New "Whatever" Year

It’s gonna be New Year’s Eve tonight which I’m looking forward to because; I’ll be spending it with good friends and not working tomorrow. Also, 2008 was crazy. It was a long and stressful year and plenty of awesome and amazing things happened and also a lot of shitty things. At New Years you can use this time to reflect on the past; make resolutions to improve your existence on this planet, and/or get totally wasted! I usually prescribe to the later like most young adults but, this year will be different. I’ll only have a few beers and concentrate more on the Arts and Crafts activities that I’m organizing for earlier in the evening. On tap we’ve got the Times Square ball decorating, glow in the dark bocce ball painting, making super nachos, and then midnight bocce in Beverly Hills.

It feels like a proper end to 2008 and calendar change into 2009. We’re not doing a stupid countdown or cheering when the New Year comes. We’re just going to be hanging out and waiting for New “Whatever” Year to arrive.

So here are my resolutions for the New "Whatever" Year:

· Work out more with Kate. (Leg tosses twice a week and going for a jog once a week.)

· Ride my bike in the mountains at least once every two weeks.

· Rethink why I am an artist and make art.

· Be nice and not say negative things about people anymore.

· Get out of debt. (Not gonna happen but, I’ll take some major steps in doing this.)

· Quit smoking. (I’m just kidding, I don’t smoke. But, if you do, you should quit.)

Have a wonderful transition into a new Judeo-Christian calendar year everyone!

With Love,
Ben

Letter to Samy's

You want to know the truth? No matter who you are, there is someone or something much bigger than you, stronger than you, nimbler than you, and you got to pick and choose your battles. Most of the time it's not worth it. Earlier this week it was Fedex. And the answer by the way, is that no, the Palace was not closed, my key contacts and many others were on vacation and neglected to inform us. Because the palace is so grand, the Fedex rep in France didn't quite know which cake shaped door to leave it at. Long story short, that shit finally got there.

Today, I'm treating you to a letter to Samy's Camera. Don't go there. Read the reviews on the interweb for yourself.

*****

December 26, 2008

Re: Thanks!

Hey Samy's Camera,

You ever read the book, Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus? One of the main points in the book is that women listen by hearing while men listen by skipping over the hearing and understanding and they go straight into problem solving. From my own census of the place, it seems to me that Samy's is run by problem solving men and that's a good thing because there are a lot of problems out there.

I appreciate Samy's and the myriad products and services that it provides to countless photographers in Southern California. My patronage at your establishment is purposely limited for several reasons of my own and this evening's interaction made all of them perfectly clear.

I purchased a Canon SD790IS for $250. Nice camera. When I got home, by sheer coincidence, a pesky pop-up ad for Best Buy connected me to another page for the same camera, on sale for $179.99. Hard to believe I know.

Rules are in place for many reasons, and even if I don't agree with the rules, I respect them. You'll never ever see me park my Porsche in a loading zone. Never. I understand Samy's return policy as it is noted in the store, but not as it pertains to price matching. On my immediate return to the store, I asked the gentleman helping me one simple question - Does Samy's offer price matching? And I further stated, "if not, I understand, I will leave." That was my question. In Mars-Venus Speak, I came in with a question and I wanted to be heard, understood and answered, but what I got was a good dose of problem solving.

The gentleman was not happy about my query as he told me that that price, shown on the web page print out is well below cost. A simple yes or no would have done the trick. I am thankful that I'm a business person, so I used my special business person hearing and I understood this statement to mean "no". I requested my receipt so that I could leave. The gentleman did not hand it back, but took it away to confer with others and returned stating that he would honor this price, but only in this instance. Problem solved right? And he added further, "If all customers were like you, there would be no Samy's." No, problem created.

I am not out to ruin an independent business over $70.00, and I regret that I even bothered with this. I was simply seeking clarification on Samy's position re price matching. I gave the gentleman several opportunities to state Samy's position on price matching. He chose instead, to not answer my question with any clarity and offered a price reduction in resentment, and then returned his resentment to me as an insult. Whoops, there goes that Mars again.

Let's be clear about something - in this new era in which all old modes of doing business are swiftly rendered useless, it is statements like this to customers like me that will put Samy's out of business.

Call me if you want your $70 back, I'll personally hand deliver it. You could use some of it to buy the book.

All the Best,

Yirko

Heaven or Hold

Following is a transcript of a conversation I had on or around 4:00 this afternoon. I transcribed it as the conversation unfolded.

*****

Fedex: Thank you for calling fedex, how may I assist you today?

Me: Hi, how are you?

Fedex: Fine sir. And yourself? [male voice seems "young"]

Me: Great thanks. I need your help. I'm tracking a package right now and I can't understand why it just can’t seem to make it to its destination. I need your help in knowing why when I track it, it looks as though it’s been turned away twice. I’m looking at one note here that says the business was closed.

Fedex: Ok sir, do you have the tracking number?

Me: Just a sec. Ready?

Fedex: Anytime sir.

Me: 779316133267681318362475579321779331248546843126 (this is the only embellishment in the dialogue, the rest is as true to form as I could simultaneously type and talk.)

Fedex: Let me check for a moment. [Hold music and other Fedex whoozymaroo]

[Long wait]

Fedex: Thank you for holding sir, it says that the business was closed and they will try again tomorrow morning.

Me: Yeah, I see that on the website. That was on Friday though and I'm wondering why they didn't deliver it today.

Fedex: Sir, it appears that it’s to a rural address and that's maybe why they can’t find it. I need to check on something, can you hold sir?

Me: Sure.

[Long wait]

Fedex: Sir, it says that the package will go out for delivery again tomorrow. It's a rural address and maybe they are having a hard time finding it.

Me: M-hmm. Rural address. I see. Can you tell me what address is listed on the piece of paper, uh you know, the airbill? I want to make sure that it's what I have on file.

Fedex: Okay. Let’s see, just a moment while I look that information up. It says…

Sha...

Tow...

Day...

V...

E...

R...

S...

A...

Me: Versailles! Chateau de Versailles.

Fedex: Yes, that's right sir.

Me: [Pausing and doing trademark anger management inhale] Just so we’re clear on something, your notes are correct. This is in fact a rural address, but this particular address to which I am sending this extremely important package is a PALACE. It’s a big building, probably the only one in the area.

Fedex: Oh OK. Hold on.

[Hold music. Long wait again]

Fedex: Sir, what I know is that it went out for delivery on Friday and it will go out again in tomorrow morning.

Me: I know this too. It says it on screen. [lowered, fakely calm voice] Lemme tell you this, this palace is kind of like the White House of France. It's a big place with people all the time. It's not a little farm house.

Fedex: Ok sir, can you hold on, let me check something.

[Hold]

Fedex: Sir it says that the package -

Me: No listen, even if something was not completely correct about the address I entered, the people handling this know what this place is. What I’m trying to say is that it’s hard to miss. It's very hard. You have to imagine that I'm trying to send something important to the you know, the White House of France. Can you understand why I'm having a hard time understanding why the driver can't find it?

Fedex: Sure sir.

Me: What I want to know is why my package was turned away. The tracker thing says the building was closed on Friday. As far as I know, it's open all week. And today, for no reason, it was out out for delivery and at almost 11 at night, at night! it comes back to the fedex facility there. What is the problem so I know what to do with my other packages?

Fedex: I see. Hold on.

[Hold music. I'm breathing]

Fedex: Sir, what I can tell you is that is that we tried to deliver it on Friday and for some reason that was the only time.

Me: No. The website indicates two trips, both unsuccessful. [Pausing and breathing] I see that you are doing all that is in your power to help me, and I appreciate it, is there someone else I can speak to who can just answer me this question: what is happening that my package can’t make it to a known landmark that is always open?

Fedex: Sir, it’s just my supervisors above me and they can only tell you what's in the system.

Me: A similar thing has happened before, can I talk to someone in Atlanta C.A.T.?

Fedex: Sir, you can talk to someone in E-CAT, but they are above me.

Me: But wouldn't that be a good thing?

Fedex: Not really. See, they have to do the same thing I do. Well, it's in ODA. That means it's out of our hands.

Me: ODA.

Fedex: Overseas Delivery Agent. It's all in their hands now. Uh I guess I can put in a request for a tracer.

Me: A tracer?

Fedex: We can put a tracer on it. We can put in note to call the local station agent and get that person to explain what happened.

Me: Yes. That’s what I want. I want to know what exact truck it was on, and who the driver is, and why it’s not getting there. This is an extremely important package and I have a hard time understanding why it just can’t get to the palace. People are waiting for this thing.

Fedex: Well, I'm putting a note into the blah blah blah blah blah

Me: [Praying. Writing down a case number, not melting down.]

It's winter time in Los Angeles! Really it is.

Hello readers,

As most of you know by way of our news feed on the right, we've had some terrible winter weather in Los Angeles (translation: thunder storms). We survived, barely. It does get kind of crazy around here with a plethora of vehicular accidents, flooding, and mud slides. But, right now all of that is over and it's super sunny and the Angeles Mountains just north of Los Angeles are dusted in wonderful snow.

Being from the east coast I miss weather. Los Angeles doesn't really have seasons. It rains about 10 days out of the year so it can be kind of strange for someone like me who's use to stuff falling out of the sky occasionally. Having wilderness and 6,000 foot mountains right next to where I live is very overlooked by the wider world and Angelinos themselves. Luckily for me I’m an avid cyclist and all around bike nerd so I find myself up in the mountains every weekend when I can make it, breathing deeply of the fresh air and observing nature from my carbon road bike.

Well now all that's fucked. The snow has come to the mountains so I will try to ride up there on New Year's Day with a whole bunch of other cycling nerds and, we'll see how far we'll make it. One of the places that I always ride to is Mt. Wilson (elv. 5,700 ft). The last time I was up there was about a month ago and it was just starting to get chilly, you needed arm warmers. Now it's 20 degrees with 20 inches of snow! The roads up into the mountains are all shut down but, when they reopen the LABLOGituders and I are definitely going sledding! There's an entire winter wonderland to explore and trust me we're going there no matter what.

So winter does come to Los Angeles. You just have to drive 30 minutes to find it. Below is a pic. from the Mt. Wilson Observatory Towercam today. . .and if you really want to geek out here's the url.

Pudding

At 2:45 this afternoon, the work team had a pudding party. Last week, we had a fried chicken party. The breading was made of crushed Snyder’s of Hanover pretzels. Earlier today, the boss brought in a plate of deep fried pretzel balls. What's a pretzel ball? Crushed pretzels, cayenne pepper, salt, eggs, milk and flour, deep fried - the breading we used on the chicken, sans the chicken.

Pictured above, clockwise from top: chocolate pudding, stainless steel pig nose, clear plastic cups, vanilla pudding, pistachio pudding, whipped cream.

A Little Pudding Dialog. Dorky employee who I can't stand just walked in here. I offered her some pudding.

DEWICS: Eeww, green. Green pudding. I can't eat green pudding.

ME: Well did you look at the rest of the table? There are other colors.

DEWICS: Oh yeah, I guess I didn't notice that. How does this work?

ME: If I have to tell you how pudding works, I can't help you.

DEWICS: I don’t know how to work it.

End of conversation. I keep looking at my screen, hoping that I can dissolve her with my silent brain power.

Say Cheese

It's holiday card time.

My coworker asked me to help him fix the Cujo laser robot kill dog eyes on this photo.



With a little ye olde photoshoppe magic, I sent this, my best work so far.



But I'm not that big an asshole, so I eventually emailed him something less apalling.

Happiness is a Warm Truck

This truck and many others like it are among the legions of mundane heros that keep the LA juggernaut in full tilt, every day without fail. It’s going to rain again today, that’s why the money taker isn’t wearing her trademark snakeskin print jeans. She knows us all by name, but prefers to call us Corazon or Baybee – comforting in a most unusual way. The cook slings all orders, yelled into the window by the workers, in less than ten minutes. My kind of efficiency.

Sure, there are firefighters and cops and a great many others who'd happily run into a burning building to save you as you clutch your Abba records, but nothing tears up my Man-tang more and makes me smile as much as when I see the Taco Truck, bringer of tasty, greasy, hope.

*****

For your listening pleasure, Barry Manilow

I drove a truck today.

I'm back from an extensive, exhaustive, artistic adventure and I'll blog about it later or not. It was a lot of fun but, really stressful and numbing so I might not want to revisit that period of my life for a little while.

So it's raining in Los Angeles. It started right when I went to bed and it made me feel really happy and cozy to hear the rain dripping on the porch boards. I woke up in the middle of the night to the raccoons making strange raccoon sounds in the rain and then ringing these bells I have hanging. I've got to do some more extensive research on them sometime.

So when I woke up in the morning I was tired and still sore from San Francisco. It was dark and raining so I decided to drive my truck. I hate driving but, sometimes I need to. When it rains I drive for the following reasons:

1. You'll see 100% of car drivers doing the following three things when it rains in Los Angeles: Skidding, turning without using their blinkers, and routinely coating their hands in baby lotion while waiting at traffic signals.

2. Grocery shopping is way easier and I can buy as much as I want when I have the truck. This also means I always buy beer.

3. I know my chances of dying on my bicycle are: Zero. I think my girlfriend really likes this reason.

I'm sure the Nor Cal (Northern California) vs. So Cal (Southern California) debate will begin shortly. And the debate on using the terms Nor Cal and So Cal will also begin. I know if I lived in San Francisco and it was raining I'd be riding my bike to work. When I'm up there and it rains I see everyone going through their lives like it's a bright sunny day. I love that about San Francisco. When it rains in Los Angeles it's kind of like getting a Gremlin wet. In San Fran when it rains it's like getting a Mogwai wet and that's way cuter.

We Are Everywhere

It hailed earlier today and just a few minutes ago, we looked outside to see this.



This goes to show you, that whether you are alone in your bedroom listening to the Depeche Mode, or working at your chosen career, in an unmarked building, across the street from the Pepsi plant, feet dangling off the edge of civilization, the power of the Great Gay Spirit is so unrelenting, that it can find you anywhere you are and restore your spirit, even if just for one moment.

22 hours, part 3

The other third of LA BLogitude stayed in LA this weekend, as to keep the home fires burning. True to form, here’s a rehash of Friday. While it’s just shy of 20 hours, please accept it as the latest toilet flush.

5 a.m. Hit snooze

6:03 a.m. Run to catch the first bus of the morning

6:37 a.m. Move one seat over after the guy with scabs on his face falls asleep leaning against me

6:45 a.m. Exchange smiles with an older man in a suit as I wait for my espresso drink at the Starbucks in my building lobby

6:56 a.m. Nibble on whole grain toast and a banana at my desk while checking email

8:51 a.m. Stop into the conference room for another cup of coffee and say hello to my coworkers

2:03 p.m. Stuff my walking shoes and dirty Tupperware in a desk drawer before heading out to the office Christmas party at the Century Plaza hotel

3:15 p.m. Congratulate my bosses on their special recognition and employee of the year awards

3:58 p.m. Ask the bartender for a half refill on the red wine before the bar closes

4:30 p.m. Head back to the office to finish a writing assignment

5:23 p.m. Meet a group of coworkers at X Bar for the after party

6:18 p.m. Make impromptu plans to see a musical in West Hollywood due to unforeseen free tickets

7:08 p.m. Hop into a friend’s car in the Century Plaza driveway

7:46 p.m. Standing in line at will call at The Coast Theatre, overhear a casting director unsuccessfully trying to throw her weight around to buy a ticket to the show, which is sold out

9:06 p.m. During intermission, notice that director Floyd Mutrux is wearing iridescent clogs

10:21 p.m. Arrive at the W and order a vodka tonic

10:33 p.m. Head upstairs to meet friends of friends but realize a room key is required for the elevator; luckily a hotel guest gets in at the 2nd floor and puts her key in the slot

11 p.m. Read a random email from an ex boyfriend I haven’t spoken to in years from the laptop of a new acquaintance

11:14 p.m. In the substantially more happening bar, male friend comments “there’s a lot of fake breasts in this room”

11:27 p.m. Valet opens the passenger door for me and hands me the seatbelt strap as I get into the car

11:41 pm Cruise the 405 without gridlock

11:55 p.m. Arrive home and snack on vegan macaroni and cheese

12:22 a.m. Lay in bed with a lavender eye pillow, click off the light and dream of my morning jog

Observation

Two thirds of Blogitude went to San Francisco this weekend for Ben's art opening in the Tenderloin. The Girlfriend supplied her magical, whirring, earth-fondling, Al Gore mobile to transport four - Ben and his GF, me and my BF. Yes, it's a Prius.

I've got a lot to say about the trip - chain restaurants, the hard laughter when filling the Prius with cheap gas, starbucks, red bull, Ben's art, the screening of my BF's documentary, the Live DJ mixing in the car both ways, the farting, the food, the farting, the homeless, some yoga that I got out of, the bitter cold, our friends, my refreshed leather pants - but I'll save it for Ben, or maybe I'll get back to it later, or never, I'm busy this week making holiday-based shit.

I'm gonna get a mighty ass-whoopin for saying this - You spend one minute in San Francisco, and even if you were Helen Keller, you'd know right away that Los Angeles is a great big, glorified pile of self-tanning compost.

We got good tacos though.

Officially Chain-ed

Darn you, Nike, you’ve finally done it. You’ve slowly worked your way into so many facets of my life that I have to admit….gasp…brand loyalty.

It wasn’t enough that you gave money to build both the library and law school at my university. I spent what seemed an endless number of hours in those buildings. And being in Track Town, the legends of Pre and Bowerman were everywhere I turned. But my anti-establishment sensibility kept me skeptical, as the student newspaper intermittently ran reminders about the sweat shops.

It still wasn’t enough when I got hooked on your sponsored training runs four years ago. I fell in love with the routes and appreciated the freebies—like food and the Dri-FIT™ shirts. I made friends and came back religiously. But I wasn’t drinking the free promotional energy drinks—or so I thought.

Then there was the ad—the one for the Nike Free™. You know, with the guy reenacting the barefoot beach run scene from “Chariots of Fire,” then remembers he’s running on a city street. I laughed. I loved it. I told people about it. But I refused to demo the Nike Free™ at running club. Later I would use the New York Times’ article about the launch of the Le Brons campaign as an example in the class I was teaching.

I figured I was safe if I didn’t wear the shoes myself – and was proud when I would tell my runner friends that they just didn’t fit me right. But a few years later, I went for a special shoe fitting—and to my surprise, I came out of the store with a pair of Nike Air Structure Triax+ 11™. I’m reluctant to say it, but—they’re amazing and I’m on my second pair.

This was a turning point: I’d joined the cult. I messaged my friend who works for Nike to tell him. Not much later I found myself defending the company to a colleague, talking about the products and how the company provided the money to build that library where all of my knowledge came from.

But I didn’t realized what had happened until last weekend. As I headed to yoga class, I glanced in the mirror on my way out. I looked like a Nike poster child. The shoes. The track jacket. The yoga mat. “Top to toe,” as they’d say at the running club. All with a little swoosh peeking out to signal victory.

Holiday Party

Last night was a really busy night here in Los Angeles for your LABLOGituders. First off I have to apologize to all of my fans for not posting for a few weeks. I’ve been super busy putting together an art show that’s opening up in San Francisco this weekend and I’ll post more about that later.

So I made it back from installing the show just in time for my work holiday party and going to Get Mortified. I work at a non-profit and I must say that the holiday party here is up there with any corporate shin-ding. This year they really out did themselves and with the collapse of another notable non-profit art institution in Los Angeles and the cancelling of their holiday party we were really lucky to have such an outlandish and over the top party. They spared no expense and it was a good one this year. We had:

Three free alcoholic drinks per person (more if you ask for extra tickets from your co-workers)
Dance floor with DJ
Santa
Palm reading
Caricatures
Handwriting analyzing
A mash potato bar (where you eat mashed potatoes out of martini glasses)
Dessert bar
Cookie and coffee bar
Vegetables, salad, and roast beef
A raffle for prizes like a T.V. and gift certificates

Last year I snuck two people into the party (we’re only allowed to bring one guest) and this year I was able to smuggle three people in. I was really hoping to win the plasma screen this year so that we could have an excuse to get Guitar Hero and DDR but, I didn’t win, maybe next year. The tradition of the holiday party must go back to that original party when Jesus was born and people were hanging out at night under the stars with gold, weed, and animals. There was gold decorations, AV guys smoking weed, and party animals so it was rather traditional. The party was really fun while it lasted which didn’t last long because, we had to climb into the Yirkomobile and head up to Hollywood for Get Mortified. One thing we did get to do was have our picture taken with Santa. Unfortunately, I don’t have a copy of it, so I found this picture of some young people with Santa on the internet that would be a good stand in. I wish you all safe and festive Holiday parties this year and I hope you can eat some potatoes out of a martini glass too.

Mortified

In the spirit of the Get Mortified Show I'm going to tonight (http://www.getmortified.com/live/), I leave you with this:

You know what's worse than sulking about your crush getting married? Finding the online wedding gift registry (Yirko, note: Pottery Barn!) and seeing multiple pages of matching dishes supposedly picked out with the new spouse. Yes. I did this recently. I don't recommend it.

Yirko in Chains, Still

It is oft said, that there are Smiths lyrics for every occasion. In this instance, these hail from Accept Yourself, available on the album Hatful of Hollow. Morrissey whines in one verse, “Oh, but plans can fall through (as so often they do) And time is against me now...”

So true Stephen Patrick. My coworker cancelled on me because I hemmed and hawed about our mall adventure, in light of our current financial meltdown, so no Chow King, no Banana Republic or H&M for me. If you count being stuck in traffic as a time killer, then yes, time was also against me.

I hummed that part repeatedly.

It’s just as well, I took a different route home, which brought me to my neighborhood, via The Grove on Fairfax. The Grove is what happens when you slam down Main Street Disneyland onto an open oil field in the middle of Los Angeles. Instant Multi Cultural Shopptertainment, (multi-culti-sho-taint? Sho nuff). These days, if you show up at the right time, it snows soapsuds at The Grove, perfect for your cozy dry clean only cashmere sweater that you got on sale at the Nordstroms Don’t-Let-The-Recession-Scare-You-Off Sale.

Here’s what we know – things don’t make us happy or complete. In fact, the things we own quickly own us. Still, I bought a black moleskin coat at Banana Republic knowing this and yet, I left feeling transformed. I felt so integrated with my coat. It was as if the coat and I were pressed from the same die. This pressed fit feeling helped me to see something I had been making myself blind to – The GAP makes slouchy clothes that are designed specifically for citizens who wear a big protective wine barrel underneath their clothes.

I went to the GAP after the BR to further help out the economy, but became horrified at the realization that I am not a GAP kid after all. I thought I was, but I had been fooling myself all along. They make clothes for people with more generous BMI (Body Mass Index) than me. Not a big surprise right? Maybe to someone in GAP-aholics Anonymous or GAP-anon. They don't have those in L.A. GAP clothes are too baggy for me, and I’ve been spending my time and money getting my GAP pants altered in the keester to fit me better.

For much less and money and effort, there are better fitting pants out there, all over the place, well made too. I paused on my way back to the Mega Garage, wondering, what other simple truth have I been blind to that’s right in front of me.

A threshold crossed does not have to be large to be significant. I can't even begin to imagine what my new eyes will see. Perhaps I will be amenable to safari print post-its and purple Nike Airs?

Then someone turned the volume back up on Accept Yourself, which had apparently been playing on loop in the background and it reminded me,

“Anything is hard to find when you will not open your eyes.”

I thanked the coat, and remembered once again, whenever I think I’m alone, the Smiths will always be there to guide me.


*****

Here for your listening pleasure, is the song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAxpvw4qOZQ

Thank you, I love you, truly

Yirko in Chains

You ever hear about Banana Republic? No? Are you visiting from Borneo or something? How about Chow King? Google it.

You don't have to love chain stores to live in Los Angeles, I know this though - my love of the chain has only enhanced my experience on this little patch of hard baked earth. All Angelenos owe their existence to two great beings 1) William Mulholland - the guy who engineered the great water theft of the west - and 2) Land Developers who generously bring us easily accessible, fondly familiar retail chain businesses with plenty of free parking. God bless you all.

Tonight, my coworker and I are going to Banana Republic and H&M at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. It's an open air mall that creates a controlled downtown feel. Whether or not it's successful at this doesn't matter to me - it has a Gap and a Barnes and Noble and blocks and blocks of free multi-level parking.

We will first nourish ourselves at Chow King in Van Nuys. It's a chain and it's brilliant. Look it up. You should only be so lucky to have one in your state.

I'll let you know more later.

In the meantime, have a Pinkberry for me.

The Chase

Ever since a sprained ankle cramped my style for more than a month, I’ve developed a greater appreciation for running. Today’s adventure was particularly fun, as it featured a chase sequence.

After warming up on residential backstreets, I turned onto Los Feliz Boulevard and noticed I was 50 feet in front of another afternoon runner. This in itself is not out of the ordinary, but when I he passed me a few minutes later, I took note.

I’m trying to get my speed back after the injury – so I accepted the challenge. I paced off him for a few minutes, keeping in stride 20 or so feet behind him. But I was gaining. Just like in the car, it’s bad etiquette to slow down after you pass someone. I hit the accelerator and kept speeding as I felt his eyes on my back.

I sensed the space between us growing and I figured I’d seen the last of him after I turned down Vermont. But when I stopped briefly at a light, I caught a glimpse of him 50 or so feet back and my stopping was giving him a chance to catch up. I looked both ways and ran on the red.

Then I got caught again at the light at Franklin. Shit. No chance of jay crossing this time. Suddenly he was standing next to me. I glanced at him, turning my toes up to stretch.

He ran as soon as the light turned yellow and I lost my lead. I ran closer behind him this time. To strangers, it might’ve looked like we knew each other. My stride filled the space vacated by his last step. And we were careening down Vermont, dodging pedestrians, chained-up bicycles and sidewalk tables at Fred 62. But his unassertive navigation was slowing me down. I blew past him at Russell, jumping off the sidewalk to pass a combination stroller-couple roadblock in front of the Los Feliz 3.

I was flying – past Skylight Books and the vintage clothing store, catching the lights across Prospect and Hollywood, dodging dogs on leashes and foot traffic around the red line station. My leg nearly grazed the top of a lit cigarette dangling from an old man’s fingers as he shuffled down the sidewalk. At a light on Sunset, I glanced back for my race partner, hoping for another round. But he had vanished, leaving me to admire the Hollywood sign all alone.

LA from the outside

I’ve hosted out-of-town visitors for three weekends in a row now – and whenever I do this, it brings me into a greater awareness of LA. And I’m always amazed at some of the things I’ve become accustomed to:

Freeway traffic
Some areas’ likeness to Central America
Parking rates and availability
Crowds at Trader Joe’s
The fullness of my schedule
Pervasive billboards and the number in Spanish
Exotic cars
Palm trees

A former graduate school classmate of mine up north always wanted to come to Hollywood; he had come to the U.S. for school from China and said the movie industry was the best part of America. I imagined him with his camera around his neck, wandering amid crowds on the walk of fame, dodging cockroaches and homeless people as he cooed in delight at the exteriors of Ripley’s and the Hollywood Museum. He never came to Hollywood – he moved to New Jersey instead to take an internship in New York City, and last I heard, he said it was dirty and crowded.

I told you

We get jacked up about fog and rain here in L.A. because we see it about as often as a cat fucking a monkey on its own accord. As I searched for Fog Stories in the LA Times as A suggested there would be, I found this interactive map of the vote count, by county, of Propositions 4 and 8 lending to my assertion that Angelinos and Southern Californians really are closer to cave people as I had suspected.

Look at the map. Make your own conclusions.

But I need you to agree with me, otherwise I'll send my cat to pay a visit to your monkey.

The Map

Riot Ready

We put Los Angeles news briefs along the right side of the blog for fun. You read this story by KTLA about the fog – an interesting phenomenon in which a cloud hangs low to the ground – and you could reasonably conclude that Los Angeles is populated entirely by a people flash frozen during the Paleolithic era, kept in deep freeze for about thousand or so millennia, and thawed out around the time Al Gore invented the internet.

The article goes on to caution that fog can lead to dangerous travel conditions as it may create moisture on the roads. I want to work at KTLA. If you’ve ever watched the News at Ten on channel 5, you’d know immediately that many people have made recession proof careers at transforming the obvious into a stupefying force majeure that excuses all Angelinos from the social contract.

If they are not hiring because we’re in the Great Depression 2.0, then, the next time I see fog, I’m hitting the streets with my guns blazing. Gonna make the Rodney King riots look like a garment district sample sale.

Avoid Shortcuts

Last night I found myself sitting alone in a dark corner below a bright spotlight. There was a man standing there next to me, looming.

“I’m a police detective,” he said. Then he started asking a lot of questions.

I swear it’s not what you think. I didn’t do anything wrong. Well, except for sign up for speed dating, that is.

So who hasn’t been curious about this practice since it emerged 10 or so years ago? I suppose those who were already tried it. And, well, it’s jumped the shark.

I’d hoped for some novelty, some fun, some intrigue. But what I got was a bunch of guys looking for a place where women would sit still when they approached them. I knew it wouldn’t go well when, before things even started, I realized the only man in the room who I found attractive was pouring drinks behind the bar.

The women sat at tables in a skeezy Hollywood Boulevard dive while the men moved to the next one every two minutes or so. The event organizer assigned me to the corner table all alone, a place where no one would be able to hear me scream. I like to think I’m nice – but two minutes just started feeling like a really long time. And that was only talking.

“You exercise regular?”

“I’m going to mark you ‘yes’ just because of your good looks.”

“There’s always women throwing themselves at me.”

“I’m an attorney for other attorneys.”

“You must be A…”

On my match card I circled “no,” “no,” then “no,” another “no,” and “no” again.

Rain!

As soon as the first drop of rain hit Los Angeles asphalt, most, if not all drivers decided to drive sideways in their cars last night. Traffic was miserable. It’s just rain falling from the sky, not martini glasses filled with baby blood.

LA Auto Snooze

It's been a dismal year for the auto industry and this year's LA Auto Show does everything right to prove this point. This was the most fun I'd ever had at someone's bedside, just moments before they pulled the plug.

I'm talking about specifically about GM. The car pictured here is the Chevy HHR Panel - nothing more than a Cavalier dressed up as a PT Cruiser for a November Halloween party. This HHR Panel is different from the regular HHR because it has the clever detail in that it's missing two rear windows and has more cheap plastic parts inside than all of the Jacksons combined. Amazing. If you think this is cool, get the fuck out of my country and go back to Douchelvania, or at least stop voting.

Up until today, I was on the fence about the auto industry bailout. Walking the floor of the convention center, one notion is blindingly clear - If you gave them a grey whale stuffed with $25 Billion in cash, they'd use it to make more of the same bullshit.

P.S. Photo stolen from the 24 hour Global Warming Tailgate party called truckinweb.com

99.99 cent store UPDATE!

Remember those tin-snips I bought. I was cutting an eyelash with them and this happen.



I think they were made out of apple cores and old newspapers. I would suggest avoiding all products at the 99 cent store that are from a company called CHINA.

99

You might be wondering what you’re looking at above. It’s a potato bin in a 99 cent store with an old women rooting through it. I love the 99 cent store and here in Los Angeles for some reason there are an ungodly number of stores. From where I work there are two equidistant and only one block away from me. Packaged food, produce, holiday decorations, old DVD’s, hardware supplies, school supplies, plants, fine china, and the list goes on and on.

I don’t remember if 99 cent stores existed anywhere else that I lived and I must have only been to one before I moved to LA. Now I go there a few times a week. It’s usually how I spend my morning and/or afternoon break. Browsing the aisles and paying with change. Today I went on my morning break because; I knew they had tin snips so I got those and some other provisions. The worst part about the store is the lines. WTF? Everything is 99 cents how come it takes so long to it ring up? Here are a few factors to consider:

Average age of shopper
The age of the average 99 cent store shopper is somewhere around 72 for males, 80 for females, and 76 for transgender persons. How did I get these stats? They are the average death ages for Americans. All these old people roaming around loading their carts with stuff. It must be convenient for them because, everything is cheap and they’re barely surviving on Medicare, also they only need to go to one store for everything. So now that they have toilet paper, hot pockets, and aloe plants, they’re loading it up on the conveyor belt one at a time and I usually help them out. It sucks that they have to do all that themselves. They should do the carts like they do at Trader Joe’s and save those folks the hassle. It would also help the lines go 99% faster.

Bagging
99 cent employees always double and sometimes triple bag. There must be some special 99 cent store policy that all things must be over bagged, put in their own bag, and/or have an unused bag attached to your bag that’s being used. One reason this could happen is because, their main clientele (old people) always want things double bagged, it must be something that happens when you pass 60 or something.

“Uh-Oh!”
This is a sound you hear when something rings up wrong. An actual human voice that comes from the cash register, “Uh-Oh!” Highly pitched and super annoying. It reminds me of this sound/thing that would happen when you played Mortal Kombat as a kid. Anyways, it’s so annoying and weird that it causes everyone to stop and think, “What the fuck was that?” And then start doing what they were doing so they scan the same thing again and it goes “Uh-Oh!” and the vicious cycle continues.

So go to the 99 cent store and find some bargains they’re there to be found. Wooden coat hangers? Got it. Need a bottle of wine to go with that 99 cent can of sardines? Got it. Hannah Montana stationary? Got it. One thing to watch out for is the produce. Most people won’t touch it and I know I’m one of those people. I’ve had some bad experiences and it’s just not worth it. Go find 99 reasons to spend 99 dollars at the 99 cent store and help an old person unload their cart.

A Smorgasbord Saturday

Yirko sure knows how to throw a party – his smorgasbord extravaganza on Saturday night resembled what I imagine cocktail parties of the ‘60s must’ve been like, with classy company conversing and snacking from small plates and toothpicks. I’ve always loved lounge music and big hair and think this type of event needs to be attempted more often. There was caviar with endives, smoked oysters, veggie meatballs and chocolate fondue – and the smorgasbord was a central gathering place for simultaneous chatter and sampling.

I’d been very excited about the Swedish theme, complete with an Ikea menu and Abba purring in the background, as it could be a chance to connect with my Scandinavian heritage. My great grandmother was a Danish emigrant – but other than aebleskivers and Dogme 95, I’m pretty ignorant about the region. This party had Glogg, fish-flavored cheese paste and marshmallow car-shaped candies called Ahlgrens bilar – and I got a little taste of where I came from. I watched the palm trees swaying outside and basked in the superficiality of thinking this could actually bring me closer to my distant relatives near the Arctic. More about the smorg from Yirko and Ben…

Then I was off to another event before wrapping up my evening: An art show opening at Foreign Family featuring the work of Hannah Stouffer. Amazing stuff in this collection. Her mix of traditional Asian drawing style, Dia de Los Muertos-like skeletons and renderings of Americana wildlife, including coyotes, moose and hawks, was splashed with avante-garde watercolor backgrounds. I thoroughly enjoyed all of it, even if I possess no legacy related to any of these.

Commuting by bicycle: The ups and downs

I commute everyday to work by bicycle here in Los Angeles. I’ve come to enjoy riding in Los Angeles even though it took me a few years to get use to the roads and drivers. You can bicycle about 365 days out of the year but, when it rains I get on the metro. Moisture, Los Angeles, and vehicles are basically a perfect storm for roadway stupidity and I’d rather be on a bus getting sideswiped by a mini van then on my bicycle. But, this article isn’t about rain or commuting it’s about just falling down.

This morning I was riding really fast on my way to work because, I was late, tired, and I was just trying to get some adrenaline going. When I get to work my energy is up, I’m slightly sweaty, and I get to change from one outfit to another. Anyways, so I’m hauling my literal ass and I always get to this intersection where I need to wait for a break in traffic. You have to be kind of aggressive at this spot or a break will never open up so I usually nose my way out so a car slows down and then jam on it. While I was “jamming on it” my back wheel slid out from under me on the run off of an over irrigated lawn, and I did a 180 and landed on my side. Blood flowed forth from my knee; my handlebars got tweaked a little. I checked everything out, looked fine and jumped back on my bike. The blood kept trickling down my leg and I was already planning on how I’d clean it up in the bathroom when I got to work.

Having an accident is one of the only things I worry about when I ride my bike, and getting traffic tickets. I know I could die. I know someone could pull in front of me and knock me off my bike yet, I love to do it. Falling today was kind of fun. It gave me a little perspective. Made me think I should replace that back tire with a new one and to watch it on the wet patches. It didn’t once make me think I should find a different way to go to work or give me any frustration. It just left me with that feeling that this is me, this is my life, and I love it even with the ups and downs.

Below is a movie of my injured leg. Kinda safe for work. . .

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow

That's the best Hair Salon Pun I could remember off hand. Send me some. I love them.

*****

For two days, I slicked my hair back and away from my face for efficiency's sake. I've been wearing my bangs down and floppy since around March, mostly because my new car has ZERO head room. I cut the bangs too short over the weekend however, so I'm wearing my toupee in a style I call the Ken Takahara, as in "Reporting live from the edge of the Volcano on the Big Island, this is Ken Takahara."

I received a heaping assful of unsolicited comments at work:
Whoa! You look smooth. I'd buy anything you sold me.
Whoa! I never knew you were such a pretty boy.
Whoa! I could go for that.
This, mostly from proud rifle toting and beer gut cradling, Simi-Valley, white flight, Nascar, Drill Baby Drill Dads.

Also:
Why are you dressed so nice? Oh, is it because the Big Wigs are here? Yeah.
Man, ever since we all dressed like the boss, your hair has really taken off.
That's a really good look for you, so suave.
Did you get tanned over the weekend?
Wow, that is a nice hair line.
Glad to see Reagan is back.

It's as if the amnesia wagon came by and clocked everyone real good. I've been sporting the Ken Takahara since the 90s, and certainly for almost all of the six years I've been working here. The down do emo look is new, and I can remember a time not long ago when someone looked at my emo hair and said, I'm so glad you are styling your hair this way, you know, not like all the other Asian guys with their hair up like you had it.

Ken was supposed to be an easy fix, but is a distraction as well as a liability. I've seen more people suck in their cheeks and mock my catwalk in the last two days than I desire; and I've been driving in a seating position more supine than is safe in order to keep from smearing pomade on the moonroof.

Today is hair down day, and, because it's officially always summer in L.A., I'm wearing a blue linen shirt with white pants and no regard to my position in space/time relating to Labor Day. Already, I've been told that someone finds my outfit comforting, it reminds him he said of a hard-nosed, edgy, investigative reporter trying to break a big drug cartel story in Indonesia.

Hair up. Hair down. Reporter. That's my deal.

Huh?

Did you assholes know it was Autumn? Probably not if you lived here. I was just reading the news posts on our very own blog and one braces us for even warmer weather by week's end.

This morning I went to Whole Foods on 3rd and Fairfax before work, dressed in a coat, because it was a bit brisk, but by the time I got out of there 45 minutes later, it was broiling in my car. Hey somebody! Fuck You!

H8

As I was taking the bus home last night, it got hung up in West Hollywood, as No on 8 protesters filled the streets. People were shouting, honking, chanting and waving signs to protest inequality. I called a friend and disembarked at Fairfax to meet him -- and together we walked toward the melee and straight into the heart of the crowd in front of the Pacific Design Center. There were dogs and babies and all sorts of people, some singing, some yelling and some taking photos. We then followed the sea of people that filled both lanes of San Vicente all the way up to Sunset.
And as we strode down the strip, using our bodies to contribute to the larger disruptive mass, irritated drivers' gave us dirty looks and attempted to speed through holes in the crowd. Why can't these people see the bigger picture? This is bigger than your being delayed getting home. And it's bigger than your own interpretation of marriage. Just like those awful LA drivers, voters seem to be too caught up in preserving their own comforts to see how much they're endangering other people.

obama

I can't really describe what I'm feeling right now. For the first time in my life I think I'm proud to be an American. We had a major victory in this country last night and we still have battles to fight. Prop 8 passed in California. Inequality still exists. I believe Obama is going to help change things and in the future all people will be treated equally across this country.

Counted

This salty little heart of mine is rarely moved by presidential elections. With each go around, I simply fear that more of the life that I love will be chipped away from me and my tribe. So it caught me off guard that on my way from the Valley into the Rampart Division, to my polling place, I wept on hearing the news of record turnouts, long lines, expectant first time voters and the general excitement around the election.

I cried when I arrived at the charter school and saw the proud, excited, waddling people of many races who were eager to check in and vote, or who were strutting away bearing the I Voted sticker . I am always awed by the volunteers who thanklessly and dutifully staff these "democracy" stations, but tonight in particular, the poll workers made sure that anyone who could vote would vote. A Filipino couple gratefully and happily accepted a provisional ballot. A Chinese mother, barely able to speak English, was shepherded through the process by her 7 year old son. A first time voter expressed her nervousness about the process.

We are raised to know that he who has the most money, not only wins, but also has the loudest voice. I choked back many many tears at the polling place, bearing witness to something I probably will not see again in my life time. I was overwhelmed by the number of people who decided that, whether their team wins or loses; whether or not the electric bill gets paid; whether or not they will be among those who will keep their jobs; just for today, because it is their right, they will be heard, and they will be counted.

Change in LA!

A's post was super sweet and I'm feeling the same energy right now. Me and my significant other, Kate, headed to the polls at 7am. When we were on our way there we saw a guy across the street from us kind of talking/kind of freaking out about Prop 8 and Kate yelled out "No on 8!" and he gave us a wave and we waved to him. At that point I almost started crying. It just really hit me that I was going to vote. In the past I just didn't feel connected to our political system. I maybe glanced over any ballot measures and basically I didn't care. Now I really feel a part of what's happening today. I want a new president, I am voting for equality, I am voting because, I care.

So we waited in line for an hour and then voted. Afterwards Kate and I were in similar places with what just happened, except I was hiding it more. It probably also helped that I had my "I Voted" sticker on my forehead. She was really nervous and so was I. We just have to wait now. On our way home we saw a "No On Prop 8" guy and Kate asked for a sticker. When I got home I made a sign to have on my backpack during my ride to and from work.

It rained last night in LA so everything is super clear and clean here. The sun is shining and it feels like a perfect day. A new day!

Change is afoot!

I got caught up in all of the electoral excitement when I voted first thing this morning. My roommate and I left the apartment at 6:15 am, armed with our cheat sheets from the Political Potluck and stopped for coffee at Intelligentsia. The sky was cloudy, but the moisture in the air made it refreshing. When we arrived at our polling place, I snapped a great shot of the sign out front, which was in English, Spanish and Vietnamese. After several minutes of sitting in the chairs at the elementary school gym, where it smelled like kids -- crayons, laundry soap and a hint of hot lunch pizza -- the poll workers announced that the polls were open.
As the lines moved, I chatted with a couple fellows next to me who I learned live on my street. We chatted about the neighborhood, about one street where there used to be a crack hotel and how it's likely it will be turned into a Grove-like outdoor shopping area. When it was my turn to enter the booth I was so excited that I almost forgot to grab a ballot.
After marking my votes, I double checked all of my selections and saw my roommate was taking pictures of her ballot to text to her brother. I lingered in the booth to let the ink dry and take in the moment.
When we walked outside it was like a new day. A man stood on the other side of the "No Electioneering" notice with a sign that said "Neighbors please! VOTE NO ON PROP 8." We waved at him to affirm we had and he gave us a thumbs up. My roomie called her mom to relay the excitement. The clouds had cleared and a warm light was now flooding the streets; the street signs, restaurants, storefronts, posters and billboards all seemed brighter than they had before we went in. As I walked down Sunset, I could see the Hollywood sign -- the sky was so clear. I walked up to the bus stop to wait, enjoying the sunshine -- and the hope that it symbolized.

Political Potluck

Saturday morning we had a Political Potluck, A was there and Yirko showed up later with some cake that I’m sure he’s going blog about. You might be wondering what a Political Potluck is? Well, it’s a chance for people to gather together and share their views and research on issues that are going to be on the ballot on November 4. Oh yhea, and everyone is supposed to bring something to either eat or drink so it’s a really yummy political experience. In California there are 12 propositions on the ballot for the entire state and then local measures for LA County. Some of the propositions aren’t as easy to digest as chocolate covered glazed donuts, as we learned during the potluck. Many things get put on the ballot that are there to trick and fool the people. It was really exciting and at the same time depressing thinking about all these propositions and all of the dialogue and research we were having and how millions Californians aren’t going to know anything when they go to vote and just read a blurb and think that’s good, and vote yes.

Some of the propositions are: A high speed commuter train from LA to SF (I assume like the ones in Japan, awesome!), parental notification on under-age abortions, ban on gay marriage, 2 “green” measures that aren’t really “green” and benefit big companies further ravaging of the environment, police and law enforcement funding (which is a super crazy unbelievable proposition that’s around 16 pages long and some highlights are changes to over 30 state laws and giving the police an unbelievable amount of power and almost an extra billion dollars annual.)

So we’ve got a lot to think about on November 4. Not just the election of a President but, also decisions on our way of life in California. I know this election is the most important one in my life. Listening to the radio and seeing people out on the streets, you can feel the collective energy that’s out there. It felt so good to sit around with other caring Americans and one English woman and share our thoughts and views collectively. Unravel the bureaucratic nightmare of the propositions and look forward to a new President on November 4 and hopefully have some propositions pass and others fail. We’ll just have to wait and see. . .

Under $10

A and I embarked on an adventure on Saturday night asking the question, how do you have fun in LA for under $10? The answer - get food poisoning, or something like it.

After the political potluck, A met me at our house for a guerilla expedition to enjoy the world's best espresso machine happily situated in the break room of her office. The night was full of many snags to begin with. When she arrived, she realized that she forgot her keys, and I was a little cranky from the pirates of the caribbean battle raging inside me. We got as far as a block when I asked her to return to my house for a poopy pit stop.

We got to her building in Century City - the City of the Future, but were not allowed access to the office, unless she was willing to pay $280 for a locksmith to let us in. The guy with the big key ring wasn't in on weekends we found out. That was a huge disappointment for me because I was planning on using that toilet and now I had to wrap my mind around clenching my sphincter for a much longer, unimaginable stretch. We went somewhere else to have our $10 adventure to find it was closed. More extended length clenching for me. We augmented our adventure to Kombucha at Whole Foods Fairfax then compulsive shopping at The Grove across the street. I felt shocked and frankly a little paralyzed by the sign at the Whole Foods restroom - Closed Until Further Notice.

Ben noted in his post that I might be blogging about the cake I brought to political potluck. He was right. As I stood there, nearly in tears at the restroom closed sign, some mental images of the day came feeding back to me with HD clarity and it was the cake. The cake, I reasoned is the cause of all my woes. That cake is still sitting at Ben and his Public Defender girlfriend's house for them to enjoy and stuff more e.coli down their cake holes. I alerted Ana to this, I alerted Ben's Public Defender girlfriend to this by voicemail and Ana drove me home immediately so I could puke up the pizza that A, my boyfriend and I enjoyed earlier in the day at Hard Times Pizza, and then later I'd be spending the entire night, ass suctioned to the toilet seat, somehow, strangely feeling grateful for this life, these friends, this boyfriend, this city, and this sad and misguided adventure.

And that is how you can have fun in L.A. for under $10.

22 hours, part II

6 am: Alarm goes off, hit snooze twice.

7:20 am: Walk past police cleaning up a nasty car crash on my way to bus stop.

7:35 am: Board 740 bus heading west.
Costumes on the bus:
1 vampire
1 Broadway dancer (in a dry cleaning bag)

8:23 am: Step off bus in West LA.

8:37 am: In a doctor’s costume at my desk with Aireborne in a cup of hot water.

11:10 am: Receive an email that says my paper’s accepted to a conference in Phoenix in February.

12:37 pm: Serve my favorite kale salad at office Halloween party luncheon.

6:07 pm: Say goodbye to colleagues and stop in kitchen to grab my leftover kale and chat in Spanish with the cleaning woman who insists I'm blonde. I think about what I’ll be wearing later.

6:18 pm: Run to catch 704 heading east. Because of the West Hollywood street fair, the bus has to take a detour down Robertson to Beverly and then back up to Santa Monica via Fairfax.
Costumes on the bus:
1 gypsy
2 devils
1 unidentified bat antenna person
1 rabbit
1 Earl Hickey
1 green bean
1 Marx glasses with non costume mullet
1 pumpkin
1 fake eyebrows and moustache
1 Bob Dylan
1 Joan Baez
1 Carebear
1 Dorothy Gale

7:10 pm: I help one of the devils find her stop. She complains about how rude LA people are and disembarks at Santa Monica and Vermont.

7:14 pm: Step off the bus and walk home, past some teenagers dressed as witches and goblins. No sign of the crash at that intersection; it's as if nothing ever happened.

8:16 pm: My costume transformation into Dr. Barbie is complete, including blonde wig, white lab coat, pink stethoscope and surgical mask.





9:18 pm: Enter El Rey in costume. There’s a Jimi Hendrix standing outside near the ropes. I planned ahead and took the expensive pen I usually carry out of my purse so that it’s not taken away from me at security as it always is at this place. Head into the theatre and the Black Angels are already playing. I affirm this is one of my favorite bands. I stand next to two guys also in doctor costumes. They say they’re plastic surgeons and I point to the Barbie nametag on my coat. They laugh. As Roky Erickson is playing a short woman standing beside me grabs me around the waist and rubs the top of my head affectionately. After the encore, I split as fast as I can to beat traffic.

12:19 am: Enter party up in Nichols Canyon. There’s a guy sitting outside on a retaining wall vomiting and a Dial-a-Ride in the street out front. The invite had said no one would be let in after midnight, but another guy in a doctor’s costume at the gate tells me he doesn’t live there and welcomes me into the garden area. The place is crowded, with many girls in skimpy costumes. I find my friend who’s gotten her beaded purse stuck in her fishnets. A guy dressed as Michael Phelps untangles it. A man with fake breasts asks me for a mammogram.

1:02 am: I see Lance Bass in the crowd in the outdoor area. He’s dressed in a graduation cap and gown. Not sure it’s him but the sighting is later confirmed.

1:46 am: Against my better judgment, I play a game of Twister and then sing Pat Benatar karaoke.

2:28 am: Leave the party, heading east. Get stuck in traffic on Hollywood boulevard.

3:30 am: Arrive home and snack on leftover kale salad. Put my wig back into the closet until next year.

4:14 am: Glance at the clock as I turn off the lamp on my bedside table. I think about my morning yoga class, the farmer’s market and the potluck I’m going to tomorrow – and look forward to another full day in LA.

Happy Halloween

The other night I stopped for gas as I took a roundabout way home, after an impromptu traffic avoidance detour. As I stepped out of my car at into the empty gas station in the dirty heart of Hollywood, something seemed eerily familiar. I stood in the spotlight reflecting off the white cement and besides the chug, chug of the gas pump, it was so silent. The hum of the nearby 101 sounded like the ocean, deceptively calm and potentially murderous – my eyes darted around as I tried to figure out what was giving me that uneasy feeling.

There was a small garage next to the empty convenience store on the lot – and when I saw it, it all came to me. I’d stopped at this very gas station years ago. A friend and I were on our way back home to the valley after checking out an exhibit downtown. It was a hot day and her car started acting up – so we pulled in to see if they could check the fluids. The day was filled with sunlight and this place had looked more colorful. It’d been busy, full of cars and people. I’d not been familiar with this side of town then and hadn’t known where I was. But I was here again. It looked so different now.

This is an example of an LA haunting, where memories attached to random locations throughout the city come flooding back. Like the bench where I saw my first tranny hooker. Or the gas station where I sat in the car while my date peed in the bushes. And the coffee shop where I wrote most of my thesis. Even the restaurant where I sat outside for hours talking to a friend about if I should break up with my boyfriend. And, yes, we broke up.

Sometimes I purposefully seek out these places – like the building where a company I’d wanted a job has its office or the bar where I went with a guy I liked who never called me back – just to get that haunted feeling.

22 Hours

12:30 am: I awake to a big spider crawling across my eye. You think I freaked out? Ever see a cat tossed into a bubble bath? Like that. I attempt to return to sleep, but all I hear are invisible spiders cracking beneath my bed releasing the feverish rush of millions of glassy, transparent spiderlings on sojourn across my bed and into my nose, maybe up my pee hole. I try to sleep using various mind tricks. I am dying to sleep for more than one hour. Haven't been sleeping well for a week.

2:30 am: I say fuck it to the whole thing and I go on a date with L.A. First stop - Grand Spa in Koreatown. It displays the best sign ever invented by modernity - OPEN 24 HOURS. 20 bucks gets you in after 9pm. The place is packed, especially the communal sleeping quarters where everyone is naked. Most of the men are deep in REM sleep, I can tell by their bobbing hard ons.

4:15 am: After two hours of soaking, steaming, and kicking back on the heated floors, I get out in search of donuts at Pico Union, maybe hang out with all the pre-dawn Latinos and Filipinos. Change my mind - I go to Chinatown in search of dim sum, via downtown. I drive with the roof open, seat heater on full blast. Nothing is open; I take it to Olvera Street and I am reminded that this is LA, not Bangkok which means that not everyone loves the night. No dim sum, no tacos.

5:00 am: Dupar's Studio City. The waiter tells me I look like Jeff Goldblum. People tell him that he looks like Jeff Goldblum. The three of us look nothing alike. The Coffee sucks, but the pancakes are among the best I've had.

5:45 am: On the 101 connector to the 405 north in Sherman Oaks. As I merge, I see my co-worker Tammy in her white Mini Clubman, headed to work. She starts at 6. We wave to each other. I exit and go to Van Nuys to check out the Van Nuys boulevard of cars.

6:10 am: I arrive to work bleary eyed and wired. I'm 50 minutes early. I do my job to the best of my ability. I'm pretty toothy today, for obvious reasons. The day throws some punches, I roll with them, maybe I punch back. It goes like this for 10 hours, with a fresh cup of coffee on the hour.

9:00 am: Some work challenges arise. I go to Vons to clear my mind. I don't buy anything, but I take a short breather at the baggy shirts and Raiders jersey depot next door. I contemplate buying myself a black and silver terry cloth head band. I walk out empty handed and I regret not getting the head band.

1:00 pm: Lunch at Chaparral in Sylmar. Who the hell cares about Sylmar? Just last week, it almost burned down from the brush fires. It's a wonder the meth labs in the hills didn't all blow and send the land that time forgot back up Prometheus' asshole. The lunch buffet is decent. I go for the guacamole and the corn cake. That's all this place has to offer.

3:00 pm: Hit a wall at work. Take a five minute stretch break and another pint of MJB coffee with coffee mate.

4:30 pm: Leave work. It's hot in the Valley. I'm in a sealed, climate control capsule isolated from this jarring life with good dampers and hydraulics, double-laminated glass. If the world outside is inhospitable, I am serene and unscathed in my 3500 lb. steel chamber of silence.

5:30 Get home. Spank it on the internet. Return telephone calls. Phone call of note - Someone is getting married. How can I get out of being a groomsman?

7:30 pm: Marathon training run. On one hour's sleep, I plot my course and I go for it. I am inspired by a quote from General Patton in which he suggests the mind must rule the body. In this regime, tonight especially the mind is ruling with the finesse of a veteran benevolent dictator. I do it with no pain, no whining, just cruising through Faircrest Heights, Little Ethiopia and Carthay Circle.

8:30 pm: I find an old dried nugget of pot in my medicine cabinet, given to me by our neighbor for photographing her injured elbow some time last year. I smoke it. Go for a walk in my neighborhood with my eyes closed. I realize for the first time that a majority of the people in my neighborhood have backyard fountains.

9:30 pm: I envision a McDonald's ice cream cone during my walk. I arrive at McDonald's - Drive Thru only. I flip off the nothingness that closes dining rooms but keeps drive thrus open. I slink to 7-11, and a magic beacon proclaims

Ice Cream
Indian Food
Pizza

This is perfection and the invisible hand of God nudging me to think bigger. I get a tall soft serve and a slice of pepperoni. One of three kids orders a slice, but is short 40 cents. Maybe they are runaways I think. I judge them a bit and pay the 40 cents. Maybe they were just warming up to the idea of selling ass on the streets and my 40 cents bought them a good half hour 'til they have to earn five bucks the hard way.

I walk and eat. Ice cream is just what the doctor ordered, pizza is at the right state of badness in which the cheese is congealed and the sauce is cold in the center. Life is good and I'm in it.

10:30 pm: Day is done. 22 hours under my belt. The spider that woke me also brought me to one of my best days in L.A. If I hadn't killed that spider, I'd say thanks a lot fucker and good night.