Polling Eccentricities

I guess it's the day for voting and therefore I shall add my two cents ('cause that's pretty much all I have). 1.) Why is the oldest volunteer always the one in charge of finding your name in the big book with pint size print? Now I'm not really an ageist and I feel that people should be allow to do any and all jobs they're capable of, but on Voting day, time is of the essence because if you're a voter you're either sneaking out of work to place your vote or fitting voting inbetween picking up the kids from school and completing that big presentation for your boss. You don't have the time, let alone the patience, to wait in a mile long line that rival's Ross hoping that the lovely grandma with bifocals will flip through the voter registration pages faster than a snail. Your last name starts with a "Y", but she's still searching through the "M" names.

Plus, there are always ten times more volunteers than need be at the polling places for "Grandma" to be the only one allowed to look through the big book. Wouldn't it be easier to have multiple books, and therefore multiple people checking you in so that you could move through the line faster? They could compare the books at the end of the day to see if there were any discrepancies, like double voting, but if the people stationed at the electronic box were actually paying attention to the people submitting their ballots, there shouldn't be a problem. I'm just giving suggestions.

The second thing I wanted to comment on is that while my sister Robby was working the poll's in Santa Barbara, she called to tell me that her day was "made and subsequently ruined by seeing a really cute guy" come to her table and then tell her his name was....wait for it... this is totally true... "Fire Penguin Disco Panda". In all seriousness. He was about 20 and had tattoos of "Happy Feet" and "Saturday Night Fever" all over. At first I thought it was a miracle he'd made it through High School, let alone elementary school, because with a name like that, your head had to have been cleaning some toilets, but yep, he was alive and kicking. Then Robby tells me he named himself, after he turned 18 of course. I'm just wondering that if when he hits 30, is he gonna look in the mirror and ask himself, "What the hell was I thinking?"

As a side note in case Mr. Panda should ever read this blog (which I highly doubt because I have a fanfare of possibly 8 people) you can't really blame me for commenting on your unique preference in name choice as you should best know the consequence of picking such a colorful identifier. More power to you for choosing such an absurd name and not crying when people snicker at you or most likely, behind your back.

Selfishly Charitable

If you just happen to win the Lottery tomorrow and never had to worry about money again, what would you do? Are you the type of person that goes on a gigantic spending spread, buying all those little goodies - the Mega TV, that yellow Hummer, a vacation house in the South of France- that you've always dreamed about but never thought you'd actually have? Are you the type of person that is uber responsible and pays off all your bills, debt, your parent's mortgage, your kid's college loans, and anything else that Uncle Sam wants to get you for? Or are you the type of person that doesn't really want the money, so you decide to give it away - to charities, people on the street, non-profits, etc.?

My office has a bi-weekly lottery pool where most of my co-worker put a dollar into the pot and if the ticket wins, they all share the money. I always refuse. It's not that I couldn't use the money, but I think money changes a person. It doesn't matter if you're the nicest person in the world or the Country's biggest curmudgeon, money has a way of alternating your morals and often turning you into a prima dona. You end up forgetting where you came from, how you were brought up, and suddenly you expect to be able to dismiss traffic laws, get in anywhere without a reservation, and receive prompt service wherever you go. It's like you think that since you now have money, the world should afford you unwarranted elite stature. Is money so powerful, that it instantly raises ones social status?

With that said, I think if I ever happen to win the lottery, or randomly inherit a fortune, I would be that odd person who would give most of it away. I find more joy in buying things for other people than I do for myself, but it's not because I want to be nice, it's because I'm a bastard.

If I had more money then I knew what to do with, I think it would be fun to drive through a Toll Booth and pay for the 10 cars behind me, not because it's a lovely jester, but because I know that those 10 driver's will spend the rest of the day wracking their brains to try and figure out if they know me, because that would be the only reason someone would pay their toll, right? Some would try to speed along the bridge to catch a glimpse of my face, looking for familiarity, but they wouldn't find any and that would perplex them further.

I get a perverse pleasure out of other people's confusion. We're a society of cynics, whether we think so or not, because we just can't fathom getting something for free. It's not a possibility in the world we've created for ourselves and therefore we will constantly ponder why someone is doing something nice for us unwarranted, we have to uncover their ulterior motive. This is what propels me to be charitable, people's inability to accept it and consequently their anguish in finding meaning to a random act of kindness.

I think it would be awesome to send an address-less envelope containing the deed and keys to a new home to the 18-year-old in the news who is supporting his siblings while attending University and working two jobs. It would be interesting to leave a $100 tip on a $5 dollar bill just see see the waiter's face light up and then turn confused because it such a steep percentage. It would be fantastic to go into a hospital and pay the weekly bill for all the children in the oncology ward without leaving my name because it would be like a God send to the parents. I'd like to select random people in debt and become their anonymous benefactor, helping them succeed, but never letting them know who I am.

All of these charitable donations would be very beneficial to the recipients, but I wouldn't do it because I'm Mother Teresa, more so because of the merriment I'd get from causing the beneficiaries to constantly wonder about where the money came from and why they are getting it. It's like the saying goes, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," some things just are and if you accept that, then alls well. But I know, they will never accept without knowing the reasoning and that's where I find my joy. I'm really a mean old Scrooge at heart.

What would you do with all the money in the world?

My 3-year-old, Vampire Brother

This is a phone conversation between my brother and I last Friday:
"Hey, what are you doing this weekend?" he calls out of the blue.
I reply, "You're gonna be in LA? ... Why?"
"How'd you know I was gonna be in LA?"
"Um, you just told me."
"No I didn't."
"Why else would you be asking about my weekend plans?" I retort.
"Can't I just be curious?"
"You only call when you want something, so, No."
Thus began a week of sibling bonding...in a way.

Jeff spent the whole weekend with his friend out in Apple Valley (if you haven't heard of it, that's because it's on the way to Victorville, Big Bear and nowhere near LA) then he decided to grace my presence on Monday by coming to Sunset Gower, the Lot I work on, treating me to lunch and proceeding to turn into his three-year-old self by dashing through half the production hangers on the Lot. I told him that if he got permission to walk on the sets (sans shooting) he could, but he wasn't allowed to just bound into the hangers with an enthusiastic smile and hope they wouldn't kick him off. Luckily all the painters and construction crews that were putting finishing touches on the sets, didn't mind a big, wide eyed child, asking questions and touching everything in sight.

"Is there real alcohol in the bottles," Jeff asks as he grabs a Patron bottle off the shelf in Dexter's Quinn's house. "Ahhh, don't touch stuff," I squeak, "You're gonna mess up continuity." But Jeff's already popped the top and is sniffing the contents. "It's just colored water," he pouts. "I could have told you that with out you rearranging the set. Now, please put the bottle back." He jams the bottle back on the shelf and is off exploring another part of the hanger - the Hospital from Private Practice.

"Look, they even have cups that say the Hospital's name...Hum, what's through here?" he mumbles, opening a door past the reception area. As I freak out over Jeff possibly opening a door into a crew member working behind it, he's vanished from my sight. It's like his attention span just takes him on a magical journey of sporadic-ness that makes me want to strap a monkey backpack with tail leash to him and yank him away from things he shouldn't go near.

I find him walking through the White House from The Event. "This looks just like the real thing," He muses, making laps around the Oval Office. His excitement is contagious and pretty soon, I'm wandering through all the open (and closed) doors, trying to see how everything is laid out and musing over all the little details that make up the sets - notebooks filled with writing (not just the front few pages), the character's logo on the stationary and cups, picture frames with the actor's photos inside, etc.

After exiting the last hanger on the Lot, Jeff utters, "I think this has made the trip all worthwhile." And I'd have to say he has a point. It's kind of cool to be able to walk on the set of a show and see a mini version of the White House or the house of a character that you watch weekly. I guess I take for granted that I work on a Lot, but I never actually take advantage of what being on a set affords me.

I eventually had to go back to work, play time was over, so I sent Jeff to my house and headed back to my desk. Over the course of the next week, the main indications that Jeff was actually staying at my house was the fact that my hand soap, body wash, shampoo, and toilet paper decreased exponentially and when I left my house at 8am, I'd look into the living room and see a giant lump on the floor, covered in a blanket. Jeff would quietly make his way into my living room somewhere between the hours of 2am and 6am, leave after I was gone and sometimes, after my roommate was gone in the mid afternoon.

I had asked Jeff on the third day of staying with me that his penance for coming and going at his leisure and using all my stuff was to buy me a new hand soap. When I arrived home that evening there was a quarter filled bottle of hand soap sitting next to my bathroom sink. My text message to my brother went like this: "What the hell is up with giving me a quarter full thing of soap. Really? A new bottle is like $2. Cheap bastard." I had thought he stole it from some bathroom he visited during the day, but after my roommate saw the soap in my bathroom, she goes, "I was wondering where the kitchen hand soap went."

He eventually bought me a proper, full bottle of hand soap and a replacement bottle of body wash while complaining it cost him $6. Poor baby. I don't know what he was doing with all my cleansing products, but most were 80% full before he visited me and when he left 7 days later, about 20% full; a lot of the items were concentrated. Overall, Jeff turned out to be one of the best houseguest I've had stay with me. My roommate even said he was cool because you never saw him. He just slept there, but didn't notably effect our house environment, except for the depleting cleaning products.

Sex Sells, Products Don't

I'm pretty sure most underwear is flexible.

I'm having a hard time keeping my mouth shut these days when I see American Apparel ads. In no way am I a die hard feminist, but I can't help but to take offense at the blatant exploitation of young women that American Apparel is so fond of using in their ads. I understand that commercialism now uses sex appeal to sell their products (instead of actually inducting a selling strategy advertising the product more so then the model), but when they make the models overly expose themselves in unflattering ways to market a product that you can barely notice because it's either not actually in the ad or it's so inconsequential compared to the sexual or otherwise rise that one gets from viewing the ad, you have to question the motives of the PR department; are they selling the clothing/product or making a statement that it's ok to fantasize about barely out of their tweens-looking models. It's like an open call to pedophiles.

These ads highly offend me. I'm all for creative ingenuity, but where does the line get draw between creativity and pornography? Yes, Los Angeleans and New Yorkers have a higher tolerance for racy ads then the gentler folk of the middle states, but that doesn't mean the PR morons need to exploit our apathy to the limit, stretching to see how far they can go before they're paying out too many law suits to have the ads remain profitable. When did society stop trying to depict products in their natural state, showing viewers what the product are capable of? Why did they make the switch to marketing obscene and obscure ads to make a company notable, but leaving the product a barely grasped memory. I guess if you remember a commercial or an ad, the PR department has done their job, but do you remember what the ad pertains to, or only what it was about - some random guy on a horse or a 15 year-old spreading her legs? What was the product being marketed? How does this help sales? There are numerous ads where I can only remember the product and not the company or the company and not the product. How is this helpful? Shouldn't an ad be memorable for both the product and the company.

Sex or Socks?

I guess in this sense, America Apparel ads do achieve their goals of being instantly recognized and remembered, but does a girl looking like a piece of sex candy make you want to buy socks? Who is this ad targeting; men or women? For the guys out there, if you saw this ad, would you buy the socks and give them to your girlfriend in hopes that she'll somehow turn out to look as stunning as the girl in the picture or that you'll get lucky because you bought your girlfriend/wife/friend American Apparel socks? For the Women, if you bought these socks, do you think you will look sexier, or does this ad make you feel less sexy because you can't be 15 again and have the perfect body? Why have a marketing campaign that makes people question their looks, weight, self-worth?

It's like a subliminal mind fuck to the general audiences and instead of the ads helping to sell the products they're advertising, they turn the already impressional young people into walking sex fantasies via wearing their products or having disturbed individuals imagine them in said outfits. Either way, it's appalling. I know this rant has gone on long enough, but I just want to state the fact that American Apparel uses a lot of their store employees as their models, promising young women illusions of modeling success when they agree to be employees, but never actually fully explaining the mental consequences of becoming a store model. It's exploiting innocence for capital gain. It should be a crime.

Why would I want to buy stockings that can easily rip?

Yummy Heart Cloggers

There was a news article the other day on the five newest 1200-1500+ calorie meals served at restaurants. The sad thing is that most of the items look like delicious, heart clogging plates of awesomeness. This could be an effect of the vibrant photography depicting said food, but no matter, my mouth was watering and I almost ventured across the street to eat at Denny's. I was taken in by Denny's new grilled cheese with fried cheese sticks stuffed between layers of gooey, stringy yumminess. My taste buds yearned to devour this monstrosity of the beloved grilled cheese. And for all the meat eaters out there - there's also a cheeseburger served in the South that has grilled cheese sandwiches as it's buns.


Denny's Fried Cheese Melt Sandwich


Friendly's Grilled Cheese Burger Melt

What is the world coming to when cheese upon cheese looks and sounds appealing to our appetites? No wonder our society is growing bigger and wider; we're dismissing healthy foods for visually appealing delectables and brushing off the consequences of munching to our figurative heart's desire, instead of taking care of our physical hearts. Maybe we should all sit down in front of Wall-E and try to imagine what it would be like to drink all our meals and float around in a hover chair because our bones have liquified and we're nothing more than blobs of semi-intelligent masses - similar to amoebas.

Now if Denny's had put fried chicken strips in the middle of their new grilled cheese sandwich instead of more cheese, it would probably contain the same amount of calories, but at least the consumer would get their daily amount of protein. Plus, when I originally saw the photo of the sandwich, I thought it was chicken. Sounds so good to me, but bad Em, bad.

Poll: Would you eat one of these sandwiches?

Secondary Happiness

Since I now work in the heart of Hollywood on one of the better known Television Lots in LA, I've had the pleasure of walking through the halls and seeing some of the lesser known, but equally brilliant actors in Hollywood. I know that most people who watch television and movies know who the major players are, but what of the co-stars; the B, C, or D-list actors that accompany all the big shots? You know you see them on the big screen, but do you really see them or do you have eyes only for you main attraction(s)?

When I'm out in public, I think I spot the below-the-line actors more than the A-listers because they're at the perfect amount of fame to where they get jobs, but don't have the paparazzi stalking them, therefore they don't have to cover up in gawd awful disguises. They wander around as themselves, glad when someone spots them and asks to take a picture, but not cool enough (a relative term) to be hounded by a gaggle of tweens. Most tourist in Hollywood probably don't get to snap a picture with their favorite celebrities because they don't notice them among all the other weirdos wearing hoodies and dark sunglasses in 90 degree heat. I'm just glad happy I like the people that can still be themselves when out running their errands.

I get giddy when I recognize a background actor on the Lot. I'm like, "That's the Mom from Picket Fences (Yes, a show that no one remembers or has heard of who's younger then 25) or, "that's the cool dorky guy from Road Trip and Memphis Blues". I love recognizing them and I almost go out of my way to say, "hello," but then I remind myself that I'm not a crazed groupie and they probably don't want to be bothered. But I smile as they pass by me in the hall, fiddling with their phones or drinking their coffee, being normal people, uninhibited in their daily routines by their success.

I just want all you wannabe actors out there to know that, even if you don't make it to uber stardom with the huge mansion and 7 cars, there are people in the world that will recognize you every time they see you on and off the screen and they will occasionally IMDB you to see what projects you are working on. You won't have the fan base that the mega stars have, but you can be living your dream and know that somewhere out there, someone is glad you're an actor and you make them smile, maybe just a tad, when they pass you on the street and give their brains a second to commute where they know you from.

The Dream (or any dream) is achievable and viable, you just have to make it happen for yourself and then go out and brighten someone's day.

A Presidental Traffic Jam

President Obama was here in town yesterday, kindly going about his business meeting with famous people and addressing the concerns of the Nation without thought to his Secret Service men and the Los Angeles Sheriffs Department making it their duty to keep almost all people out of his way by a radius of several miles. This included closing/blocking off various main thoroughfares that most LA-ians use to commute to and from their multiple locations.

LA is not a grid city and therefore, very few streets actually transverse great distances across the city. Mostly streets go a few miles and then end at someone's driveway or a business. If you're a tourist, you stick to the the four or five main roads that manage to lead drivers across great distances of the city, but at the cost of sitting in traffic during random hours of the day. If you're a local (or someone who's lived here long enough to understand the traffic flow) you usually know back streets that bypass major traffic intersections and get you where you need to be with minimal horn honking and aggravation.

Obama's visit changed up the scenery for all commuters in the Hollywood, Westwood, Beverly Hills, and Century City areas by diverting main street traffic to little slivers of roads that pass by mansions and cute little hidey-hole shops that locals like to keep to themselves. This included closing off all streets east of Highland in Hollywood, the very street that I needed to drive down to get home after a long, hard day of sitting in my office watching the clock inch by. There's nothing like a 1 mile per hour traffic jam to put you in a happy, "end of work finally!" mood.

I can understand blocking off streets near where the President is going to be, but destroying home-bound commutes for numerous miles, nowhere near where the President is going to be, is a bit much. I guess the traffic problems wouldn't have been so bad if people in LA knew how to drive, but somehow there will always be morons that think they are special and if they manage to smile just right, they will somehow be allowed to drive around the police barricades while everyone else has to follow the natural flow of a detour.

This, in itself, caused the most bummer to bummer jams. I'd be following a person and all of a sudden they'd put on their blinker to turn Right, slow to a practically non-existent crawl, and attempt to maneuver past the flashing police car parked diagonal across several lines of the road. As if they didn't see the police car and its glorious blue and red blinking lights, they'd try to snail pace mow down the officer standing in the middle of the blocked street. Once the officer managed to get the diverted imbecile's attention, who attempted to flash apologetic puppy dog eyes at the unamused officer, the moron would swerve back in front of me just as I had finally managed to cross a particular intersection after 30 minutes of lagging, which left me blocking said intersection. A fine-able offense in most cities.

Needless-to-say, it was a frustrating hour and a half journey home with a heavy case of road rage bubbling to the surface. I use to be such a calm and respectful driver, now I all want to do is honk if someone sits at a green light longer than 1.2 seconds. It's not like the extra 5 minutes I'll gain from driving a few miles over the speed limit will help me much, it's just the fact that I want to maintain moving, no matter what direction. The gas, brake, gas, brake just doesn't work for my A.D.D. brain. Too much disruption and annoyance. Maybe I should take up yoga or meditation... probably not, idle minds might lead to the same thing as idle hands.

Diets and Thoughts of Murder

So when my co-workers found out I started a diet, they were like, "Why, you don't need to lose weight." "You're already thin." "Huh?" I responded with, "My friend wanted to go on a diet and she needed someone to split the cost of groceries with, so now I get to eat meals that are titled 'Watercress and Almond Salad with Roasted Onion Dressing' or 'Pan-Roasted Salmon with Wilted Chard and Tomato-Mint Raita' that are all home cooked by my friend, packed in lovely Tupperware containers and stocked in my fridge ready for consumption at a moments noticed." What could be better than yummy, healthy food that I don't have to cook myself?

Now, they're all like, "Yeah, I'd go on that diet." Plus I get to eat tons of snacks like: fruit, yogurt, edamame guacamole, nuts, turkey bacon, etc. It's awesome and I could do with losing the love handles.

My Friend needed Soy Milk for the diet and it was my job to pick it up from the market, but of course I forgot to get it the first night she asked and had to detoured on my way home this evening to the local Ralphs (grocery store) for the milk. Once I found the refrigerated aisle, I searched high and low for the wanted item, but among all the cow based milk products, coffee creams, and whipping creams, I discovered a void of empty shelves to which I leaned in to inspect the price labels attached to the blank metal and discovered the answer to why I couldn't spot the soy milk.

I walked the length of the coolers and still, could not find the one item I was entrusted to obtain. I felt like a failure, here, my friend is slaving away in the kitchen to feed me (and herself) and I can't even find her the one lousy fake-milk product she'd asked me to get? Man, I'm lame. I really didn't want to go to another Raplhs, mainly because I was tired and it was the opposite direction of my house, so I searched up and down the aisles for a Raplhs employee in hopes they could solve the mystery of the missing milk.

I finally spotted a lone employee asking the one other customer in the Raplhs if they needed help finding anything as the customer shook their head and walked on by. I stopped and said I needed help.

"Do you have Soy Milk?"

"Um, they moved them to the back where I can't even find them," the clerk said with a straight face.

I totally thought he was being sarcastic, so I responded with, "Oh, so they hide them [soy milk] from you too?"

"Yep."

A pregnant pause. I debated if the guy was messing with me, but when he sort of just stood there and said nothing more, I realized he was dead serious.

"Do you think you can go in the back and try to find me a container?" I looked impatient.

He stared at me for another few seconds.

"I really do need the milk." This finally propelled him into action and he slandered down the aisle and through the "Employees Only" double doors. 5 minutes later, after debating whether to cut my loss and head to another Raplhs, he shuffled through the doors empty handed and asked, "What brand do you need?"

Seriously!!!! I was about ready to kill the guy, debating if he was mental or really lazy.

"Any kind as long as it's regular soy milk." I about growl.

He turned and walked back through the grey doors. 3 minutes later I was walking to the cash registers with Organic Soy Milk in hand while thinking that I now have to pay for the most expensive fake milk the store sells and should I report the moron to his bosses for having bad costumer service or just pay for the milk and get the hell out of the store? I decided home was a much better option than being an asshole and I finally exited Raplhs 10 minutes after entering with one item in hand.

Sometime, it's the little things that can cause you such annoyance and possibly make you homicidal. Beware idiot Raplhs guy, you're on my list!

Santa Monica Crazie

I went to the Farmers Market last Saturday and while waiting for a friend to weed through the identical bushels of lavender at one of the booths, I hovered on the edge of the table trying not to sniff too much - I really don't like the over powerful fragrance. For some reason, Lavender has been deemed a "Girlie scent", therefore making most people assume all women like the smell and want to buy it in whatever form they can find it or receive it as a gift. So not true, but of course, when I'm trying to look as non-disgusted as possible without holding my nose, a random lady starts to try and sell me on buying a lavender scented oil or a steam of the plant off the table.

"Isn't this a lovely smell," the lady waves the oil bottle under my nose as I try to refrain from whacking her hand away.

"I'm not really a fan of Lavender," my voice even.

"Oh," she thinks a beat, "Well there's a peppermint oil and a jasmine one," she points to the little amber bottles sitting on the white linen.

I almost dislike peppermint as much as Lavender, clearly my "woman gene" is on the fritz, "Those are infused with Lavender," I state.

"Are they?" she actually picks up one of the bottles and examines its label, "So it is, but it's a light scent."

"Yea, still, I'm not a fan."

"How about a nice bundle of the steams?" she reaches for the light purple and green leaves.

"Thank you, but no thanks. I'm just waiting on a friend," I desperately try to pretend I'm interested in some small shit-kicker trying to escape from its owners tiny black purse.

The lady puts the dreaded plant back in its bucket and ambles down the booth lined street to another vendor. I watch her retreating back, realizing she didn't even work for the lavender seller. So why the hell was she so adamant on trying to get me to buy a product that wasn't even her own? Good ole Santa Monica crazies!

Social Traffic

What is the deal with traffic? I can not understand why people constantly have to slow to look at the most mundane of things - a broken down car, a parked tow truck waiting for a call, some smooshed roadkill, etc. It's not even like it's a fender bender or a lunatic wandering in the street? You would think people would be wanting to get on their merry little ways and keep the flow of traffic moving, but no, our society of gawkers is astounding. Do people just think that pain, death or anxiety in others is worthy viewing material? It's like a form of crack to driver's, they can't help but to stop and look, hoping to spot broken glass, a trail of blood, or a fist fight that might break out at any moment. They seem to view all things stopped on the side of the road as a potential accidents or tragedies that will fuel their water cooler chatter for the day.

They don't care if someone is hurt or if they've slowed to a stop for two seconds,inadvertently creating a 3 hour traffic jam at that very spot they stopped to view an abandoned car. We are a collective of selfish people, subconsciously seeking out things out of the ordinary for our typical lives because it gives us a sense of relief that we're not the person in trouble or hurt, but an objective viewer that can revel in the grief or frustration of others without being directly effected.

We want to view hardships other then our own, not live them, and stopping to spot things on the side of the road helps us accomplish this goal, even at the cost of sitting for 2 hours moving an inch every 5 minutes to achieve this goal. It is so sad what types of people our social environment has turned us into. So I ask you, dear readers, if you see something on the side of the road, and it doesn't have a blinking orange arrow or red flames directing you to move to another lane, just keep driving...keep the flow of cars proceeding to their destinations unhindered by brake lights.

My Birtdhay Wish

Hello Everyone,

I am one of those people that really hates being the center of attention, having all eyes on her, so celebrating a birthday is pretty scary to me. Having everyone around you, wanting to celebrate in me turning a year older, it's a daunting conscept. But when you have amazing friends, parties can be fun and the people you're with, help you not realize the extra grey hairs you've aquired or the little more pug to your midsection. They remind you of the good times and the crazy times you had with them in the past and share in new memories to be remembered. So for this birthday, I would like every single one of you that reads this page, as your present to me, to leave a comment. You can write whatever you want: a single letter, an expletive, a poem, a short story, gibberish, your name, etc. Just leave me something so I know you care. I love creativity and gifts that come from the heart. I know that almost everyone who will visit this blog today will visit it because I asked them to, so follow through with my wishes and leave me a "comment" of anything, as long as it's not two simple, but unoriginal words of, "Happy Birthday." Anything but those words. And thank you ahead of time for your best wishes.

Fireworks and Port-o-Potties.

You know when you go to large events and there are always real, in-a-building-type bathrooms, and then there are always a wall of port-o-potties set up somewhere near the real bathrooms? When Robby, myself and a group of our friends went to the 4th of July fireworks event at the Santa Barbara beach yesterday, we had to decide which of these lovely facilities to use. Yes, there were 20,000+ people weaving themselves in and out amongst everyone else, blocking your way by walking at a snails pace or randomly stopping to stare at a shit kicker of a Chihuahua, making it so your anticipated annoyment at waiting in a line for a port-o-potty that much worse.

We had been closer to the building bathrooms first and as we approached its beige walls and murky yellow lighting, we noticed something equally disturbing, a line of women milling about out, starting from the entrance, extending down the pathway to the sidewalk and hooking a right, ending further down the street. The boy's side wasn't much better. I looked at Robby, "Hell no," my head indicating the line of women and then pointing towards the second bathroom option for the evening, "Scary X-file port-o-potty's it is." 15 yards to the right of the amazingly long Women's bathroom line was the start of the port-o-potty line, but this line was different.

Upon approaching the tall gray shit houses that make you cringe every time you touch the sides, there was chaos. One large line that we'd originally seen from standing by the real bathrooms was for the wheelchair shit box only. Apparently most people were willing to wait for the large port-o-potty because they wouldn't have to touch anything except the door and the floor and it looked more conducive for the people with little children. Sadly, I wonder what would happened if some one in a wheelchair actually rolled up to the box, would they have first priority to line jump or would they have to wait like everybody else?

Once we managed to make it past the wheelchair line, we were immersed in the chaos. 15 port-o-potties all with their own version of a line, either a group of people waiting for a couple shit boxes or people standing in front of one single box. Robby and I chose to be behind the line that was attached to one shit box rather than multiple because there is always the chance of getting cut when you're in the multiples lines. Yes, it's sad and petty, but if you're going to wait for 15-20 minutes to use a smelly and untouchable toilet, you don't want to be cut by a random Joe Blow that has just walked up. It's not fair and it really urks me. Can you just imagine a lovely cat fight over a port-o-potty, two women flipping their hair back, raising their index fingers to shake, and preparing their, "if looks could kill," stares? Not pretty for the two people involved, but most likely great entertainment for the rest of the people waiting.

Anyhow, the two port-o-potties that Robby and I happened to stand in front of were the mysterious, never opening port-o-potties. Every box around us, doors opening and closing, people coming and going, mostly rubbing hand sanitizer between their palms upon exiting, but the doors in front of us remained closed. Two Asian Women showed up next to me and started talking in broken English about the slow people in the Johns we'd stood in front of. I don't know why they were complaining, they'd only been standing there 3 minutes, but it was funny. We all kept wondering if someone was actually in them, I even joked that the x-files monster managed to survive the past ten years and was current active in Santa Barbara, but when I knocked, I was rewarded with a grumble, so yeah, the guy just got lost, not eaten. A mid-thirties drunk man appeared on my left and slurred out, "Man, did we choose the slowest ones or what?" he looks at me for confirmation, "Yes, I think they fell in," an old saying of my Dad's. The guys tilts his head and then nods, "yeah, yeah, that's a good one."

One of the shit boxes next to the never opening ones, was free and Robby, then I, grabbed it. After I finally got to go and was exiting the stuffy little box of crap, I saw one of the Asian women still waiting and I asked her if someone had come out. "Yes, a man came out." I was equal pissed that I didn't get to see what the guy that lived in the port-o-potty looked like and equally happy I didn't have to use the shit box that someone had previously occupied for 15 minutes or longer - I think it was occupied before we showed up to wait. Advice for going to one of these events in the future: either try to hold it, invest in a funnel, or just knock over the never opening shit box because it's way more entertaining then standing around out front waiting and you just might forget that you need to go through all your laughter (or you just won't care that you don't have to go anymore if you know what I mean.)

With that, I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.

Vicarious Happiness

Have you ever met a person that does something so amazing and creative that you're instantly jealous? Musicians are those people to me; somehow they are able to compartmentalize so well they know how to direct an audience in a sing-along while synthesizing 5-10 instruments and singing the lyrics to a 6 minute song; this after they've writtenl the lyrics and the music to the song. I can barely remember the hook in a 2 minute song, how the hell do you remember numerous songs spread over various albums? I find it uniquely fascinating how one person can retain a certain type of knowledge, while another doesn't have a clue. It's most definitely the way that our brains are wired, but I can't help to wonder if I was taught a certain skill, say music, at a young age, would I now be able to play as well as the Grammy winners or am I just not designed for that type of thinking?

I had the pleasure of attending the Imogen Heap concert last night in Santa Barbara, and I must say, Imogen is truly brilliant. Not only does she play upwards of 15 instruments and fully understand all musical keys, but she knows how to work a crowd. It could be a British thing though. Before Imogen went on stage, her two British opening acts were super cute and adorable when speaking to the audience; with their shy undertones while asking audience members to purchase an EP (CD) and witty nervousness in explaining why they were wearing a shirt that seemed to look like a night shirt, but wasn't. It could just be their accents as well, but I think Imogen and her fellow musicians have a certain ambience that speaks to audiences of confidence and a tad hint of mischief. You automatically dismiss any of their mistakes for entertainment and enjoy their musical blunders because their responses to them are so entertaining.

The first song that Imogen played involved her coming out onto the stage by herself swinging a long plastic tube (the kind most sports fans buy at ball games) above her head and humming in a high tune. After she'd synthesized the "whooshing" sound of the tube, she threw it to the side and started to sing. 5 seconds into her song, she stops, mumbles something about the key being off and then wanders over to where she threw the tube. She tells the audience that she's accidentally thrown the tube onto her synthesizer and it's changed the voice pitch to where she sounds like a "Dialek" (lovely Doctor Who reference Robby, Myself, and about 5 other people in the audience got). She mumbles some more to herself about how she should start the song over, while making wild hand gestures, before announcing to the audience that she's going to start from scratch, meaning everyone - she points to her band - needs to get off the stage, including herself. The stage clears, the lights reset, and 30 seconds later, she back, front and center, swinging the tube, singing, "Feels like this," but adding, "again" at the end ("feels like this...again") It's always good to have a sense of humor when making a fool of yourself in front of 10,000 people.

Imogen has to be one of the most inspired musicians I've ever heard. She uses what she sees, hears, and feels around her to design her songs. In between her different songs, while the stage hands set up various mics and lights or her musicians plugged in to their instruments, Imogen would tell an abbreviated story of how the song she is about to sing, came to be. One song came to her as she was going for a run in the park. Every day she would hear birds chirping and so she wrote a song about how she felt alive at hearing those birds. She even used bird chirps in the harmony. Another song starts with the crackle of a fire burning. Apparently she burned a log of wood that held special meaning to her and her family (not sure why) and she wrote about her emotions as the log burned while being surround by the people she loved the most. My favorite song she wrote was an erie "Down the Rabbit Hole" harmony inspired by a disastrous date where she cooked for a guy who said he was allergic to wheat, fish, eggs, and basically any ingredient she knew how to cook with. After she'd managed to cook a surprisingly tasty meal, she was still hungry (cause there wasn't any meat), so she grabbed a chocolate biscuit off the table. The guy grabs one as well and starts to eat it when she goes, "You can't eat that, it has wheat and egg in it." He responds, "It's just a small biscuit, I'll be fine." She's thinking, "Well, we could of just had a small piece of fish and you'd be fine!"

She is also very in-tune with experimentation. I guess, when she's writing songs, she plays around with various objects, trying to learn their sounds and how she can use them in a song. A guy came onto the stage with a rusty saw and proceeded to start off the melody of a song with a stick caressing the blades. She starts another song with, what I consider to be a tribute to "Miss Congeniality", the rimming of wine glasses. Her band incorporates: 4 different kinds of cymbals, Bells, Vibes, electric and normal guitars, piano, keyboard, birds, fire, saws, drums, voice, hands, clothes, life and objects.

I just love her way of seeing the world, at any one moment, something could inspire her to dance or sing or write. If only the majority of people in the world were this easily influenced to create and be happy, we'd be a better society of people. I'm envious of her seemingly free spirit and ability to truly be one with herself. I encourage everyone to listen to her music and watch her perform, if not for the sake of hearing her music, for the chance to become happy vicariously through Imogen.

A Must See Film!

My Friend, the amazing Julien Nitzberg, is a brilliant documentary filmmaker that just completed a new documentary on an insane and extremely entertaining West Virgina family. He spent a year following around a group of drug obsessed hillbillies that love having a good time and being with family, no matter all the stupid shit family can do to piss you off. His film has premiered at Tribeca Film Festival and is now opening in Los Angeles on June 25th. It is also on "On Demand". I highly recommend this film to anyone over the age of 18. Not really appropriate for the little kids as there's drug use, nudity, and swearing...but that just means it's even better for all of us with slightly dirty, corrupt minds.

Now, for all you folks out there that think documentaries are...gasp...boring, you're in for a surprise. This film is highly entertaining, and surprisingly funny. You're immediately sucked into the family's drama, wanting to learn more about their problems while trying to comprehend how a person can think and act the way they do. I encourage everyone to take a step outside of their comfort zone (or suck up their pride if they think it's "girlie" to watch docs) and go see this movie. Support Julien while entertaining yourselves!

You can find out more information on the film at http://www.wildandwonderfulwhites.com/

or watch the trailer below:

The Rate of Evolution

You know when average people, who aren't mothers - natural or otherwise, are asked to hold a friend or family member's baby without the actually asking - the baby is pushed into their wobbly, outstretched, elbow locked arms, with a tiny, raspberry burping human staring at them - they try and comprehend, "how the hell do I hold it?" Yea, well, this is a natural and expected question to the unexpected holding of another life force. You don't want to drop the baby or hold he/she upside down or wrap one hand around the kid's stomach the first time around; all very bad. You have to be gentle, cradle the kid in your arms so those large, inquisitive eyes can stare up at your face and wonder, "Who the hell are you? Where's Mommy!" before waling to high heavens. Anyhow, holding a baby is a little tricky.

Yesterday, as a favor to Little Di, I brought Tony Stripes (cute kitty from my blog a couple weeks ago) to "The Hills Have Eyes" kitty adoption people at the local Petco, so he could get his deworming shot and some other shot that kitties need to stay healthy. While I waited for the odd adoption, epitome of a "Cat Woman", lady to finally notice me in the practically empty store, two mid-teenage sisters wandered over to the kitty cages and spotted Tony in my arms. They started talking about how they really wanted a kitten, but their mom wasn't so sure and since they currently had a guinea pig that shits everywhere, it wasn't likely they were going to get an animal that uses a smelly litter box.

One of the girls asked me if they could hold Tony, and I'm like, "Sure," while holding him out for her to take. She gives me a shy look and says, "I don't know how to hold him." This is where the baby part of this blog is relevant. It's one thing to not know how to hold a baby, they don't always land on their feet when dropped, but a kitten? Cats somehow manage to defy gravity 98% of the time, Nova - my cat, is one of the exceptions; the poor thing is so badly uncoordinated she falls off the foot wide edge of the couch. You can grab a kitty on the back of the neck (just like his mom would), pick him up under his tummy or armpits, cradle him in the crook of your arms, etc - it's not rocket science. Kittens are very mailable animals that will indubitable squirm in your arms whether you hold them correctly or not. The main goal when holding a kitten is to try and not let the animal abuse you too much as as a jungle gym or bite you.

If the kitten happens to fall out of your arms, whether you've accidentally dropped he/she or he/she's decided to learn how to fly, you needn't worry too much because a small 3-4.5 foot drop is like a mini "Drop Zone" to the kitten. Somehow their fascinating agility will always find a way to rotate them in mid air so that, most of the time, they'll land feet first. It's one of life's amazing wonders. Cats have an ability to fall up to 9 stories and still land on their feet. Maybe this is where all the "9 lives" rumors come from, cats falling from a height that should have killed them and surviving.

Anyhow, the kid asking me how to hold Tony was rather ridiculous to me. I pushed Tony into her arms and said, "Just make sure you're holding most of his weight and if he falls, he'll live, so don't be afraid." At first the girl was extremely nervous - smoshing Tony between her right forearm and her abdomen, while her left arm was under his feet. Tony, still being a little wary of the other animals in the Petco, was unnaturally calm (not climbing on and biting everything in sight), but the girl was still afraid she was going to drop him so she announces, "I think I'll sit down. I don't think I'm ready to stand and hold him." Um... ok. The kid's sister sits down next to her, enviously watching Tony be petted. "Can I hold him too?" she asks. "Sure, Tony doesn't care."

Tony gets passed, tentatively, from one sister to the other. Both girls are immediately smitten by Tony's adorableness, and thank goodness, his subdued (nervousness of new surroundings) manner. They talked to me more about wanting a kitten, but one of the sisters said their mom was currently in love with another guinea pig she'd found in the store and so the chances that they could get a cat, that day, was pretty slim. I told them that eventually, maybe when they were older, they'd get their kitty. Hell, when they're 18, they can move out on their own and get their very own cat while trying to figure out how to live without supervision or rules and be responsible adults. It will be a blast to look forward too.

Eventually the "Cat Woman" warms up Tony's shots, and within ten minutes of entering Petco, Tony's made two new friends, and ready to go home without actually realizing he's received any shots ("Cat Woman's" that good); only a nasty taste in his mouth from the deworming serum. In those same 10 minutes, I learned that there are some seriously naive people in the world, but I also might just be a huge bitch. I guess everyone learns simple things at different stages in their lives, so I shouldn't be a harsh, judgemental asshole, but then, I wouldn't be me and this wouldn't be the World According to Em.


RANDOM NOTE:
When I was pondering why cats manage to walk, eat, and jump within a few weeks of life while humans take many years to learn these simple things, Little Di surmised that kittens are usually left on their own after a short period of time, so they've evolved to adapt to life quicker than Humans, who have people looking after them for longer periods of time, hence, a slower rate of evolutions. I guess, extremely slower rate in some people.

With Dancing Comes Knowledge

I went to the Key Club last night for the first time. Little Di and a friend of hers wanted to go see Spazmatics - a group of four High School wedgie candidates; complete with masking taped glasses, suspender pants hiked higher than Urkles, a pager, false buck teeth, a neck brace, plaid pants that flood, and more outrageous stuff from our youth we all wish to forget - that preform 80's cover songs at midnight on Sundays and Thursdays in Los Angeles. The Spazmatics gained notoriety about 20 years and have been performing ever since across America, enlightening young and old minds to songs they'd forgotten and wished to hear again.

Since the Spazmatics didn't perform until midnight, and Little Di and I arrived at 10:30pm, we had some time to kill. You would think that the Key Club, a famous Hollywood nightclub, would have an opening band to entertain the masses, but no, they had a DJ that liked to change the current song every minute or so, throwing off a dancer's rhythm. Like most of the people in the club, we opted to talk over a drink rather than attempt to dance to the ever changing beat. We'd also discovered that the "Hollywood Prom" was taking place at the Key Club that evening.

When we'd first entered the club we were a little shocked to see so many young looking people milling about in prom dresses and suits; some people even had corsages. It was like a bad acid trip; going to a place you don't really want to relive (I mean, who actually enjoyed their prom so much, they'd love to go to another one?), and then wondering if the random guy that comes up to you and asks you to dance is even old enough to buy you a drink first. A little frightening. Most of the people that go to Spazmatics come decked out in 80's outfits: leggings, knitted arm sleeves, scrunchies, stylized ripped t-shirts, etc. - I'd only been to the Spazmatics once before and I never remembered anyone coming in prom outfits.

Luckily one of the bouncers set us straight and explained that the "Hollywood Prom" was just a sales gimmick and that everyone in the club, despite their appearances, was over 21. Well, that was a relief, getting asked to dance by a 15-year-old looking 21-year-old in a Tuxedo printed T-shirt; ahhh, my dream date.

As we were waiting for the main event of the evening to start and checking out the awfully wonderful prom dresses that some of the kids were wearing (wondering if they'd bought them on clearance after the local High School's real Proms ended a few weeks prior, or if they were actually wearing their original Prom dresses), when two girls in scandalous outfits paraded onto the main stage, while one girl hopped up onto the mini stage, with parallel post adhered to the floor, in front of where Little Di and I were standing at the back of the club. The DJ changed the music to a faster tempo and the girls started to dance.

I have to say, it's an interesting experience to watch a late 20's, stick thin Blond woman, wearing a lace white mini skirt tutu with black, barely wider than a thong, panties underneath, and a sequins bra top flip upside down on the parallel bars and start to do the splits. It's even creepier when she puts one foot on the ground, turns sideways, her hands holding the bars, and starts to kick her free foot straight above her head and over repetitively with an almost bored, indifference plastered on her face.

The two girls dancing on the front of the stage had on similar outfits and mostly booty shaked their bodies to the music. They both slid to the floor in splits a few times, but it wasn't nearly as fluid as the girl on the bars. All three of the women were thin, with blond hair and great legs. I couldn't help but wonder how they got their jobs, what the hiring interview was like: "Hi, I'm here to apply for your dancer position." "Yea sure, give me a second to look at you," the Hiring manager responds, "Well, you're a blond, that's good. You seem young enough to appeal to the Key Club crowd," He looks her up and down, "Can I see you dance?" The Dancer just shrugs her shoulders and starts moving to the beat in her head. "That's great," the Hiring Manager says, "but can you do the splits? How do you feel about wearing next to nothing and dancing in front of drunk, horny men?"

I guess to a Dancer, dancing at the Key Club is on a level slightly higher than being a stripper, but not by much, judging by the skimpy outfits and the way all the men's eyes in the club seemed to follow the girl's moves with lust. While Di and I watched the dancers (there was nothing else to watch and I was envious of the flexibility these women had), we were speculating that the one girl on stage with the urber fake boobs was probably doubling as a stripper and that the one on the bars had most likely come to LA to be an actor or work with some kind of dance troop, but ended up dancing at the Key Club (or worse) and after being objectified for so long, became apathetic to everything around her, while the poor remaining girl on stage was fairly new to the Key Club dance scene and hadn't yet become jaded judging by the genuine smile she wore as she moved to the beat.

It was a fascinating cultural anthropological study about the human condition and what people are willing to do for money, no matter the cost to their pride, vanity, or self-respect, watching these women dance. I guess there is something to learn or be thankful for everywhere you go, you just have to open your eyes.

"Running" to the ER

Nina, my ex-roommate, who's been staying with me for the past few days, and I went for a lite jog (I went rollerblading - running kills me), yesterday morning. After Nina put in about two miles on her running shoes, she decided to finish off the workout session with sprints. Unfortunately, after literally three steps into the first sprint, Nina pulls something in her thigh and she's down for the count on a stretch of road emulating the "Stand'". She sends me back to the house to get the car and pick her up.

Once I'd manged to get her into the car and return home, I knocked on a few neighbor's doors to see if someone would help me lift her up the stairs to my apartment so she could take a soothing bath and hopefully fix the leg, but of course, it's the one day that no one is around to help and after Nina got a foot out of the car, she was crying, so it was off to the emergency room.

I pulled into the ER lot and was told to wait by the car for an orderly that would bring out a wheel chair. A few minutes later a cute, early 20's, 6'2" orderly pushes a wheel chair right up to the passenger side of the car and helps Nina into it. As he wheels her into the building, he casually asks Nina how she hurt herself, "I was sprinting and something happened." "But you look like you're in shape," he responds, his eyes taking in the fact that she's only in a sports bra and running pants. Good pick up line dude.

I was tasked with finding a parking spot, but oddly enough, the ER parking lot had about 200 parking spot, five of them emergency patient parking only and the rest were reserved for doctors. Totally fucked up if you ask me; what do seriously injured people, who've driven themselves to the hospital, do when they need help and there's nowhere to park? Do they abandon their vehicles in the ambulance zone or do they park four long blocks up and across from the hospital, like I did, and walk back to the ER all bleeding and half dead. I seriously think the hospital needs to build a parking structure or tell some of the doctors to park in one of the $10 an hour pay lots around the corner. Inefficient medical care shouldn't start in the parking lot.

Once I managed to trek back to Nina, I found her chilling in a wheelchair, waiting for a Nurse to accept her paperwork and process her into the hospital. There were about 5 other people in the waiting room. Most of them seemed to be ok, but the odd lady in the corner captured the most of my attention. She was complaining to the admission nurse about the slow service, saying she had a lot of pain in her back and shoulder, while walking back and forth between her seat and the admin window. It was probably my fault, but I made eye contact with her, giving her permission to "chat" with us.

She told us she was helping her sister move the other day, but tweaked something in her back, now she's at the ER. She went on to inform us that her sister never helps her with anything, but she always helps her sister; she's got four kids, the eldest one is her miracle baby because she was told she couldn't have children (her first son dying, I think at birth); and she's got a weird, creepy vein condition that causes the femoral artery to throb painfully and stick out on her legs. A bunch of history about a woman I didn't need to know.

An hour and a half later, an old black woman shuffles into the waiting room. I over hear her say that she was born in 1922. This lady seems coherent and is able to walk, abet slowly, but freely, and she's close to 90. Congrats to her. The only problem is, she's hacking up her lungs. Now, I can stand the sight and sound of blood and guts, but people puking their guts up...it's just my nails on a chalkboard. The lady takes a seat near Broken Back Woman and we all wait another hour before the nurse calls on one of us.

I'd been wanting coffee, badly, because I'm addicted and love the flavor, since I'd entered the ER, but I didn't want to leave Nina by herself, this being the first time she's been to the ER for anything kind of possibly broken or torn thing. I was also afraid that the minute I left, they would call her and I'd be stuck in the waiting room with the crazy women. But after waiting 2 1/2 hours, coffee was calling my name. Like luck would have it, I stood up, the nurse's door opened, and Nina's name was called. Maybe I should I have thought to get coffee a lot sooner, then Nina would already be seen by a doctor. The nurse rolled Nina into a mini office to take her blood pressure and temperature, while I walked across the street to McDonald's.

Of course, when I returned, Nina had vanished and the waiting room had emptied out except for Broken Back Woman and Pukey Lady. Both were sitting in chairs, on opposite sides of the room, along the back wall. I took a seat in the middle and sipped my coffee while munching on a McChicken Wrap. I'd asked the admin nurse where Nina was and he said she was still in the Nurse's office. Pukey Lady said she wasn't in there anymore and then, of her own initiative, launched in to an explanation of why she was hacking up her insides - some weird stomach disease I couldn't pronounce. She was actually quite nice and I felt bad for her. Interspersed between the description of the old woman's health problems and the Admin nurse telling me I could see Nina in 10 mins, Broken Back Woman eyes my chicken wrap and starts to slyly question what I'm eating and how much it cost.

I tell her I'd go get her one, but she says she has no money, after which explaining she hasn't eaten since the previous day. I stare straight ahead, hoping she'll stop talking to me, but instead she gets up from her chair, walks towards me, and plops herself in the chair directly across from me. "Can I ask you a favor?" she questions. "Sure." "Will you buy me one of those?" she points at my sandwich. You got to be kidding me, I think, and am thankful the waiting room is almost completely empty, otherwise, who knows who else would ask a complete stranger to buy them food? The Lady puppy dogs her eyes and practically begs me without a word. "Fine," I say, and then ask her what kind she would like. It's only a $1.50, and if it gets her to leave me alone, then so be it.

I walk back to McDonald's, procure one more chicken wrap and return to the hospital. Broken Back Lady's been admitted, but apparently she'd been waiting by the waiting room door, because as soon as I question Pukey Woman on her whereabouts, the hospital door opens and Broken Back Lady, dressed in a hospital gown, is there. I hand her the food, she thanks me and closes the door. Interesting woman, but crazy.

2 minutes later, I'm finally allowed in the back, where I get to wait with Nina for another 2 hours, before it's deemed by a doctor that she just pulled her upper leg muscle and she should use crutches for the next few days. While waiting in the ER room, the hot orderly from the morning, randomly comes into Nina's room, throws on a pair of gloves, wipes down one of the metal tool trays, and then leaves. He'd said "Hi" and we talked about maybe getting a pair of crutches for Nina (because I had to wheel her to the bathroom on the stool the doctor zooms across the room in) but that was all. Nina and I think the orderly came into the room in an attempt to chat up Nina, but failed miserably, trying to throw off suspicion of his failed pick up attempt by wiping down a tray for no reason. If nothing else, it was entertaining.

So after about 4 hours, two crazy women chatting in the waiting room, one dateless orderly, and a couple of other weird experiences in the ER room, Nina and I were free to walk/gimp outside into the fresh Marina del Rey air. Luckily nothing was seriously wrong with Nina's leg, and I managed to gather more material to write about. Maybe I'll tell you about the pharmacy crack pots another time.

A box full of Friends and Strangers

I've been in Palm Desert for the last few days, to visit my Aunt and Uncle, but also as a kind of last vacation for myself before I go in search of a crap job that probably pays $10 an hour. It has come to the point where money is tight and a shit, retail job might be the answer/quick fix to some of my problems. But hopefully it won't come to this just yet as I just got finished shooting a pilot tv show for Mark Ebner, one of the boys from my show, Still Single, and from the show, I met Julien, who passed my name along to the Producers at Intervention, a brilliant documentaries series on A&E. I'm keep my fingers crossed for an interview this week and then hopefully the best two words in the world..."You're Hired!!!". (Fingers Crossed)

Anyhow, this pity trip I just took you on is not the filler of this blog excerpt, nope, I wouldn't do that to you folks. My blogs are about the weird and interesting people I meet and more importantly, the stupid shit I do or get myself into. So, I decided to come to Palm Desert for vacation, but little did I know, my ex-roommate (and good friend), Nina, also decided, after carefully reviewing the weather channel, to head to the desert for sun and heat. She's been living in Benicia, Ca for the last year (she's originally from Los Angeles) and she hates the storm and gloom of the Bay Area. She missed sunshine and the happiness it seems to invoke in her, so even though she is staying at my house this weekend, she needs sunshine before heading to rainy LA for the weekend. She found a good deal online for a hotel in Palm Springs and then casually throws in our conversation of coming for the weekend that, "I'm driving down to Palm Springs right now. I'll be there for about two days before I head to your house." "What? I'm driving to Palm Desert," I exclaim. "Oh yeah, I vaguely remember you saying something about heading somewhere." "I'll call you when I arrive and maybe we can grab dinner or go hiking," I respond. Little did I know that it would be about 100 degrees and hiking, unless at 6 am, was not going to be an option.

Friday day, my sister (who was already in Palm Desert for a CSI - the real CSI's, not the show - conference), my aunt, Nina, and myself decided to go on the Palm Desert Tramway, an 80 person glass box that travels about 5000 feet upwards, on 3 small copper wires to the mountain top of San Jacinto National Park. Along the journey to the top of the mountain, you get to take lovely pictures of the desert valley below and the unique colors of the sun bleached rocks dotting the hillside, while the tram floor moves you in a slow clockwise circle. There are three main towers that the Tram passes on its journey, all causing a mild swing effect to the Tram and a little roller coaster feel to the occupants.


Mini waterfall shot inside the Glass box on the way to the top of the mountain.


You can see the wire that the Tram rides on, and how far we are above the rocks below.

Me, being a crazy, evil bastard, thought it would be fun to jump up and down every time the Tram passed a tower, as it caused the other passengers, along with Nina and my Aunt, to get nervous and send slanted glances in my direction as the tram swung a little higher then before. If you're going to be riding in a glass box, where the employees make you take a body identification photo (in case the tram falls and they need to figured out one mangled body from another) disguised as a tourist picture before you enter the Tram, then you might as well enjoy yourself, and roll with the swing of a glass coffin.

15 minutes later, we made it to the top of the mountain and were greeted with a wonderful view of the wind energy propellers littering the valley floor; the hideously designed tower of the Morongo Casino to the left; the great expanse of the desert floor stretching for 100's of miles, the northern part ending at the Sultan Sea; and the gorgeous sight of light purple hues mixing with the dark yellow of the sinking, evening sun, spreading across the white cloud sprinkled sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold, my camera, happily clicking away.


View of the Valley floor below.


Mounatin view at the Top - San Jacinto National Park.

We walked to the highest part of the view site, meeting up with a lovely pair of ladies that had taken the tram numerous times in the past and still enjoyed the view. Out of all the things that random strangers could say on top of that mountain: maybe mention the beautiful desert view or the lush green woods spreading behind the back end of the Tram depot, shoes were not on the list of my expectations. One of the women had on a shiny pair of water proof sneakers that she bought last year and wears as everyday shoes. All of us seemed to notice them right away, probably because of their bright orange color, but they soon became the topic of discussion for the next 10 minutes. After we realized the ridiculousness of the situation, being in nature and talking about shoes, of all things, the Nina exclaims, "No matter where you go in the world, women will end up talking about fashion and shopping."

So true and so sad all at the same time. Beauty, desert, woods, and shoes...a journey in a glass box with friends and strangers.


Creative spin picture I took of the "river" on top the mountain.

The Charmin Puppy Reenactment

I don't know if any of you have seen or remember the commercial where there's an adorable yellow Labrador puppy running through a sunny kitchen, and as he rounds the counter island, he skids sideways into a stack of Charmin Toilet paper rolls. It's cute and funny at the same time. Well, for some reason faith decided I should unwillingly become that puppy (although not nearly as cute), and a tower of Brest Cancer Awareness Styrofoam coffee cups should double as Charmin Ultra.

For the last week I've been working on a Pilot television show, that hopefully, if it gets picked up (in probably a few months) will solve my unemployment problem. Yesterday was the first day of shooting and after rolling cameras for 5 1/2 hours on interviews (me being one of the camera operators), plus 4 hours of prep, we were headed to the next location, but needed a quick coffee stop. The Van pulled over at a 7-11, where Robby (she's my production assistant/slave for two days - hehe), Jo - the VP of Development for the Production Company, and myself all went into the store to grab coffees and some snacks. Robby was a little slow on making her disgusting hot chocolate, coffee, half pound of sugar concoction, by the time Jo was paying. I was at the counter with Jo, trying to tell the cashier that we were all on the same bill and the coffees that Jo, myself and Robby had were all together.

For some reason the cashier wasn't understanding all that needed to be rung up, and Robby was playing her selective hearing card - so void on answering my call, when I decided to go and get her and bring her coffee to the cashier. Enter Murphy...I sort of jogged right and around the register counter to the left, but as I was rounding the chip rack to reach Robby, I found myself sliding forward at the same time my knee hit the ground, my momentum moving me straight into a tower of coffee cups. Within 2 seconds I went from semi jogging, but standing, to a pile of limbs slayed across a 7-11 floor with a bunched up floor mat surrounded by white Styrofoam. My knee tinged and my elbow bruised.

As I rubbed my knee, Robby tried to contain her laughter, Jo wondered what happened, the 7-11 clerk rushed to give me his hand with "law suit" on his mind; I could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to be extremely nice to me in case I wanted to take the little convenience store for all it's worth cause their "non-slip" floor mats suck at their jobs. Once I was back on my feet, the clerk and Robby cleaning up the dropped cups, I informed Jo of my great misadventure and managed to actually succeed at my original purpose of grabbing Robby and her coffee and getting it to the register.

In the end, I ended up immensely entertaining Jo and Robby, by being an idiot, and managing to scare the shit out of some poor 7-11 clerk, but I got my coffee and a new story to tell all of you. Interesting enough, I don't think I was embarrassed at all my my mishap, I just thought it was funny and so, I guess, it's good to laugh at yourself once in a while.

Learning to Walk

Little Di just acquired a new, furry roommate. Meet 2 month old, Tony Stripes Molina. Di wants to take the cute thing out for fresh air once in a while, so we were trying to get him accustomed to his leash. It ended up back firing because Tony somehow forgot how to use his rear legs when hooked into the contraption.*



*Tony wasn't harmed in the making of this film.

My favorite part is the last few seconds where Tony stops, and in slow motion, topples over. Did any of you have a favorite part or something about the video made you laugh harder than the rest?

Random Snippets with Single Serving Friends

Sorry, it's been so long since I've posted anything. I had my sister and ex-roommate, Nina, over for the weekend and they took up a lot of my time; plus I wanted something fun to write about and me, reminiscing about old times with friends, isn't exactly fun for anyone but the people involved. Anyhow, I have to comment on how chatty random people are when you're waiting for something - in a line, for a dryer at the Laundromat, while you're pumping gas, etc. It must be that people are so bored with just standing around and immersed in their own thoughts (which can be frightening) that they seek out others to talk with, shoot the bullshit.

Big Di and I went to Big Lots yesterday so Big Di could check out the lawn furniture. She recently moved into a house with a pool, but there isn't anywhere to sit in the backyard if she decides to throw a party, so we went scouting. Big Lots may seem like a crappier version of Kmart, but they have some great deals and not bad products. I used to think that they only carried generics, but yesterday I was pleasantly surprised to find that they carried my "Clear and Free All" detergent and the color safe Clorox bleach. I went to Target the other day to buy these products and they were $6 and $10 respectively. At Big Lots they were $3.50 and $6. That's a great saving.

But you guys don't want to read about me promoting a store most of you would never step foot in, onwards to the point of this blog...I walked into the store with only the intention of "window shopping", not even bothering to grab a cart or basket (even though the friendly bum out front offered me one) and ended up with my arms over flowing to the point where I was dropping things in the aisle. After a nice store clerk handed me a dropped soap container, I headed outside to obtain the previously mentioned cart, much to the amusement of the bum and store clerk.

While Di and I lingered in the checkout line, with our filled to the rim shopping cart, we commented on just coming into the store to look at furniture, not exactly buy anything. Our conversation caught the ear of the lady in front of us, arms full of products, who giggled and said, "You can never just come into Big Lots and not get an armful of things." Di and I agreed. Since the lines in Big Lots are always long (they only ever seem to have two cashiers and about 20 people in line), you have a lot of time to waste, to chat with random strangers.

Di and my new found friend went on to talk about how she loves certain products and that she'll always find what she needs here. Once she got bored with promoting Big Lots, clearly we were hooked as we were in the store with a cart full of stuff, she moved on to talk about her new computer dying and the fact that you should never let your computer automatically update; it takes forever and makes your computer run slower. We got an in depth opinion of what she downloaded (like 20 apps) and how her computer now runs at a snail pace now.

Thank god the line moved at 5 mph; learning computer maintenance 101 from a fellow customer was enlightening, but a little too much for the long wait. Luckily our turn was finally up at the register and after saying goodbye to us, the lady left. I think she was happy to just talk to someone about her issues. It didn't matter that she didn't know us, just that we listened.

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I went to the Laundromat with Little Di this morning and there were two older women there doing laundry. After one of them founds Little Di's pillowcase in her dried clothes, we all started to chat. Apparently green - any deviation of it, is a popular color as the lady's friend accidentally started to pulls Di's clothes out of the dryer and place them with her friends. She'd just seen green through the dryer door and assumed that all the greens things were hers and her friends. It turned out that every dryer with the two lady's, Di's, and my clothes contained something notably green. Small world.

We joked about all our stuff looking similar and how I ended up with a random man's sock and a dog t-shirt in my clothes, while they ended up with Di's sheets and Di got someones t-shirt. It's like people go to a public Laundromat, wash their clothes and then leave. They don't check to see if they've left something behind. Can people be in that much of a hurry? It's also sad that I didn't check in the washers before I used them, that might have been where the mysterious new clothes I acquired came from. I also lost 2 socks - I blame the sock monster (who is definitely real and is to blame for everything lost, not just socks). It's an interesting experience when you go to the Laundromat; you never know what you'll lose and what you'll gain.

A Worthwhile Punishment

They say that "No good deed goes unpunished", and how true that little prophecy is. Why? No one really knows, but it happens more times than nath that someone sets out to be a kind and helpful soul, only to be rewarded by bad luck and suffering. Oh the joys of life; almost makes one not want to be helpful. But, then I think this saying is also a barrier of courage that a truly helpful, do-gooder would hear, ponder for all of a second, and plow head first into with their good intentions. It's only a caution sign to those unafraid of words, to the special people, that no matter what, will always help another, even if that is to be the cause of their downfall.

I've been extremely bored lately, probably caused by lack of work and people to hang out with, so I took the initiative to find a means of entertainment for my depressed soul, and I found REI's, Big Sunday's, and the Children's Nature Institutes's trail/garden weeding, maintenance day in Griffith Park. I like nature, being outdoors, and helping people, so I figured, "what the hell, I'll help out." Plus, I thought that I might meet some cool people to future befriend or maybe, possibly, a job contact.

I usually fret about doing things on my own, mostly because I feel comfortable with a wingman - someone who I know will be around as a fall back in case I can't find anyone to talk to or someone to keep me from looking/acting like an idiot in front of others. My wingman doesn't have to hang by my side the entire time I'm somewhere, but it's just comforting to know that there is another person about who understands me and will save me from myself if something awkward should arise (i.e. a weird 55-year-old trying to dance with and kiss me, me becoming a wallflower on the wall of a socialite party, my foot jamming itself in my mouth as I try to defend an opinion, etc.). Yeah, wingman make life simpler and safer.

I arrived at 9:00 am last Saturday morning at Griffith park, attired in men's cargo pants with gardening gloves sticking out of the right knee pocket, an old t-shirt, a water bottle, and my good intentions; no wingman/woman about. I'd called and sent out a Facebook request for people to join me, but all were unable to attend (although some wanted to, even my friend, Stephanie from St. Louis, although that's a little far to travel for 3 hours of easy labor.) It was me and my "social outgoingness", along with 50 or so other volunteers, who would have the lovely task of deweeding the Children's Nature Institutes's plant garden as well as the path that ran through the garden.

People of all ages, parents with their children (some being less then a year to High School age), couples, single individuals, and friends all milled about with shovels, gloves, and rakes waiting to be put to work. It was kind of refreshing to see such a diverse group of people coming out on a random Saturday to dig up hiking trails and plant new trees. There truly are selfless people in the world and it's nice to have faith that society (or just Los Angeles) isn't totally filled with evil, backstabbing social climbers.

The main gardener took the first group of volunteers, 15 people including myself, on a mini tour of the garden and trail while explaining what was a plant and what was a weed. I think I understood 2 of the 10 plants he told us were weeds and to be pulled because of the lovely tall people who stood between me and the gardener. Once the gardener released us to clear the trail of evil cannibalistic plants, a group of 4 volunteers and myself took up positions in one quadrant of the garden and started to pull everything that looked suspicious of being a "weed" with hope of not pulling out a plant that was suppose to be in the garden. Most of the "good plants/non weeds" were marked with white tabs, so I didn't worry too much about accidentally killing something that should have remained in the garden (although it did happen, I think twice, but there are always causalities in war - a weeding war)

Three of the other 4 people working in the same area as me all knew each other and were the first to instigate conversation with me; which was nice because I'd been trying to think of something to say to them besides "Hi," and "what do you do when you're not yanking weeds out of the ground?" It turns out that "you can't throw a shoe in Los Angeles without hitting a Producer," according to Paulette; she worked as a Film Producer. Her Boyfriend and his friend worked in animation and the last person deweeding in our area was a pianist from the LA Symphony. We all got along great and chatted, pulled plants from the earth, and dug holes for 3 hours.

Paulette and her friends named themselves, "Group Awesome", and made me an honorary member. It was refreshing to have not known anyone when I started the day and then to have become part of a group, all within 2 hours of initially meeting. I guess I don't really need a wingman; I can actually accomplish "being social" on my own, I just have to be open to the idea. So, my good deed for the day/week/maybe year produced a morning of being helpful to the Children's Nature Institute and a couple of interesting people's company. It was a win win situation for all parties involved.

One day later, I noticed a small rash on my arms. A couple hours after noticing the rash, it began to itch. By Monday afternoon the rash had spread and the itching had gotten annoying. It's Tuesday evening now, the rash has covered both of my forearms, one eye, and some parts on my leg. I guess that's what I get for scratching. So, here's where the punishment of my good deed comes into play...Poison Oak. I didn't heed the warning and got life's unfair just deserts...but for a day outdoors, soaking up Vitamin D and socializing with actually people, I wouldn't have given up for anything. :)

The Blue Dance

I went out to a bar last night to celebrate my dear friend, Val, getting married. Me, along with about ten other lovely girls, dressed poor Val in a constantly shedding white boa, a feathered tiera, and a giant "diamond" ring that blinked a blue light for all of an hour before the battery died (I had hoped it would blink all night so in case we lost Val somewhere in a crowd - she's 5'2" - we'd be able to find her) and headed to a downtown bar after dinner at a shabu-shabu restaurant (a place where you pay to cook your own food. It's kind of cool in a way, but not sure the prices are worth the effort).

At the bar, someone of course handed Val another Blue Hawaiian (it seemed Val's theme of the night was blue - blue dress, at one point she had on a blue boa, a blue blinking ring, etc) and made her dance to the 70/80's bad house music. I think since it was prom night for most of the local High Schools, the DJ was nostalgic for their all Alma Mater and thought he'd give the bar customers a throw back. Sorry dude, wrong decade for that type of music. Anyhow, Val, the lightweight that she is, didn't care how terrible the beat of the music was and danced her little heart out. Of course, wearing a feathered boa and a tiera, tends to make you stick out (even in a dimly lit pub), so she got a lot of interesting admirers - one being a crowd of scantly dressed women, all wearing 4-inch or higher heels.

Now my friends: Cindy, Dawn, and Joy, plus myself, spent the better part of the bar portion of the evening contemplating how one of these scantly dressed women wasn't flashing her panties (if she was even wearing any) to the crowd gathered around her. Her dress was a clingy black tube thing with thin straps and ended just short of her upper thighs. It seemed to be a little longer in the front than the back, but I attribute that to the fact she had an ass. The back of the dress stopped just below her rump and here is what all of us were pondering, "did she tape the dress to her body so it wouldn't ride up or is someone going to get a show later on?" I also wanted to know if she was ever planning on sitting down that whole evening as I'm sure the heels would be killing her feet, but then if she sat down she would be doing a great impression of Basic Instinct?

Just the things to entertain a group of girls not interested in doing the two step with random bad dancers and to an outdated beat. The bar was very nice aside from DJ, and if I was ever downtown again, I might consider going back. So, I leave my amazing readings (and yes, I'm happy to say I have a few - thank you guys for being loyal to me) with another question: Do any of you have stories about weird things people wear on a night out?

The things one can buy at a Liquor Store!

Little Di and I went to the liquor store last night to grab a few bottles of wine since we'd previously went to Ralphs, but had forgotten our IDs and therefore walked away empty handed. After we browsed the limited selection of cheaper wines at the store, we eventually made our choices and deposited the bottles on the counter. As Little Di searched in her wallet for cash, I let my eyes wander over the items on the counter: little alcohol bottles, candy bars, "take a dime, leave a dime" container, razors, lighters, energy drinks....hold up, razors? What the hell were razors doing on the counter of a liquor store? I just had to ask.

"You wouldn't believe it, but those sell like crazy," the Irish Clerk informs me. "Seriously?" I exclaim. Little Di, having finally caught on to what we were going on about, says she would never use a single open razor sitting in a metal cup bought from a liquor store. "We sell about four packs a week. That cup," the clerk points at the cut in half, a 3rd filled Progresso soup can containing about 8 razors, "was full this morning." We stare at the clerk in disbelief. The clerk is laughing now and says, "Yeah, when my brother told me to put out razors I didn't understand why, but hey, it works."

Little Di and I left the store pondering over who would buy a single razor from a liquor store and the only people we could think would, would be one night stand men trying to shave before work or a person who has an impromptu date and needs to shave quickly - this could be a man or woman. Do any of my lovely readers have opinions on this matter or have you/would you buy a single razor from a liquor store?

Hitting on Naivety

So I got invited to this great party the other night, one of those Hollywood shindigs that musicians and actors go to, the ones that everyone in Hollywood who is "in the know" goes to, so right, anyhow, I went to this party and it turned out to be anything but what I expected. This could be because it was a musically themed party with a bunch of chill, laid-back rockers from a couple of different generations or the fact that if you were old, young, thin, fat, tall, short, rich, or poor didn't matter; what mattered was that you had a good time and didn't go all paparazzi on anyone. People laughed and mingled liked they were all old friends and no one really cared who anyone else was. So, if I were to ever be rich and happy, I think I would throw a party like this one - free top shelf and happiness to spread with a live stream of good rock music to boot.

Ok, getting back on track... the point of this entry is not to brag about going to a cool Hollywood party, but to have you lot ponder with me the question of why certain men hit on certain women. Simple question, right? Not so much. In my experience (and I used this term lightly because my experience of being hit on is limited and faulted by way of my crazy person pheromone) I've found that what clothes you wear effects what type of man you get, but only to a certain degree. If I wore sexy club clothes, yes, I'm bound to get a dim-witted 30-something slandering over to ask if I would like a drink, but if I wore my more typical flair of punk, I'd attract less of a crowd, but normally someone in the mid to late 40's or above would wander my way.

Herein lies my confusion. Why is it that if I dress all nice (which inadvertently makes me look older - more my age), I happen to get men in the 20-30 year old range to buy me a drink, but if I dress in my black t-shirts and spiked cuffs, the "older" crowd finds me "cute". I shouldn't really be offended that I'm getting hit on in the first place, but it baffles my mind to think that the older I look, the younger the crowd that hits on me is and the younger I look, the older the suitors. There's a little paedophilia thing happening subtly and that frightens me. Yes, I'm older than 18, but just because I dress like a younger than 27-year-old woman, doesn't mean I want to date someone twice my age and someone who isn't even a sugar daddy (not that I'm saying I would ever date a sugar daddy - I find them disturbing).

What is it about the nonchalant, "I-can-kick-your-ass" look that appeals to these older gentlemen? Why do the younger men avoid the "punks"? Is it because the younger generation is scared of things that take work (hitting on someone that isn't going to fall for a corny one-liner) and they'd rather just score with little to no effort? Do the older men feel they've tried and lost with the older women and since they've been around longer, not much scares them, so they'll take their chances with a younger woman or do they feel that they've battled this many years of life, so what is one stubborn woman, but an amazing challenge?

I would really like to get anyone's opinions on this matter. It confuses me and I need answers. This lovely question stems from the fact that the only man brave enough to talk to me, let alone dance with me at the party was a man in his early fifties, who I thought at first was just being friendly, but after he tried to kissed me I realized 1) I'm naive, and 2) men are dip shits.

So comments/suggestions anyone....anyone...?

A few bits about a lot of things

This past weekend I got to go up North to the Bay Area and visit friends and Family (I'm sorry to the people I didn't tell I was coming up because, you know, there are only so many hours to see people and it isn't possible to see everyone every time I come up...but next time you'll be on the "go see" list). The following are brief little epitaphs of what happened and the weird things I saw:

*After driving 6 hours by myself to Benicia, CA, my first stop was to see Nina, my ex-roommate, and my best friend Candice (aka Nicole to everyone but High School friends). I had Facebooked Candice to let her know I would see her the next day and she replied with, "why didn't you tell me you were going to be in the Bay Area, you brat?" This confused me a little because Nina had told me that she and Nicole were celebrating their birthday's that weekend and I had assumed they had talked to each other. It's probably my part for assuming, but here's where all the confusion sets in: Nina's current roommate's name is Nicole and Nina calls Candice, Candice, not Nicole (an exception to the non High School crowd). This answered my question on why Candice would celebrate her birthday 2 months early, she wouldn't, but the real Nicole would.

**Nina and I got Candice to play hookie from school to hang out with us in Berkeley where we took pictures of the four roses that were bloomed in the Berkeley Rose Garden and met a lady celebrating her 70th birthday with her daughter and a friend. The daughter asked if we were in school, which I took to assume meant High School, but really probably meant College as we were next to one, so I said "No, but she (pointing at Candice) is a teacher." The daughter's face lit up as she found out Candice teaches at Pittsburgh High, in Pittsburgh, CA (not one of the nicest schools in the area) and she tells Candice, "I think that there is a special place in heaven for teachers. All the hard work you do with the children is magically (or she said something similar to magically)" I can just see the little halo appearing above Candice's head and the Devil on her shoulder poking it with his pitchfork.


the creepiest flower ever


Candice playing in the creek

***The whole reason I drove up north was because Robby had a forensics conference in Sacramento and she wanted to stay the weekend in the Bay Area, meaning she would need a ride home, hence...me. Anyhow, Robby and I drove Nina and Nicole into San Francisco for their birthday's (they were staying over night at a hotel and then doing a spa day the following morning), dropping them off at their hotel while we went to find a free parking spot - it's up to 3 dollars an hour at the meters and the lots are ridiculous. A half block away from the hotel, I of course see a spot, but pass it and drop the girls in front to unload their luggage before driving back to the spot that was no longer available. This leads me and Robby to circle a 9 block radius for 30 mins before we just park in the Tenderloin, next to the homeless shelter and crackheads. Since a cop had driven by when we exited the car, we figured our bags in the trunk would be safe for an hour or two.

Upon walking the 8 blocks to the hotel, we got one proposition for kabobs and head, and Robby ended up picking up a homeless man that latched on to her arm. The man followed us up the hill talking to Robby who repeatedly told him to "let go" to which he replied, "I'm not touching you," while moving in closer to her. Eventually Robby stops, looks the bum in the eyes, and say, "Let. Go." This gives the bum pause and time enough to find me. He slanders over, puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if Robby and I are lesbians. We says, "Yes," and hope he'll go away. Nope. We'd stopped in front of a pizzeria with an audience of one. The bum looks at me and ask, "How old are you?" I say, "older than you." The bum is at least in his mid forties, but when people ask me how old I am, it's usually because they think I'm younger than I look and my ingrained response is, "Older then I look." In this case, I just switched out the "I look" for "you". The bum got really confused, "but you're half my age." "I'm older than I look,' I said as I walked away, Robby following. The bum diverts his attention to our gawker and tells the man that I don't look older than him and that we were "fine" and our gawker should go after us. We turned the corner and heard no more.

****I wanted to show my blog to Robby and my friend, Christie, but when I typed the URL in, a Jesus website popped up. I exclaimed, "Jesus stole my website!" Most times when you enter in a wrong URL, you receive a generic web browser, but of course, if I mess up my URL, I find Jesus...of all the places. I'd forgot the "S" in blogspot and wrote "blogpot" instead.

*****Mustucheio PigBunny is Robby and my equivalent of "the Traveling Gnome". He's a small stuffed pig/bunny looking thing with a mustache. PigBunny likes to sneak up on people and take photos with them. Robby and I happened to be in SF during the Cherry Blossom Festival where our dad and brother joined us. PigBunny got to meet a lot of strange looking people, some of whom were dressed as weird Anime characters, while the rest of us enjoyed the parade and art booths.


Can you find PigBunny?


The Cat wanted to eat PigBunny.


Pikachu and PigBunny

Since the Sinick family is known for randomness, it isn't too farfetched to be un-shocked that out of a crowd of 200,000 festival goers and numerous blocks of street fair to wander through, we would bump into my Godmother. What are the odds? Susie, my Godmom, was extremely happy to see all of us (it was a rare occasion that the four of us were all together) and not at all curious why Robby and I were in the Bay Area instead of in SoCal. She just goes with the flow. So, all of us got to spend an accidentally afternoon together, which might never have happened if Robby and I hadn't changed the meet time for our father to an hour later and if we hadn't stopped to watch the parade for an hour or if dad hadn't wanted us to meet a friend who owned an art gallery in Japan town. It's a good version of the chaos theory.

******On the way home from the Bay Area, Robby and I decided to take Highway 1 for a little bit because we needed a scenic drive, as opposed to the boring drag of Highway 101 (which we drive every time we go up north). We ended up stopping in Cayucos, Ca - a small beach town 30 mins from San Luis Obispo. There was a pier that lead out into the ocean that Pig/Bunny just had to take a picture on.


PigBunny on the pier

Unfortunately PigBunny doesn't know he weighs next to nothing and as soon as a large gust of wind came, PigBunny figured out he isn't a very good swimmer. I got to have a panic attack while running down the pier and to the water thinking Robby would kill me if I didn't save PigBunny and that she would make me swim to get the toy as well. Luckily the tide pushed PigBunny to shore, but left him covered in black sand.


Before the gust of wind got a hold of PigBunny.

After a brief swim in the ocean, a 10 minute bath in the restroom sink, and 20 minutes under the bathroom hand dryer, PigBunny was almost back to his originally pink color and a little rough for wear, but relatively unscaved. Robby wasn't going to kill me just yet.


PigBunny is a little wet.

So that is the gist of my adventures up North. Of course more stuff happened, but it would take too long to write it all down and no one would read it anyhow. Until next time, have fun.