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.
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