December 3, 2013 § Leave a Comment
People are haters. Anywhere there is a concentrated number of people there will be a lot of haters. Then there are those asshole optimists spouting all this positive shit into haters faces and it makes the haters hate more.
Those damn optimists, always in your ear when you just want to complain about the weather because you woke up in the middle of a REM cycle, and damn-it, you’re cranky.
You: “Ugh, why is it soooo cold out?!”
Optimist: “Think of it is a ‘wake up’ moment to change your perspective. You could be a polar bear clinging to a melting ice cap.”
You: “But I’m not. I’m me, a human, and it’s not fun being cold.”
Optimist: “It’s through the discomfort of life we find where we are truly blessed.”
You: “You can’t see me flipping you off because I’m wearing mittens.”
Optimist: “If you weren’t blessed with your mittens your fingers would be too cold to express yourself freely.”
The Optimist sucks. Since the people of Los Angeles can’t really complain about the cold, the optimist has to work a little harder. To make all you bitterly freezing northerners feel a tiny bit better, here is the Optimist sticking it to SoCal.
LA Brat: “There is so much smog. It’s disgusting. I can’t see it. I can taste it!”
Optimist: “But after a rainy day it’s like, ‘Surprise mountains!’ and after a windy day you look out over the ocean and think, ‘wait, is that Hawaii? Can I see Hawaii?’”
LA Brat: “There is too much traffic. If I wanted to sit in a parking lot, I’d be getting high before work.”
Optimist: “No better excuse to go ahead and buy that book… on tape! A good book read with a soothing voice makes me look forward to traffic.”
LA Brat: “Everyone is an aspiring actor.”
Optimist: “That’s what makes the dining experience so thrilling. Even your waiter has talent.”
LA Brat: “There is too much hippy bull shit.”
Optimist: “Exploring the likes of yoga, meditation, and holistic healing can calm the soul.”
LA Brat: “The valley is hot as a fat man’s junk sweating it out in a 4th of July spicy hot wing-eating contest.”
Optimist: “It’s a sauna purging impurities of the city and cleansing tinsel town. That’s why there is such a concentrated sector of porn production in the valley. It’s Miley’s crotch leotard getting sweat out of the city.”
LA Brat: “People don’t stand up at concerts.”
Optimist: “After a long week at work, take a load off!”
LA Brat: “There are too many hipsters. Too many beards. Too many ironic t-shirts.”
Optimist: “Who else would we make fun of for our own amusement? Can’t be the Jews, they run this town.”
LA Brat: “History here sucks, there are no cool wars.”
Optimist: “The city is rich in history if you have your anthropologist cap on.”
LA Brat: “The pizza tastes like cardboard and this vegan cheese sucks.”
Optimist: “Just another way the community is urging it’s members to be healthy. Fight obesity!”
LA Brat: “I miss seasons.”
Optimist: “What could be better than fall running directly into spring and visiting the winter in the mountains conveniently on the weekends?”
LA Brat: “People are too fake around here. No one really cares about your indie short.”
Optimist: “Shallow encouragement is better than no encouragement at all.”
LA Brat: “If you aren’t in ‘the industry,’ no one cares what you have to say.”
Optimist: “In that case you are practically a unicorn. Nothing in the industry is cooler than a unicorn.”
LA Brat: “No one is actually from LA.”
Optimist: “Again, unicorns.”
LA Brat: “People around here take healthy too seriously.”
Optimist: “A healthy community is better than one with gang violence.”
LA Brat: “But what about Compton?”
Optimist: “Gangs are a great Lord of the Flies study.”
LA Brat: “Even for you, that’s reaching.”
Optimist: “Success comes from many failures.”
LA Brat: “Go be a fortune cookie somewhere else. I’m not inviting you to get a taco off that truck.”
November 26, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Tis time for the tale of the fall invasion. My home and my sanity was under attack. Don’t worry there’s a moral and happy ending, but this is no fable. I am not Aesop or Hans Christian Anderson. I’m pretty sure they would be pussies in a street fight.
The first day of fall ushered in autumnal despair, but by the end of October it was a comedy of errors. All summer I had been getting my mind right, adult tendency style. Eating clean, exercising, beauty rest, and meditation. I would come home from yoga, lay out on my roof while enjoying guided meditation courtesy of youtube. It was fantastic, I was meeting my spirit guides, we’d have imaginary coffee and clean out my chalkras. I was full-on California crazy. Haters gonna hate.
The beginning of fall in SoCal is HOT, some of the hottest days make homes in late September. The good part about living by the beach is that this hot spell lasts for about three weeks then it’s back to being perfect. A 21 day blemish on our year round climate means we don’t have air conditioning. What’s better than an ocean breeze? Drinking a glass of wine while enjoying the ocean breeze (that’s about it). So when I wrapped up my meditation for the morning (which was interrupted by a slamming door, but it’s city not solitude), I left the bedroom window wide open, inviting the breeze in.
The next part of my routine would commence with working on my book (currently searching for an agent and publisher, if you know anyone). I was rooted in routine for 6 months, but this day would put a stop to my regimented bliss. I was on the lower level of my townhouse-esque apartment when I smelled a cigarette. “Fucking neighbor kid,” I thought. This punk was always sneaking out onto the roof trying to get addicted to things. I went up stairs and shut the bedroom blinds and the window (almost all the way) out of disgust. Back downstairs in my writing lair, I heard someone pacing on the roof above. I immediately felt bad for my neighbor kid accusations. Probably a cable guy instead. The connection is always going out, we live in an imperfect world. I went back to my procrastination– I mean, novel writing.
Then I heard the upstairs window open. What the what? “Cable guy, seriously, you have no business poking around in a strict internet only household.” I went up stairs to investigate. Two steps from the top I smelled the dirty sweat soaked stench of supposed cable worker. I enter an empty room. I pass our his and her closets to peek in the master bathroom. No one. I turn around to reveal, hiding inside the closet, my intruder, inches away from my face. From the stench, he was quite homeless, about my height, white, skinny, and holding a shit ton of Mister Red’s clothes. It didn’t even take a split second for me to go all mother bear on his ass.
I ripped the clothes out of his hands and started screaming, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!” A change cup fell out of his grip, coins clanging on the floor. This punk had a death grip on these clothes. As he climbed out the window he came in, I grabbed again at the articles, tugging on the last of my possessions in his hands. Leaving a trail of his bounty he rounded the corner to the roof access staircase. I shut the window behind him.
You can imagine where it goes from here. “He fixes the cable?” No, Dude, I call 911 and await his exit on my front balcony, which he makes through the parking garage. In the 30 Minutes it takes the cops to arrive, my downstairs neighbor comes home to find me all Repunzel panic, shaking from adrenaline. He cases the block and finds no one. Mister Red makes it home just as the cops walk up and we asses the damage together. He didn’t get away with much, a pair of ugly shoes I wanted Red to donate anyway, a broken ipod from 2005, and my sense of security.
I like to think it was my incredible hearing and quick response preventing the trespasser from noticing my jewelry box and the hidden cash stash, but it might also been the disarray of the room. It was messier than a 6 year old boy who spent the weekend with dad. The cops came up to investigate, took one look at the clothes strewn on the floor and the crap on the dresser and asked, “now was the room…like this?”
I hung my head in shame, “Yes, yes it was, I’m disgusting.” Even street vagrants have boundaries. Breaking into my bedroom was like attempting to sift through messy thrift store clothes after a black friday sale. You don’t even know where to begin and the chaos almost makes it not worth it. If I were him I would have taken one look inside and turned around. Too messy, not worth it.
The next week, I bribed good friends with free laundry. While they were using my washer and dryer, I snuck away to shower. There really is safety in numbers. As long as there was someone trusted on site, I felt safe.
In the weeks that followed, more unfortunate happenings came crashing down. I chased an overseas job offer right up until the last moment, denying that the hiring manager was being unprofessional. I fought off two swarms of termites. Our building put bars on our windows. Now I live in jail. One of the studios I was working at closed and another client didn’t renew a contract, thus losing almost half my bread and butter in the process. Moths infested the cupboards. After several nights of coming home to moth orgies, only two survive and I will kill them and any babies they try to have in my vaulted ceiling.
Sometimes events beyond your control force you to assess the state of your life. This fall my nose was being rubbed in the state of my life so far it felt like it wasn’t even my life. Shit does happen, you can’t get around it. Could I have kept my window shut? Sure, but I could have died from heat stroke instead of just a victim of a quick B & E. Should I have taken that job in Dubai so I wouldn’t be scraping by? Maybe, but I would be in despair over missing Mister Red and/or forced into sex trafficking. Should I have googled “moth orgy” sooner? Yes.
What’s the moral? Sex trafficking is not always a risk, but if it is, you should say ‘no’ to the opportunity. Don’t ever stand for moths to host orgies in your house, act immediately. And lastly… don’t deny trauma, accept change, react and adapt. Sometimes you have to sit in Hell’s waiting room to get a hall pass back to paradise. Paradise being grateful. Grateful for your life and all the people and things in it. The good things will remain while the bad things reveal themselves. Dispose of bad things properly.
And maybe consider self-defense training. Just in case you gotta throw some ‘bows ever.
November 19, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Last year (29), and the year before (28), I thought turning 30 was going to be a big deal. I needed to prepare and get my shit together to deal with this big deal of living three decades. Doom and gloom, big deal. Apocalypse is coming, big deal. The end is neigh, big deal. But now that the day is less then a month away, I don’t want to deal with it at all.
More often than not, people survive their 30th birthdays. They don’t catch fire, or spontaneously combust. There isn’t an immaculate conception, maybe they just get really drunk and have unprotected birthday sex. Or maybe they actually WANT to get pregnant. But just because you turn 30, doesn’t mean you are going to have a baby. They aren’t mutually exclusive or anything (but it’s pretty likely you’ll start considering offspring after 30 if you haven’t already).
When you turn 30, no one takes away your irresponsible youth card and registers you as a republican. No one is going to stop you from buying that new Michael Kors bag and put that $300 into your retirement fund. You won’t wake up to notice you have more wrinkles than Tara Reid’s bad tummy tuck, but you might want to do some crunches, first thing. It’s going to be like every other birthday after 25, and just sting a little.
Although, I’m secretly hoping I’m wrong, and something spectacular happens to me. Like I wake up with a super power or something equally exciting. What if somehow in the night my brain is infused with wise antidotes for every situation and I finally excel at mental math? Or a genetic micro chip-like device is activated by age and reveals the meaning of life then I can finally follow my path without anxiety.
When I turned 20, I thought I was going to do some seriously insane things before I turned 30, like get married and have at least 2 kids. I wanted to be rich and a power player like the kids you read about on the 30 Under 30 (those jerks). I wanted to find my 6 pack and do a back handspring. I thought I was going to be pretty hot shit at 30. Hot shit in a power suit.
Of course that all was a pipe dream. So now, with less than a month before I turn 30… here is a list of things I’m going to try to accomplish in my last few weeks as a 20-something. Obviously, time is running out. Tic Toc.
30 Days to 30 Bucket List.
1. Participate in a dance performance. Or “dance off”and this can be a living room activity.
2. Go to a fancy dinner party, act like yuppies, and drink too much wine.
3. See Hawaii.
4. Do a handstand.
5. Purge all the things I don’t need or never use. (this one sounds like I’m already 30).
6. Purge all the people who don’t contribute to my happiness.
7. Throw a pie in someone’s face.
8. Start therapy. (because after I turn 30, I’m probably going to need it).
9. One last piggy back ride.
10. Topless beach. (what if I turn 30 and they immediately sag to librarian status?)
11. Renew my passport (I’m going places in my 30s… but that’s a different list.)
12. Scuba dive. (but I might settle for a really amazing hike excursion).
13. Don’t kill my basil plant.
14. Make a new friend.
15. Become a REAL author. (this doesn’t mean whisky drinking, I’d settle for an agent taking a serious look at me) AKA start my dream job.
I’m aware some of these might not happen, and count my blessings for the things I have done in my 20s. I have been lucky enough to have seen the Grand Canyon and The Great Wall of China. I’ve gotten a tattoo, enjoyed a one night stand, and run rampant around for a few days Vegas. I’ve jumped out of an airplane, performed in front of thousands of people, and taken 2 cross country road trips (both with best friends). After living in 3 major metropolitan cities, falling in love (the real kind), and being the co-caretaker of a cat, I think my 20s have been pretty bomb and I still have one month left.
November 12, 2013 § 1 Comment
I must confess my absence wasn’t out of complete laziness. I was writing a book. A whole freaking book! Let me tell you something about writing a book… you think you’re all prolific and brilliant until you have to read the same 61,000 words EIGHT times to make sure you’re getting your point across in the most prolific, poetic, and entertaining way possible. No one wants to read a book eight times in eight months, no matter how funny it is or how much sex is in it.
That’s about how long it took me, eight months. That’s averaging a draft a month! I’m really kind of shocked at myself. I hope to continue to shock myself by getting it published. Leaving no stone unturned, email me if you know any literary agents.
Anyway, this feels like a what-I-did-on-summer-vacation type deal. Well… let’s see… my house was broken into while I was home, I entertained a job offer in Dubai, I went to Vegas twice for different bachelorette parties, I attended five weddings, spent one week with extended family (so much family), and I did a lot of yoga. Oh and I started juicing… I’m officially Californian that way.
I was going to come back with a new blog, but I’m still a bachelorette and frankly, this lack in refinement is out of complete laziness. After all, I have a book to beg to get published! My plan is to post on Tuesdays, I’m hoping you’ll read. I promise to be more exciting than this snoozer. I will tell you all about all the stuff up there… you let me know what you want to hear about first.
I also can’t believe some of you were looking forward to my return. When I woke up the ol’ FB page yesterday, I was shocked. There were 2 likes. I guess people really have nothing to do. Sarcasm font, friends, sarcasm font.
btw… today is 11,12,13… how cool is that? It’s like Ryan Gosling in a banana hammock cool. Google glasses ordering a chocolate milkshake, cool. Free trip to outer space, cool. Lifetime supply of cabernet, cool. Literally, so cool.
May 7, 2013 § 1 Comment
Previously Posted on Oct 6th 2011
If you’ve read Tuesday’s post you know I’ve been a little tense lately. I have what they call a Hollywood Hangover. After being honorarily discharged from work on a difficult show you question your very existence on this Earth, convinced everyone else is an alien or a carney. Sort of like after a week long bender of hard drugs in Vegas, it’s what Hunter S. Thompson must of felt like most of the time. This is bat country.
So when a friend of mine suggested I head down to the Asian Day Spa, I promptly made an appointment. It wasn’t until I was in the parking lot that I realized this place was so authentic it was actually in Koreatown and English wasn’t the first language of the establishment. I don’t even think it was the second language. In fact, the sign out front was in symbols so I just trusted my GPS had taken me to the right address.
I was so frazzled with my tinsel town migraine I didn’t question much. I approached the front desk behind a robust butch woman who inquired my attendance. Not really wanting to explain myself to another patron, I vaguely paraphrased: reality TV, producer, long hours, extremely tense, etc. She then launched into a self-pitch. She wanted me to get her on Sons Of Anarchy in all her bad dye job glory. If I knew someone on a hit scripted FX show, I wouldn’t be handing out supporting roles to women I meet in line at the naked lady spa. Please, I’d be whoring myself out for a position. I was so irritated, I quickly grabbed my key from the receptionist and averted eye contact before I could get a further explanation of all my appointment entailed. My mistake.
Like any Asian household, you take off your shoes, put them in a locker with the corresponding number of your key. Easy enough. Then you undress and put your clothes in another numbered locker. Then you enter the spa area where your robe and towel gets put into… you guessed it, a locker with your number. I was beginning to realize what I was reduced to. Just like in concentration camps, Broadway cattle call auditions, Big Ten Universities, or in line at the deli. #51.
For the next half hour while I waited for my number to be called, I “enjoyed” several dips of my choice, a sauna and steam room. In hindsight, opting for this adventure solo was a blessing. I could hide my modesty in autonomy. This is not a place of privacy. Lead by example, I let it all hang out with the rest of them. A shower is required before and after slipping even a toe into each tub. I didn’t notice any bathing police, but I turned a blind eye to my neighbor’s hygiene and tried not to look too closely at anyone’s crotch.
From the tea dip, to the hot dip, to the cold dip, to the sauna, back again with 8 showers in between, finally a wee little roly-poly Korean lady in a black bathing suit stood in the center of the tiled experience and shouted at the top of her lungs in her very best English, “fi-ty ooooooonnnnn.” She even had it written on a cue card, in case I couldn’t understand her, like a chauffeur at the airport. My ride had arrived.
She escorted me behind a short partition to a row of about six vinyl beds all of which had naked female figures limply eeking out the most pleasure possible of a public massage.
First she washed me, scrubbed all my 2000 parts. I got the same feeling I get during a pedicure or a Brazilian waxing: what a world do we live in where I can pay a foreign stranger to do something so intimate for me? And why do they do a much better job than I can myself? I mean, I’ve had this body for 27 years, you’d think I’d be an expert at grooming it by now. Seriously, there was no messing around during this exfoliation, my body riding back and forth on loose skin. She really put some muscle behind it, it was like a football drill. After dousing me with buckets of water, she ordered me to take a shower and come back.
Standing up made me dizzy, and I had already took 36 showers while I was there, and she just cleaned me better than my own mother ever did, so I half-assed this rinse off. Whoops. She sent me back for another, like my dad would after a breath check when I only brushed with water, never trust a 4 year old. I took the second shower more seriously and was cleared to resume my posture on the table. Once more, a beached whale. Every once in a while I’d open an eye to stare across the rows of fleshy lumps and humps of my neighbors on the assembly line. My technician twisted and turned my limbs like a rag doll, barking at me to flip every few minutes. Not the best massage and facial I’ve ever had, but I’m not really one to be complaining about spa treatments when there are people out there without clean drinking water.
Wrapped in a clean warm robe, I spent the next 45 min lying on a heated jade floor. You need this type of meditation after the naked cold wet trauma of the bathing factory. Don’t get me wrong, my skin couldn’t have been smoother and I felt like a great heap of pudding. Perhaps the distress of the whole experience washed away my career bitterness for a bit, leaving me to solidly contemplate my own bathing rituals. Or maybe it’s just proof that you need to pay top dollar for someone to wash your ass crack in private. I guess I’m just not in that income bracket.