it is apparently tornado weather (though I'll believe that when I see it). See, not owning an umbrella is my way of taking a stand and saying "fuck you" to bad weather. Were I to cave and purchase one, I am certain the annual rainfall in Los Angeles would double. My mother used to say, "The world doesn't revolve around you!" I disagree. Three obnoxious do-gooders with clipboards want to know why I don't want to help homeless children. Well, because I'd rather save my millions for the old lady in a wheelchair who sells Israeli chocolate bars. They are pure magic. I bought some once when I was walking about Beverly Hills with the Lebanese Brothers (I'll tell you about them in my next post).
Hopefully this will all be worth it. 19 more days of lettuce and black coffee.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Zoya
Punky and spunky, petite and opinionated. Dazzled by diamonds and loved anything purple. Our evenings together were often spent watching Friends reruns that she'd already seen dozens of times. After a few months, so had I. She never afraid to tell me the truth, a quality I both loved and hated. She'd say, "ok, I've got to be honest..." She dieted on pop tarts and lucky charms and stocked our cupboards with bulk boxes of Coke. At only 5'2", she was a tiny little thing but that never stopped her. She was an absolute monster behind the wheel of her Volvo. When I was sad, she'd leave me little handwritten notes about the apartment to cheer me up. They were always on her "Z" stationary, Z for Zoya. She taught me to appreciate the Spice Girls. For her I went to Benihana, a restaurant I hate - a lot. We'd go often. She'd come into my room at midnight sometimes, asking me to go to CVS, another obsession. Why she always wanted to go when I'd already gone to sleep never made sense to me.
Why is it the people who drive you nuts are the ones you wind up loving the most? I really, really miss her. Time heals all wounds but you're still left with scars. Friday is the third anniversary of her death. The only thing that makes me sadder is the pain her parents live with. It never quite leaves my mind.
Why is it the people who drive you nuts are the ones you wind up loving the most? I really, really miss her. Time heals all wounds but you're still left with scars. Friday is the third anniversary of her death. The only thing that makes me sadder is the pain her parents live with. It never quite leaves my mind.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Fresh
A winsome girl who aims to win makes pilgrimage to the big city, big dreams in tow. Big dreams confront bigger challenges and soon are downsized to make room for real reality. Sorry, I'm not making much sense today.
Random subject. What was your first job? My first paid job for a promotional company required me to wear a Mentos uniform. Cinnamon Fresh had just debuted, so my outfit was appropriately engulfed in acrylic flames.
I worked with a group of exotic male dancers. Happy happy. Mentos was the big client that year.
The job location varied each weekend. One weekend, I worked outside a Giants game. I had to go find security because a man followed me around trying to give me detailed instructions about how to make a bomb. Another project was at the Folsom Street Gay Fair. Surrounded by leather, cheeks and chains for four hours was mildly uncomfortable for me, but my hetero male coworkers were visibly shaken. I guess watching men suggestively eat corn on the cob might weird me out as well, but I was too busy dodging lesbians to notice any cob jobs.
We were always given a certain number of sample-filled boxes. As we were always paid the full shift no matter when we finished, the goal was to rid ourselves of the Mentos as soon as possible. Tricky at times, as undercover Mentos employees would stalk us, invariably betraying their identities by quizzing us on the origin of the Mento. Who else would care? Holland, for the record. Cops and drivers of the big brown van were accessory to my scheming ways, allowing me dump boxes of the freshmaker on their passenger side seats. Thanks to me, criminal suspects enjoyed the refreshing scent of cinnamon as SFPD officers breathed them their Miranda rights. Soon I was ridding myself of 12 boxes in 1-2 hours, making my hourly rate of pay one of the highest in my working career. Sad.
Random subject. What was your first job? My first paid job for a promotional company required me to wear a Mentos uniform. Cinnamon Fresh had just debuted, so my outfit was appropriately engulfed in acrylic flames.
I worked with a group of exotic male dancers. Happy happy. Mentos was the big client that year.
The job location varied each weekend. One weekend, I worked outside a Giants game. I had to go find security because a man followed me around trying to give me detailed instructions about how to make a bomb. Another project was at the Folsom Street Gay Fair. Surrounded by leather, cheeks and chains for four hours was mildly uncomfortable for me, but my hetero male coworkers were visibly shaken. I guess watching men suggestively eat corn on the cob might weird me out as well, but I was too busy dodging lesbians to notice any cob jobs.
We were always given a certain number of sample-filled boxes. As we were always paid the full shift no matter when we finished, the goal was to rid ourselves of the Mentos as soon as possible. Tricky at times, as undercover Mentos employees would stalk us, invariably betraying their identities by quizzing us on the origin of the Mento. Who else would care? Holland, for the record. Cops and drivers of the big brown van were accessory to my scheming ways, allowing me dump boxes of the freshmaker on their passenger side seats. Thanks to me, criminal suspects enjoyed the refreshing scent of cinnamon as SFPD officers breathed them their Miranda rights. Soon I was ridding myself of 12 boxes in 1-2 hours, making my hourly rate of pay one of the highest in my working career. Sad.
This vs. That
There exists only a handful of things in this life that REALLY piss me off. Finding my neighbor's white Jetta parked in my spot when I get home is one such thing on my list of ultimate aggravations. This morning was the second time she committed this offense. And today at 7:30 am with bed hair gone rogue and mascara on my forehead, it was the last fucking thing I wanted to deal with. So you know what I did? I wrote a note and stuck it on her windshield! She'll think twice next time before messing with me! I made sure to mention that she could park there if she cleared it by me via text first. And I left her my number.
vs.
My friend's mother (we will call her Trinity because writing "my friend's mother" any more would exhaust me) was at the store during grocery rush hour, which is what, 6:45 pm any day of the week? We've all seen what happened next dozens of times, perhaps recounted our own versions while sloshing over a third glass of vino, filled a little too generously. After circling around for what seemed like ages, Trinity finally happened upon a vacant space. And then some skank in a white Escalade barreled around the corner, stealing the spot. Subsequent negotiations proved futile, and Trinity had to watch as the thieving harlot clack-clack-clacked away, clicking her remote lock for a blatant bleep or two. So what did Trinity do? I probably would have thanked the Escaladian bitch and given her a hug, but my friend's flaxen-haired matriarch quickly evolved into fierce warrior. After finally parking her own car, Trinity skulked toward the parked Escalade with the viciousness of Angelina Jolie, keys in hand, and scraped her rage into each side of the resting beast. Having left a most poignant note, Trinity proceeded inside where she dreamily filled her cart with things like orange juice not from concentrate.
How can I go from being this to being that?
vs.
My friend's mother (we will call her Trinity because writing "my friend's mother" any more would exhaust me) was at the store during grocery rush hour, which is what, 6:45 pm any day of the week? We've all seen what happened next dozens of times, perhaps recounted our own versions while sloshing over a third glass of vino, filled a little too generously. After circling around for what seemed like ages, Trinity finally happened upon a vacant space. And then some skank in a white Escalade barreled around the corner, stealing the spot. Subsequent negotiations proved futile, and Trinity had to watch as the thieving harlot clack-clack-clacked away, clicking her remote lock for a blatant bleep or two. So what did Trinity do? I probably would have thanked the Escaladian bitch and given her a hug, but my friend's flaxen-haired matriarch quickly evolved into fierce warrior. After finally parking her own car, Trinity skulked toward the parked Escalade with the viciousness of Angelina Jolie, keys in hand, and scraped her rage into each side of the resting beast. Having left a most poignant note, Trinity proceeded inside where she dreamily filled her cart with things like orange juice not from concentrate.
How can I go from being this to being that?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Online Sleuthing
So you want to be a stalker. I can help. If I admit this, will I sound like a freak? I'll find out. The point of this post isn't really how to stalk for curiosity's sake, it's meant to be more of a guide on how to cover your ass. Nobody else is going to do it for you. So read up!
Thanks to Google, the gloooorious public record, social netstalking sites, cache files and the online presence of news media, it's become increasingly difficult to be shady. And people are shady. So if you are suspicious about a person or business, why wouldn't you look? That's ignoring your instincts. More often than not, ignoring your instincts will haunt you later. I wish I could say I am speaking only of first dates, but I'm not. Landlords, roommates, employers, hair stylists. It's Google or get fucked. Survival of the sleuth.
I will provide an example to illustrate, followed by some pointers on the art of Internet investigation.
A while back, I was with friends at Mel's Diner in the early hours of the morning. I confess I was trashed to the point of ridiculousness from a night of healing an injured ego with a prescription of vodka and soda. In between naps in the booth, I met a man with a Pez dispenser. We exchanged numbers.
A day or two later we did the obligatory social network adds. Pez was a late thirty-something former model. Big in the 90s, still ridiculously pretty, though a bit ragged. Hmmm, interesting. Given his folders stuffed with photos snapped with celebrities and models, I was dying of curiosity. Whoooo was this guy?
I honestly just wanted to see what Pez had been doing in Hollywood. You know, Wire Image type stuff. What parties he'd been to. His imdb. What I learned: he was a polished internet scam artist who had numerous police complaints for lurking outside of stores on Robertson, harassing women as they entered and exited the establishments. He was also wanted for questioning by police at some Southern Baptist university for wandering the campus, telling women he was a modeling scout when in actuality he was a pervert with a camera and a stash of cheap booze. He used test shoots as a method for trying to get laid, cajoling his liquored victims into removing their clothes, piece by piece, before he increased the exposure. Websites were flooded with complaints about this guy. He had numerous aliases. Yikes. So much for that, right? Finding all of this out was easy when the second hit under a Google search of his name was a complaint on ScamReport.com.
Some might be unnerved by this post. I'm not a psychopathic Google wielder. Use stalking with discretion. I prefer the glass half full approach to life and relationships. But trust your instincts. If something feels off in a personal relationship, Google. If it's a business relationship, Google. This isn't hiring a PI or purchasing a criminal background check. To get to that point I'd probably have to unearth a dead body. There is a time and a place for double checking. I just want to tell you how.
Google will give you pieces. Then you have to put them together. A mortgage record might lead to a birth announcement and a bankruptcy filing. Use your brain.
So want to improve your online investigating? Do as follows:
1. Use quotes around your search terms. "John Smith." That means Google will search for John Smith as a phrase only; the results will only include hits with that exact phrase. Not Johnny Smith. Not John A. Smith. You are lucky if you are searching a unique name.
2. Got a middle name? Great. This helps if you're dealing with a common name. Search it as a whole and as an initial, both with and without quotes. If it's a woman, try to get a maiden name. So try John A. Smith, John Apple Smith, J. Apple Smith, J. A. Smith, and so forth.
3. Anything else. With the name, throw in a school name, sibling name, hometown, hobby, etc. What do you know about this person? If you find work-related results, you might be able to find complaints. Lawsuits. Other information can be used as bricks to lay the foundation for additional searches. Linkedin hits will give you employment information, often so will Facebook. Some companies are even dumb enough to have their staff turn up on Google searches. Easy.
4. Try searching their email address. People sign up for all kinds of stuff online.
5. Pipl.com. Bam! Uncover albums from 8 years ago that people forgot to make private or delete.
6. Archive.org. Cached everything resides here. Yummy.
7. If it's a business, don't forget to look it up at the Better Business Bureau. Try it with and without the .com at the end.
6. Click the cache link on your search results. Sometimes you can find old information here. Your search terms will be highlighted for you. Control + F to search more quickly.
7. Don't ignore the second page on your results page. Sometimes amazing finds are found on the later Google results pages.
Hope that helps. You should try and search yourself. I think it's important to be aware of the information others find when they search you. If you search me you will find two dean lists, a few things from law school and maybe my dumb quote about 9/11 from when I was harassed by a reporter on my way to class. Not much fun. I have made a point of removing anything embarrassing as the Internet has become more invasive.
So again, the point of this post isn't to stalk the hell out of everybody (that's what Facebook is made for). It's to be smart. Happy hunting!
Thanks to Google, the gloooorious public record, social netstalking sites, cache files and the online presence of news media, it's become increasingly difficult to be shady. And people are shady. So if you are suspicious about a person or business, why wouldn't you look? That's ignoring your instincts. More often than not, ignoring your instincts will haunt you later. I wish I could say I am speaking only of first dates, but I'm not. Landlords, roommates, employers, hair stylists. It's Google or get fucked. Survival of the sleuth.
I will provide an example to illustrate, followed by some pointers on the art of Internet investigation.
A while back, I was with friends at Mel's Diner in the early hours of the morning. I confess I was trashed to the point of ridiculousness from a night of healing an injured ego with a prescription of vodka and soda. In between naps in the booth, I met a man with a Pez dispenser. We exchanged numbers.
A day or two later we did the obligatory social network adds. Pez was a late thirty-something former model. Big in the 90s, still ridiculously pretty, though a bit ragged. Hmmm, interesting. Given his folders stuffed with photos snapped with celebrities and models, I was dying of curiosity. Whoooo was this guy?
I honestly just wanted to see what Pez had been doing in Hollywood. You know, Wire Image type stuff. What parties he'd been to. His imdb. What I learned: he was a polished internet scam artist who had numerous police complaints for lurking outside of stores on Robertson, harassing women as they entered and exited the establishments. He was also wanted for questioning by police at some Southern Baptist university for wandering the campus, telling women he was a modeling scout when in actuality he was a pervert with a camera and a stash of cheap booze. He used test shoots as a method for trying to get laid, cajoling his liquored victims into removing their clothes, piece by piece, before he increased the exposure. Websites were flooded with complaints about this guy. He had numerous aliases. Yikes. So much for that, right? Finding all of this out was easy when the second hit under a Google search of his name was a complaint on ScamReport.com.
Some might be unnerved by this post. I'm not a psychopathic Google wielder. Use stalking with discretion. I prefer the glass half full approach to life and relationships. But trust your instincts. If something feels off in a personal relationship, Google. If it's a business relationship, Google. This isn't hiring a PI or purchasing a criminal background check. To get to that point I'd probably have to unearth a dead body. There is a time and a place for double checking. I just want to tell you how.
Google will give you pieces. Then you have to put them together. A mortgage record might lead to a birth announcement and a bankruptcy filing. Use your brain.
So want to improve your online investigating? Do as follows:
1. Use quotes around your search terms. "John Smith." That means Google will search for John Smith as a phrase only; the results will only include hits with that exact phrase. Not Johnny Smith. Not John A. Smith. You are lucky if you are searching a unique name.
2. Got a middle name? Great. This helps if you're dealing with a common name. Search it as a whole and as an initial, both with and without quotes. If it's a woman, try to get a maiden name. So try John A. Smith, John Apple Smith, J. Apple Smith, J. A. Smith, and so forth.
3. Anything else. With the name, throw in a school name, sibling name, hometown, hobby, etc. What do you know about this person? If you find work-related results, you might be able to find complaints. Lawsuits. Other information can be used as bricks to lay the foundation for additional searches. Linkedin hits will give you employment information, often so will Facebook. Some companies are even dumb enough to have their staff turn up on Google searches. Easy.
4. Try searching their email address. People sign up for all kinds of stuff online.
5. Pipl.com. Bam! Uncover albums from 8 years ago that people forgot to make private or delete.
6. Archive.org. Cached everything resides here. Yummy.
7. If it's a business, don't forget to look it up at the Better Business Bureau. Try it with and without the .com at the end.
6. Click the cache link on your search results. Sometimes you can find old information here. Your search terms will be highlighted for you. Control + F to search more quickly.
7. Don't ignore the second page on your results page. Sometimes amazing finds are found on the later Google results pages.
Hope that helps. You should try and search yourself. I think it's important to be aware of the information others find when they search you. If you search me you will find two dean lists, a few things from law school and maybe my dumb quote about 9/11 from when I was harassed by a reporter on my way to class. Not much fun. I have made a point of removing anything embarrassing as the Internet has become more invasive.
So again, the point of this post isn't to stalk the hell out of everybody (that's what Facebook is made for). It's to be smart. Happy hunting!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Some Like It Blonde
The condition of my hair seems to have become a crude barometer of my dating life. Whenever I find myself liking a man enough to shave my legs every day (oh come on, don't pretend I do not speak the truth), I either go blonde to brunette or brunette to blonde. But more often than not, it's the latter. I guess it's a good thing dating in this city is as painful as watching a Raiders game or I'd be bald.
What follows is a brief account of my addiction to bleach as well as a wham bam history regarding hair color and my personal observations regarding social stereotypes based on hair color. I think I kind of yawned just writing that sentence.
I have never needed much encouragement before picking up the bleach bottle in the name of love, like or boredom. My love affair with hair dye began long ago. Age 13 I think. Circa 1994 or 5, during my vintage Drew Barrymore obsession. In the style of Ms. B, I plucked my eyebrows into a memory. Gross. I managed to damage the next several years of Polaroid moments. Whenever I look at old albums I always wonder, who is this weird girl with no eyebrows? Oh wait, it's me! Nice tie dye shirt too, dork. After destroying my eyebrows, I needed to go blonde. Peroxiiiiiide. Stripped down to my knickers, I proceeded to soak my hair in a sink full of Clorox bleach. Brilliant. An hour later I smelled like eau de chlorinated gym pool and my hair formed in crispy dreadlocks. The color remained unchanged, a drab shade of ash brown. A harsh lesson on the difference between household bleach and salon grade peroxide that unfortunately did not prevent a lifetime obsession from spawning.
I am not alone. The peroxide plague dates back to Paris in the late 19th century. Prior, the en vogue color varied. Red in Egypt, blonde in Rome. During the Baroque, black or blue. Pink and powdered for the rococo vixen. Then in 1867 Paris, peroxide for hair was introduced at the World Fair. 3% peroxide. Damn you Parisians. Brie, champagne and peroxide, the trinity that tortures me like the most accursed affliction.
Peroxide gave birth to the platinum starlet of pre-Technicolor Hollywood. How it happened or why, I am not sure, but over time blonde and bombshell merged to create the blonde bombshell.
Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable, Jayne Mansfield all played the dumb oversexualized blonde to perfection. Hitchcock's preference for platinum leads supposedly stemmed from his belief that blondes are the least suspect among suspects. So was it Hollywood? Somehow someway it was somehow perpetuated that blondes have more fun and gentlemen prefer blondes. You still had your Rita Hayworths and Ava Gardners, but the others didn't evoke inane connotations to the same degree as the blonde.
I don't know many gentlemen, but as somebody who frequents both sides of the spectrum, I have my thoughts.
Do blondes have more fun? Blondes attract more Affliction-wearing divorcee dads who shoot up with growth hormone. Not my type of fun. If anything, blondes suffer from more tension headaches. This might be a problem more unique to LA.
Do gentlemen prefer blondes? Studies say it's 50-50. I think gentlemen prefer attractive. What's attractive depends on the individual. Look at Katherine McPhee right now. Not. Good. If you don't know who Katherine McPhee is, I question our friendship.
In accord with the studies, I don't think there is a preference. I just think that Blonde and the blonde are two separate entities. Blondes get called "blondie," but note the lack of a similar label for their darker tressed counterparts. I still remember being chased down the escalator at a subway station by a homeless man screaming "Blondie!!!! Blondie!!!!! Dance for me, blondie!!!!!" What would he have said had I been brunette? "Girl in the pink sweats!!!!! Dance for me!!!!!" doesn't work as well, does it? He was obviously kind of crazy. I wonder what kind of dance he expected me to perform in the middle of the Durant BART station.
These are provoking thoughts, indeed. But don't blame me. I've been playing the alphabet game with my coworkers. Two rounds of countries, one round of TV shows, one round of movie titles, a single round of drinks. I did best at the last. Appletini, bellini, cosmopolitian, daquiri...
What follows is a brief account of my addiction to bleach as well as a wham bam history regarding hair color and my personal observations regarding social stereotypes based on hair color. I think I kind of yawned just writing that sentence.
I have never needed much encouragement before picking up the bleach bottle in the name of love, like or boredom. My love affair with hair dye began long ago. Age 13 I think. Circa 1994 or 5, during my vintage Drew Barrymore obsession. In the style of Ms. B, I plucked my eyebrows into a memory. Gross. I managed to damage the next several years of Polaroid moments. Whenever I look at old albums I always wonder, who is this weird girl with no eyebrows? Oh wait, it's me! Nice tie dye shirt too, dork. After destroying my eyebrows, I needed to go blonde. Peroxiiiiiide. Stripped down to my knickers, I proceeded to soak my hair in a sink full of Clorox bleach. Brilliant. An hour later I smelled like eau de chlorinated gym pool and my hair formed in crispy dreadlocks. The color remained unchanged, a drab shade of ash brown. A harsh lesson on the difference between household bleach and salon grade peroxide that unfortunately did not prevent a lifetime obsession from spawning.
I am not alone. The peroxide plague dates back to Paris in the late 19th century. Prior, the en vogue color varied. Red in Egypt, blonde in Rome. During the Baroque, black or blue. Pink and powdered for the rococo vixen. Then in 1867 Paris, peroxide for hair was introduced at the World Fair. 3% peroxide. Damn you Parisians. Brie, champagne and peroxide, the trinity that tortures me like the most accursed affliction.
Peroxide gave birth to the platinum starlet of pre-Technicolor Hollywood. How it happened or why, I am not sure, but over time blonde and bombshell merged to create the blonde bombshell.
Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable, Jayne Mansfield all played the dumb oversexualized blonde to perfection. Hitchcock's preference for platinum leads supposedly stemmed from his belief that blondes are the least suspect among suspects. So was it Hollywood? Somehow someway it was somehow perpetuated that blondes have more fun and gentlemen prefer blondes. You still had your Rita Hayworths and Ava Gardners, but the others didn't evoke inane connotations to the same degree as the blonde.
I don't know many gentlemen, but as somebody who frequents both sides of the spectrum, I have my thoughts.
Do blondes have more fun? Blondes attract more Affliction-wearing divorcee dads who shoot up with growth hormone. Not my type of fun. If anything, blondes suffer from more tension headaches. This might be a problem more unique to LA.
Do gentlemen prefer blondes? Studies say it's 50-50. I think gentlemen prefer attractive. What's attractive depends on the individual. Look at Katherine McPhee right now. Not. Good. If you don't know who Katherine McPhee is, I question our friendship.
In accord with the studies, I don't think there is a preference. I just think that Blonde and the blonde are two separate entities. Blondes get called "blondie," but note the lack of a similar label for their darker tressed counterparts. I still remember being chased down the escalator at a subway station by a homeless man screaming "Blondie!!!! Blondie!!!!! Dance for me, blondie!!!!!" What would he have said had I been brunette? "Girl in the pink sweats!!!!! Dance for me!!!!!" doesn't work as well, does it? He was obviously kind of crazy. I wonder what kind of dance he expected me to perform in the middle of the Durant BART station.
These are provoking thoughts, indeed. But don't blame me. I've been playing the alphabet game with my coworkers. Two rounds of countries, one round of TV shows, one round of movie titles, a single round of drinks. I did best at the last. Appletini, bellini, cosmopolitian, daquiri...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Your Daily Rant 1/6/10
"They had a Christmas tree, but where was the menorah? The lack of Jewish representation is insane, I mean come on. Or at least call it the holiday tree." This conversation is between two women. One I don't notice much aside from her collection of fabric scrunchies she uses to hold up her two inches of stunted blonde hair. The other, the speaker here, laughs with every sentence with pendular predictability. Either concurrent with or immediately flowing her every utterance is a habitual chortle, usually four measures in length followed by a strong inhalation of air, as reliable as and false as the canned audience laughter in a terrible sitcom episode. She ends this statement no differently: "Or at least call it the holiday tree. Hueh heah heah heah! Heeeeeeh." I am undecided if it's the laugh or the fact that they are talking about Farmville that upsets me more.
Farmville. Onions are apparently "lucrative crops." Cherries, not so much. I am baffled by the flame so many carry for this ridiculous Facebook game. It is the current form of the Nano Pet. Remember those? LCD key chain pets from Asia that beeped in agony if you forgot to pet or feed them. I can't remember which one I reared, it was probably a dinosaur that died within a few days. Just dumb.
I will never join Farmville. My virtual gameplaying is limited to the occasional crossword. I fear online games. They tend to slowly latch onto your heart and sole like wet bubblegum. Soon you find yourself watering your Farmville orchard and feeding your Farmville cattle instead of joining me for dollar tacos at Don Antonio's. You may think I'm being dramatic, I suppose maybe I'm still scarred from my misadventure in Second Life.
Some of you may recall, once I dared to delve in Second Life, an online virtual world complete with pretty much everything, including a currency that can be exchanged for dollars. Millions are for the taking in Second Life. I joined this community for work research one summer. Exploration of this world is achieved by double clicking coordinates on a map to teleport to your designation. After wandering about a park canopied by cherry blossoms, I randomly clicked the map to change location. I wound up on an island largely populated by raccoons and squirrels. Cute but weird, I double clicked the map again. Nothing happened. I asked a raccoon from Finland why I couldn't leave the island. Apparently the Second Life servers were experiencing problems. In other words, I was trapped. I asked where I was. "It's called Nympho Island" my furry companion informed me. Ok. An island of furry creatures dedicated to sex addicts. I was propositioned several times as I scurried around in a blind panic, but fortunately for me I had not purchased the genitalia required for virtual copulation with a raccoon.
Apparently people are experiencing issues logging into Farmville today. The conversation continues. They joke it's taking over their lives. Farming, says scrunchie girl, will take place tonight then. I get it, it's kind of fun, kind of addictive. But balance is key, lest you find yourself a sexually frustrated woodland creature. That is definitely bottom of the barrel.
Farmville. Onions are apparently "lucrative crops." Cherries, not so much. I am baffled by the flame so many carry for this ridiculous Facebook game. It is the current form of the Nano Pet. Remember those? LCD key chain pets from Asia that beeped in agony if you forgot to pet or feed them. I can't remember which one I reared, it was probably a dinosaur that died within a few days. Just dumb.
I will never join Farmville. My virtual gameplaying is limited to the occasional crossword. I fear online games. They tend to slowly latch onto your heart and sole like wet bubblegum. Soon you find yourself watering your Farmville orchard and feeding your Farmville cattle instead of joining me for dollar tacos at Don Antonio's. You may think I'm being dramatic, I suppose maybe I'm still scarred from my misadventure in Second Life.
Some of you may recall, once I dared to delve in Second Life, an online virtual world complete with pretty much everything, including a currency that can be exchanged for dollars. Millions are for the taking in Second Life. I joined this community for work research one summer. Exploration of this world is achieved by double clicking coordinates on a map to teleport to your designation. After wandering about a park canopied by cherry blossoms, I randomly clicked the map to change location. I wound up on an island largely populated by raccoons and squirrels. Cute but weird, I double clicked the map again. Nothing happened. I asked a raccoon from Finland why I couldn't leave the island. Apparently the Second Life servers were experiencing problems. In other words, I was trapped. I asked where I was. "It's called Nympho Island" my furry companion informed me. Ok. An island of furry creatures dedicated to sex addicts. I was propositioned several times as I scurried around in a blind panic, but fortunately for me I had not purchased the genitalia required for virtual copulation with a raccoon.
Apparently people are experiencing issues logging into Farmville today. The conversation continues. They joke it's taking over their lives. Farming, says scrunchie girl, will take place tonight then. I get it, it's kind of fun, kind of addictive. But balance is key, lest you find yourself a sexually frustrated woodland creature. That is definitely bottom of the barrel.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
To Do In 2010
My Better Late Than Never Resolutions For 2010
1. Take A Trip. On my list are India, North Africa and Argentina. I am going to make one of these happen this year, somehow, between the car payments and student loans. I just have to eliminate some stuff, right? Starbucks, Sunday brunches, injectibles...
2. Write Something. A novel, short story, try to do free lance, I don't know. Something though, start to end. I have a tendency to walk away from creative projects when I get frustrated, promising myself I'll return to them later. It's a bad habit, evidenced by my collection of half-finished oil paintings.
3. Surf. An obsession of mine since 15, I used to go regularly. Haven't caught a wave since 2004, when there were several great white sightings at San Onofre, my favorite spot. Now who wants to join me? Anywhere but Malibu and Dana Point.
4. Read Moby Dick. It just has to be done.
5. Use My Gym Membership.
6. Join A Gospel Choir. Don't laugh I'm serious!!!!!!!!
7. Learn Some Mandarin. Yep, as in the language.
8. Get My Baking Degree. This actually probably can't be done if I'm going to travel, etc as the course is several thousand dollars. But one of my goals in life is to do a stint in a bakery someday. So I'll put it in as a tentative resolution.
9. Enter A Karaoke Contest.
10. Go To My High School Reunion. It just has to be done.
11. Keep In Touch. I could always be better about keeping in contact with the people I care about. I'm really going to try!
12. Volunteer. I've been putting this one off forever. I really like Make A Wish, even did the training but never went through with it. Gotta be the change I want to see in the world.
1. Take A Trip. On my list are India, North Africa and Argentina. I am going to make one of these happen this year, somehow, between the car payments and student loans. I just have to eliminate some stuff, right? Starbucks, Sunday brunches, injectibles...
2. Write Something. A novel, short story, try to do free lance, I don't know. Something though, start to end. I have a tendency to walk away from creative projects when I get frustrated, promising myself I'll return to them later. It's a bad habit, evidenced by my collection of half-finished oil paintings.
3. Surf. An obsession of mine since 15, I used to go regularly. Haven't caught a wave since 2004, when there were several great white sightings at San Onofre, my favorite spot. Now who wants to join me? Anywhere but Malibu and Dana Point.
4. Read Moby Dick. It just has to be done.
5. Use My Gym Membership.
6. Join A Gospel Choir. Don't laugh I'm serious!!!!!!!!
7. Learn Some Mandarin. Yep, as in the language.
8. Get My Baking Degree. This actually probably can't be done if I'm going to travel, etc as the course is several thousand dollars. But one of my goals in life is to do a stint in a bakery someday. So I'll put it in as a tentative resolution.
9. Enter A Karaoke Contest.
10. Go To My High School Reunion. It just has to be done.
11. Keep In Touch. I could always be better about keeping in contact with the people I care about. I'm really going to try!
12. Volunteer. I've been putting this one off forever. I really like Make A Wish, even did the training but never went through with it. Gotta be the change I want to see in the world.
Tuesday Dullday
Ahh, the frustrations of contract work. Today, I find myself with an unexpected day of leisure due to a backlog in document production. In my apartment at a time I am normally at work, I have learned the neighbor upstairs enjoys frantic morning sex on a box spring. I like to call this jackhammer sex, for obvious reasons. Also, why are so many of my neighbors here at this time? Living in a building constructed in the 1920s, the walls separating me from my co-tenants are a mere formality. I hear pretty much everything. Perhaps they are still on vacation or are unemployed. Or they're among those fabulous gay men in West Hollywood who brunch at Basix, never seem to work, have perfect bodies, and can be seen walking about in groups of three in perfect trendy outfits, a well-coiffed Pomeranian trotting at their side.
I guess I should take advantage of this idle time. Laundry, returns at various retail establishments, the gym, post office, and so forth. I dislike free days simply for the fact that I am free to do a million errands I haven't the time for when working. There's the truth.
Happy Tuesday!!!
I guess I should take advantage of this idle time. Laundry, returns at various retail establishments, the gym, post office, and so forth. I dislike free days simply for the fact that I am free to do a million errands I haven't the time for when working. There's the truth.
Happy Tuesday!!!
Chakra Wha???
The other night I sat audience to a rather memorable conversation. In the midst of a bar rumbling with the sound of liquored gaiety shouted over the blaring jukebox, I listened, perplexedly, while several friends animatedly discussed their unforgettable third eye experiences.
Feeling dumb, I only vaguely recalled hearing of this third eye before. 1996, the year I decided to don thrifted bell bottoms, give up red meat and smell of patchouli. The year my best friend Jenny swore we could get high smoking incense, which turned out to be a foul-tasting lie. That year I was a member of the Karma Patrol at the annual Whole Earth Festival, an event resplendent with stereotypical tofu skewers and vendors selling useful wares such as clay flutes and hand carved wooden hair combs. The duties of this position included handing out daisies and water, helping lost children, and the occasional application of sunblock to a patron's hard-to-reach-limb. One moonlit night during our training, Patrol members gathered at one organizer's apartment and painted the side of her building with a garish mural of cliche hippie crap: rainbows, hearts, peace signs, and if I recall correctly, a creepy but colorful eyeball proudly proclaimed to be a third eye by its dreadlocked master, the "ultimate trip". The artwork was appreciated by all but the landlord, who was rumored to have demanded a return to off-white along with an eviction notice. Yes, it was during that regrettable year of hippie poseurism that I first heard of the so-called third eye, and I'd had no cause to think about it since.
The conversation then turned to dreams and meditation. Here I am no better. My only experience with meditation goes back to my years at Cal, when I took a filler course on meditation to meet the minimum unit requirement for my college. The class met at Dwinelle at 7 a.m. I soon realized it was not really a class on meditation, a reality betrayed by the snores emanating from the various pajama-clad students hunched over their desks in uneasy nodding slumber. I'd rather be sleeping, too.
As for my dreams, all I recall in the morning is the merciless trill of my alarm clock. What dreams I do remember are nightmares I'd sooner forget. I enviously listened to tales of swarthy dream journals filled with vivid recollections of the subconscious, interpreted with the help of Freud, Jung, et al. According to my bar room crash course on spirituality, dreams can serve as beacons to guide us in our conscious states. Recording them is imperative. Crap, the last journal I kept was in 6th grade, mostly filled with jabber about boys and bust measurements.
Feeling inspired on my drive home from the bar, I stopped by Rite Aid to buy a spiral notebook to serve as a dream journal. Reaching for my credit card to pay, I realized I'd forgotten to close my bar tab.
Feeling dumb, I only vaguely recalled hearing of this third eye before. 1996, the year I decided to don thrifted bell bottoms, give up red meat and smell of patchouli. The year my best friend Jenny swore we could get high smoking incense, which turned out to be a foul-tasting lie. That year I was a member of the Karma Patrol at the annual Whole Earth Festival, an event resplendent with stereotypical tofu skewers and vendors selling useful wares such as clay flutes and hand carved wooden hair combs. The duties of this position included handing out daisies and water, helping lost children, and the occasional application of sunblock to a patron's hard-to-reach-limb. One moonlit night during our training, Patrol members gathered at one organizer's apartment and painted the side of her building with a garish mural of cliche hippie crap: rainbows, hearts, peace signs, and if I recall correctly, a creepy but colorful eyeball proudly proclaimed to be a third eye by its dreadlocked master, the "ultimate trip". The artwork was appreciated by all but the landlord, who was rumored to have demanded a return to off-white along with an eviction notice. Yes, it was during that regrettable year of hippie poseurism that I first heard of the so-called third eye, and I'd had no cause to think about it since.
The conversation then turned to dreams and meditation. Here I am no better. My only experience with meditation goes back to my years at Cal, when I took a filler course on meditation to meet the minimum unit requirement for my college. The class met at Dwinelle at 7 a.m. I soon realized it was not really a class on meditation, a reality betrayed by the snores emanating from the various pajama-clad students hunched over their desks in uneasy nodding slumber. I'd rather be sleeping, too.
As for my dreams, all I recall in the morning is the merciless trill of my alarm clock. What dreams I do remember are nightmares I'd sooner forget. I enviously listened to tales of swarthy dream journals filled with vivid recollections of the subconscious, interpreted with the help of Freud, Jung, et al. According to my bar room crash course on spirituality, dreams can serve as beacons to guide us in our conscious states. Recording them is imperative. Crap, the last journal I kept was in 6th grade, mostly filled with jabber about boys and bust measurements.
Feeling inspired on my drive home from the bar, I stopped by Rite Aid to buy a spiral notebook to serve as a dream journal. Reaching for my credit card to pay, I realized I'd forgotten to close my bar tab.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Your Daily Rant 1/4/10
I am in audio hell. My kind neighboring peon seated to my right insisted I choose from his home brewed collection of mix CDs. Hinting that I was currently enjoying Pandora provided no relief, and I am currently listening to something he thought a "youngster" like myself might enjoy. Don't know what it is but I'm filled with misery right now. 53:24 to go. Who will save my soul? He tells me he will bring additional material tomorrow. Mmmmmm...
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