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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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!

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...

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.

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.

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!!!

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.

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...