Let's make a deal...or no deal

Yeah, it's been a while. Since my last post, I've changed apartments, changed cities, changed cars, and changed my job position. With all this stuff finally behind me, I finally feel like I'm getting my life back to normal. Of course, normal is a relative term in my life, especially in the city of Los Angeles.

For example, now that I no longer have a hideously long commute every day, I discovered I have a lot of free time. More so than the average person, in fact. Which means I need to find meaningful, fulfilling hobbies-- or at least bizarre ways to waste time and entertain myself. But what to do? I'm not particularly athletic-- in fact, all my previous attempts at sporting hobbies have been met with bloodshed, bruising, and semi-permanent damage. Softball games left me with scarred knees (from a clumsy attempt to run, which turned into a VERY clumsy and unintentional slide-- face first-- into home plate), strained muscles and a black eye, which at the time I tried to pass off as a domestic violence incident to my busybody coworkers. My brief stint as a surf bunny resulted in a sprained back and neck and a firsthand account of what it feels like to inhale two pounds of sand. Hell, even a spirited bit of couch jumping once caused a sprained ankle and a severely bruised ego, so it was safe to say that my new prospective hobby would have to be free from anything that required things like balance, coordination or rapid motion.

So sports are not where my talents lie. Yet, I'm super competitive, so a good activity needs to involve some form of gaming. The first, obvious thing that came to my mind was gambling. It involves competition, some form of skill, and you can smoke and drink while you do it. Perfect. Except for the part where you need to use, and perhaps lose, actual money to participate. Someone like me, who just cracked open their childhood piggy bank to pay my TiVo bill shouldn't be undertaking any risky financial ventures right now.

Or should I? What if I could find a way to gamble, risk money, and entertain myself, and possibly millions of others, with my spasticity and enthusiasm, all without it costing more than parking fare and perhaps my self regard? The answer came to me with a phone call one night from my sister, and frequent partner in crime, Dana. I could go on a game show!

We were invited, by a game show producer Dana had met, to audition for a new game show airing on ABC this year. Other than high school plays, a few school choir competitions and a number of jobs where I had to pretend I gave a fuck about whatever it is they were asking me to do, I've never auditioned for anything. In fact, my sister and I are probably the only two women in Los Angeles who have never had a headshot taken, let alone stood in front of a casting director -- camera in hand -- and feigned emotion for monetary gain.

Well, we WERE the only two left. And now, LA is going to have to import some other showbiz naifs.

On the day of the audition, I stood outside the production studio in Hollywood for a few minutes, waiting for Dana to meet me. I noticed two paparazzi lurking outside the front gate, so I passed the time asking who they were there to see (Jim Carey, who had been inside for a while, according to the photogs), and how much they thought they could get for a pic of him doing something as mundane as leaving an office building (more than I had imagined).

We were shown in, we signed in at the desk and were taken to a small, white windowless room, where we were told to stand, next to a table and some chairs that were set up. From there, the inquisition began.

And I say inquisition because the experience was not unlike what I would imagine being arrested is like. I filled out a lot of paperwork (the application for the show was over 13 pages long, and asked prying, personal questions about my background, my associates, and what I would do if I came across an unexpected windfall). I held a card with my name and a number on it in front of my face as my picture was taken. I was told that being honest would only help me (never fall for that one). And I was asked to reveal personal secrets about Dana-- as my parner in the game show's plot.

And I totally folded under the pressure. I talked. A lot. I blabbed everything I could think of. My addiction to game shows and pop culture: revealed. The real story behind my accidental couch-based injury (see above): pridelessly blurted out. My short stint as a contraband smuggler (I had my mom mail 5 pounds of bubblegum to me at a summercamp for sugar addicts): made up to look good for the camera. I was shameless.

But then, it came time to demonstrate our excited victory dance-- how wildly and excitedly Dana and I would jump around in a frenzy if we won money on the show. Dana and I looked at eachother, looked at the floor, looked at eachother again, took a deep breath... and soundly refused to become every game show contestant we'd ever made fun of for jumping around like a moron.

The truth is, neither one of us dance, or squeal, or could imagine commanding people in the audience to "give it up" for us, as if they truly cared whether we won a million dollars or not. And we both tend to show our enthusiasm with a hearty "Fuck Yeah"-- with both feet planted firmly on the ground, rather than dissolving in an uncontrolled, emotional heap.

As we quickly realized, TV studios prefer the emotional heap. So when this new show appears on ABC this season, we will not be among the smiling, psycho-happy contestants. But we will be among the group of viewers who watch the show simply just to laugh at them.

Smell update

Sorry I'm taking so long between posts. I'm busy, I'm lazy, I'm not much of a writer, I'm tired of blogging, no one reads this anyway, the earth's polarity reversed itself in my apartment...ok that's all the excuses I can think of for now.

But today, the 405 north smelled like grilled chicken. And the 405 south smelled like the solution used for home perms. Thought you'd wanna know.

Where did you go?

For a while, I've been meaning to write about my top 5 favorite things about living in LA. They were gonna be:

1. The weather, and knowing that I can leave the house and never need more than 2 layers of clothing. I shiver when it's less than 65 degrees, and even I haven't found the need to unpack my collection of sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves, and thermals. For season-affect disorder sufferers like me, you just can't underestimate the value of waking up nearly every morning to sunshine, palm trees blowing in the light breeze and a craving for Slurpees (my favorite summer treat).

2. The abundance of varied activities. Within a few hours drive (maybe a little more if you take the freeway), you can be at the beach, or in the mountains, or in a big city's downtown area, at a museum, at a club, an amusement park, a ball park, the desert, a casino...

3. The freaks. For example, I was driving around Beverly Hills a few days ago, and a guy wearing a bandana and a ratty t-shirt was hanging out of a mercedes convertible. He looked like he wanted to talk to someone, anyone, in the next lane of traffic, maybe to ask directions or yell an obscenity. As I watched him, a tiny ferret peeked out from beneath his shirt, exposing the guy's ulterior motive of showing off his unusual pet, and its unusual hiding place. Another time, I was down in Huntington Beach, and I was mesmerized by an english bulldog who was totally obsessed with riding a skateboard. For 10 minutes, I watched the dog push the board, run along side of it until it picked up enough speed, and ride it until it stopped. Then he turned it around and started the process again, obsessively, over and over. That dog so obviously LOVED to skate that you knew it LIVED to skate, much the same way that my skater friends in high school loved nothing more than crusing through parking lots, practicing new tricks, falling down, getting all banged up, and getting right back on to try it again until they got it right.

4. The proliferation of vegetarian food options. No matter where I go to eat, whether it's the pricey, lousy-with-celebrities hotspot or the food court at the local mall, there are always at least 3 or 4 things that I could choose from to satisfy the picky veggie girl that I am (and there are probably 2 or three other choices that I wouldn't care for, but are still available).

5. Indie 103.1, a radio station that's a mix of modern formats and a throwback to the days when radio DJs had the freedom to play what they wanted. You could hear great songs in a million different styles in a 1-hour period. You could hear obscure tunes from a band that had plenty of radio hits. The next song would be an early punk tune that never got radio play in its own day because it was too weird, or offensive. After that, you'd get a Johnny Cash tune, or some Sinatra, and that would be followed by tunes from local bands, bands that hadn't broken yet, or a band that, tragically, probably never would break.

But now one of those favorite things has been cruelly yanked away.

At the end of March, Indie 103.1 made a tragic mistake and fired it's biggest draw: Dicky Barrett, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones leader and host of the station's Mighty Morning Show. Dicky's subtle wit, working-class charm and punk rock attitude made my ridiculously long commute something I actually looked forward to in the morning (the afternoon drive is another story). Whether it was Tattoo Tuesday, time for his curmudgeonly banter with his news staff and show regulars, or his brilliantly irreverent editorials on the stupidity of today's political or celeb-filled media landscape, he always provided something worth listening to. And when he wasn't talking, he was playing the best mix of music imaginable -- punk rock classics, emerging musical geniuses, novelty tunes, "old's cool" country tunes...as well as the modern rock staples that on any other station feel overplayed and stale.

Apparently, it came down to Dicky's refusing to submit to Clear Channel's content demands, and his refusal to bend over and take it (and I'm sure you can imagine where he was asked to take it). You can read the whole story by following the link that I so clumsily provide here.

If you live in the LA area, or followed the Mighty Morning Show's streaming broadcasts, I urge you to write to KDLD and tell them they better change their name from Indie 103.1 to Idiocy 103.1. Or better yet, shell out a few bucks and go for a satellite radio system. Tell them Dicky sent you.


LA Voice article


Indie103/entravision
5700 Wilshire Blvd #250
Los Angeles, CA 90036
877.900.1031

Trashing the LAPD?

It's not that I can't find enough strange things about LA that strike me as blogworthy. It's more that the sheer number of absurdities fight eachother for dominance in my head, and making the tough decision of where to start is such a battle that I end up not starting anywhere.

But this one piece of information clawed its way right into my typing fingers, bypassing my brain's selection process and, therefore, winning a spotlight in my blogging efforts.

During a smoke break at work today, I was chatting with a woman from another office, and she spilled some golden LA trivia on me. Apparently, her and her husband were having a little neighbohood issue that required some legal intervention. When her husband contacted the police, they bestowed upon him a surprising statistic. It incensed her to such a degree that she disposed of usual trivialities of smokers conversation (wow, it's nice out here...I'm absolutely swamped at work...thank god it's almost Friday...) and went right into it. She asked me if I knew the three things the LAPD's Pacific Division is called upon to investigate most often. I made a few reasonable guesses before she could contain her excitement no longer and blurted the answer out.

1. Guns (well, yeah).
2. Drugs (another Duh. I mean, that's probably what any law enforcement agency in a major U.S. city has to contend with).

But number three?


Wait for it...


Trash Can Violations!!!!

Apparently this includes people who serially block driveways with their trash cans; those who leave their trash out on non-designated days; and people who claim prime parking real estate by strategically placing cans so that neighbors can't park in front of their house -- even when they themselves don't need the space.

Now I know that the west side of LA consists of a helluva lot of swanky areas; gated communities, untouchable beach-front property, bazillion-dollar estates... But can crimes of the 'Can really be at the top of the biggest problems LA's finest have to content with? And if so, why aren't other petty grievances further up on the list, like toy poodle-knapping or soy latte counterfeiting?

Sigh.

Do Over Part II

Things continue to be strange for me here in California, in a way that contrasts my first adventure, but not so vastly. I recall on the day that I flew out, I was expecting history to repeat itself -- delays, misadventures, natural disasters. In truth, the trip was uneventful. My flight was on time, my rental car was in perfect working order, I arrived at my destination without getting lost or traumatized in any meaningful way, and I even made a tightly timed dinner reservation to help my sister celebrate her birthday with friends, new and old.

In a way, I had prepared for my second arrival for over 10 years. This time, I had money saved, a car on its way, a place to stay, a new job to start, and a bit of experience under my belt that assured me that I wasn't the naive and unresourceful soul I had once been. I had a boyfriend planning to meet me in a few weeks, and the promise of a brand new start. And I still had the conviction that this was where life was meant to take me. So why would I believe that old patterns die hard and things never really change? Well, because they do...and they don't.

I settled in to my life as a temporary couch surfer at my sister's place. She was gracious and asked no more of me than to keep her dog fed, walked and amused until I started my job and found my own apartment. Nemo was not quite the troublemaker that Mackenzie had been, though I found myself watching him carefully, to make sure he stayed away from squirrels and other small creatures that he liked to chase...

Mackenzie had had similar habits. Only he liked to torment people. And lizards. When I lived at my aunt's house, he would always come to the gate to bark at anyone or anything that came up the driveway. Except once.

On this particular day, my aunt and I had been shopping, and when we returned and walked up to the gate, we were surprised that Mackenzie was not making his presence known in his standard, menacing way. When we entered the garage, we found out why. He was "playing" with a small reptilian creature in the garage, and was distracted by it. While this didn't alarm my aunt -- she told me it was common for him to toy with the small green lizards that inhabited the neighborhood -- I got a glimpse of his new friend and was immediately confused. While I'm certainly no expert on lizards, what I saw in Mackenzie's paws didn't seem to have the tiny legs of your average chameleon. And it had several curious nubs on the end of its tail. And those nubs were making a rattling sound. Like the rattlesnakes you see in cartoons. And in real life.

My aunt got the message right away, and started screaming. She chased the dog into the house and ran for a neighbor to help us remove the baby rattler from the garage. For all my tendency to panic in situations like this, I remained unsettlingly calm, because it was obviously Elaine's time to shine in the panic department. The blood she found in Mackenzie's mouth made it clear that an immediate trip to the vet was in order. And because she loved her dog, it was equally clear that we follow vet's recommendations that we start the droolmatian's antivenin treatment immediately.

Have you ever seen a dog on antivenin? Well, it's not pretty. Mackenzie's head swelled up to the size of a large bulldog's. And it's drooling problem swelled to the size of a small fish pond. And my aunt, in an apparent show of solidarity, broke out in sympathy hives.

The dog recovered and in a few days; his swelling went down, he drooled at comparably tolerable levels, and his cocky attitude returned with a vigor. On the other hand, my aunt's hives didn't disappear as quickly. Coz, you see, it takes about two weeks for chicken pox to disappear.

That's right. My aunt, in her mid 40s, had come down with a case of chicken pox, for the first time in her life. And I, who was busy job searching and couldn't afford to be down for the count for any length of time, had never had them, just like my mother, and her mother. We had thought some family immunity had existed. But not wanting to take chances, I fled the scene and found some places to crash for a few weeks while in hiding from plague.

Not that it did me any good. Two weeks later, a singular pink, itchy bump appeared on my left arm, and my fate for the next 10 days was sealed.

Now that I had endured earthquakes, snakes, boils and the slaying of the first automobile, I began to recall some early old testament education and figured that maybe it was time to get the hell outta Israel, so to speak.

In the midst of all the biblical signs that I should return to the east coast, I actually did get a job offer, with Ford Motor Company. It was far from my dream job, and work in the auto industry was far from what I thought would lead me down the path that I had intended when I began my westward journey to the entertainment capital of the U.S. My stubborn will would have allowed me to work my way up the rungs of the job ladder to the rooftops of my goals, but it wasn't gonna let me climb the Hollywood Hills without a straighter path and surer footing.

So, I booked my return flight and decided that I would return someday, when I had established myself in work, in life, and in my head.

It didn't quite work out that way, of course. Like I said, things don't change all that much, and over the years, I have often fallen victim to fate's cruel double whammy of stupidity and circumstance. Believe it or not, I have come almost full circle. I'm in California. I'm forcing myself to go out and make new friends. I'm learning new neighborhoods. I'm trying not to believe that every time I feel a door slam, it's caused by nothing less than the sheer force of techtonic plates slamming together. And I am working for a web magazine dedicated to marketing...in the automotive industry. Maybe I'll do things right this time?

Do Over

So here I am in California. Again. I've been here for seven months now, and it looks like this time it might actually stick. While I still consider myself a newbie here, it seems like I should be exempt from any cosmic hazing rituals this time around. Here's why:

The first time I moved to Cali, I was fresh out of college. I had dreamed of coming out to the Land of the Natural Disaster since I was a kid. My favorite aunt had fled here to escape our family's loving-but-smothering control when she was in her 20s, and over the years, I had visited her so often that it felt more like home than home did. So when I was ready to forge my own life, it was practically a given that I would follow in her footsteps and head west. I packed up, said my goodbyes, and lugged my belongings across the country to seek my predestination.

Looking back, there were signs right from the beginning that things were not going to turn out as well as I planned, and I hadn't really planned anything all that well to begin with. For starters, I was headed out with not much money, no car, no contacts, no real job experience, no permanent place to live...and no clue as to how to go about getting these things. But I had one thing in my favor -- I'm stubborn as all hell, and I was going to give it all a try.

California smacked me around from the get go. For starters, I had chosen a cheapo fare that involved a very tightly timed stopover in Atlanta airport. If you've never been there, it's a HUGE place, and often connecting flights requires a long walk from one terminal to another. This was the case, and since I had pretty much all my worldly possessions in carry-on bags, I made a frantic dash, dragging about 80 pounds of crap from one side of the airport to the other. I finally tumbled, sweaty and hyperventilating, into my seat for the second flight, and thought that all would be well from there.

Ah to be young and ignorant. My second flight hit some bad weather, and my fellow passengers and I were told that we would not be able to land at Ontario airport (about 2 hours east of Los Angeles International airport), as planned. We detoured to LAX and were coming upon the landing strip, when they reopened Ontario and re-re-routed us back there. Again, we were ready to land, when fog closed the landing strip AGAIN, and we were forced to circle for another hour. The plane finally touched down about six hours later than scheduled, and my poor aunt, who had been following the landing saga for hours, was able to pick me up in our original destination.

A few days passed, as I adjusted to jet lag, friend lag and ambition lag. I hadn't anticipated how odd it would be to live with family but not know anyone else around to talk to or relate to. My aunt Elaine worked crazy hours, and traveled often, leaving me alone with her dog, Mackenzie, for most of the week. I spent most of my days sending out resumes and sitting in her backyard, wondering what the hell I just did, and why the hell I did it. But on the weekends, Elaine would try her best to find ways to entertain me and help me familiarize myself with my surroundings.

And then she told me she was leaving for a week. She and my uncle were going to Hawaii for a vacation. I was fine with being on my own, and I was excited that I would have access to her car while she was away, so I could explore. But no more than eight hours after they left, I took the car to get some gas, and it died. Right in the gas station lane. Not knowing anything about cars, and not knowing anyone in the area, I did what I had to do: I panicked. Then I found a pay phone, called my aunt's neighbor, and begged for them to bail me out.

In retrospect, it was no big trauma. It was just a freak bit of car trouble. No reason to regret my relocation. It wasn't like the earth was crumbling beneath my feet or anything.

Then a few days later, the earth crumbled beneath my feet. And everyone's feet...and homes...and freeways. The Northridge earthquake was a 6.9, one of the biggest in southern California in many years. It hit at around 4 am, only about an hour after I had gone to sleep that night. I awoke to a sound that was like someone pounding on the door to my locked bedroom, trying to get in. Except that the door wasn't locked...and late-night bedroom intruders rarely throw picture frames, suitcases and entire bookshelves down on the floor next to your bed while trying to force the door open. This time, panicking seemed a much more standard reaction to have, so I took the excuse to freak out.

Aftershocks followed by the hundreds, and shaky, unstable buildings tossed bricks at unsuspecting passers-by during the next few weeks. An already weak job market was thrown into complete disarray as businesses spent their days looking for new office space and equipment, rather than for new employees. I was starting to get disheartened by my turn of bad luck. Little did I know that this turn, in turn, would turn just plain strange.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Smell Ya Later

Today's Freeway Scent: 405 N. smells like baked bread and chocolate croissants.

So far, the only smells I've noticed have been breakfast foods. Even in the afternoon, it's been eggs or toast. I'm trying to reason out a cause for this. First I thought that maybe there's a large Diner District that I drive past on my way to work every day, but that seems unlikely. Less likely is that someone is robbing a bakery supply store, stealing ingredients and stashing the uncooked food under my hood every night and when the car heats up, the food starts to cook. But as much as I like my Bakery Bandit theory, even I'll admit that these types of crimes rarely occur outside my imagination.

Speaking of...of course, my first thought was that I'm imagining these smells. But I know my brain pretty well, and if I'm going to imagine a foodstuffs smell, it's gonna be something I like or crave on a regular occasion, and I've never been a fan of breakfast. The day I smell garlic fries or pasta primavera, I'll accept my scent psychosis.