LA BLOGitude

Burn, Baby, Burn

2009-09-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

As you all already know LA is surrounded by fires to the north. Fires sporadically starting in the more natural landscapes surrounding Los Angeles due to the long hot dry humping summer. The station fire, not to be confused with the deadly Station nightclub fire, just north of Los Angeles has escalated and engulfed a large part of the Angeles National Forest.

It's been a strange experience for me because, I routinely rode my bicycle up the narrow twisting roads in the Angeles Forest on my weekend bicycle rides. A few weeks ago I took two friends up there and they said it was an amazing and beautiful ride to do just outside of the city. Going into the mountains was one of my favorite things about living in Los Angeles and having the ability to be submerged in wilderness just an hour bike ride from my front door.

Now everywhere I rode has been burned. I can see the areas in my mind, smell the trees and sage, see the little lizards running around, check out the funky hippie cabins and church retreats, and now it's just all charred and destroyed. It's a part of nature and I know it needs to happen. It'll probably take until my kids are my age for the mountains to look the way I remember them again.

The fires have spread very close to civilization and many neighborhoods and communities are right on the edges of it. The fire fighters have been doing an amazing job and according to Mount Wilson's tower cam(or go here if the link doesn't work), they've even saved the observatory that is located at 5,700 feet and my favorite stop on my bike rides.

As the pictures below attest you can see that huge clouds of smoke have been hovering above LA for days. It has created an eerie color and hue to everything that is at one moment surreal and the next literally intoxicating as you realize it's all from fires, huge fires, fires big enough to create a pyrocumulus cloud that I previously had no knowledge of and are made when volcanoes, bombs, and huge fires occur.

In central Los Angeles we've smelled a little smoke and I found some ash on my motorcycle this morning since vigorous activity is strongly discouraged I haven't been riding my bike. It was also really humid this morning and the temperature has dropped to the low 90's and the fire fighters said it maybe coming under control. It'll be strange seeing the smoke disappear and reveal the charred mountains in a week or so. . .

From Space. . .

View from makout point. . .

Pyro. . .

Firefighters fight fire with fire. . .

This reminds me of the Neverending Story. . .

I rode down this rode this Spring. It's on the northside of the mountains. . .

View from LA. . .

View from Pasadena. . .

Survivor. . .

Hang it up! An LABlogitude Investigation: Part II

2009-07-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

If you’ve been reading the NYTimes and Slate.com recently you’ll know that you shouldn’t be talking on your cell phone while driving. The U.S. has withheld findings that talking on a cell phone while driving has very deadly consequences.

“Even with hands-free use, phones suck your brain out of the physical world, fatally distracting you from the road. Second, the effect is as bad as driving drunk. Hands-free phone use can impair driving skills more than intoxication does.” – William Saletan, Slate.com

So once again as a cyclist and motorcyclist who daily has to deal with meandering SUV’s and people intoxicated on their own conversations. . .

Hang it up LA! I thank you and so do all my loved ones. . .

I’ll be back with something more up beat about the garden soon. . .Have a safe and happy summer. ..

Links to the cell phone truth:

Cell phone zombie

LATimes from 2008

Mother Jones

NYtimes article on data withheld by US

Research study recently released

Cell phone use compared with drunk driving

Slate article today. . .

Pregnant Pause

2009-07-01T12:29:00.000-07:00

There is a place in Studio City that I heard about when I was twelve. Eye on LA did a spot on it, or maybe it was Huell Howser. This place makes great pizza, but it is famous for its salad that supposedly induces labor in expectant mothers.

I was the last to know I was gay, so when I was twelve, I just assumed that someday in high school, I'd take my overdue girlfriend, with some gloves and hot water to Caioti Pizza for "the Salad" and do it right there.

Plans changed.

I finally went last night with my overdue friend Crystal and her husband the Smoker. Not at all what I thought it was going to be.

My expectations after 20 plus years:
Big place that feels like a HUGE party is going on, feels a lot like Chevy's on meth. Wall of polaroids of women with big bellies, women with babies, women with twins, each marked with sharpies bearing the names, dates, poundage, etc. I also expected that each time someone ordered "the Salad" about eight or so wait staff would escort it to the pregnant patron, with sparklers and a catchy clapping jingle.

What is:
Tiny fucking place. Two servers, both as useful as armadillos with iphones. No babies, no polaroids. No fanfare, no sparklers.

Great Pizza. Great Roasted Beet Salad.

Here is the link:

http://www.maternitysalad.com/home.html

And you tell me if I was wrong to expect a trough of babies.

And one more thing, Crystal is still waiting.

*****

For your listening pleasure, ABBA.

Psst. Thank You.

2009-06-23T18:02:00.000-07:00

In addition to my full time job at the art factory with benefits, 401K and reserved parking, I am now officially a freelance automotive journalist for a range of auto websites. I can't tell you what sites, because they haven't made that clear to me at this time. You think I care? I'd write for Taliban Car and Driver.

I am aware that Ben posted an April Fool's day article suggesting that I'm moving on to greener, CO2 emitting pastures, and I have to admit, I was swept away in the fantasy.

Well, thank you Ben for articulating a dream I was too timid to name. It's a small thing. If you're interested, I'll let you know when my articles get published. I'll be writing primarily on the most mundane elements of car ownership, such as stick shifts and safety belts, in a tone reserved for the 7th grade audio-visual lab, circa 1972. Not complaining. Yet.

How it happened: Ethan sent me the post from craigslist, Matthew Kennedy nudged and coached me through the process. He reminded me to follow up after a week of no reply, even though I didn't want to. Then BAM! they sent me an application. I filled it out, I wrote an article on how to change your oil. In addition, I submitted the previous post as writing sample number 2. Twelve hours after I hit send, they sent me an email welcoming me to the company.

I am keeping my present art career as it is. I am also going to keep up the blogitude.

This job is not going to get me a new gate for the mansion, or even a fake rock to hide the key. The pay is measured in cheetos. As a car nut, I see this as a paid education and suddenly all the twists and turns of my life thus far seem to make a little more sense right now. The message I'm getting is, stay open, even if your heart can't seem to see past lunch. I have all of you, my friends to thank for it. Friendship is the free exchange of support and inspiration, and in this area, I am a wealthy man.

*****

For your listening pleasure, Cake.

Namaste, Asshole

2009-06-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, just to uncoil my Kundalini, I go to a converted warehouse on the west side, off of Bundy, behind the Roger Dunn Golf Shop. I meditate at Siddha Yoga.

You park on the roof and only on the roof. If you park elsewhere, you will loose your shaktipat when you walk out of the mother ship of bliss to find that your car has been towed. Apparently Siddha Yoga people can’t align their carbon burning vessels properly on the tarmac and have thus infuriated their neighbors.

I like this place because it’s commitment free. No contracts to sign, no service to perform, no need to go door to door, work the airport, or jangle your tambourine at the Farmer's Market - just a friendly come as you are vibe. Newcomers can go to the newcomer table for Q and A and the world’s most delicious cookies. This is not a superlative I’m tossing around like last season’s sari. If they wanted to, they could easily finance the entire operation from the sale of these cookies. Supposedly they are vegan, organic and blah blah, but I detect notes of bacon in them.

The cookies are the primary draw, and the meditation is a decent by product. I can chant Sanskrit phrases I don’t understand at home, but I’ll never make cookies this good.

When you walk in, what you are really doing is participating in HEAVEN: THE RAINBOW DRESS REHEARSAL. You won’t be greeted by some catty twenty something in an 80s potpourri of blindness and shoes bought on credit like at Fred Segal. Here, a wizened soul, in a waterfall of loving color and open toed sandals greets you with warmth and anticipation as if you are arriving from a harrowing, centuries-long journey. I give them the devil horns. They’re cool with anything.

I head straight to the back where the eats hole is situated. It’s vegan world back there, but last week they served an incredible pizza selection. It blew the regulars away, and me too. I was expecting chick peas and echinacea, but what we got were cornmeal pizzas from Krishna’s own wood fired oven.

This famous hair stylist is a regular pracitioner. I try to avoid him because his peace and love aura is a little smug for my taste, but he is a good friend of my friend, Heather, so I have to rap with him before the cosmic ho-down.

At five minutes ‘til pranayamathon, someone walks up and down the corridor ringing a bell to signify that the medi-jam is about to blow up and that we’d better empty out all of our holes, take off our shoes and get comfortable for the rock-tastic ride to the infinite.

We all shuffle in to the sanctuary in silence. The sitar is already blazing, along with the drums, the harmonium and the other chanters. The opening chant is in Sanskrit and projected clearly with translations. I go with it, and I sway with the rhythm even though I look and feel like a platinum club member, frequent flyer on the Magic Bus.

There is a brief announcement followed by a reading. This is the part where I tune out. I don’t much care for readings, particularly when delivered in breathy awareness, with eager anticipation of the spiritual punch line. Laughing within – one hand clapping like a mutha.

At some point in the parade of symbols, a lady, usually the white kind, wearing a sari, comes from the back with a plate full of candles to light another set of candles. It is not mandatory, but it seems to me that you must follow her with your gaze when she comes around, otherwise something terrible could happen to you. I do it because I’m not here to fuck with the program or to innovate, just saying yes to everything.

Then the lights dim and we begin the high-production value, hour-long chanting session followed by 30 minutes of meditation. The chant usually translates into Oh Guru, light my candle, or I want to know you – your basic stuff brought back to the 4/4 time world by George Harrison.

It’s the sitar and all the other instrumentation that really gets me. They start slowly and almost imperceptibly build up to this maddening hindu jazz Temple of Doom crescendo that makes me feel like a rhesus monkey hopped up on goof balls. It takes all my will power not to jitterbug. Many many times, tears have streamed down my face from the sheer elation generated within the room and I’m surprised more people are not moshing/levitating, but just lightly swaying like tranquilized palms in a breeze. I can’t help but be reminded of the time I saw Fugazi perform at the Watsonville Vets Hall. The force of the music was so pure and clear that I bawled standing on a bench next to Tara Jepsen. These Siddha Yoga guys should take it on the road.

They take you to this peak of whateverness, and then they gradually take you down down down to meditation city. I find the come down sad and the meditation boring. It’s thirty minutes of getting to the oneness, and last time, I spent most of it envisioning my next orgy.

I’m relieved when the wake up chime starts jingling and the lights gradually come up. Anyone is welcome to kiss the feet of the big statue. I get to the shoe rack before someone decides to go home in my leather dress shoes. Heather told me that once someone took her shoes. I guess meditation can also cause amnesia.

I don’t feel transformed, I don’t feel any more closer to the universe, and I certainly am not closer to liking the countless photos of the guru ecstatically meditating on a block of ice in the mountains. But I do feel that it’s worth it. One day, I’ll be whacked in the back of the head by Ganesh’s trunk, but for the time being, I’m going to look busy with the others.

No Reply

2009-06-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

May 31, 2009

Maravilla Foundation
5729 East Union Pacific
Commerce, CA 90023

RE: Site Inspection, May 31, 2009
My Apartment

To Whom It May Concern:

I’d like to apologize to the woman and two men who visited my apartment this afternoon to inspect the furnace and foundation. I was uncharacteristically unhelpful and rude to them. Please know that I was entirely unaware of the benevolent nature of their visit and mistook them for the representatives of the Freed Leeds Property Management, the underachievers who manage this building.

I received no prior warning from the managers and in fact was on my way out when the Maravilla Representatives arrived.

These are the reasons I became annoyed:

1. Not one individual from Maravilla made it clear what organization they represented.
2. Not one individual made clear to me the altruistic nature of their visit.
3. I was asked if I wanted a new furnace installed with ZERO background as to why I would need one.
4. Still not having clearly identified themselves, the woman then asked me if I could produce my utility bills and asked me to state my income to see if I qualify for low-income assistance.
5. When I pointed out that they could have called, one gentleman put the onus on me as the one responsible party for gleaning this information from Corinna Martinez the apartment manager.
6. Confused by this, I asked her if she was the new apartment manager, and she handed me her badge to inspect while she glanced at my DWP bill.

I did not fully realize the intent of the visit until I reviewed your website some hours later.

All in all I’d say this interaction was an example of abysmal communication and I’m willing to acknowledge my part. I hope you can understand that my vexation was borne from a feeling of being blindsided by strangers wanting details I was not prepared to share. From now on, I will be more cordial to any and all representatives of your organization.

Your people need to learn how to introduce themselves more formally by initiating each interaction in this way or similar:

“Hello, my name is _______, from the Maravilla Foundation, you may have received notification from your landlord that we were planning on stopping by…”

instead of:

“Helloooo. (knock knock knock) Hellloooo. We are from the building.”

On another note, I’d like to donate money to the foundation if possible. I have a broad giving portfolio and would like to include the Maravilla Foundation on my list. Your website indicates that you do work that I whole-heartedly support and I would love to assist by giving. If cash donations are not an option, please let me know how else I could contribute.

Again, please pass on my sincere apologies to the people who visited today. I’m truly sorry for my part in the misunderstanding.

Please feel free to call me if you have questions or concerns. My cell phone is (323) xxx-xxxx.

All the best,

Yirko

It Keeps You Running

2009-05-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

It seemed to me that my wincing, gasping and bleating didn’t matter to the woman killing me. It delighted and inspired my Thai massage therapist to dig deeper into my battered legs with her metal corkscrew hands. She seemed to take pleasure in finding each knot and boring into it as if she were eviscerating the evil mind control pods that had taken residence in my muscles.

“You have knot, here, here and here. Bery many,” she observed.

“Yeah, and they all hu-urrt. A lot.” I strained.

“Did you jogging today?” She asked.

“Sort of. I ran the Marathon.”

“Marathon? You run dit? How long the Marathon?

“26 miles.”

“Oh. Okeh,” and unimpressed, she pounded me even harder with her rolling pin fore arms as I struggled to keep my fleeting grip from letting my consciousness tumble down the cliff.

I imagined her inner dialogue to go something like this:

“Hmmph. Marathon only 26 miles. You prolly run only in shorts and t-shirt. In my country we have to run from airplanes shooting at us while holding two baby and carrying family goat on head. We do this until we get to other time zone and we no cry, we no get massage at end of day. We no have Gatorade station, no fresh cut banana, no cheerleader saying, ‘so proud of you. You keep running.’ We no meet fwends for dinner in Thai Town, we keep running until no more blood in body.”

And that might be the case for some Tamil Tigers or other displaced people in other parts of the world, but on Memorial Day in Los Angeles, I, and thousands of other runners participated in the annual Los Angeles Marathon, with perfect weather – cool and overcast, free of helicopter gunships, apocalyptic marauders and metal clad beasts of battle.

I never considered myself capable of running a marathon and thought that the only way these feet would ever cover 26 miles on their own power would be on a death march to the world’s largest 24 Hour Target Superstore.

My coworker Tammy Coleman challenged me last October when she stood at my desk, slammed down a training schedule and proclaimed, “You are running the marathon and you have 18 weeks to do so.” There must have been the perfect amount of LSD coming out of the AC vent above my desk because I accepted the challenge and immediately began training that night by running 3 painful and boring miles.

I diligently followed the schedule in spite of the changes to the race date and route, and my better judgment. It somehow didn’t matter to me because I had accepted the reality of the marathon in my mind and heart and I sincerely knew that in some future time and space, I had already completed it, and that I was simply allowing my present circumstances to catch up to this fact. Houston, we have nutty space ship talk.

******

The Rundown

Thursday, May 21. After months of training and mental preparation, I feel the onset of a cold and a sense of exhaustion, accompanied by cold sweats in the night. My friend Andrea gives me magic homeopathic grapefruit seed extract pills and we go out for steak and wine on Melrose.

Friday, May 22. Slept in until noon. I enjoy red wine, chocolate cake and almonds for breakfast in front of Family Guy. Sleep the day away.

Saturday, May 23. I hiccup a few tears as I pull into the Convention Center to pick up my bib at the Marathon Expo. I feel the weight of the moment bearing down on me. I check out booths in this wondrous, verklempt state and almost buy a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The marathon is about getting swept away in the current of enthusiasm and by this point I’m extremely prone to buying things that are designed to make any person look magnificently dorky. I examine this specialized mini fanny pack that comes only in patterns and colors suitable for casino carpeting. And all the emotion brings me teetering on the edge of buying a load of bullshit that I’ll regret after the race.

Ethan and I have dinner at Tendergreens in Culver City. Can’t stay long, chilled to the bone and eager to get back into bed. I take a detour via Grand Spa in Koreatown for hot tubs, steam rooms and sleeping on the hot clay floor.

Sunday, May 24. Sleep til noon. Buy new socks. Make my own fanny pack. Friends of Blogitude, Matthew Kennedy and Jen Tracy join Ethan and I for the Carbo Load at Souplantaion. I drive the course after dinner, go to Tammy Coleman’s house to pick up the cookies she and her beau William baked for me, I get a burger at Carl’s Jr. and go to bed.

Monday, May 25, 2009 – Day of Marathon

5:00 AM – Wake up and I think of the song Sister Golden Hair, by America that tells the story of a guy who wakes up, gets dressed up, stares down the barrel of his own future, and then bails out on his wedding. In the days leading up to the Marathon, so many people express their excitement and congratulations about THE BIG DAY, and I can’t help but feel that I may have mistakenly signed up for marriage. I want to go back to bed.

5:15 AM – Still getting dressed. It’s only shorts and a t-shirt, but there seem to be more things to attach, clip, pack, stuff and remember.

6:00 AM – Wake up Ethan, the most committed boyfriend I’ll ever know. After a few last minute pick-ups around the house, we depart. The Acura Bike Tour is already in full swing outside our house. Some people are riding in jeans and Chuck Taylors. Baffling. We play frogger to cross the street where the car is parked, outside the course.

6:35 AM – Arrive in downtown via Chinatown. Ethan gives me one final kiss good-bye as he drops me off at 5th and Grand. I follow the rivulets of people wearing the official Honda white running shirt to the starting line. Tears well up in my eyes and at the same time I imagine that we are all preparing to board the space ship, all called to assemble here and directed by some internal compass receiving directions from John Travolta’s star cruiser.

I arrive at the runner’s corral where they separate well-wishers from runners. I can’t believe that I’m among the “runners”. I think of ways to harness the electricity we are generating. I get choked up at the confluence of race, class, gender, age, sexuality and ability. I take comfort in the accepted lack of fashion sense. We all have ugly running shoes and fanny packs – there is no getting around these.

6:50 AM – Porta Potty Lines. I’m amazed at the natural order of western society. There are two long banks of porta potties, one on each side of 5th street and the people have formed orderly lines, in alternating directions, each governing a band of four porta potties, maintaining a minimum distance of 10 feet from the doors. In other countries, my guess is that people would be standing on top of the porta potties, pissing into the exhaust vents.

6:55 AM – Wheelchairs start. The bell rings and it further electrifies the air.

7:07 AM – Elite Women start. Anticipation builds as all the runners slowly push forward.

7:10 AM – Call from Alfredo Fajardo. Where are you?

7:15 AM – Unite with Alfredo and his friends Eric, John and Sean. The crowd is dense and giddy. Runners start to pack the starting zone.

7:25 AM – Start bell rings for full field run. I Love L.A. blares from loudspeakers and we are on the move. I cry some more. It all seems so surreal.

*****
This is a day of many surprises. I’m surprised at the number of kids under 10 who are running this, I’m surprised at all the different shapes of people I mostly see in passing cars talking on the Bluetooth, but I’m mostly surprised at how many, very many people are having full fledged conversations about their lives while running.

I look at this as the great cattle drive requiring training, dedication and focus, but others use this as catch up time. I guess it makes sense, it’s a lot of miles ahead.

Because I drove the course the night before, I’m thrilled to see it in the daytime, and I have good idea of what to expect. I’m astounded to realize that the most beautiful way to see this city is to run the marathon and I understand the desire completely. You see things you’ll never see in a car or bus. I have driven most of these roads and neighborhoods before, but never have I seen the buildings, signs, trashcans, bus stops, donut stores, used car lots, tailors, check cashing places with such crisp detail. And the entire time we were showered with love from strangers who, just the night before might kick my ass or try to scam me on craigslist, but today are eager to help each of us along on our journey.

Even those with hardened hearts would be humbled as I am by the experience of travelling through this city in this way.

It’s all so effortless really.

Mile 9 – IT Band Friction, left leg. The Iliotibial band is a set of tough fibers connecting all the muscles in your leg from the hip to da Butt to the knee. For me on this day, this means an inability to bend my left knee and an excruciating pain with each step.

Thank god I knew nothing about this syndrome on race day. Research on the intergoogle many days later suggest that if this ever happens, you must STOP RUNNING RIGHT AWAY and go home.

Mile 10 – Heather Huber and her dog Coco. Heather tells me it’s my IT Band and suggests some stretches. I feel like walking up Crenshaw and taking a cab home. She and Coco run with me for half a mile until we meet Lynn and Arnie Sperling on the course, holding a sign bearing my name.

South Central is perhaps my new favorite part of the city – it’s beautiful.

Mile 13 – Venice Boulevard. Back north of the 10 Freeway. People of all cultural backgrounds are out in full force. Jesus loving Koreans with signs proclaiming such dole out cut oranges and water. An association of Hindu families forms a gauntlet of water bearers. A youth organization stands in order of ascending height, with hands out for high-fives.

Mile 14 – Fairfax Avenue. My turf, my people, my street, my training ground. I just love every minute of it, even though I’m in hell and the four ibuprofen have zero effect on the pain that is ever worsening.

Mile 15 – La Cienega and Lynn and Arnie Sperling. A women’s group running ahead of me recognizes them from Crenshaw and turns to cheer me on.

I round the corner onto Pico and I see Tammy Coleman and her boyfriend William screaming loudly at me and for me.

A few blocks later I see Ethan and somehow Lynn and Arnie are with him. Ethan has arranged for a middle school cheer squad to greet with a very loud, very personalized cheer. They hi-five me as I crash to the ground. Ethan refills my nutrition packs, gives me a fresh bottle of water, new socks and sunglasses. A little boy standing over me, watches the whole transaction, intently observes me unfold my last packet of ibuprofen. I stop, look up and say hi. He is transfixed, smiles at me.

Ethan, Lynn and Arnie help me up and Ethan runs alongside me until mile 18.

He runs with me, pacing me, supporting me, giving me all that I need and more to take each step. I ask him to let me know if I’m about to run into anything or anyone as I’m running with my eyes closed.

This guy has officially broken all records for the model boyfriend.

Mile 18 – Fairfax Avenue. As Ethan and I approach Sixth Street I see a woman screaming hysterically, jumping frantically and pointing at me. I can’t focus my gaze, still intent on dragging my leg with me. It’s Rachel Drews and she is with a gang of people holding a large banner bearing my name in a style reminiscent of rabid football fans who paint their faces with accompanying signs reading John 3:16. In the blur, I recognize Jen Tracy, Matthew Kennedy, Jeanne, Jill, Fathia, and Sue and some small dogs. Rachel takes over for Ethan and runs with me until Mile 19.

Mile 20 – Hancock Park. Alfredo Fajardo and Eric Merz who were way ahead of me by Mile 10 come from behind. It’s a team reunion. We take a tiger balm break.
I see A at the corner of Rossmore and 6th, but the pain in my knee and now my hip interferes with my face recognition software. A joins me for one mile.

Mile 21 – Ben and Kate. To be joined on the route by Blogitude Staff is a sweet surprise and a welcome gift. Ben, Kate, A and I trot along for a while until A ducks out and catches the bus to downtown for the Finish. Ben is running in dark jeans, Kate also in street clothes, but slightly more athletic. I’ve come a long way, but the pain in my leg is worsening and my mind can’t shut it out.

Ben decides to stop running gets in the Prius to the finish, but Kate, swept up by marathon fever continues on, helping me to keep my running/walking pace by counting steps to keep me focused. This allows me to close my eyes and trudge forward.

Mile 23 – Koreatown. Olympic and Harvard. Kate is still running with me, cell phone in hand. I ask her if she’d ever consider running the marathon and her answer is a resounding YES. We enjoy the various bands playing along the route – the Guatemalans, the Taiko drummers, the hippies, the cover bands.

Lynn and Arnie appear again as if for the first time. Ridiculous. I’m shocked at their ability to scramble around town so swiftly. They must have access to a worm hole.

Kate separates after Mile 25, at Olympic and Flower.

Final Stretch - It’s a long final uphill stretch to the finish. My leg is just killing me and I’m crying from joy and pain. The spectators are densely gathered along both sides of Flower Street. The screaming causes me to bawl while I bear down and attempt to have some semblance of good form. I hear my name from the crowd. I later find out it’s Ben. I keep on and under my own power, under the power of the crowd, or perhaps some invisible tether from John Travolta in the space ship, I am carried to the finish line. By the time I cross the finish line, it seems so obvious at this point, I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Two paramedics greet me immediately and help me to realize that I’m too wobbly to stand on my own. They put me in a wheel chair and wheel me to the medal area. A woman puts a medal on me and several people whom I don’t know cheer raucously.

This is when it hits me and I clasp my hands together in gratitude and joy, completely speechless.

They want to keep me longer, but I convince the paramedics that I can walk and they let me out of the chair.

Post Finish Line. Ethan, Heather Huber, her dog Coco, her boyfriend Dan, Ben, Kate and A await in the friends and family area. Before I walk out to meet them, I waddle through the lovingly arranged relief stations for water and clif bars. I stop to recognize how infinitely wealthy I am, how I could not live this beautiful life without the support and love of family and friends. I stood humbled by the entire experience and in many ways – ways I cannot name, I have crossed a great divide. And there is nothing like the feeling of having friends there through the process and waiting on the other side.

*****

For your listening pleasure The Doobie Brothers.

The Garden of Earthish Delights

2009-05-21T12:53:00.000-07:00

It's spring in LA so Kate and I have started a garden. We have this really sweet porch that wraps around our apartment so we got some containers, soil, plants and started growing food. Lettuces, zucchini, peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, herbs, pumpkins, and more. I built this chicken coop sort of cage around the area of the garden to keep vermin out. I also set up a barrel to collect the gray water from our washing machine after we filter it through another barrel and I’ll go through that process when the drought hits this summer.

So our garden was off to a good start. Lots of things stretching out and growing in their pots and then one day I noticed something disturbing. It looked like something ate a few of our lettuces.

Kind of strange and I knew something got into the cage. Two nights later more lettuces were eaten and some cucumber leaves. Two nights later. All the cucumber leaves and some zucchini leaves. So we had a rat. It could squeeze right through the chicken wire holes so we were defenseless. We had the exterminator come and he confirmed this by noticing some droppings and left a few rat traps. Two nights later all the zucchini was eaten, all the pepper plants, and some of the pumpkin leaves. Now I was getting pissed. We’d put red pepper around the plants and that obviously did nothing except give the rat some flavor to go with our food. A war was on: man vs rat.

I’ve been a vegetarian for over 10 years and I hardly kill anything that I’m conscious of and I routinely try to save the lives of bees, spiders, and worms. But, this was totally different. This fucking rat was eating all our food. Food we’d bought and spent time procuring and if that rat thought he could walk all over us and eat our food because, we were passive vegetarians he was dead wrong.

I had to defend our garden and I felt this passion and stress to do so. I felt a hunter instinct well up inside me and I procured more weapons: rat traps, poison pellets, and sealing off entry into the garden. This didn’t work for the first few nights I assume because, by this point only the trees were left and I would cover the pumpkin every night and bring the other plants inside. All the empty pots became death traps for the rat. Poison pellets piled in the middle, traps along the edges, and every morning Kate would wake up and look out the window to see if we caught anything.

Then one morning I hear her scream a little and I just laid back and smiled. We’d done it. We’d killed the fucking rat. I saw that he’d eaten a last meal of peanut butter and buried him in the trash can outside. This did lead me to an interesting understanding of how I had to kill so that I could eat and I may have to do it again. This may sound ironic to most people and maybe I'm not entitled to call myself a vegetarian anymore but, I don't care. I observed a long time ago that the cycle of life involves life, growth, death, and decay and I understand my role in that process and I have a choice not to include meat in my diet so I don't. Hopefully I won't have to kill any more intruders and I'm making sure the cage is rat-proof so I don't have to.

So far all the plants are doing fine and making a comeback. We’ve got some squash sprouted and we’ll get some more plants this weekend to make up for our loses. I’ll report back later when the garden is back in action. . .In the pics below you can see some of the carnage. Things got worse after these pics were taken.

Little India

2009-05-12T22:19:00.000-07:00

The LA Blogitude miniseries “Enclaves” continues with its latest installment: Little India. Between my 7 mile run and a funeral-themed party at the local artist colony last Saturday, I headed out to Artesia with the crew to do a little trading of sweets, silks and spices. While a bit of a drive, it sure beat hopping a 20 hour flight.

First stop: Rajdhani vegetarian restaurant.

After braving a treacherous parking structure, we put our names in at the restaurant and gazed out across the piece of Middle Asia that had found its way to Pioneer Blvd.

Our table was ready and immediately after taking a seat we were told to “mind your legs!” as waitstaff moved our table four inches south. We had nice place settings, but they didn’t last. As soon as the table was moved we were told to “put your fork and napkin aside!”

We quickly obliged – and good thing, because the food was coming fast. Within minutes dishes were filled.

And it kept coming. Soon, we had more than we knew what to do with.

Waitstaff kept coming around to ask us if we wanted more. So we ate more.

Once they realized our tummies couldn’t hold much more, we received little bowls of water. The same woman who moved our table told us not to drink it because it was for washing out hands. Thanks mom!

And then we had dessert (left to right): dijonaise, mashed carrots and guacamole. No dummy, it’s actually lemon pudding, carrot pudding (gajar halwa) and green pudding (something halwa).

Next we were off to the clothing shops so Ben could find an outfit. But first we stopped into an appliance shop where everything had voltage numbers written in Sharpie on the box.

Back at dress shopping, I was mesmerized by the beauty of the fabrics and stayed out of the fray as Ben, Yirko and Kate charmed, finagled and haggled with various tailors. On shop 5, we found the one. A blue tunic with gold beads priced far below the others we’d seen and a much fit better fit too – but there’s always a catch and this time the sleeves were too small. There was a sewing machine on a stool in the back of the shop. Yirko suggested we ask if the sleeves could be extended with additional gold fabric.

“Hmmm,” the shopowner said looking thoughtful. “Fabric, threads, labor….that will cost more.”
“How much?” someone asked. We paused, afraid of the answer.
“15 dollars,” she said. It was a deal. Ben paid his deposit and we left happy.

What we really needed was a second dessert, so we went to Standard Sweet and Snack where we ate several forms of milk and sugar (burfi, peda, ladoo):

Before leaving, we sampled vegetarian pizza samosas and browsed a market where I saw cardamom in a bag, and Kate and Yirko went in on a $9 crate of mangos. Yirko also bought the tiniest can of Coke I’ve ever seen for his mom for Mother’s Day and I got a bar of cinnamon soap.

Next stop: Little Saigon.

Marty and Elayne

2009-05-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

Last night I checked in on an LA favorite: Marty and Elayne at the Dresden Room. Verdict: these two geriatric lounge lizards have still got it. Trading lead vocal duties, rotating Marty on drums and Elayne on keyboards, they also had a more youthful backup on stand-up bass and a few others who joined them to contribute saxophone and lead vocals on several songs.

In addition to songbook standards, handled with care by their guest vocalists, they also covered some more contemporary fare. Well, comparatively contemporary. Favorites of the set were Elayne’s restyled renditions of Piano Man and Stayin’ Alive, the latter of which wrapped up with a haunted mansion-style synthesizer solo. This old lady, with what can only be a surgically induced permagrin , rocked multiple sets of keys like a prog star, all while wearing a shiny black glittered butterfly sleeved dress. Then she played a little tap dance-y transition tune between songs. The music only stopped for her to sip from a silver thermos. God love ‘em.

The duo, a few years back

(photo courtesy their web site)

Magic Castle

2009-04-26T22:40:00.001-07:00

The members-only magic venue has appealed to me for years – and I finally got the chance to go this past Friday. Turns out a friend of mine knows a juggler who was performing there. Said juggler invited my friend and my friend invited me – so I was on the list. It was like getting into the Viper Room, but way better.

After stressing about wardrobe and deciding that it wasn’t the right season for velvet or seersucker and that tweed isn’t appropriate for evening, we dressed in our black-tie vintage finest and drove to the mansion on the hill. I never valet, but I made an exception this time.

Sorry there are no photos – but it’s because they’re not allowed. It was one of the first things the hostess told us. After a short orientation, we entered the club by saying “open sesame” to a plastic owl perched within a bookshelf.

Inside was dimly lit, with vintage geometric print carpets and posters and photos of magicians from various eras on every inch of wall. Drinks in hand, we headed into the first show in the Close-up Gallery. There, a young magician named Kevin Viner popped a balloon to reveal a bottle of wine and remedied an audience member’s Federal offense by mending a torn dollar. He had a busty audience member named Suzette inspect some quarters before he made them magically change places.

Next we were off to the W.C. Fields Bar, which we found with the help of a castle knight named Miss Mindy. She walked with a cane, courtesy of a drunk driver she told us, and its wooden handle had googly, glowing beads for eyes. We took a seat in the back to watch a sardonic witted magician named Erik Tait who had a way with cards and cups. But the woman sitting next to me wasn’t having it. She didn’t believe it was magic, which made me wonder why she’d come to this place at all.

We went to the last main show of the evening at 11. There, Matt Marcy had audience members picking socks out of a bin that miraculously matched the ones on his feet and let us listen in on a call to a magic trick tech support line. Next, Scot Nery cooked a pancake while juggling knives and contorting with a backpack. He also found that woman from the bar, the one who didn’t believe in magic, in the audience and put duct tape over her mouth. Then a French guy named Julien Dauphin turned bubbles to glass baubles and his assistant’s dress from black to white.

Waiting in line for the valet, I felt happy with amazement. I recalled how I’d tried this stuff at home as a kid. I’d covered an unsharpened pencil with black electrical tape and painted the ends with Papermate -- but for some reason, it never quite worked right. However, this place had real magic and I wanted a piece of it. And for $1 at the gift shop, I figured it was worth a try.

Horses

2009-04-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

These assholes pictured above met with five other assholes, not pictured, to see KC and the Sunshine Band play at Hollywood Park. KC, having gained wisdom and girth pointed out for those too young to remember having a UHF dial on their TV, that they were the N'SYNC of their time, and you can bet, he added, that one day Justin Timberlake will look like him. Having watched enough VH-1 Behind the Music, I'd say that that's a fair prediction. You'd be safe to throw in a pill addiction too.

KC was the draw, but we were there on official bidness. This is Hollywood Park. We came to make ourselves richer and do it in the company of unsupervised kids running amuck and career horse people for whom dollar beers and hot dogs is as good as any Craft Service in this stink town.

Hollywood Park is the perfect time capsule of an era when littering was cool and smoking counted as pranayama. With only about 25 minutes in between races, time flies and so does the money. Luckily Cash Call proudly sponsors the races. That's what all those flowers are supposed to spell out. Took me 3 hours to figure that one out. According to the billboard (not pictured) I have 5 Grand at my fingertips with just my signature. Yes, my hermanos, sign me up.

I got extremely lucky on the 5th race, both of my horses came in on two different bets. Had I been able to decipher the font as foliage by post time, I could have borrowed 5Gs and parlayed them into a butter-colored Cadillac for each of my friends.

Ethan bet on Mighty Heart because he loved the movie by the same name even though the odds weren't good. Looks like that horse got kidnapped during the race.

It was a rockin time. We each left with our dignity in tact and our pants on.

Photos courtesy Ben.

Shantytown

2009-04-26T08:10:00.000-07:00

This week saw the removal of a recently constructed landmark in my neighborhood: a place I’d begun to call the Fountain Street Shantytown.

It sprung up approximately 3 weeks ago, starting out looking like a camp. In a spot behind a mini mall that’s popular with the regular neighborhood homeless folk, there was a mattress, a couple palettes, a stool – just a pile of stuff really.

Within days it evolved into a much more distinct dwelling. That Saturday, I first saw the inhabitant, who had long stringy hair and always dressed in a long skirts and black felt sun hat, walking up and down in front of the camp. Her face was smeared with black-paint-smeared and she held a broom overhead. Although I was in my car, it startled me. She seemed to be marking her territory.

Walking home from work around 10 p.m. a couple days later, I saw her again. The night seemed uncharacteristically dark despite the nearly full moon. Dressed in a black lace blouse, she was seated at the stool in front of a table and was moving her arms and hands as if playing the piano. But there was no sound. From my place across the street, I stopped to check if I might be able to take a photo, but it was too dark. She turned her head slowly in my direction and raised her arm before wiggling stiff fingers to wave at me. Needless to say, I was a little creeped out.

The next morning, I was walking to work and saw her arranging the area, moving a palette propped up against the building and adjusting a painting balanced on a pipe.

That night when a sudden rainstorm caused a heavy downpour, I was relieved to see the mattress area covered in plastic as I was coming home after dinner. When I walked by the next morning, she was dancing. Over the next couple days, the area kept expanding, now with more stuff and places to sit – and soon others were there with her during the day.

And then the writing appeared on the sidewalk nearby.

The same afternoon the message showed up, I crossed paths with her on the corner. For the first time I saw her close enough to notice she had an Adam’s apple. The next day I saw her entertaining the others at the camp. She’d removed her hat and was wearing a pair of tiny white-framed sunglasses as she played a small, stringless guitar. A couple days later, she seemed to be painting something on a board. And I saw her with the silent guitar again.

This was becoming an anthropological fascination for me. I tweeted my observations and told stories to my friends. Amid the news of the Sacramento homeless camp and families struggling in the Central Valley, this seemed like my hipster neighborhood’s version of dealing with the ugliness of the economic downturn. But like all of these situations, it needed to be fixed.

On the walk home from a bar last weekend with my roommate, she confessed to having called the Department of Sanitation to report the site as one of illegal dumping. They’d scheduled cleanup for Thursday. While I was surprised at how close to me the camp's demise had originated, I knew this day had to come. But it came early. The Shantytown was gone by Tuesday.

Hang it up!: A public service message from LA BLOGitude

2009-04-17T14:30:00.000-07:00

California as well as a few other states, as you can see in the map below, have banned driving while on a cell phone (but, if it's hands-free you can still drive while technically on a cell phone.) They're trying to keep you from driving with one hand and all those 16 year olds and/or novice drivers need to watch out too. So I don’t even know if this law has any effect but, I hope it keeps at least one accident from happening which is enough in my book.

Unfortunately many Californians still drive and talk on their cell phones with one hand. Which isn’t surprising considering that stop signs mean go and the state motto is “Eureka” and translates to: “I was taking a bath and totally figured something out that has nothing to do with cleaning my genitals or maybe it does?” A very fitting motto for most Californians I know, myself included.

So how do people get away with breaking such a clandestine law? The popular thing to do is have your phone on speaker so that you can hold it in one hand close to the steering wheel so if you see a cop you can immediately hide it. The other thing to do is have your hand plastered to the side of your head and elbow propped up on the door so it looks like you’re bored and trying to keep from dozing off like you did in a 10th grade biology class. . .

Everyday on my commute I see drivers on cell phones. Mostly the one handers, failing to singal a turn, rolling a stop sign, and trying to parallel park. It really bums me out. It just shows that even with a law against something that is trying to make the world a tiny bit safer, people would rather do something in their own interest. It might have to do with the penalty for using a cell phone being $25-$50 bucks and NO points on your driving record. That’ll teach them. So the cops aren’t even going to waste their time to pull you over. And the police are a majority of the people I see on their cell phones.

I decided to discuss this today because, sure enough on my way to work while I was riding my bike down a residential back street a driver in a SUV rolled up to a stop sign didn’t stop completely and proceeded to pull in front of me because, I didn’t have a stop sign. He stopped. I rode in front of him very slowly because; I’d already skidded to a stop. Stared at him while he was staring straight ahead avoiding my gaze with a cell phone in hand. I gave him the “hang it up sign” which is making the universal hand signal for phone or surfing and then hanging it up. He wasn’t fazed and continued on his cell phone SUV green house gas emitting way.

So please my good bloggy citizens don’t talk on your cell phones while driving. Just wait until you're in line at Starbucks to yammer away. Don’t even get one of those Bluetooth things that people can’t seem to take off their ears when they’re not driving, you're not on Star Trek and you look like an anti social idiot.

Have a safe and lovely weekend. As usual it’s gonna be gorgeous in Los Angeles. ..

Oh l'amour

2009-04-10T10:50:00.000-07:00

While I was parked on the 405 yesterday because a bunch of yahoos piled into each other, my boyfriend interviewed Andy Bell of Erasure.

This is the video.

The only partially interesting thing that happened to me today, was on my my way home from Cedars Sinai, where my doctor practices, also where the stars go to die, I saw that General Lee has taken residence in Beverly Hills.

I saw the tell tale orange paint and 01 in my rear view mirror.

Swung around to experience a sighting much better than Sasquatch at the Ivy. Looks like them Duke boys finally made it big.

The End.

Late Night at LACMA

2009-04-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

So the party didn’t stop after the daytime Caddyshack Bocce Party in Roxbury Park in Beverly Hills hosted by Panama Yirko. As the sun set behind the sky scrapers in Century City everyone spun off to their respective homes to rest and relax until the after party. Kate never stirred after laying down for a disco nap so I rallied and electrified the Prius and headed out to pick up Yirko and Ethan.

Late Night at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art aka LACMA is an annual party that occurs after the museum has closed and gives you the opportunity to have a few drinks, rub up against some artwork, and then head over to Canters for a late night snack.

We pulled into the garage got a front row spot and made our way to ground level where the party was slowly reaching its climax. Rope stanchions, security guards, techo, German DJ’s, people spasming in the dance area, mood lighting, projected videos, puppet making, random people from the 1980’s who were cryogenetically frozen all greeted us. I flashed my secret service badge and we blew through security and into the hot pants of the event and hot pants we definitely saw.

So we wandered around the party for a while and then went to see some art. As we made our way to the Broad Contemporary Art Museum aka BCAM we saw this huge line in front. It was like the art museum had literally become The Viper Room circa 1989 and all the losers were waiting behind the velvet rope to be screened and admitted by Johnny Depp himself. Of course we thought this was ridiculous so we crashed to the front of the line and asked Johnny what was up. He said if we wanted to use the “stairs” we could just go in. What? All those people were in line for the giant elevator? Los Angelinos are so funny! They love their elevators.

So we made our way to the very serious exhibition Art of Two Germanys and comedy met tragedy as we wandered through the exhibition. We broke off into small talk about the art, Germany, and Nazis and then made our way to the shoes and gloves. This is a rather depressing work that is basically the display of lost and castoff shoes and gloves circa WWII. The shoes and gloves were found in an abandon railway station in the no-man’s land in Berlin after the Wall went up.

The fascinating thing is that this was the most guarded artwork I have ever seen. Since it’s displayed on the ground the chance of drunken yuppies from Brentwood stammering through the galleries and onto the artwork is at 100%. It was a sad sight to see as the security lashed out at the drunken follies of the clueless but, endearing to see them protecting the artwork so stoically. We watched as the security strictly enforced an invisible wall around the shoes and gloves and it was a humbling experience for all of us. At one point we debated leaving our own shoes behind in solidarity.

After Art of Two Germanys we spun through BCAM 3 which houses some of the Broad’s heavy hitters from their collection: Jeff Koon’s very dusty blue dog, Andy Warhol soup cans, and Rauschenberg combines. There is even a work by Barbara Kruger in the elevator that I’m sure nobody noticed called: Shafted. So after the art we gazed upon the magnificence lights of Park La Brea and descended the reverse running escalator back to the dwindling party.

Here are some pictures from the evening that I didn’t take. . .

This isn't us but, good standin's for us.

The party.

The cryogenetically frozen.

The hot pants.

The puppet show.

The line to the Viper Room.

Bored Germanic looking people.

The shoes and gloves.

A random photo I found on the company's website that documented Late Night.

Bocce

2009-04-04T23:58:00.000-07:00

Pillow fight in the morning, bocce in the afternoon. A was busy today. This woman is not A, this is Liesel.

In celebration of my birthday, Ethan organized a surprise Bocce Ball picnic at the Roxbury Park Bocce Ball courts. I love me some bocce and from these photos, you’ll instantly conclude that I love the caddy shack version.

Party of neerdowells on the green. Not usually allowed. Notice that balls are ready, but no one quite gives a fuck just yet.

Can dogs bocce? Abosultely. They provide an additional challenge by helping to chase away your opponent’s perfectly thrown ball. The park ranger had zero tolerance for this bit. We were sternly admonished for allowing this act of outright indecency as if we were midget racing on the green.

Kick our dogs out? That's cool, we'll get kids to take over.

Ben and Kate gave me gold and silver balls - the best kind.

Here are some people congratulating themselves on a) lack of form and b) lack of shame.

Ethan’s delicious home made birthday cupcakes. With the cupcakes, this party and his coordination of the beautifully crafted audio card edited by Evan Roberts starring Ethan and 49 of my dearest friends, he is without a doubt BF of the year. Maybe that’s one extra BJ in the morning this week.

The sun went down and we left no trace. Every bit of trash, every cheetoh that we smashed into the pavement, every bit of tom foolery was scrubbed from the place and we returned it to the domain of the somber professionals, a member of whom appeared on the court as we left. He was dressed all in white, his beautiful balls were in a wooden box, had his own piece of turf and the precision of a neurosurgeon. He was unfazed by our team, as we stumbled out with kitchen chairs, doritos, sun hats and left over burritos and hi fives all around.

Later in the evening, Ben came by in the Prius and took us to the LACMA Berlin Party. It was art and sausage. I hope he'll tell you about it.

Polaroids by David Stein.

World Pillow Fight Day

2009-04-04T23:56:00.001-07:00

Today LA Blogitude observed World Pillow Fight Day by participating in the Los Angeles event. Armed with a small green decorative pillow from Ikea, I joined an ally and boarded the Metro Red Line to Pershing Square. On the way I encountered a group of fellow fighters who were quite enthusiastic.

Coming out of the rail station, there were people with pillows everywhere. And they were all headed into the square.

There were pillows of all colors, shapes and sizes – even these ones, which leave little to the imagination.

My ally and I weren’t in the square but 3 minutes before the battle horn sounded. All mayhem ensued.

While battling, my line of sight was limited.

After several minutes, I became the single target of multiple individuals wielding fluffy weapons and my ally led us out in retreat. I snapped a few pictures in parting. In a strange twist of events, one of these photos features our friend over at Lascher@Large. In the chaos of the battlefield, his presence just feet away was unbeknownst to me.

Heading back to the train, the extent of the feathering became apparent. Hours and a change of clothes later, I’m still finding the downy stuff all around. I’m sure I will for several days.

Insomnitude

2009-04-04T04:46:00.000-07:00

Two nights in a row now I've woken up at 3 a.m. because of ghetto birds -- you know, those urban helicopters with spotlights -- and couldn't get back to sleep. I'm already prone to cutting out the sleep -- and this latest development isn't helping.

The sleep gods rarely visit me for more than 6 hours at a stretch. My friends Poodle and Tbean tell me that this is very bad, that I'm going to starve my brain. And Princesskatebl says I'll get sick. But this is a burden I've brought on myself. There's too many things to do, to keep up on, to think about. Like that nuisance of urban living that is STILL buzzing outside my window, I'm on a mission to cover a lot of ground, search for the elusive, shed light on new corners.

Am I complaining? Maybe. But it's 5 a.m. on a Saturday! Sleeping in is a luxury, one that I apparently can't afford.

No, We're NOT Outta Here

2009-04-02T06:20:00.000-07:00

Just a note to all - Blogitude is still going strong. The previous post is in celebration of the Annual American Day of Hoaxes. Please keep checking in with us.

In the meantime, I give you hostess cupcakes, courtesy of my friend Alfredo, in honor of my birthday today.

And this cake made by Brandon. German white chocolate with marzipan, blueberries, white chocolate ganache and sweet furry stuff.

And I give you a stern warning from Sid Davis and the Inglewood Police Department. You need 10 minutes for this one.

We're done and outta here!

2009-04-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

So as many of you reading know, a trifecta was formed to create the experience of LA BLOGitude. Each of us brought our own unique views to this blog and created a place to share in our experiences in the swirling toilet waters of the concrete and palm tree lined landscape of Los Angeles. Well the day has come for us to move on and literally move on. This is our last post and we hope to be back on the internet soon sharing accounts of our new adventures. We'll leave you with these parting thoughts and revelations that each of us has made and where we're heading off to.

Yirko:

Well my people I know this must have come to a shock to all of you. Trust me it wasn't easy for us to sit around that table and discuss our impending demise. I know I was a factor in this just like the other two and I knew my days were numbered when I received an email from the New York Times recently. A member of the editorial staff has been following LABLOGitude and noted that my posts gave a certain insight and off the cuffness that they needed for a Los Angeles focused reporter. So I got the fucking job! Enough of doing this shit for free. You got to log on to the www.nytimes.com from now on bitches! I still love you all and don't think it's not me writing: "Four Wheels: One City" I know they're going to edit the fuck out of me. .. I'll leave you with this. . .

Watch more Yahoo! Music videos on AOL Video

A:

I guess everyone has been wondering why I haven't been posting lately. It's because, I'm moving into a running commune. I found that jogging was my life force and recently everything has been taking me away from what it is I live for. The bus, work, my blackberry, and twitter. So I'm giving it all up and heading out to Joshua Tree maybe I'll see you on the trail or at the top of the mountain. Stay on the Bus! Love, A.

Ben:

I'm just sick of LA. That's just about it.. .I'm moving too. Really far. Kate and I have decided that we need to lend our talents to the new administration. We are heading to D.C. and Kate is going to work with the new Guantanamo Detainees Release Network and I'm going to be a 32 year old bike messenger. It's gonna be dope! I hope to blog again someday soon but, I'll have to sell my computer to pay for my plane ticket so who knows when that day will be.

With fondest memories from all of us at LABLOGitude to you. Keep flushing. ..

San Gabriel Redux

2009-03-28T18:08:00.000-07:00

Today was another glorious day of celebrating the slavery that is the San Gabriel Foot Massage. I picked A up in Silverlake and she showed me her favorite back street route to Ben and Kate's house, via Ben Lomond Place. On the way, we had a brief I'm-a-Porsche, You're-a-Porsche wing ding with the Dylan McKay Porsche.

We piled into the Prius and made a quick pit stop at Gelson's, where the civilized white people shop, so we wouldn't forget what they looked like after an afternoon of Asian immersion. A got stuck behind a white lady at the check stand who seemed to have never ever used a PIN pad.

We stopped in at SG Supermarket for a tiny dim summit. Ben and Kate picked up odds and ends, mainly jack fruit, oranges, potatoes. Must be making a pizza later. This is one of the menus.

And this is the line. The front of the line anyway. I couldn't get the whole line in frame. With as many people eager to get their dim sum rations, it's prison rules baby.

And this woman is the self assigned Judge Dredd and god bless her a million times plus infinity for her efforts. In her short tenure, she kept us all moving in the right direction. A middle aged woman and her older than redwoods mother walked up to the counter without any regard to the column of souls behind, and the Judge told her what time it was with a lot of back up from me. The lady and her mother did not want to comply with the Judge and I stepped up with a hitch hiker thumb to the rear - "Aaa aaa, the line starts back there, waayy back there." After that was cleared up, and our turns were up, the Judge shook her head at me, "who they think they are, I not kidding around, this the dim sum line."

And we got all of this delicious booty for 6 bucks American.

GPS guided Ben and Prius to Joyful Foot Spa on Las Tunas. It's a smaller operation than Lucky Foot Spa, and it could maybe benefit from a little sprucing up. As a matter of course, the big screen was on, tuned in to Power Rangers. To emphasize serenity, the sound was muted, in favor of Celine Dion and other Celine Dion like musak. The most wondrous elements were the handful of large Moving Waterfall Pictures on each wall. The steady, droning sound of the electric motors that drive the shimmering scrolls added much to my sense of inner peace. The stained white towels did not.

I immediately forget about all of these pesky details once the work commenced. I got an older man who, in a parallel universe is my track coach. The guy had hands like determined sausages. Go there and you'll know what I mean by this. This was an incredibly focused massage that easily relieved me of the bondage of self. As my feet soaked in the hot tea, he worked my back with his forearm, producing this crunching, squishing sound I'd never heard before. It was as if he was killing all the Jellyfish dwelling under my shirt. Thank you.

I think I might have gone into a hyper Alpha-Delta wave mode, or some kind of conscious coma. If an over boosted Power Ranger, say the green one, burst into the place through one of the walls, I would not have moved or cared. My companions felt similarly. At the end, I glanced over to A at my right enjoying a cup of water in a styrofoam cup as if she were sipping a lacquered bowl of Big Mama Takahashi's Life Giving Miso.

We oozed into the car and Ben drove us to Hawaii Super in search of cold food and hot food - something to satisfy each of our immediate and overwhelming food needs.

Here is the bulletin board outside with want ads. If I had to guess, I'd say that these are all for mandarin lessons or chinese cooking class. I took a few numbers that I'll call tomorrow.

This is the boba trailer parked directly in front of the main entrance.

And this is the Jade Van from which you can buy all things jade. Very handy.

Other than some fried cakes that Kate bought outside for 60 cents, the food we needed was not available. So back in the car, left on Valley Boulevard toward Monterey Park, Alhambra and boom - the strip mall mecca at the corner of New Avenue and Valley Boulevard. We agreed on Korean food - hot and cold food, meat and vegetarian options, in low lighting and quiet as a monastery. In this lowly lit space, with this incredible food, we allowed our comas to slowly fade.

Sylmar Electric

2009-03-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

These are my race stats indicating that of the four drivers on the course, I came in last place.

And this is my membership card to MB2 Raceway in Sylmar, CA, where I and my car-nut co-workers unwind, after a long work week of begging and cajoling others to no real, satisfying end. It's all electric, break-neck acceleration go-karts that seems like cute little fun childrens toys at first glance, but will turn any mild tempered human into a panting, grunting, sweaty, adrenaline-drunk gorilla – My Aunt Belen at the swap meet.

I get schooled each time by my co-workers, never failing to be bottom of the heap. And each time the race is over, my limbs are too rubbery for me to get out of the Kart without the help of a track nurse. He's usually not pretty or hot, just some under earner teen who loves the smell of Pep Boys. My throat is usually parched and I'm ready to throw up from the adrenaline overload. Today was no different.

The place is nestled in a business park, amidst companies that make roller bearings and electronic components. You'd think by the sign that it was a performance parts distributor specializing in lift kits for your favorite jacked up 4 x 4 application. You wouldn't give this place a second look and there are no signs enticing you to spend the afternoon crouched knees to elbows, in a go-kart dragging your low hangers around the glossy concrete.

The inside smells of rubber and solvent and man grime, but the place is clean. Track is indoor, and your stats are beamed onto the wall for everyone to see. This operation has nothing to do with a bunch of Carney Folk who like to boogie down on the vomit comet or sell you styrofoam gliders and funnel cake. This is a hi-tech operation from top to bottom.

The Karts are a multi-stage electric deal, controlled by radio to regulate track speed. Each active kart constantly sends its stats back to a server that then displays each drivers performance as they jack around the smooth track. You are required to wear recycled head socks sprayed with febreeze and a regulation helmet with neck brace, AND, of course, you sign away all rights to sue. The hard cores, like Kuhner, my co-worker bring their own helmets and gloves.

These fuckers go fast. I actually popped my neck in turn three – the widowmaker. I end up driving sideways a lot, which I enjoy, but as all the vets point out, “You're scrubbing speed when you do that. You want your drive wheels to be behind you at all times.” Noted.

14 laps go by in less than 7 minutes, at a cost of only $12.00. The electric screeeem, the well planted stance, the ridiculous handling – this is the way driving should be done. It's nearly impossible for me to get back into my car without scoffing at my own ride, as in, “Really Yirko, you really think you can drive home in that box spring?”

I don't like being last all the time, so I might save my lunch money and practice in secret, watching closely, the skillful ways of this hot shot regular, some racer named Hot Cow.

They say that Angelenos are natural treasure hunters in a vast dirt heap – this is true. MB2 Raceway is a gleaming, screaming treasure awaiting you in the Los Angeles foothills.

Northridge

2009-03-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

Why do we love LA? Because there's all kinds of people here waving the flags of all nations and we're not crammed together in God's cake hole. Case in point: Northridge. It's a little community in the North Valley, the last stop on the 118 west before you get to the heart of White Flight - Simi Valley.

Northridge is the Korean version of White Flight. It's where some Koreans go who are tired of Koreatown and just want a little more space and a lot less Bus.

Galleria Market on the corner of Reseda and Nordhoff provides the Korean in all of us a double wide selection of Kimchi and all things Korea.

Like all places, this one's got a few simple rules. Make absolutely sure that you leave your Ice Bar at home.

They say you should never do groceries on an empty stomach and I didn't want to go home with ten giant clams, so I sat my ass down at the Food Court for a plate of fried rice and chicken hoo-haah with what seemed like an endless array of sides for $6.99.

Got lost in the Noodle Aisle. Eventually I worked my way out of it and got back to the bidness at hand - Korean Barbecue. I piled the marinated, candied beef into the cart, along with korean potato salad, garlic bean sprouts, marinated kale, fish cakes, tiny anchovies, chili tofu steaks, a case of yakult, AND organic f'n milk. Who knew.

Don't worry, it's a chain, they also got one in the 213, in the heart of K-town for those who like the bus.

Tacos Sinaloa

2009-03-23T21:06:00.000-07:00

This taco trailer - Tacos Sinaloa, I went here today. I was the only customer waiting, and I ordered three tacos and a side of rice and they gave me three tacos and a side of rice - 15 minutes later. There were three adults and one toddler inside the trailer and it's not clear to me how the kid contributed to the production line. This is an operation that is best described as HI-LO - High Involvement, Low Output. Ideally, you'd want your thing, whatever it is to be HI-HO or LI-HO. HI-LO means your searing your gonads with all kinds of body movement, but you're making only one shiny peanut.

I go here for two reasons - the other truck, El Gordo, the one that parks a few yards ahead of this trailer is not always around, and their food is good. Really good. The tortillas are hand made and the meat is worth punching an old man over. I'd never do it, but I'd understand if it happened to someone else. Also, the people are lovely. And let me just say this, they are not slow, they just have this miraculous way of making time vanish, but not your money. The cost of my plate today - $3.75.

San Gabriel

2009-03-21T23:27:00.000-07:00

I picked up A today at her house and we had brunch at LA Mill Co on Silverlake Boulevard, in the part of town A refers to as Grown Up Silverlake - as opposed to dirty, beareded, skinny guys, girls with DIY bangs, under earner, biodiesel, Silverlake over on Sunset.

Their dish ware is gorgeous. I ordered the Onyx Black Coffee. A ordered Organic Brazil, which she called complex, I thought it was more like old sweat socks in coffee flavored lemonade.

We drove to San Gabriel to get 1 hour foot massages for $15.00 at Lucky Foot SPA. Next door (not pictured) we got $2 dollar blow jobs at Lucky Cock Hole.

The Wall of Rules clearly posted.

The waiting area. Looks as though someone's been paying close attention to HGTV.

You sit in a large hybrid barcalounger/massage table. They sat me next to A, positioned dead center in front of the big screen, displaying a DVD of insects hard at work, set to synthesizer versions of classical hits like Ravel's Bolero. You'd be a caucasian fool to expect a serene massage set to pan flute and rain stick sounds. My massage was delivered by a woman with pipe wrenches for hands. Lot's of torque and a penchant for giggling whenever I winced.

As my feet soaked in a bucket of hot tea, she began by pretending to rip off my ear lobes, followed by a massage of my ear canal. Then she scratched my scalp which immediately made me pur and think how grateful I was that I got up early this morning to get myself a new thing of Head and Shoulders - otherwise I would have given her a pillow coated in parmesan cheese. She knocked on my head a few times, treated my shoulders like a pile of dough she was pissed at - really pissed at. The foot massage almost shooed my soul out of my body. It was so intense in some spots that I had to watch the insects on screen to give me other things to focus on. She adjusted the barcalounger to its flattest setting, to reveal a face hole in the head rest. She had me turn over to work my back with what seemed like a rolling of Mag Lites and pummeling by frozen cornish game hens. She answered her phone a few times throughout - very chatty woman. Had a lot to say about a lot. And when it was over, I was a bit sad, but my ankles, which had been sore from running were magically healed, and similar to the lame man in the Jesus hype stories, I could walk unaided by small, unpaid asian children.

We did not have our brains checked next door.

Instead we spaced our way to this diner. We ordered silken tofu cold sweet ginger soup, crullers wrapped in onion cake, a mushroom and pork dumpling, chicken and scrambled egg congi. It was a decent recovery meal and it allowed my soul ample time to walk away from the light and re-enter my body.

We went to SG Super - a combination grocery store, fish market, indoor swap meet, hello kitty outlet, hardware store, chinese herb mart, deli, DVD store and gucci boutique. I watched A buy a lifetime supply of bulk pickled fruits. Typical asian mega mart - there was no way to avoid the smell of dried iguanas and salted sea horse. A also bought red bean mochi in a four pack, I got an avocado smoothie with some flan on the side. We didn't have any patience for the dim sum line that looked more like a swamped red cross relief station and for good reason, all the posted prices for dim sum were 99 cents.

Some careful digging brought us to a good place to buy tiny balls. It's about fucking time.

And now that we're a little bit smarter in the ways of San Gabriel, we are going back next week with a tighter game plan.

No Title

2009-03-12T05:40:00.000-07:00

LA Radio – it’s a rusted out glory hole that I keep sticking my wang into, hoping each time will feel like the first. I’m stupid, I know.

Satellite radio saved me from needlessly mincing my member on the jagged old hole by providing me all the commercial free, formulaic, radio stations that cater to every mainstream niche I could possibly desire. The subscription came with my car, but recently it ran out, and I didn’t plan ahead and now I'm back cozying up to the old hole.

Satellite service was cancelled in mid stream, which forced me to switch back over to terrestrial radio (not a good retronym, if you ask me), now even less appealing with the demise of INDIE 103.1. INDIE was a good station for a number of reasons, most of which I'm not interested in sharing, you'll have to look it up on wikipedia yourself. I was lucky that A told me about it in January, while cruising in her car, but my own disbelief had me tune her radio to El Gato 103.1. Huge bummer. Others were not so lucky.

My friend Annie recently left me an irate phone message when she made the startling discovery by herself. No one was there to comfort her amidst the Banda and the Norteno when she expected the Sex Pistols. So sad.

We lost FEDCO in 1999. FEDCO, for you chain loving assholes was a department store chain with a twist. It was a co-op, they were union, it was a one-stop shop in which you could buy Hanes T-Shirts, gourmet foods, cakes and pies, nice electronics and a new pair of glass eyes for cheaper than dead grass. $10 bought you a lifetime membership and keys to your wildest dreams, long before Oprah invented the notion. Pressure from Costco, Target and Wal Mart eventually brought it to its knees in chapter 11 bankruptcy . Target bought most of the FEDCO stores. Nothing can replace FEDCO, but I roll with the new mode anyway, groovin on the sexy Target ads, but inside I know I'm fooling myself.

LA Radio also has a new station you can groove to, in all the same fluffy style as shopping at Target for your Mossimo toilet paper. It's AMP 97.1. All hits all the time, 10,000 songs in a row without commercials. The catch - they only have 11 different songs and if you've been to Supercuts, you've already heard them.

I love it. Annie LOVES it – left me a very enthusiastic voice mail on Tuesday night.

It seems that someone went ahead and lined the old hole with crushed velvet for the time being. Thanks for that.

INDIE 103.1 is on the internet now. And they have an iPhone app you can download. And maybe, I might just take that cash-ola I've been saving in a drawer and get me an iPhone. Maybe satellite is so last week. As with anything else, I have to roll with the new mode, otherwise, I'm that dipshit who thinks the internet is a place.

Where the Streets Have Names

2009-02-26T13:36:00.000-08:00

We all know that Los Angeles is known for its car culture and expressways but, today I was really thinking about what the streets of LA show me. The streets give us a moment to interact with other Angelinos either it being stand still bumper to bumper traffic in front of us, crotch rubbing on the bus behind us, or a lifted pick-up truck racing beside us down 6th St. We all have our own experiences on these streets and sometimes they're good, sometimes bad, and most of the time whatever.

The streets literally bring us together from different parts of the city. They work into our lives, changing minute by minute and being useful during one part of the day and completely annoying at another moment. Taco trucks line up on them and the street becomes a parking lot for a mobile restaurant. I use them to ride my bicycle for hours and I actually love roads when they lack cars and are freshly asphalted. Other times I dread the road like it is on Virgil by Beverly right now, totally stripped, rutted, and piled up with asphalt debris but, still being used.

We all have our own ways of interacting out there. Lately I've noticed that traffic has been lighter. I don't know if this is because, a) more people are car pooling and using alternative transportation or b) less people have jobs to go to. I think it's the later. Times are getting strange. I think we all sense that and from the streets you can gather a lot. You can drive through downtown LA south of Los Angeles St. and see the homeless. Not just cracked out drug addicts but, entire families strolling along and finding a place to rest. These streets show us what's going on. We all live our lives under different roofs and we all come together on those expressways, pot holed stretches of Wilshire, and in our neighborhoods lined with broken toilets.

With a nod to Yirko I now leave you with the Pet Shop Boys, enjoy.

Got Flush?

2009-02-24T22:12:00.000-08:00

That's right. And how convenient!

Wish You Were Here

2009-02-19T12:45:00.001-08:00

Many communities within Los Angeles and vicinity bear fancy names in an attempt to hide the fact that they are just sun baked baskets, one turd away from unregulated turd overflow.

Some examples are:
Bell Gardens
Santa Fe Springs
Shadow Hills
Montclair
Baldwin Park
Fountain Valley
Garden Grove
Disneyland
Adams Square
Avocado Heights
Pepper Corner
Pico Rivera
Huntington Park
Sun Valley

Go there and you'll see.

I went to Sun Valley today in the work pick up. It's in the Valley, and they get Sun, so they're not lying, but the name seems to indicate a life of leisure under custom fitted sun glasses, drinks on the lanai and long lazy days gossiping with your bridge club. But no, this is an inferno of genetic corruption.

I would not eat here, shit here, piss here, fill my gas tanks here. The Spirit of Sun Valley would alter my DNA on contact and I'd never make it to neighboring Burbank with both of my eyes still in my head.

We needed large rolls of a specific type of cardboard immediately, so I located a cardboard and box distributor in Sun Valley. Each time I visit a vendor, I become infinitely grateful for the work-N-jerk shack that has graciously employed me for all these years. I would hate to work at THE BOX DISTRIBUTORS. I gathered that they don't make anything, they just move around pallets of all types of packaging solutions.

The pick up was relatively smooth. They loaded the truck, I signed papers. Not enough time to count the shipping and receiving guy's 7 or 9 good teeth. I then went into the wood paneled front office to speak briefly with my sales person, Ronna about possible future orders. I had to wait in the folding chair with tweed pattern cloth padding for a minute or so.

In that minute I space/time traveled. I had a flash of some Kafka-esque existence in which I awake one day at the same time as I do every day - 5:30 am. Do my same routine of writing, coffee, music appreciation, get in car, start car, listen to radio, drive on freeway alone in my car. Only this time, I don't notice that I'm driving on the 170 North to the I-5 North, exit right on Osborne Street, right Laurel Canyon, Left Branford and I pull into a spot with no name or number, just some trash that drifted in from the year before.

I'm in inside sales and apparently I've been working here for 4 years. Now Marty wants to speak with me about my outfits and my last months numbers. How come my clothes are so fitted, is it because I haven't been closing as many sales as I should?

Ronna greets me, breaks the spell and asks me if I have a minute to look at something, "you guys make art don't you, I want to show you this, you'll love this, it's modern art. My dad made it." I didn't know that Rauschenberg had a daughter in the packaging technologies industry.

She showed it to me. I faked like I looked at it. I said something like,"Is that stucco?" I couldn't describe it to you in much the same way I couldn't adequately describe seeing Sasquatch in an Oscar de la Renta Backward Suit. I got chills as I tightened my sphincter to keep from shitting my pants.

Sun Valley - one turd away.

22 Hours, Part...wait, I forgot...

2009-02-18T23:41:00.000-08:00

I feel like I owe all of the school-aged children out there reading Blogitude an apology. You see, I've been a poor role model. Despite all of the great bus rides, coffee shops, conference calls, happy hours, free tickets, yoga classes and doctor costumes, staying up all night and bouncing out of bed pre-dawn is not a good idea. Just say "no."

Take Me Down to Panorama City

2009-02-13T14:39:00.000-08:00

Woke up at noon today. The above represents what's left of my breakfast. Raining. Love the sound of it - especially of tires rolling over water and back spraying into wheel wells.

I took the long way home last night via what is possibly the ugliest part of Los Angeles. Hard to say that about any one spot here since L.A. is 9 parts ugly, 1 part lucky. Most days I try not to look up at the beige colored sky. But that's beside the point, the point of this entry is about Panorama City.

Name sounds great, but the place is on open sewer, and I found out something interesting about it - Not only does it boast the area's most depressing Wal Mart, it's also a HIVE of filipino living and commerce. I had no idea. There's also Kaiser there in case you need the DMV of health care.

Here is the Google Map

http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&rls=en-us&q=panorama%20city&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wl

I spent some time at Island Pacific Supermarket. Typical of asian mega supermarkets, small restaurants flank you on both sides as you enter all of which are vehemently CASH ONLY. And I fell right into their racket. I used the ATM/exorbitant-surcharge-fleecing-machine that is propped up inside every business that deals in cash only. I ate at Goldilocks against my better judgement. I think I am the only Filipino that understands Goldilocks as the answer to this question: What would the world look like if Louis Pasteur hadn't studied germ theory?

I ate my food begrudgingly while watching Wowowee on the big screen. Wowowee is the excruciatingly embarrassing variety show of bad boundaries which could be best described as the Price is Right meets Letterman meets Barbara Walters meets Let's Make a Deal meets Solid Gold meets Who Wants to Win 10 Dollars meets Who Wants to Be Humiliated on TV. It's always what's on TV at my mom's house and it's incredibly fascinating.

This segment was a contest round featuring a college aged girl. Before every contest, Willie the host fillets each contestant to reveal very intimate details about themselves on live TV. Tonight I learned that the contestant was the illegitimate spawn of her mother and the mother's Arab employer's brother. You following?

It doesn't matter. Willie got the kid to cry on TV and also call out to her father that he visit her just to say hello. The audience members couldn't keep the tears back and then just as things were tumbling down towards the king of all blow jobs - time to play speed round.

Amazing what you can find when you take the Roscoe Exit.

mmm mmm good

2009-02-12T23:37:00.000-08:00

Hello out there, it's a little bit before midnight on Thursday and I had a few things to report on that I will table for now. About an hour ago, I treated myself to a the company of my newest friend, Xanax and I'm surprised at how the world seems slightly more delicious to me and I can't seem to remember why I was so pissed off earlier about a friend of mine with whom I've been working a project. Seems like ages ago - when I was young, dumb and too punk rock for my own good. Don't worry, I got it from my real doctor at Cedars Sinai using my HMO - no pharmacy runs to TJ here, just CVS on Fairfax.

My stereo is off, there is no audible music to speak of, but I find my body swaying happily to what seems to me the sounds of steel drums and crashing waves. I guess this is what it feels like to grow up in Jamaica. Why didn't I find out about this sooner?

Anyhoo, Good Night.

*****

For your listening pleasure, Yellowman at Sunsplash 82. Hope you can dig it as much as I do. You think I'm kidding?

Kogi Mania Continues

2009-02-11T06:16:00.000-08:00

You ever wear Britannia Jeans? I did. Can you find them now? Prolly not. The commercials would go something like this, "My home is in Pacoima, but I live in Britannia."

In our present Los Angeles Space/Time, the tag line might be, "My rent is overpriced, but I live off the Kogi Truck."

Check this LA Times Story re the Kogi truck.

http://www.latimes.com/theguide/la-fo-kogi11-2009feb11,0,913818.story

Brilliant or Britannia?

*****

For your free-associative pleasure, my favorite Sergio Commercial

Warm and Kogi

2009-02-09T06:14:00.000-08:00

Friend of Blogitude, Ethan and I were cruising home Saturuday night from the east side after 1) a fund raiser in La Canada for a pre-school dominated by well heeled parents; 2) a visit to our possible future home at the Brewery and 3) a quintessential Bo-Bo party in Mt. Washington complete with live Afro-Cuban music; when we saw the Kogi truck on the westbound 10. We followed it.

The thing was greeted in Venice by two separate semi mobs of eager taco eaters, plus a camera crew.

On Friday night, when Blogitude Staff and Ethan met it in the freezing Silver Lake rain, the Health Department also greeted the operation, forcing an hour long delay. The public servants, concerned that I not get the runs took their sweet time measuring temps and inspecting all the bulgogi and kimchi that awaited us.

The wait didn't entirely suck as I was amidst Blogitude and Ethan. It helped that McDonald's was nearby to tide us over until the Man completed his health inspection.

Was it worth it? Yes. You wanna know why? A insisted that of our order of 30 tacos, we also get 3 burritos. I hate burritos and I'm glad that A pushed for the little fuckers. They are the best thing this truck offers and I am now a Jersey Fist Pumping Fan of the Korean Burrito. Thank you Kogi Truck for helping me to grow.

New Crazies on the Block: UPDATE

2009-02-06T12:52:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately I don't know if the police have caught anyone or not but, here's an article with a little more journalistic integrity. . .Silver Lake robberies.

New Crazies On The Block

2009-02-04T10:49:00.000-08:00

It looks like a string of violent robbery attacks have been happening in Silver Lake. Coblogger A and I both live within the vicinity of these attacks and I’m not really worried or scared because, it sounds like these hoodlums are gonna get caught and they’d be really fucking stupid and crazy to go up against the Silver Lake vigilante task force that I’m sure is now on patrol. This link takes you to a report of the attacks and an interview with a guy who was beaten two blocks from my house.

Silver Lake by the way is an umber-hipster neighborhood of Los Angeles and it’s kinda like Williamsburg and the Upper Eastside had a three way with a Philadelphia suburb and spawned Silver Lake. There’s actually a lake, a super stinky dog park, coffee shops, Trader Joes, Spaceland, and hipster families with strollers.

I didn’t know about these attacks until a few minutes ago and I did notice a few more cops than usual cruising around the TJs the other day. I'm sure the neighborhood is upset and everyone’s been talking about it but, since I’m usually on my bicycle or hiding out in my hot tub I didn’t know anything about it. My neighbors haven’t even been talking about. So I was wondering how this could have been happening under my nose for weeks and somebody just randomly emailed me about it?

It made me think about that thing that happened in Queens a long time ago when a woman was beaten and robbed in the middle of a housing project and nobody called the cops because, everyone assumed someone else would call the cops. I wonder if the internet is doing the same thing. Maybe everyone assumed everyone else knew what was up so word didn’t spread via the internet. And since we mainly use the internet to communicate and gossip we don't have those chances to meet up on the street corner and talk about this and that. Sometimes I feel like I’m on my own private little planet that’s revolving around a sun that glows at my fingertips. I can just be myself all day and still be connected to so many people. But, maybe this whole email, blog, twitter, whatever stuff isn’t really connecting us at all but, pushing us away from each other. The gravitation of ourlives does bring us together and sure we do connect via emails and evites and stuff but, maybe we are missing something these days. LABlogitude feels like a corner to gossip on but, it still takes a lot of time and energy for me to get over here sometimes. I wish I had a corner to gossip on like they did in Edward Scissorhands.

On a lighter side and still in true blog form, Yirko and I are gonna check out this Korean BBQ and Tofu Taco truck from the future coincidently in Silver Lake on Friday. . . We’ll see you on the corner shortly. ..

Collision

2009-01-28T18:26:00.000-08:00

I had to wrestle my way onto the freeway this morning only to find myself parked on the 10 with every other asshole trying to inch their way to the west side. I found out on the radio that someone heading the wrong direction on the freeway collided with another car at a high speed, head on. Both drivers were killed. All eastbound lanes and two west bound lanes were closed for much of the day.

Here is the story as reported by the L.A. Times

22 Hours, Part V

2009-01-25T10:10:00.001-08:00

5 30 a.m. Hit snooze.
6 17 a.m. Run out of my apartment with everything I need for the day.
6 19 a.m. Turn back because I decided I want to wear a different pair of shoes.
6 26 a.m. Run to catch rapid bus pulling up to the stop.
7 08 a.m. Step off bus on the Westside.
7 14 a.m. Verify with barista that she makes my coffee a double.
7 30 a.m. Begin mandatory harassment training module. Interrupted by a call from my friend who tells me annoying stories about her colleague.
10 02 a.m. Lead call with client and subcontractor.
12 49 p.m. Eat brussel sprouts and tofu at my desk while drafting an email.
3 p.m. Meeting.
4 p.m. Conference call.
5 13 p.m. Dash out of my office and head down to Wilshire to catch the 720 bus.
5 25 p.m. Ask a woman at the stop about the 920 express bus that’s passing by and she uses all the English she knows to tell me she doesn't speak English. I repeat my question in Spanish and we look at the maps together.
5 56 p.m. Step off at Wilshire and La Brea and head up to a private party on the 6th floor of a nearby office building.
7 p.m. Discuss horseback riding with two other partygoers.
8 17 p.m. Catch a 20 bus at the stop where I arrived earlier.
8 38 p.m. See an apple core near the back door of the bus.

8 41 Disembark from bus at 6th and Hope and walk southwest.
8 54 p.m. Enter Figueroa Hotel bar and bouncer tells me I look much younger than what my ID says. I take this with a grain of salt.
9 07 p.m. Sit next to a chatty man at the bar and buy a glass of Australian red wine on his recommendation.
9 27 p.m. The person I’m supposed to meet shows up and conversation ensues.
12:37 a.m. I realize that I’ve missed the last train and look up bus schedules on my phone.
1 01 a.m. Stop for an early breakfast at The Pantry. I’m sitting where I can see the grill through a window and the cooks are just feet away from me.
2 24 a.m. Catch a 20 bus and ride it just a short way.
2 51 a.m. Catch a 4 bus. Driver says it’s not in service. I’m confused but realize she’s referring to the fare machine. There are two women sleeping in a seat near the back door.
3 08 a.m. Disembark at Sanborn and notice that 4100 Bar is closed and quiet.
3 40 a.m. Change into pajamas and stretch.
3 47 a.m. Lights out. Consider how far I will run the next day before falling asleep quickly.

Friday with a slight chance of Saturday

2009-01-23T10:18:00.000-08:00

It's Friday fucking finally!

Anyways, enough about what day of the week it is.

We have a new president and today during one of my rare odysseys in my vehicle I was listening to NPR and heard "President Obama" and then heard President Obama say something.

It was almost surreal. I'm so use to cringing when I hear "President dot. .dot. . .dot. . " and then that voice that just grinds at your soul like knee caps scraping on rough concrete.

So it feels good to have Obama as our President. Pepsi knows it, Ashton knows it, we all know it. What a great day to drink coffee all day. . .

Terror on the Highways

2009-01-22T06:44:00.000-08:00

See this garbage on my windshield? Most people call that rain. Around here, we call it armageddon. I have an indoor job thankfully, so my experience with this liquid anarchy maker will be limited to the night time commute. My prayers go out to the bikers, cyclists, peds, bussers, ditch diggers and all the Angelenos who have to be out there today trying not to get run over by cars.

*****

For your listening pleasure, the Beta Band performing Dry the Rain.

Holiday in K-Town

2009-01-20T22:38:00.001-08:00

Red Line fare to Wilshire and Vermont: $1.25
Iced green tea at Koffea: $5
Knowing I could call the server from a button on the table: see $5 green tea

After caffeination, I decided noodles were necessary -- and I walked down the street. I felt about like the guy on the screen looks when I tried to pick something from the menu.

But luckily, they had a “gringo” version.

Food was tasty. But I still want to know what those pickled yellow things are…

24 hour and something toilet flush. . .LA to SF to LA

2009-01-20T11:40:00.000-08:00

The blogitude got together on Friday night this past weekend as you’ve all read and then the next day I began a whirly toilet flush of a trip.. .

Saturday
8:05 a.m. Wake up and finish reading the Passion for Book club.
11:10 a.m. Book Club starts

12 p.m. Meet up with my ride to Long Beach Airport to fly up to San Francisco.

3:45 p.m. Touch down in S.F. Make calls to gallery and friends that I’ll be meeting up with shortly.

4:00 p.m. Get on BART.

5-7 p.m. Pack large concrete sculptures and other artworks.

7:45 p.m. Meet up with my friend Reece.

8 p.m. Go to dinner at some fancy Cinema indoor-outdoor space. Good food. I have a Chimay. Nice small talk and at one point we discuss taking dumps and farting.

9:30 p.m. Say goodbye to gallery owner and her girlfriend. Reece and I head to the Attic.

9:45 p.m. My friend Tim shows up. I haven’t seen him in over 9 years and the last time was in San Francisco.

10:30 p.m. Another guy named Tim buys me a Guinness and the bartender draws a shamrock in it with a goldfish (cracker.)
10:32 p.m. I am informed that Guinness has lower calories and alcohol content than a majority of beers. I am bummed.
10:35 p.m. We leave the bar to go to a graduate art school party.

11:15 p.m. After Tim gets pizza and we spend 20 minutes looking for a corner store and then another 10 minutes looking for parking we find the party.

11:16 p.m. - 12:05 a.m. Tim and I hang out on the sidewalk in front of the party and Tim smokes a joint and I pass a bottle of moonshine around. Tim tells me about his adventures in Alabama and about the $1 dollar special. $1 any hole.
Sunday
12:10 a.m. We finally go inside and Reece and everybody else is in there.
12:15 a.m. Somebody turns off Notorious B.I.G. and the lights come on, the party is over. We protest to no avail and decide to go to Guinness Tim’s house.

Sometime later arrive at Tim’s and drink more moonshine.
1:45 a.m. Arrive at Reece’s and finally crash. I can’t find my toothbrush. I’m bummed for the second time that night.
8:15 a.m. Wake up and Reece makes oatmeal.

9:45 a.m. Meet up with gallery owner to get the truck.

10:45 a.m. I’m at the gallery and almost done loading everything in the truck that I can do by myself. I wait for my GF’s brother and wife to show up to help me and in exchange I’m giving them 2 sculptures.
11:45 a.m. All the sculptures are loaded in the truck and I begin my 400 mile drive to Los Angeles.

11:58 a.m. Going over the bridges out of S.F. it’s a very beautiful day and I can see lots of sail boats and shipping boats on the water. I realize I’m kind of hung over.
12:01 p.m. I’m definitely hung over.

12:35 p.m. I decide that I will only eat lunch at a Taco Bell.

2:15 p.m. Finally get to a Taco Bell and eat 2 bean burritos, 2 gordita supremes with beans instead of meat, and a medium Mt. Dew. I don’t buy any other caffeine or snacks. I have a water bottle in the truck and some cashews.

2:16 p.m. - 4:34 p.m. Since I have eaten and filled the truck I have nothing else to worry about except when to pee. I have no Ipod. No laptop. No hands free phone thingy. Just me, the road, and occasionally going through the radio stations. I have many interesting thoughts on my life and remember feeling happy but, still a little hungover.
4:35 p.m. I get to the grapevine and found a really good classic rock station that’s playing Pink Floyd. I think about getting a bottle of Coke but, decide not to.
4:38 p.m. Lose the signal to the radio station.
6:15 p.m. In a concentrated daze with a slight electrical feeling in the back of my eyes I park a block from my apartment and turn off the engine. I'm very happy to be back in Los Angeles.

Corporate (caffeine-induced) Perks

2009-01-17T23:04:00.000-08:00

Corporate America. This is where I work. Isn’t it beautiful?

A few months ago, several improvements went into effect at my office. Colorfully repainted walls, a relaxed dress code and a less painful morning staff meeting schedule were all part of the plan – but the best improvement is the amazing new coffee maker. Behold.

It'll make your choice of coffee, espresso beverage or hot chocolate at the press of a button. Now I need go no farther than the office kitchen for the jolting treats that have become a mainstay in my adult life. (I'm currently working on figuring out if I can also get this machine to take care of the pesky monthly reports -- I'll keep you posted.)

The process goes something like this:

1. Place a receptacle in the designated area to capture the sweet blackened water. Then, choose your blend -- the LA-ubiquitous Wolfgang Puck has provided several.

2. Open the drawer and insert the single serving coffee brew pod.

3. Select your drink or brew.

4. Magic!

5. Return to work comforted and reinvigorated, as made possible by a good cup of coffee. Thank you Office Gods!

Friday

2009-01-17T01:20:00.000-08:00

My mom voted for McCain because she believes that war creates jobs and was assured that a vote for McCain is a vote for jobs. So far these two wars have created jobs, but only for Dick Cheney and friends. I think she may have even voted yes on Prop 8 because someone at her church told her to. On my way home from Ben's and his old lady's house, I couldn't help notice the decor on this building on Hyperion. This hair place is run by gay and transgendered filipinos. It's where my mom gets her hair did. Wonder if she's been in a while. It's now extremely difficult to miss.

Earlier, Ben and his GF hosted Degrassi night. This was our spread. We loaded up, watched two episodes about one of the kids taking acid and slipping into a coma. We got back on the grub wagon and learned the Melbourne Shuffle, this version done by Filipinos.

Do You Know the Way to Santa Fe, Springs?

2009-01-12T20:10:00.000-08:00

I took a captivating 50 mile detour away from work via Santa Fe Springs this morning to pick up some materials we need for a job we're doing. Sound snazzy? It's not. It's a cluster fuck of industrial buildings housing industries that specialize in ball bearings, sexual harassment, dirty bathrooms, wood paneled offices, race discrimination, underpayment of employees and all out suckitude. Not much different from the rest of this country, just has a lovely name.

Here are some photos of my morning excursion.

Hair and clear rubber gloves. Rubber gloves not pictured. This is in the alley adjacent to our building. Don't know the source or the story of how it arrived to this alley.

New Pepsi Obama Logo on this building, taken at sunrise. Pepsi, if we were democrats, we'd be as big as this building.

LACMA West née May Company building. Formerly a mid level department store, now a warehouse for LA County's own third rate museum and staff.

My favorite (and Ben's) recession relief headquarters.

Samy's Camera – home of the last great fuck tards.

Santa Fe Springs California posing as Baja California.

Santa Fe Springs. A West Covina New Year's Eve I should have known about.

Santa Fe Springs. The only auto center where I will be buying my leather chaps and reamer.

Pit Stop 1

Pit Stop 2

Contrary to my own rigid beliefs on the matter, there IS actually something free in this world. I was wrong.

Buena Park. The Citadel – where ancient Assyrians shop for designer seconds. Photo taken while whizzing by on the I-5, Golden State Freeway. This photo represents only one small section of the Megaplex built by this ancient bargain hunting and gathering people, long before horses and small pox arrived to this continent.

I had some time, I took a drive thru Portland.

*****

For your listening pleasure, Michelle Shocked.

Get some popcorn!

2009-01-08T12:55:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the first and last official LABlogitude movie reviews!

So Hollywood is the center of the toilet bowl known as the movie industry here on Earth. This winter when I wasn't working or playing bocce I’ve been watching movies. So in no particular order of preference are the movies I’ve seen recently and a quick review.

The way I'm rating my preferences is I’m using the flush system. So if it was a huge turd that clogs the toilet it gets 4 flushes. If it was a sweet little picture that went down smoothly it gets one flush. I know kind of backwards but, you get the idea.

Slumdog Millionaire - 1 fluuusssh

Everyone knows this movie is awesome. Made by the same guy who did Trainspotting. I can’t wait for the screener to come out so I can see it again in my underwear.

Kung Fu Panda - 1 fluuusssh

Who doesn't like a cartoon that reminds you of Thundercats? Really great animation. Jack Black is hilarious as the voice of the panda and kudos to all the other cameo voices. Jackie Chan’s voice is in it too! If you have kids around and need to distract them for four hours watch this movie twice.

Batman: The Dark Knight - 1 fluuusssh

I didn’t see the prequel to this film or really keep up to date on my Batman sagas but, I must say this is a remarkably darker and more somber version of Batman compared to the one that had Mr. Mom. Heath Ledger is incredible; he should win the academy award. Must see with a good sound system. I wish I did.

1 extra fluuusssh for Heath.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - 4 fluuussshes

Why did they make this movie? And why did I watch it? This is one giant super turd. The only thing interesting about this movie is seeing that old guy get struck by lightning. Not the old guy above. That's Brad Pitt. Don't get your hopes up ladies and gentlemen, he spends half the movie as a baby or freak.

The Wrestler - 1 fluuusssh

Super dope. I loved this movie, Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei both give very heartfelt performances. The make-up/special effects stuff was really incredible and helped to connect you with the physical and mental turmoil facing “The Ram.” Must see.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - 1 fluuusssh

I know this is an old movie to review but, I just saw it. Beautifully filmed and a main character that you’d love to hate but, you can’t and you love and you cry. Super moving and like nothing I’ve seen before.

MILK - 1 fluuusssh

I didn’t really know who Harvey Milk was before I saw this movie and I’m really disappointed in myself. This movie by Gus Van Sant conveys the life and struggles of Harvey Milk. Van Sant mixed archival footage with the modern movie to illustrate a time in the US's history which isn't very different from today. Penn gives a deeply moving performance. I hope a lot of people see this movie. Another must see.

So I think that’s all of them. I saw that James Bond movie too but, who cares. Get on out there and see some movies!

Stuck on Repeat

2009-01-07T20:30:00.000-08:00

I awoke with this tune dangling in my head.

*****

Dont think sorrys easily said
Dont try turning tables instead
Youve taken lots of chances before
But Im not gonna give anymore
Dont ask me
Thats how it goes
Cause part of me knows what youre thinkin

Dont say words youre gonna regret
Dont let the fire rush to your head
Ive heard the accusation before
And I aint gonna take any more
Believe me
The sun in your eyes
Made some of the lies worth believing

Chorus:
I am the eye in the sky
Looking at you
I can read your mind
I am the maker of rules
Dealing with fools
I can cheat you blind
And I dont need to see any more
To know that
I can read your mind, I can read your mind

Dont leave false illusions behind
Dont cry cause I aint chnaging my mind
So find another fool like before
Cause I aint gonna live anymore believing
Some of the lies while all of the signs are deceiving

*****

For your listening pleasure, this version of Eye in the Sky performed by my people.

One day, we will pick ourselves up by our collective flip flops and rule the world in all areas, including popular light rock.

First Meal, Last Waking Thought

2009-01-06T02:56:00.000-08:00

This is what I had for breakfast today, and pretty much every day. I was inspired by our friend Evan Roberts to take a photo of my breakfast.

I invite you to enjoy Evan's 100 Days of Breakfast.

At this moment, I am enjoying the sound of our neighbor's Mexican boyfriend doing telephone business loudly outside on the walkway with a friend whom he affectionately and alternately refers to as Nigga and Bro. I have never appreciated our neighbor's taste in douchebags or dogs really. I don't know what happened to the chihuahua, seems to have been replaced or maybe scarfed down by the rambunctious rottweiler. Now we got this new guy, Mr. Bidness Man, with a penchant for loud talking on the friends and family plan AND for shorts in the winter.

I woke up because someone had called me past the cut off time to tell me something of little importance or interest to me. Someone who giggles unnecessarily as a form of nervous punctuation. As in, "I called her back and she said no ho ho ho ha ha ha ha ha, not today ha ha ha ha haaaah!" If you are one of these people, seek help. You sound crazy.

I've used this handy impromptu sleep interruption to alter one of my hoodies, do some pull-ups, have a bowl of trader joe's vanilla clusters cereal while watching Sex and the City with my BF, put away some files and letters, did more pull-ups, pushups, sit-ups, biceps, and lunges. Thank you sleep interrupters and fuck you too. In two hours or so when I'm on the road, I'm going to make sure to drive over each of you until your guts are a human paté.

A Toilet Flush Homecoming

2009-01-04T15:29:00.000-08:00

As most people in LA are transplants, the mass exodus occurs around December 20 and re-entry occurs gradually, spanning from just after Christmas day up to the first Monday of the New Year. This year, I was one of the flock – flying off to see family in a faraway land – and returning just yesterday to this city that always welcomes me in its own way.

There’s magic in seeing the swaying palm trees from the window of a plane, especially if your flight departed from somewhere very cold or where there was snow on the ground, and even more especially if this place is a more than 10 hour flight away. That thick brown haze on the horizon is also magical in its own way, in all it alludes to.

I typically take the bus from LAX – and there’s usually a memorable bus driver to make me feel at home. Yesterday, the Flyaway driver laughed at some guy asking if Union Station was in Van Nuys. Then he told everyone to put on their seatbelts. When all the passengers turned to find a shoulder strap, he chuckled and announced that the bus didn’t have seatbelts.

After a ride down the 105, I walked to where I’d catch my next bus home. Waiting for behind the station at Cesar Chavez and Vignes, there was a taco truck and a homeless man sitting at the bus stop wolfing down a taco. When he got up to throw his wrapper in the garbage can near where I was standing, he exchanged words with me before running across the street.

Homeless man: “Did you work for First Charter Bank?”
Me: “…wha?”
Homeless man: “Yes you did, bitch!”

For the final leg, I often haul my suitcase up the street. This does garner some looks, mind you, but yesterday no one seemed to notice. They were all in a post-holiday fog. Even the homeless woman who sits outside the liquor store and greets me every morning on my way to work didn’t say anything. She just stared ahead with a blank and lonely expression on her face as I walked by.

New "Whatever" Year

2008-12-31T09:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-27T02:51:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-22T18:51:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-19T09:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-17T19:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-17T19:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-17T06:21:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-15T12:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-14T20:11:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-14T14:27:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-11T20:33:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-10T18:36:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-10T06:21:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-09T05:40:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-07T20:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T07:15:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T06:20:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-01T19:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-26T22:06:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-26T09:31:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-21T17:23:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-19T11:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-18T13:01:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-16T20:11:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T12:51:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-12T08:00:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-11-10T21:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-05T11:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-04T09:41:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-04T09:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-03T05:54:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-02T09:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-31T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-30T22:40:00.000-07:00

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.