Has the Shit Hit the Fan?

I think every now and then an event occurs in our lives where we have to take a step back and say--wait, was that the shit hitting the fan? Was that the wakeup call I needed? I guess when you hit rock bottom it's pretty obvious. If you have to ask I guess it doesn't count. Don't worry, I'm fine, but my Wednesday night was pretty crazy, enough to make me say, wait a sec, what the hell am I doing.

State of the Blog Address

Here I am on a Sunday, reflecting, and updating the blog. I was reading past entries, and I feel like the prose quality has gone downhill. That and my crazy week have left me wondering if my "partying" has been sapping my creative ability/my efforts to better my career instead of my beer belly. Hence the "shit hit the fan post." Really, there's nothing to worry about, all this preambling is making it seem like I've engaged in some heinous behavior, when really I'm pretty tame compared to some of you. Oh and regarding post dates, sometimes the date of my post is not consistent with the actual date that the post is posted. (Does that make sense?) That's because I usually start a draft and finish it weeks later. Maybe you were confused? Now I'm just confusing myself. Anyway, I've been reading so many blogs at work, and I think gee, my blog is funnier than that (right?) maybe I should make my blog public. However, then I'd have to change names, edit some posts, and maintain some anonyminity. With my blabbing mouth I'd be sacked, shunned, and sorry about it very quickly. What do ya'll think? Should the blog go public? I'll have to think about this more. I was inspired by a blog I've enjoyed reading that you should check out: http://thecompanybitch.blogspot.com --which is an anonymous blog that is quite entertaining. I only propose this because all writers seek approval of their writing. We write to be read. I think I want more readership for my writing, as such I consider going public, but also recognize that with publicity comes accountability. For me--a woman used to shooting off her mouth--accountability can lead to shit hitting the fan. Mercy. I guess I'm a blogger now. How weird.

The Adventures of Weeks Past

The weekend after my last post I hit up the Short Stop with Andrew and Claudia. I busted out my sparkle jeans--a sparkly pair of capris I hadn't worn since NU. I credit said jeans with the free drink was that was bestowed upon me by a mysterious benefactor at the bar. Several tequila shots later, we were dancing to some phat 80's jams. I was feeling fine, chatting with my friend the bouncer, to whom I'm Laila Ali. I went outside with Claudia while she had a cigarette, and we met 2 older men who were trying to "conversate" with us. We escaped to the dancefloor, and one of these bozos wanted to dance. I like to dance by myself. When you dance with a straight man, they usually just try to hump you or feel on yo' booty. How do you get rid of a guy you have no interest in? That's my eternal problem. I never want to be mean. I said that I had a boyfriend who was "out of town." Then I was informed that my imaginary boyfriend was "crazy" to leave me alone. Ugh. The other problem with dancing with straight men is that they are constantly trying to turn you around and press your ass into their crotch. Goodness knows that's the way I dance best--by rubbing my ass against a stranger. Ugh. At the end of the night we escaped outside, and while Claudia and I were waiting for Andrew, the friend of the crotch dancer stumbled up to me to explain that he didn't mean to badmouth his friend to me and that his friend was really a great guy, blah blah, I had to give his friend my phone number, etc. To properly deal with this, I ran and hid in the backseat of Andrew's car until it was time to leave.

I Know You Are, But What Am I?

Saturday Deirdre and I went to the cemetary screening of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, a film that always terrified me as a child because of its use of clowns, black trick chewing gum, and Tim Burton's directorial style. As a child I was far more fond of Pee Wee's Big Top which wasn't nearly as scary as Big Adventure. The line for the movie was insane, (all the cult fans were in tow), and Deirdre and I stood in line for roughly an hour. We were one of the last groups to get in before the event sold out. While we stood in line, we talked about social problems. I was in a sensitive mood due to the Curse, and I had spent the afternoon watching my Oprah tape and crying hysterically. This particular Oprah had Morgan Spurlock on talking about living on minimum wage for 30 days. It drives me crazy that some of the poorest states (cough, Alabama, cough) vote Republican when the people they have elected are busy abolishing the Estate Tax and passing on a National Minimum Wage increase. Just shoot yourselves in the foot; it would be tantamount. (Here's more on the flawed bill and minimum wage).
Deirdre, the wise urban planning grad student, told me about a bill in the upcoming election which would secure affordable housing in Los Angeles (a huge issue) by taxing homeowners. I lamented that it was too bad we had to tax homeowners more to pay for housing; wasn't there a way to tax corporations? She said that government is hesitant to tax business, because it drives business away--that's why you have corporations setting up business in states where tax is lax. My response was that we should have a national tax on business at the same rate no matter the state. She replied that business would then go overseas; it's a catch 22. I said that we should then have a global tax on business, so that businesses can't go to Honduras and run a sweatshop. We'd pay more for goods, but workers would be paid a decent wage all over the world and no one would fear taxing businesses because all countries would tax businesses the same amount. This was my epiphany: a global tax on business. Of course this is much easier said than done, but just imagine for a moment--if we could get this to work think about all the ways we could use the money to improve education, housing for the poor, provide healthcare for all. I guess this concept is a conservative nightmare--the level of government intervention it would take, the fiscal politics, etc. But the thought made my mouth salivate. It could be my life mission. We could get Oprah, Bono, Bill Clinton and Jesse Jackson to help. The corporations would fight it, there would be assassinations, it would be so very difficult, but just imagine--a level playing field. Maybe I'm over-simplifying things and being idealistic, but what a dream!
Inside the cemetary we were in for a treat. Paul Reubens introduced the film! He was greeted with a standing ovation and brought out other cast members for a mini-reunion. Dottie, the bicycle shop owner, and the convict were all there. During the movie, Paul drove around the perimeter of the cemetary in a golf cart. He was so very happy that so many people had come. I was able to appreciate the movie and see the double entendre in many of the jokes as an adult. I was also able to appreciate all the camp, which as a child just seems magical. I laughed so hard! We ate nutella and drank wine and cheered Pee Wee on. The cemetary screenings are great. Come and visit next summer and I'll take you to one.

Reggae Night: First Attempt

For a while I'd had a craving to see live reggae, dancehall, and dub. I hadn't seen any since catching Rocky Dawuni, a Ghanaian Reggae artist at the Natual History Museum last December with Deirdre. In searching for live reggae in Los Angeles I discovered that every Wednesday is Reggae Night at the Echo. Claudia, Andrew, and I tried to go last Wednesday, but saw a ridiculous line and decided to go to the Short Stop instead. At the Short Stop I bumped into A.J. my frequent acquaintance, who gave me a flyer for his band's upcoming show. I ended up talking to one of his female friends who was insisting that Paul Reubens was straight and not gay. I ended up getting pretty upset about this. While I recognize this was an insignificant argument, let me just open this up for discussion. Isn't it common knowledge that Reuben's is gay?! I mean, you'd have to be a moron to think he was straight. (I have no idea what his sexual orientation is, but he's gay). I mean, his comedic style is totally influenced by the camp sensibility, and camp is a gay sensibility! I wrote papers on it in media studies! I wanted to cut this bitch at the Short Stop. She was like passionately arguing that when Reubens was arrested for public masterbation, that the film was a straight film. That is irrelevent, as we can all beat off to various types of porn, but come on! Reubens has collections of vintage campy boy calendars. I win! Anyway...Claudia and I decided to check out A.J.'s band the following Monday.

Whatshisname, the Hottest Man Ever

For some reason I decided to bust out my intense red lipgloss, which I'd previously been too conservative to wear. Claudia later joked that it was the lipgloss that resulted in our many adventures. Friday night Diplo was playing at a random space downtown. Claudia, Steve, and I went, stood in line, and were turned away when the show sold out. Since we were already downtown we decided to check out some bars in the area. For those of you unawares, downtown L.A. is not like downtown NYC or Chicago. Downtown L.A. is slummy, sketchy, and kinda gross. They are trying to revitalize downtown by nursing the arts, building up-scale condos to encourage gentrification in the worst areas, and injecting nightlife. Whereas in Chicago you go downtown for clubbing, in L.A. you go to Hollywood, which is west of downtown. However, downtown L.A. has character, it's a little grimier, but it's an experience, and I loves to try new things.
First we checked out Little Pedro's, a bar I heard about on the KXLU, the Loyola-Marimount College station. We liked the scene in Little Pedro's: there was a giant stuffed polar bear over the bar (which was sad), hippies dancing in the strobe lighting, nice music, cheap drinks.
After a gin and tonic we headed over to Bar 107, which Steve liked to frequent for happy hour. The 107 was fun. The main room was bright, with all kinds of random crap on the walls: billings for upcoming roller-derby shows, vintage ads for Colt 45, and tvs playing 80s movies. The Goonies was on (go Corey!). There was a dark dancefloor, and a back smoker's patio with a random wheelchair as seating. I rolled around in the wheelchair quite contentedly while Claudia smoked. Steve and I got Colt 45s, and when you do they ring a giant bell at the bar. We found a booth, and checked out the men entering the bar. We spotted a gorgeous man of ambiguous race: dark hair in his eyes, beautiful jacket; all 3 of us were drooling. Then, before I knew what was happening, some random dude from Long Beach had squeezed into the booth next to me. He let me know that he'd been watching me since I came in, etc, etc, could he buy me a drink? I declined, as I was already pretty toasted, but I ended up giving him my phone number as I was already pretty toasted. I escaped to the bathroom with Claudia and when I came out I joined Claudia and Steve on the dancefloor. Steve was insisting that hot boy of ambiguous race was gay, and therefore off limits to us. I disagreed. Said boy was dancing with a friend right next to us, and after finishing my drink, I let Claudia and Steve know that I was "off to make a fool of myself." I walked up to hot boy, introduced myself, and let him know that I thought he was "beautiful." We got to talking, and he offered to buy me a drink. At the bar we talked a little more: he was 28, worked at an art gallery, went to USC, from SoCal originally, etc. I ordered a Colt 45 and as a result was too drunk to remember his damn name! He ended up asking for my phone number, and we exchanged a little peck on the cheek before he left with friends. This boy had me peeing my panies; he was so sexy!
I went outside the bar and found Claudia and Steve. Claudia was getting a haircut from random possibly homeless man on the sidewalk. This man was South African, had beautiful hazel eyes, and was on some serious drugs. He was speaking fluent French, swearing about white people, and feverishly cutting Claudia's hair. A few days prior Claudia had lamented that she needed a hair cut; well she was getting one--this dude had a smock on hand and everything. Steve was hanging nearby, slightly concerned at the semicircle of crazies/drug addicts/homeless that were flittering around us. However, we were right outside the bar and the bouncer seemed to know the barber. It was such a surreal night: standing wasted on 4th street in downtown LA conversing with nuts at 2 AM. I talked to the barber's boyfriend/friend who had a grizzly voice and gray facial stubble. He was telling me that the barber was full of shit. Both men were gaunt, and they might have lived together. To me it seemed they were both of the "quasi" (for lack of a better word) homeless--people you wouldn't think were homeless because they keep clean and keep up appearances. It made me wonder about their lives, their pasts, how they knew each other. As I watched the man cut Claudia's hair it seemed that he was taking more time than necessary and cutting the same area forever. But then again, I'm no stylist. Claudia paid the man and tipped him well. Her hair came out good (pictures to come) and we made a mad dash for the car as the other bums neared asking for money. Haircuts and hot men, what an exhilerating night.

Cha Cha Cha

Claudia slept over Friday night, and I made blueberry waffles the next morning. We went to get my oil changed and I found a hell of a deal: $25 for an oil change and an inside/outside car wash! The car wash was slightly depressing though. The men there work so hard, and I wonder how much they get paid. There was a man there who had to be in his 40s washing and waxing cars, sweating in the sun. Maybe I'm overly sensitive about these things. I wondered about his family, his life, if he is happy. Anyway, after the oil change we went to the beach with Andrew. The 3 of us passed out in the sand, then ate some delicious Mexican food on the way home. That night Claudia and I convinced Andrew and Robert to try a new bar. While I love the Short Stop, L.A. is a big city and it's always best to try something new. We went to the Cha Cha Lounge, a bar that looks like a tiki hut. The crowd was young and hip, and we ended up getting royally drunk. Robert and I took some photo booth pictures (I'll scan them later). We were joined by Claudia's college friend, Noel, who drove in from Santa Monica. We ended up having another sleepover at our place. Noel and Claudia spent the night and Robert made us drunken pot stickers at 3 AM.

The Bergen

Sunday morning I woke up all hung over and drove Robert's car to the grocery store in my nightgown and Chucks. For weeks I had been refusing to buy groceries--partly because I was trying to pinch pennies and partly because I was trying to eat the food in my cabinets. However, I finally caved because we had guests and no breakfast foods. I came back and made strawberry waffles with whipped cream (yum!). We had a nice big breakfast, and John Ross joined us before we all headed over to the Rose Bowl Flea Market. Steve came too. I had a full car and for the boys it was their first time at the flea market. We had a great time and everyone ended up with something perfect. I spotted a totally random life like painting of Candice Bergen. John and I were laughing so hard, and he ended up buying it for $13. It really was a treasure. "The Bergen" accompanied us through the rest of the flea market. Claudia and I got some cute vintage dresses. Noel got a totally naughty boyscout shirt, and Steve bought some papyrus paper from some nutty Egyptian ladies. After the flea market we walked in Griffith Park for a little bit. By 6pm I was passed out in my bed, totally exhausted from a completely fulfilling weekend.

Turkish Rocket

Monday Aaron and I went to the Troubador to check out A.J.'s band, Turkish Rocket. I had listened to some of their music at their myspace page, and had liked it enough to want to see them live. That and I thought A.J. was cute. We'd been told that they went onstage at 10pm, but when we got there at 10:15 they had only played 3 songs! I was kind of disappointed as I really liked what I heard live. Claudia met us there, and we had a little to drink. A.J. greeted us afterwards. The band that followed them had a crazy lead singer--a poor mans Iggy Pop minus the blood, nudity, and spit if you will. Still terrifying and into pube-level pants, eyeliner, and animal print. There was a random 10 year-old girl there, I think her dad was in the band, and it was apparently her birthday. We hung around for a little while then left. It was a nice venue, but the drinks were hella-expensive and parking was a nightmare. We'll try to catch Turkish Rocket again in September if possible.

Reggae Night: Part Deux

By Wednesday my human gas tank was running on E. The weekend had been nonstop craziness, followed by a late Monday night and now it was Wednesday and we were preparing to do it all again. I had been going out more than ever as of late, and while I was enjoying it, I knew it couldn't last forever; the shit would have to hit the fan. However, I certainly didn't expect it to on Wednesday night. Claudia and I were determined to make it to Reggae Night at the Echo. We wanted to see hot mens; we wanted to hear good live music. We got to the Echo at 10pm and there was already a line. We waited for about 15 minutes and then considered leaving. While in line we saw a beautiful man of ambiguous race, (not the dude from Friday night), and vowed to "get him" by the end of the night.
Inside, it was packed. The music was good and the drinks were cheap. We got some G&Ts and sat for awhile, checking out the crowd. We decided to go out back so Claudia could smoke. Once Claudia notified me that some men were talking about my ass, I knew it would all be downhill from then on. Outside was like running a gauntlet: hey baby/can I just talk to you/if only you were a little shorter/are you a model/do you come here often/where do you stay at/etc. We ended up talking to some of the guys, and most were pretty friendly. However, how do you talk to someone "normally" when they're clearly giving you the x-ray vision once over? People were openly smoking joints on the patio and no one seemed to care. We finished our drinks outside, and I went back into the club much more fucked up than when I had exited. Inside we were accosted by a pair of men: a South African/British dude in a camoflage print cap and his pastey friend in a black shirt/white tie combo. Camo-print or Lloyd, grabbed me and started dancing with me, while friend bought Claudia drinks. This grab and dance move is akin to the days of clubbing a woman and dragging her off by her hair. I remember the first time it happened to me as a freshman at Northwestern. Zach, Nate, Sarah, and I had gone to one of those Alizana/FMO parties at Las Palmas and a football player had pulled the grab/dance move. It only works when the girl is really wasted and at the time I remember thinking: gee, this is how women get assaulted, I get it now. I guess I didn't learn much though, because here I was 5 years later in the same situation. I finally did the old "my friend and I have to use the bathroom" and Claudia and I escaped. After the bathroom we snuck back outside to the patio where it was more of the same. We met a guy from South America and he and Claudia talked in Spanish while I kept a weary watch for camo-print cap. I spotted hot man of ambiguous race instead, and dragged Claudia away from the ponytailed dude she was talking to. Rule #1, men don't talk to you at bars unless they want to bone you. Reggae Night was like chasing the White Rabbit. Inside we lost site of hot man and bumped into camo-print cap. I danced a little more, then we escaped outside again in pursuit of hot man. This time we caught up to him, I gave a hearty "hello" and shoved Claudia in his direction. We went back inside where I was captured by Lloyd. I obliged so that Claudia could dance with the hottie, and I communicated my agony to her by making faces over Lloyd's shoulder while dodging his kisses. Outside the bar Lloyd kept whining about when I was going to call him. Earlier in the night Claudia had told me to use the line "I don't give out my phone number" luckily I remembered to use it. I told him that if he didn't shut up, I'd never call him. That seemed to work.
Hot boy ended up coming back to my apartment with Claudia and I. He was Ethiopian, very friendly, and probably a drug dealer. He carried around the trademark "man purse" chock full o' greens. While Ethiopian boy used the bathroom, I warned Claudia not the sleep with him, but divulged that I had hidden condoms in her makeup bag just in case. We drank a little more--by now it was 2:45 AM--then Hottie and Claudia made out in the kitchen while I got ready for bed. In my wasted state I briefly thought: threesome? Then I thought I would die. Luckily Claudia was slightly less drunk than me and got rid of the boy. She was even smart enough to refuse to "walk him to his car." We passed out around 3 AM. We would be waking up 3 hours later.

At 6:15 AM I woke up for work. My vision had a fuzzy black frame characteristic of a severe lack of sleep. I pulled over on the way to work, because I thought I was going to vomit. Luckily, that would wait until later. On the way, I stopped at Albertson's to get a bagel--carbs always soothe me when hungover (that is after the vomit subsides). While swaying gently from side-to-side in line, I noticed that the man infront of me was noticeably on drugs. I hoped that the cashier couldn't tell that I too was inebriated. Once at work, I made a go of things. I wrote down the hours in the day and prepared to cross each one off. I threw up once, then made some phone calls. One of the older women said I was a "little quiet" this morning. I explained that I was slightly hungover. The older women in the office love me so much that any of my bad behavior is always interpreted as "charming" and "youthful" as opposed to "irresponsible" and "alarming." I threw up again, and felt a little better. I ate a bite of bagel. I posted the checks that came in the mail for me. I then felt the need to vomit a third time, and I walked calmly to the bathroom, burping along the way. Then I projectile vomited asiago cheese bagel bits onto the mirror of the ladies restroom. After Lysoling the shit out of the company bathroom, I decided that I would petition my recovering-alcoholic boss for a half day. My serious NYC Italian boss was in Europe, and pushover boss is much more sympathetic/spineless. After frantically flipping through the vacation book to see if I had any time off, he gave up and let me leave. My co-workers wished me well, and I felt kind of bad that most of them assumed that I was truly sick and not just stupid.
At home I greeted Robert and his girlfiend, Sarah, who had heard some of the commotion the previous night. In Robert's mind the logical explanation for most of my behavior is lust-driven sexual vice. For example, upon seeing me dishelved and home from work hours early, the first thing he asked me was if Claudia and I had hooked up with the man who was in the house last night. Notice, he didn't ask if there had been someone strange in the house, he didn't ask if one of us had gotten some, he assumed we both had participated in a threeway in the living room. I let Robert know that said man didn't even spend the night. Then I took a shower and passed out for 18 hours.