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.

Smells Like Freedom

You know how they say that people with sensory disabilities (blindness...deafness...bad taste in clothes) often compensate by having their other senses heightened? Well, I'm practially blind (my vision is somewhere in the neighborhood of 20/400 without my contacts), and I've pretty much destroyed my hearing through years of standing right by the speakers at concerts (I'm short. It's the only way I can see the band). But my sense of smell rivals a bloodhound. I can tell when someone has opened a bag of potato chips or a chocolate bar from three rooms away; and the minute someone microwaves their lunch in my office, I can Name That Lean Cuisine Dinner with startling accuracy.

I grew up in New Jersey near a Nestles factory, and on rainy or overcast days, you could smell the coffee from miles away (of course I could also smell the toxic waste on the Turnpike from a similar distance, so this was a mixed blessing). I sort of got used to driving and sniffing the air for a hint of java, so I tend to notice the many smells of our nation's roadways.

The LA freeways stink. Not always in a bad way, but someone with my olfactory skills picks up on hints of scents, and I find it entertaining enough to want to write about it. Thus, I introduce to you my ongoing "Freeway Smells Report".

12/19: 6 pm - The 405 Freeway South smells like basil.
12/20: 7:45 am - The 405 North smells like toast. And like a roadside diner at breakfast time. It's not the smell of a particular food, but it's that whole mish-mash of breakfasty smells.
12/20: 5:35 pm - 405 North. Scrambled Eggs.

Oh god. Now I want a mediterranean omelette in the worst way.

Stay tuned.

A Study in Contradictions

When I was four, I swallowed an entire bottle of aspirin. It was the orange-flavored baby aspirin that you can probably find in the house of any family with young children. I guess it was in the days before they really childproofed the hell out of all medications, or else I was particularly clever and dexterous for my age. The drama queen in me likes to say it was my first (and last) suicide attempt. In reality, it was more my attempt to be a drama queen: I was reenacting an aspirin commercial I saw, and I was putting myself through many "takes" until I got it right.

When I was uncharacteristically quiet for more than an hour, my parents knew something was wrong and came to investigate. They found me peacefully sleeping it off in grandma's bedroom. There was no lasting damage (though that early dexterity seems to have faded alarmingly — I drop just about everything I hold for more than a minute), but to this day, I can't stomach artificial orange flavoring. I love oranges, and orange juice, but the taste of orange candy or Tang still makes me shudder.

But that's the way it is with me. There has never been much consistency in my tastes. I love tomatoes and tomato sauce, but loathe tomato juice. I love most forms of music and am a big film buff, but I hate movie musicals. I love to argue with people, but I hate being around, or involved in, real fights. As a kid I ate nothing but baloney sandwiches and fast-food hamburgers (and aspirin, I suppose) and now I'm a vegetarian who wouldn't set foot in a McDonalds for coffee, let alone a meal.

When I moved to Cali, I was excited that my first job was going to be in Long Beach, because I love the ocean and have never lived more than 1/2 hour from the beach. And yet, I'm not really fond of sand, and sitting in the sun bores me, so I actually haven't set foot on a beach or in the ocean since I've gotten here.

There's a theory that the things we don't like about other people are the qualities of ourselves that we see in them (and don't always recogniaze in ourselves). So what does it say about me that I find something to dislike in everything I love? That I'm ultracritical? Probably, but I like that about me ;)

Maybe it's time to spend less time focusing on the things I hate and more time discovering what I like about new things. Maybe the glass isn't half empty or half full as much as it's still got a bit of tasty beverage left inside and I should start slugging it down. And maybe tomorrow I'll head to McDonalds, grab an orangina, and lay on the sand and see what happens.

Or I could just lay on my couch, drink a Pepsi and curse at the idiots on reality TV. That sounds like more fun.

Another Helping of Stupidity, Please

Thanksgiving, or The Great American Gorge-a-Thon, is the time when we reflect on our lives and the things we are most thankful for. For most people, that is. I, on the other hand, view this particular holiday in light of stupidity. Mine, mostly, but occasionally others’ poor judgment, oversights and plain old bad luck factor in as well.

The combination of family, friends and the familiar comforts of home align strangely for me each and every year, culminating in a single act that generally defines the holiday weekend. Some years, it’s something minor: my drivers license, accidentally thrown away a few days earlier, is discovered after a frantic search the day before having to use it as ID to board a plane; or my car dies, stranding me at my parents’ house before another plane trip. Other times, it’s convenience that is lost: After a domestic “accident”, I sprained my ankle on Thanksgiving eve, two days before my first real business trip. Said accident was caused by an ill-advised regression to childhood — my sister, Dana, and I were jumping on my mom’s new couch and I fell off. Not so uncommon, I suppose. Children often get hurt while roughhousing. Except that I was 26 years old at the time. As a result, my first shot at proving my business savvy and overall maturity became more of a comic punchline than a success.

Another time, my boyfriend’s romantic gesture of driving onto a beach in Florida for a private afternoon stroll resulted in our getting stuck in wet sand. After trying to dig and force our way out, a passing tow truck pulled us to safety, only to have its grappling hook get stuck in our bumper. We had to wait for someone to arrive with a crowbar to pry it off, nearly taking off the bumper in the effort.

But the epitome of Thanksgiving Doom has to be the year my family got locked out of our house after returning from dinner at my cousins’ house. A freak power failure rendered the electric garage door — our standard entry point — useless, and since we never use the front door, no one had thought to bring a house key. After two hours of sitting in the car waiting for the power to come on, we got tired of family togetherness and decided to take matters into our own hands. My dad dislodged a patio brick and smashed in the glass door in the backyard, setting off our blaring home alarm system and scaring the bejesus out of me. We walked into the house, turned off the security system, called our monitoring service to report the false alarm, and then collapsed in tears and laughter as the power immediately came back on.

This year was my first Thanksgiving as a Californian, and since my journey so far had already been mired in bad luck and stupidity, I thought maybe it would be best to spend the weekend in controlled isolation, in the safety of my bed. But my sister had planned a small gathering and a large dinner, so I decided to try and beat the odds and venture out. I didn’t hit any traffic on the drive from Long Beach to LA, dinner was prepared to perfection and mutual enjoyment, and everyone was having a good time. Then the call came in.

My sister’s friend Alicia had been planning to drive to Arizona to meet her husband and in-laws for the holiday. She was en-route when she noticed her car was acting a little wonky. She decided to turn around and head home, rather than risk the car breaking down in the middle of the desert somewhere. Not long after she did her about face, some other cars were signaling to her that her tires weren’t right. She was pulling over to the side of the freeway, when her tire shot right off her car, across four lanes of traffic, jumped the divider, and lodged itself under a Winnebago going in the other direction. Miraculously, no one was hurt and there was no major damage to either of the vehicles (except for the obvious lack of tire on her car).

Alicia got home and called us to say she would be joining us for dinner, once her heart started beating at a more regular pace. I was floored. This seemed like the sort of thing that could only happen to me and my family on Thanksgiving. It had all the classic signs: random events that cause stress, but no permanent damage; bizarre and unlikely circumstances; and the resulting story to share for the entertainment of holiday guests…once the adrenaline had dissipated enough for speech to resume.

At this point, I thought of The Thanksgiving Stupidity Curse, and I was going to mention to my sister that maybe Alicia took a bullet for us this year, sparing us from experiencing the curse for ourselves. Just then, Dana burst into the yard to tell me that the love of her life, her eight-pound dog, Nemo, was missing.

Nemo is a funny little love of a dog who never lets his one gimpy leg get in the way of a good romp. And just because he leads the most loved and spoiled life possible for any dog, doesn’t mean he won’t jump at the chance to escape out an open door and explore a bit of the big world. Since he’s so small, it’s easy to overlook him if you’re not watching, and with all the party guests coming in and out, he must have slipped out at some point.

Our guests were all drinking and talking in the yard, but Dana has an uncanny sense for knowing when Nemo’s in trouble, and somehow she just felt that he wasn’t in the house. She went in from the back yard to look for him, and immediately panicked when he wasn’t in his usual spots. She came out to get me, and we both went flying through the house and out the front door to look for him.

It only took one or two calls from his mama to get Nemo to come prancing home from his neighborhood adventure, tail wagging and tags jangling. He was scooped up and smothered with hugs and kisses from a near hysterical Dana, while I calmed her with the knowledge that he was home and was safe and that all is well that ends well, especially on Thanksgiving…until next year.

Omigod! I think I'm Bi-Coastal

So why did I leave the East Coast? I always say that it was because I hate the cold. And I do. Passionately. I hate wearing 10 layers of clothing to get the mail. And every morning that I froze my ass off to scrape and brush and warm the car before it would splutter to life and shake off the icicles that encapsulated it in the morning dew, I promised myself it was the last year I would put myself through that. But though I’ve always hated cold weather, I never seriously entertained the idea that I would follow through on my threats to leave New Jersey (the whirling vortex of doom).

This time it was different.

The signs were there that it was time to trade in most of my existing life for what's behind Door Number Two. My sister, the lifelong Manhattan-a-phile, had made the move a year before and was no worse for the wear. Sure she professed her difficulties in finding friends and constructing a social circle that rivaled the one that thrived for her in New York. But she did that in between attending parties at the Playboy Mansion and learning to snowboard. It was different for me. I never had problems making friends, but I also never held being social in too high a regard. One or two close friends were enough companionship, and with my boyfriend making the move with me, I expected that he would keep me in sufficient company. Or charm his way into friendships that he would then share with me. Besides, my friends were all starting to settle into their lives, starting new families, making great strides in their careers. For me, all of these things seemed stagnant and in need of an infusion of NEW.

I thought I was ready to leave my old life behind and start all over in California. In LaLaLand, I could reinvent myself. Maybe do all the things that my Jersey rut seemed to keep me from remembering I wanted to do. I packed my things, said my goodbyes to friends and family, prepared myself to find new apartments, discover new roads and new scenes, meet new people. Find a new job to sustain me, and complain about. And it all seemed to be coming together at an alarming pace — more signs that I was making the right decision and that luck would be on my side, for the first time ever.

But little by little those signs started blinking yellow and waiting for someone to direct the traffic in my mind. I had taken a New Job in a New Field. Yet almost immediately I found myself in the old familiar scene of working in a place where everyone was miserable, and for good reason.

And then the lights suddenly turned red, and it was too late for me to put on the brakes. My boyfriend, it seemed, was also a bit overwhelmed by all the change. He couldn’t stop me from leaving, and wouldn’t break up with me, so instead, he broke up with his sanity and sobriety. Maybe he’ll get himself back together and will join me in the Golden State of Confusion. Maybe it will happen soon. Maybe it won't happen at all.

So for now, I’ve teamed up with the virtue of solitude and a lot of second guessing. But fuck it, at least the weather is damn near perfect, and there have only been 6 earthquakes since I got here. Things are looking up already, and I’m sure I’ll find lots of things about LA that make me glad to be here.

LA-LA-Love Ya

Six months ago, I moved to Southern California. It’s taking a lot of getting used to. And it’s more than just the weather (damn near perfect. All the time), the traffic (yes, it’s as bad as everyone says. Even at 2 a.m. it can be worse than Manhattan traffic at rush hour), and the fact that the ocean is on the wrong side. The people, and their priorities, seem to be collectively skewed — which is strange for a location where a large portion of its residents are non-native to the state (or the country, or this planet, as it sometimes seems). It’s not necessarily a good or bad thing — it just gives more fuel to my theory that the world is a parade of oddities, here for me to gawk at.

For example, our Governor, recently passed a law to protect the “famous people” from other people who want to take their pictures. I now live in a state where such people kill their wives (and their wives lovers), build private backyard theme parks (where they can molest children), swap their dogs — and their noses — for something smaller (and swap other parts for the larger models…), and spend their lives trying to be recognized and admired by as many people as possible, only to spend just as much time distancing themselves and fencing themselves off from those same masses. You would think our elected leaders would want to rise above the idiocy and spend their time on the more pressing issues that plague this diverse and damaged state. But they don’t, and that’s what makes this such a fascinating and fulfilling place for people like me, who thrive on complication; and live to point out life’s discrepancies and notable inanities.